Pakistani Literature Vol. 16 No. 1 by Pakistan Academy of Letters

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This is only a Preview PAKISTANI LITERATURE 2013

No. 01

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Vol. 16

Editor-in-Chief:

Abdul Hameed

Managing Editor:

Zaheer-ud-din Malik

Compiled and Edited by:

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Sumaira Baqer

Advisory Committee:

Khawaja Waqas Ahmed Muhammad Athar Tahir Afsar Sajid

Pakistan Academy of Letters H-8/1, Islamabad

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Published by

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Managing Editor: Zaheer-ud-Malik

Circulation: Mir Nawaz Solangi

Price: In Pakistan Single issue Rs. 300.00 Annual (two issues) Rs. 600.00

Opinions expressed in this journal are those of the authors and not necessarily of the editors of Pakistan Academy of Letters. All correspondence should be addressed to the Editor-in-Chief, Pakistani Literature, Pakistan Academy of Letters, Sector H-8/1, Islamabad, Pakistan.

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The publisher of this journal gratefully acknowledges the Outside Pakistan assistance of writers and Single issue translators who have generously allowed us to Annual (two issues) publish their works.

(by airmail) $ 20.00 ÂŁ 10.00 $ 40.00 ÂŁ 20.00

We encourage all our writers Cover Illustration: and contributors through out Dr. Ajaz Anwar Pakistan to send us their contriburions. Call us: 051-9250571 051-9250582

Artist of the Seperators: Jamal Shah

Email: Printed & bound in Pakistan by: sumairaservat@gmail.com Post Office Foundation Press, Pakistani Literature is published twice a year, in spring and winter, by Abdul Hameed, Chairman, Pakistan Academy of Letters, Sector H-8/1, Islamabad, Pakistan.

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CONTENTS Foreword 11

Editorial Sumaira Baqer

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Abdul Hameed

URDU LITERATURE Prose: Ahmed Nadeem Qasimi Thal

15 31

Azra Abbas Sarak Par Karney Se Pehley

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Asghar Nadeem Syed Saadat Hassan Manto ke Akhri Char Saal

Mansha Yaad Dunya ka Akhri Booka Aadmi

Hameed Qaiser Awaz

Musarat Kalanchvi Noor ka Safar

Poetry:

Ada Jafarey Arrival Of The Spring

Ahmed Nadeem Qasmi Even Dust is Literate

Allama Muhammad Iqbal The Ideas of Mehrab Gul the Afghan

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Asghar Nadeem Syed I Am Appalled

Azra Abbas Eye-Witness

Faiz Ahmed Faiz Loveâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Enchained Captives Ijaz Kanwar Raja Fragrant Flowers

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Amjad Islam Amjad The Last Night Of 2012

68 69

Injila Hamesh Paradox

70 71

Partau Rohilla Strangers Parting

Sarwar kamran The Last Eve in the Metropolis

Sumaira Baqer Yasrub

Syed Jamal Naqvi Who is the Culprit?

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Majeed Amjad During A Mountanious Journey

English Literature

Prose: Bapsi Sidhwa Sehra-Bai

Mohammad Ali True Son of the soil

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Nilofer Sultana A Goldmine

Raja Tridiv Roy The Pater and Patrimony

103

Rashida Alvi Romance

117 120

Sumaira Baqer The Legacy

124

Taimur Sabih The Wealth of Innocence Uneeza Kanwal The Mould

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Sarmad Sehbai Miraji: The Return of Anima

127

130

Analytical Study:

Reginald Massey Pakistani Poetry in English

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Articles:

133

141

Syeda Saleha Shahzad Ahmed: A writer and a Social Thinker

149

Zulfikar Ghose Combating Writerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Block

153

Abdul Hameed Mysticism and Islam

Book Review: Muneeza Shamsie Book Review: between Clay and Dust

159

Column: Amjad Hussain My Dinner and Field Trip with a Quiet Hero: Neil Armstrong

163

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Interview: An Interview of “Noon Meem Rashid” Carlo Coppola

165

True Life Story: Rasheed Akhtar A Dialogue Across the Shadows

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Poetry:

168

Amra Raza Hunger

173

Athar Tahir Drafts

174

Ejaz Rahim Raja Tridev Roy

175 184

Jam Jamali Malala!

