A small (or sometimes large) patch of land surrounded by four walls cannot truly be called a house unless it is topped by a roof. The roof is as essential to a house as the brain is unnecessary to the average woman (not all, by the way) though the only real difference is that while every house is granted a roof, well… let’s just allow you to complete that sentence yourself.
Since childhood, our textbooks have told us that a roof protects one from rain, harsh winds, and the blazing sun. But such explanations are mere textbook trivia—dusty pages in dusty minds. We, however, are concerned with the multifaceted utility of the roof. It is nothing less than a multipurpose object in human life. This is its true and noble function.
Our ancestors; may their graves be filled with divine light, were blessed with extraordinary foresight. In their times, roofs were not only well used but wisely used. I would even go so far as to say that had our forefathers not mastered the art of appropriate roof-usage, our population might’ve spiraled out of control long ago!
In days gone by, roofs bore more than just the structural weight of upper floors; they carried the full burden of romance. Some sagacious souls even say that lovers were weak, but roofs were strong. For eventually, the beloved would glide into the groom’s home like a well-blessed bride, while the lover, abandoned and alone, would either drown himself in drink, offer up his life, or turn to poetry—but never had enough resolve to bring the beloved home as a bride.
Lovers may be long gone, their romances forgotten; but roofs still stand tall!
Ah, but the pleasures those lovers once savored on rooftops! Today’s youth know nothing of such delights.
"Those sweet tales of bygone days…"
The story of love began on the roof. The beloved would come up to hang laundry; the young man next door would quietly observe her from his roof. In those days, people still had a sense of decency—stolen glances were truly stolen. The beloved, no fool herself, knew she was being watched. At the first stage of the flirtation, she’d feign annoyance, stomp her feet, and descend the stairs—but only as a ruse, hiding behind the parapet to see if the young man was still peeking… or if he had vanished too.
And so it went. Consent bloomed. The love deepened. The letters began. Desire surged. Youth roared.
Even Maulana Hasrat Mohani reminisced:

Dopahar ki dhoop mein mujh ko bulane ke liye
Wo tere kothe pe nange paaon aana yaad hai.

(To call me in the afternoon under the blazing sun, I still remember you coming on the roof barefoot.)
Do you still remember?"
But even then, there were rules of rooftop romance; ethical codes observed like sacred duty. For instance, the lover, during the act of rooftop longing, must either lie down, pace slowly, or sit pensively; whatever suited the moment; and gaze skyward, trying to count the stars without a calculator. If he lost count, he would begin again, without thought, without regret. And if the beloved still didn’t appear, he’d write the countdown and consult the Astrologers’ Guild for confirmation. This heavenly arithmetic would take no more than three to four years.
Meanwhile, secret letters, messengers, and shy confessions continued. But the roof—it remained central. Sometimes, chance played a cruel hand; another prince might snatch the flower the bee had nurtured. Then came sighs, tears, betrayal, wine, or worse, poetry.
Even Majaz Lakhnavi, that great poet, succumbed to this cursed love. Love led him to the bottle and the bottle led him to an early grave; just 44 years old, younger than even me.

Some unfortunate lovers would simply sing this Bollywood song:
Hue ham jin ke liye barbad, Karen na ham ko bhale wo yaad
Jivan bhar, ham gaate jayenge….

(I was ruined for whom, she may never even remember; yet we shall keep singing her name forevermore.)
But one truth remained unshaken: the first stage of love was always the roof.
Why hide it now? In my boyhood, I once fell for a girl in the neighborhood. I didn’t even know what it meant to “fall.” But she was a relief to my eyes. Perhaps she was beautiful. Her door and ours were side by side. When she went to the market, I found excuses to linger in my doorway. But she, blissfully unaware of my innocent longing and reckless courage, remained immersed in her chores.
That’s when I realized; the whole matter lacked one thing: a roof. Our home didn’t have a proper one. Well, we had a roof, but not one where one could climb up, stand, sit, or gaze at the stars.
So, I turned to a friend. His house was right across from hers, and blessed with a very generous roof. In fact, it was more than generous. So I began visiting him more often. From the room on his roof, I would peek out the window toward her terrace.
But alas; believe it or not, every time she stepped onto her roof, I, in my shy humility, would cast my gaze downward, unable to look.

As Faiz wrote:
Nigah e shaoq, Sar e bazm behijaab na ho
Wo bekhabar sahi, itne bekhabar bhi nahin.

(O inquisitive eye, don’t be indecent and bold in full view of the onlookers. The beloved might be careless, but she is not too unaware.)
My friend, aware of my tender secret, would laugh and mock me. I explained: “Your case is different. Not only do you have a roof, you have an exceptional one, connected wirelessly, you might say, to all nearby terraces. Me? I’m deprived; uninitiated in love’s tragedy.”
And so, I would stand at his window, gaze downwards, even when the beauty had gone back inside. Whether I gained or lost anything, I don’t know. But I later learned my friend had not wasted that roof. The young lady had her own roof; and he had his. And between them were stars, nights, and boundless opportunity. Where I struck the match and fumbled, he poured the oil and lit the lamp. That lamp, once kindled, shone brightly on his terrace; and eventually, he brought it down into his courtyard.
It’s been nearly more than thirty five years straight. From that lamp, many little lamps were lit; now fully grown. And I, because of my bashfulness and my roofless home, never reaped the rewards.

As Ghalib said:
Ye na thi hamari qismat ke visal e yaar hota
Agar aor jeete rahte, yahi intezar hota.

(It was never in my fate to unite with the beloved. Had I lived longer, it in itself would have been the wait.)
Roofs have also been used for blackmail. Remember Sholay? The water tower scene became legendary. When Basanti’s mother refused Veeru’s proposal, he climbed the tower and threatened to jump. The terrified mother gave in before the director could call “cut.” Thanks to that roof, Basanti and Viru had two daughters,(in real life),both now married.
Roofs also serve in the rainy season, making that tip-tip melody as water drips through the cracks; cracks as wide as a poor man’s pocket or a woman’s logic. Only those with leaky roofs can enjoy that rustic music. In a modern concrete home, there is no such pleasure.
I, too, enjoyed such roofs in childhood. But now they’re just a dream. As Ghalib mourned:

Wo baada e shabana ki sarmastiyan kahan
Uthiye, bas ab ke lazzat e khwab e sahar gayee.

(The hangover of the late night wine is no more. Let us wake up as the pleasure of early morning dreams has gone away.)
But being a poet, I must say:

Taaza khwahi daashtan gar daagh hae seena ra
Gahe gahe baaz khwan een qissa e pareena ra

( If you wish to keep the wounds of the heart fresh,revisit, from time to time, these tales of the past.)
And so, to revive the embers of the heart, I retell this old tale.
Ah! The roofs are gone. The lovers are gone.
The rainy nights under dripping ceilings, when we would place pots and pans and sleep in peace; those contented, grateful souls are gone.
What can I say of the ache that runs through me as I write this?
Koi mere dil se poochhe tere teer e nim kash ko
Wo khalish kahan se hoti, jo jigar ke par hota.
(Ask my heart the ecstasy of your half-drawn arrow; Could it cause the pang this deep if it had truly pierced through?)
One roof brought back all these memories...

Tum yaad aaye aor tumhare sath zamane yaad aaye

(I remembered you, and with you, the entire era came flooding back.)
So, before my eyes begin to weep like those old dripping ceilings, let me end this. Whether you have a roof or not; may you at least understand its meaning.
Now ask yourself: how much do you believe in the value of a roof?

Email:----------------------------hasnainaaqib2@gmail.com