185

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Foqia Hayee A Girl of Today

186

Khawaja Waqas Ahmed Piya Toray Nain

188

M. Saleem-ur Rehman Elsewhere

190

Muhammad Shanazar An Ode To The Detached Leaves

191

Rasheed Ahmed A Sufi’s Task

192

Reginald Massey The Afternoon Amidst The Oleanders

193

Javed Iqbal Warring Against The Sun

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Safdar Bhatti Store

194

Punjabi/Potohari Literature Prose: Mir TanhaYousufi The Other Self

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195

Parveen Malik Beloved! Hurro Go on Flowing

197

Qamar Abdullah Slippery Routes

202

Sheeraz Tahir Brotherhood

Poetry:

206

211

Farheen Chaudhry The Wrap of Silence and Me

212

Muhammad Junaid Akram ‘Aliph’ alone is my Requisite

214

Nasreen Anjum Bhatti Shamlat

215

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Faqir Muhammad Faqir Disposition

Sindhi Literature

Prose: Ali Baba Crazy People

217

Amar Jaleel Adam’s Mother

222

Ibrahim Khalil Mystery of Golden Ring

230

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Manzoor Kohyar Democracy

236

Saleem Korai The Running Man Before Light

240

Poetry: Khadim Mangi An Entreaty!

253

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Hassan Dar The Wind Is the Sea's Lover

254

Mohammad Ali Manjhi Your Yearnings Shaikh Ayaz Dialogue

255

256

Pushto Literature

Prose:

257

Qalandar Momand Gajray (Bracelets)

260

Rahat Zakheli The Widow Girl

264

Zaitoon Bano Existing Griefs

270

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Aseer Mangal B.P

Poetry: Ajmal Khattak Masters are Masters

277

Ameer Hamza Khan Shinwari Come to set a hut in the forest

279

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Azam Khan Azam Why do we weep?

280

Syeda Hassina Gul Excellent It’s, a Free Thinker I’m

281

Balochi/Brahvi Literature

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Prose: Ghani Parwaz Bitter Taste

283

Hakim Baluch The Hostage Corpse

286

Muhammad Tahir Shabo

296

The Chief

Murad Sahir

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Saba Dashtiyari Futile Struggle

Waheed Zaheer VVIP pain/agony

300 305 307

Poetry:

311 312

Noor Khan M. Hussani Freedom Milestone

313 314

Mir Gul Khan Naseer Having Nothing Never Say You Are Alone

Khowar Literature Prose: Muhammad Ismail Wali The Bird’s Story The Goat’s Tale

315 318

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Poetry: Muhammad Ismail Wali A Khowar Nursery Rhyme Song of Hoopgya

319 320

Translation in International Languages English: Masaud Akhtar Zaighum

French: HastinNauraini

329

Muhammad Gulfraz Sophy Chen

Turkish:

323 326

Arabic: Chinese:

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“Noon Meem Rashid’s Poem: Hasan Kooza Gar”

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Masood Sheikh

334 337

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Foreword

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Promotion of Pakistani Literature is a prime objective of Pakistan Academy of Letters. The Academy was established in 1976 but a reliable/robust mechanism to this effect has been absent. Soon after my assumption as chairperson of this apex body, we deliberated upon how best to promote our literature. It has been agreed that it is through translation of literature of all Pakistani languages into Urdu for promotion within Pakistan and into certain foreign languages: English being the most important, that the task perhaps can be achieved.

Translating Pakistani writings into foreign languages was an uphill task, one of the most signigificant and primrary purposes of the Academy of Letters, a formal and systematic translation bureau has been outsourced for all four languages consisting of experts of the related languages along with the reviewers to check and judge the quality of the tranalstion.

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This is the first issue of Pakistani Literature with translations into four International Lanuages: French, Arabic, Chinese and Turkish.

I hope this great effort will not only bring favourable reception for this publication but also exchange the dreams, hopes and views of the people of this land with other nations and cultures. Pakistani languages which are our collective heritage and spirit of this nation, which gives birth to the deep rooted cultural ethos and rythem of unity stands apart and portrays our distinct identity. The International section provides a universal impact and comprehensive approach to this issue. I expect the issue to be delightful and useful for its readers in Pakistan and abroad as well.

(ABDUL HAMEED) Chairman

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Editorial

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The most valuable, tangible legacy we have to leave to the next generation is our writing and literature. The Pakistani Literature which belongs to all of us, springs from our soil, reflects our concepts, prevalent social behaviours and modern literary trends. The present issue of Pakistani Literature contains translations of regional languages. Khowar Literature is added as being the most rich and diverse as far as its diction and content is concerned.

This issue is special in its nature as it contains the International translations in five languages; English, French, Chinsese, Turkish and Arabic. N. Meem Rashid’s “Hasan Koza Gar” has been translated in all five languages.

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These not only fulfill the foremost objective of the Pakistan Academy of Letter’s establishment but also opens horizons of reception for the present journal to the international market and literary circles.

Literature is permanent and permanence is a document transferred to the coming generations, who can look back through it to have the perception in their remote literary past, the ancestoral and cultural past which is always complex and full of awe, for the new comers, but writing remains concrete expressing all what the writers went through, the generation gap though long and distant could be brigded bringing closer the two strangers, understanding their past experiences and cultural perceptions. This issue is a part of that great chain which is joined together by diverse writings from the land of Pakistan.

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The views expressed in this issue come from the accomplished writers of the country. The present work fulfills its promise of diversity and variety. Pakistani Literature is a reflection of our great heratige and cultural tradition.

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A blend of progressive trends and calm mystic sensibilities, to the modern views and concepts. I wish it all the success and reception.

(Sumaira Baqer)

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Editor English

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Ahmed Nadeem Qasmi

Thal

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Storms had become a daily occurrence when the railway line was being installed in Thal. Every day the railroad was buried beneath mounds of sand. An aged Munshi Jee belonging to that period keeps telling strange stories of those days. According to him, initially the railway lines was carried right into the boundaries of the mazaar of Hazrat Peer, for the permission was granted by the then Mutwalli of the Mazaar who was a loyalist tributary of the British and had been granted the title of Khan Bahadur. Hazrat Peer didn't approve of this. He had never supported the British and neither feared nor favored them. Jinns and vampires were sent by him to teach the British a lesson. These supernatural beings attacked, destroyed and squeezed the steel rails like sugar cane. They withdrew after accomplishing their task. Next morning when the English engineer reached the spot, squeezed rails were scattered all around the area. To appease the angry saint, seven cauldrons of sweet rice were cooked and distributed amongst the needy, there and then. Subsequently, the course of the railway lines was changed. That's why now you find the trains going a long way, over that big tree before reaching the next station.

Munshi Jee states that the English engineer was so much perturbed by the recurrent storms that he sought advice from his parent department in England, and requested for special assistance in the project because he was working in a region where the fierce storms could alter the entire geography within no time. The matter was referred to the Government of India. Delhi Sarkar consulted an eminent Peer Sahib and obtained from him the necessary protective amulet, which was dispatched to the engineer in Thal. As advised, this amulet was hung on a Babool tree near the railway track. It worked well. During the course of a storm sandy mounds didn't even touch the rails.

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Hazrat Peer was quick in regaining supremacy over his rival. So, during the very next storm, a huge sandy mound ran over the railway track in utter disregard of the protective amulet, which remained hanging on the Babool tree. Another amulet was obtained and dispatched from Delhi. As soon as it replaced the former amulet, fire flames leaped from within the sandy mound and turned it into a pinch of ashes instantly. A wave of wind came to blow away these ashes. A fierce battle between the local Hazrat Peer and loyalist saints of Delhi continued until the completion of the whole project.

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Jinns and Vampires of Hazrat Peer are still very active. Only a few days ago, Allah Jawaya and his buffalo were run over by a train. The fellow was punished for his frequent railway journeys. On the slightest pretext, he would go to the station, purchase a ticket and board the train. He never paid heed to the advice of the aged wise men who always tried to dissuade him from his cursed habit of train travels. He was warned by all the local sages that his impertinence would annoy Hazrat Peer but he turned a deaf ear to them. So, finally, one day, he and his buffalo were cut into pieces by the engine of a fast train. His buffalo was grazing on the railway line when he saw the train coming and rushed to save it but both were crushed. His flayed skin was wrapped around the wheels and in order to extricate it, shovels had to be used.

Years ago, when work began on the project of installing a railway line, and the rail roads were diverted from Khushab towards Kundian, the elders of Thal made a forewarning about the coming times: â&#x20AC;&#x153;these cursed rails will lead to moral degeneration. Men will abandon their ploughshares and migrate to big cities in search of jobs. Their exodus will make the villages deserted. Love and mutual respect will vanish. Apathy and indifference will reign supreme.â&#x20AC;? Every word of their prediction has proved to be true. Much more has taken place and countless other changes have come about. Almost one hundred men of our village were engaged in the task of installation of the railway lines. They made their fortunes within a few years. Several of them got wells dug in their own 16

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land. Others had enough money to build modernized brick buildings in place of their old wage earners mud-houses. Mostly they worked earlier as daily wage earners on othersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; farms but now they acquired their own land. Misri's father was one of them. Formerly, he was a hack worker who earned his living by working on different farms during the harvest season. In search of a job he had to go from farm to farm and from one feudal lord to another and yet he lived from hand to mouth. By acquiring his own land, he won a prestigious position in his tribe and began to be consulted for his opinion and advice on all important matters.

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Misri was an inexperienced raw youth when his father died. He had heard numerous tales about the period of installing of the railway lines. He could recall many such legends told to him by his father. "Look, Sonny", he remembered his father saying, "those rumbling trains you watch every day coming and going a little away from our village, they could never pass through this region if we had not laid down the rails. Our English Engineer was a good for nothing fellow. Apart from making the measurements, he remained idle throughout the day. But he prided in giving orders. He smoked his cheroot and kept whistling. We worked very hard on every phase of the project. Finally we succeeded in forging railway links between various places in the region. Every inch of these rails bears the marks of our sweat and blood. This doomed track! May God protect us from this cursed steel! May the blessings of Hazrat Peer shield us!â&#x20AC;? Trains entered Misri's life when he was still a small child. Their rumbling noise was similar to that made by a gigantic mill which has enormous grinding stones. This noise could be heard from afar. As soon as they heard it, village lads went to their rooftops to have a glimpse of the coming train. One by one the bogeys passed by them and they told each other that the train had come from the farthest end of the world. Womenfolk believed that if any one ever boarded a train, he is cursed to travel by train all through his life. It was their firm conviction that the Railway was still haunted by the Jinns and Vampires who had once destroyed and squeezed the rails at a signal of Hazrat Peer.

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People of Thal were scared of trains. Nobody ever dared to travel without obtaining an amulet from the shrine of Hazrat Peer. They remembered the case of Khan Beg, a rustic of the region, who undertook a railway journey without the protective amulet from the shrine and for the rest of his life he was unable to get a steady job. He traveled from place to place and met his final doom at Chiniot. He was working on an under-construction building owned by a big Seth. One day, while carrying a brick load to the upper storey, his foot slipped off the ladder. He fell down and was crushed by the heavy load of bricks and other injuries sustained in the fall. When the news of his death reached his home town, the Mutwalli of the mazaar of Hazrat Peer flew into a rage and said: "This is the outcome of traveling by train without my amulet. Such is the punishment ordained by his holiness Hazrat Peer for all those who dare to have skeptical doubts."

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Misri was acquainted with trains since his childhood. He had seen them both from a distance and from close quarters. Often he had pelted stones at them. At times he had placed stones on the rails which had been grounded into powder by the trains. Through train windows, he had seen all sorts of strange faces: men with big turbans and long hair; women wearing numerous golden ear-rings; little imps who threw chewed pieces of sugar cane at him and lads who tried to hit him with empty shells of nuts. One day an unchewed piece of sugar cane was thrown to him. He chewed half of it and carried home for his mother the remainder. Misri's knowledge of trains was confined to such incidents alone. He had never boarded a train and didn't know how to sit in a railway compartment. What the passengers felt at the start of a train, he had no conception at all. Utterly ignorant about the mechanism of a train, he didn't know why it belches so much smoke. How does it move? How does it stop? And how docs it start again? Such questions were beyond his comprehension. Once in his boyhood, he had insisted on having a joy ride by train. He pleaded to his father that he had often seen boys of his age traveling by train absolutely unhurt. To silence him, his father said: "Those boys do not belong to the domain of Hazrat Peer. "All those who live in the jurisdiction of Hazrat Peer must obtain an 18

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amulet from the shrine. Otherwise, they fall from the train widows and are immediately devoured by jackals."

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Misri could not get a chance of boarding a train even when he grew up. His native village was the whole world for him. All beyond was occupied by wizards, giants, ghosts, vampires and back-footed beings. In his view, big cities such as Mianwali and Khushab were inhabited by Man-eaters who roast and devour simple rustics.

Only once did Misri leave his village in boyhood. His father fell ill and wanted to consult a famous Hakeem Jee who lived in a place called Chitta. Misri was to accompany his father but unfortunately trains did not ply in that region. From dawn to dusk they trudged on towards their destination. Misri was delighted to meet the son of his father's friend. His name was Khuda Bukhsh. He told Misri: "You know what? Our Maulvi Jee says that just before the arrival of Doomsday, Dujjal's Donkey will descend in this world. These trains in Thal are drawn by that very Dujjal."

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Before his visit to Chitta, Misri lived a contented life in his village, bounded by the deserts of Thal. Sand storms, stray gram fields with their scanty yield, ugly looking mud-houses with their compounds where grew those hoary, black stemmed, thorny acacia treesâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;these constituted the tiny world where Misri lived happily. His visit gave him the first surprisingly pleasant glimpse of earthly beauty. Chitta was situated at the feet of Skaysar Hills, on the bank of a glorious lake that stretched over miles. Towards the north of the lake could be seen fields full of standing crops, tossing in the cool breeze. Neighboring hills were clad in green grass whose fragrance filled the air. Sounds of churning milk rose from the houses with the call for morning prayers. People were generally prosperous and healthy. Their eyes were bright and their faces glowed with streaks of redness. Misri fell in love with this place. He wished his own village were situated in these beautiful surroundings flanked by hills of Skaysar. How marvelous it would be! Once the seeds were sown, there would be no necessity of frequenting the fields. There 19

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would be plenty of spare time for singing songs or leisurely gossip in the chowpal. Like Khuda Bukhsh, he would also keep long hair and visit the barber for a smooth shave every third day. Fairs, cattle shows and acrobatic performances, beside participation in Kabaddi matches and wedding festivities would make life worth living! With a sincere prayer for the long life of his father, he vowed to himself, that in the event of his death, heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d dispose of his property and migrate to Skaysar. Then heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d never return to Thal where the blazing sun is as hot as a hearth, where sand blown by scorching winds can singe your cheeks, and where except for a rare acacia tree or a stray gram field, there is no trace of greenery at all.

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Long after his return to the native village, Misri remained absorbed in recalling the attractions of Chitta. But when his father died, he suddenly realized that his heart was full of patriotic love for this place. It was here that his ancestors had lived and died. His father had confronted sandy mounds and battled against the fiercest storms. Now he had no more complaints about the deluding mirages during the day or howling winds at night. Nor did he grumble about showers of dust eternally pouring from the heavens and the hostile sandy winds which had produced pock marks on the walls of every mud-house, and had baked red their mud plaster.

Three generations of Misri had lived in this village. Graves of his ancestors could be seen in the village cemetery. His great grand father had once scaled even the neighboring hillocks in search of clouds but had found windstorms instead. No tree of Skaysar could match the dark majestic acacia trees of Thal which stood upright in the midst of mighty storms. They bloomed in their season and were full of pretty pale flowers whose fragrance pleased every inhabitant of the region. Early in the morning, these pale flowers were seen scattered everywhere. Occasionally, one could see a beautiful pale flower floating in some pitcher of water. Fragrant pale flowers of the acacia trees heralded the season of romances. Amorous love affairs which led to elopements, or abductions. It was a common belief of the aged that Jinns are hidden in the fragrance of Keekar flowers. Only the marriageable 20

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youths and maidens could see these Jinns. Anyone who saw a Jinn was sure to fall in love. Keekar flowers were in their full bloom when, Misri's heart was smitten with love. He carried his girl, Nisho, a village maid, to the hills of Soon Skaysar. She had proposed to go somewhere else by train but Misri did not agree. He believed that if he boarded the train, Hazrat Peer would have him captured. How could he take a risk of that nature? So, they went to Chitta. Khuda Bukhsh welcomed them and provided them the shelter they needed. They were accommodated in his farmhouse which was at a distance of about one mile from the village. Here they stayed for six months. Their plan was to remain there until the girlâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s father gave his consent and approval of their marriage. He did so in order to regain his lost prestige.

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The marriage between Misri and Nisho was solemnized immediately after their arrival in Chitta. In the presence of two witnesses, their nikah was performed by the local Maulvi Sahib. Khuda Bukhsh had made all the necessary arrangements. On their return, Nisho gave birth to a baby boy. The son was named Shakoor Khan, but people nicknamed him Shakar Khan, with a jocular reference to his father's name, Misri Khan. His parents called him Meetha with affection.

Many years passed. Meetha grew under the affectionate care of his parents. One day, in the company of his playmates, Meetha went to see a train. On the way, he put his hand in his pocket, brought forth the one paisa coin, his treasure, placed it on his palm and proudly showed it to his companions. A boy told him that if this coin is placed on the rail, and the train runs over it, the paisa would be shaped into a knife blade. Meetha had never heard such a strange thing. He wondered how the coin of one paisa could change into a knife blade of four annas worth. All of a sudden the rails began to vibrate. The boys understood that the train was coming and had already reached the big bend near the Mazaar of Hazrat Peer. Meetha placed his paisa on the rail. With the advancing train, the intensity of vibrations increased considerably and the coin rolled off the rail. Meetha, whose gaze was fixed on it, leaped ahead to put it back. Just then a bigger boy realized the danger, rushed after his young friend and pulled him into his arms 21

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within a yard of the rumbling engine. Making a terrible noise the train moved on. The rattling wheels ran very fast. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven; all the compartments passed by the boys one after the other.

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Meetha had a narrow escape. If the bigger boy had not risked his life, he could not have been saved. The speedy train would have turned him into minced meat. When the news of the incident traveled from the boys to the farmers ploughing their fields and from them to the womenfolk walking in the village lane, it was altogether changed. The version that reached Nisho was that her son had been cut into two by the train which had carried away half of his body with it while the remaining half was lying on the railway line.

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Bewailing and crying she ran towards the place of accident. People from the farms and lanes followed her. They hadnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t gone very far when the boys were seen coming from the opposite direction. Meetha was safe and sound. Playing as a horse rider, he was actually riding a stick, and pretended to trot and neigh and strike the air with a whip. Nisho saw him as others did but she continued to run towards him with the same speed until she lifted him from the ground and passionately embraced him. Then holding him in her arms, she walked back taking such big strides that one would think she herself had rescued her darling son. Fearing that the train would attract him if her grip loosened, she held him tight. Some youth had decided to visit Mianwali on the occasion of a cattle show and fair. Misri had initially decided to accompany them for he had never been to Mianwali. But when he learnt that they were planning to go by train, he changed his mind. "We are not crazy", said a youth. "We'll get amulets before boarding the train." Someone pointed out: "Prices have gone up due to the war. The Mutwalli has also enhanced the rate of amulets."

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Misri remained adamant: "I cannot board this monster who was going to devour my loving son."

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He began to recall what he had heard from his late father: "One hundred men of our village assisted the English in constructing these rail roads. That's why Hazrat Peer is especially annoyed with the people of our village. I don't court a foul death by train. By the grace of God, I'll recite the Kalima Shareef and peacefully die at home." Meetha was sent to the village school: He was in the first standard when the Thal uplift project was announced. The government proposed to construct a very big canal out of the Indus River. That canal was going to transform the deserts of Thal into fertile lands comparable to those in Sargodha and Lyalpur. Excited speculations were made.

"Soon there will be gardens and factories and cinema houses."

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"There will be grand roads where English ladies will come for a stroll!" "Every educated resident of Thal will be appointed as Deputy Commissioner." And so on.

Misri and Nisho were also delighted by such reports. The very next morning, they accompanied their son to make a tour of their fields. Except for a few stray plants, there wasn't much in the fields. Even these were besmeared with dust. They resembled peevish children who are ready to whimper and cry over a trifling. Like other village folks, Misri and Nisho were optimistic about their future. They began to make plans. Theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d convert their farms into gardens. They'd grow oranges and tangerines. Meetha would be educated up to such a level that the government would request them to accept the post of a Deputy Commissioner for their son on a salary of one thousand rupees per month!

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Such a glorious image of the future brought tears in Nisho's eyes. She lifted the son and held him tight in her arms for a long time. When Meetha was separated from her by the father, he said in astonishment "Just listen to her heart beats, Baba. Sounds like the approaching train!"

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His parents burst into laughter. Then, suddenly, Misri became serious and said: "Listen Nisho, the Deputy Commissioners must be traveling by train! Isn't it?" Nisho clenched her fist, kissed her thumbs, and then placed them on her eyes as a mark of respect before saying: "I will get him an amulet from the Mutwalli of Hazrat Peer's shrine. Never mind even if it costs a hundred rupees!" That settled every thing.

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The canal project started in due course. Misri worked as hard on this project as his father had done during the installation of the railway lines. After graduating from the local primary school, Meetha was sent first to the High School in the town and from there to the city in pursuit of higher education. All along, whenever he had to travel by train, the protective amulet obtained from the Mutwalli of Hazrat Peer's shrine was tied around his arm. His journeys were quite safe. Usually he was accompanied by someone from his village going in that direction. Finally he passed his Intermediate Examination.

Meanwhile, sandy mounds disappeared from the region of Thal. Smiling crops replaced the deluding mirages. Stalks of paddy tossed in the gentle breeze where gram grew in a solitary field subdued by storms. Sugarcane farms stretched far and wide in the village where boys used to bring home half chewed pieces of sugar cane thrown from trains. Metalled roads linking various places could be seen going in all directions. The storms had to change their course. Misri had not been able to grow fruit in his farms but his fields yielded enough to make him drunk with delight. Sometimes he teased Nisho by his fond talk: "My youth has revived. It's time that I should elope with you to Skaysar again!" 24

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And Nisho replied: "No, never again. I can't stay there now even for a day. Don't forget that now it's Khuda Bukhsh who comes here to borrow grains and husk from us. Skaysar is no more a paradise. People from there are nowadays looking for jobs in this former hell of ours...â&#x20AC;?

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The primary school of the village was upgraded to the level of middle standard. A teacher who worked here advised Misri to send his son to the Engineering College at Rasul. When he learnt that Misri was reluctant because he wanted to see his son as a Deputy Commissioner, the teacher said: "Listen my friend; everybody is as important in his field as a deputy commissioner. For instance my job here is like that of a deputy commissioner. After graduation when your son becomes an overseer, he will be a sort of deputy commissioner of roads and canals."

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Misri was convinced by these arguments. He decided to act upon the advice of the teacher and so Meetha was sent to Rasul Engineering College. Soon after his graduation, he got a job in the district of Bhakkar. Now he began to be addressed as Malik Shakoor. Every month he sent home parcels containing clothes, English medicines and tonics and other articles beside a sum of fifty rupees. In fact whenever somebody was going in the direction of his native village, he dispatched something or the other: boxes, tables, chairs and the like. Once he sent a big mirror. It was so large that both Misri and Nisho could use it simultaneously. Meetha came home on leave. He brought a special Chitrali blanket for his father and a dress length of gorgeous lady Hamilton cloth for his mother. That day, Misri himself dyed the Nishoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hair with henna and when she was clad in the new dress, on some pretext, he took her into the inner chamber, and clasped her in his arms laughing wildly. After a while, as she freed herself from his arms, Nisho also started to laugh. Looking into the tearful eyes of Misri, she said: "Don't behave like a kid. We've passed that stage long since. It's time for us to dedicate ourselves to prayers and piety."

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Meetha's leave came to an end. On the eve of his departure, he was informed about an excellent match his parents had found for him. "She is Haleema. Daughter of our Numberdar's brother. Don't you remember her?"

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Meetha quietly listened to his parents. He didn't say a word until they finished and thereupon, he got up and said: "Marriage is a highly personal affair. Please do not worry about me. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll marry a girl of my own choice." "What an impertinent lad!â&#x20AC;? exclaimed Misri, as he saw his son going out of the compound. Then turning to Nisho, he said: "If we do not worry about his marriage, who else will?"

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For Nisho, it was the shock of her life. She remained silent for some time and then said: "Impertinence is in the air. The rails and trains and roads and cars ---- they have made everybody impertinent. Don't you see these bareheaded youngsters? Loafers! All the time idly loafing about in the lanes. What an obscene insolent way of laughing they have! The wretched cur!"

Misri also began to reflect about the changes in manners and the decline in moral values: "All values have changed! The borrowers never return the loans. If any man repays his debt, he wants the lender to be obliged to him. Cinemas are adversely affecting the youth. Theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d go to Jauharabad to see movies without ever bothering to seek permission from their parents. They go about traveling by train without caring to obtain amulets from the shrine of Hazrat Peer. They say Thal is flourishing and progressing. Men like me are undone. Look! Our son wants to marry without consulting us!" Next day, Meetha was preparing to depart when his parents tried to put some pressure on him regarding his marriage with Haleema. This led to considerable bitterness and recrimination. Meetha crossed all bounds of respect. He went to the extent of making sly references to their own marriage. Had they not married 26

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without the consent of their parents? At this Nisho fell into a fit of crying. Misri lost his temper and started abusing his son. Finally, at the time of departure, Meetha promised to reconsider the matter. He said he'd inform them about it in a month or so. They reconciled. Bidding good-bye, Misri felt the arm of his son and found that the amulet was missing.

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â&#x20AC;&#x153;Where is the amulet of Hazrat Peer?" he asked in anguish.

â&#x20AC;&#x153;I gave it to a friend of mine. He was afraid of traveling by train," Meetha laughed and departed.

That was a terrible night for Misri. At first he couldn't sleep. And when he did, he dreamt some horrible nightmares. In one of these he saw roaring trains heading towards his son and after cutting him into pieces laughed at him and disappeared. At long last the night came to an end and the day dawned.

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"What an ungrateful wretch has he proved to be!" remarked Misri as soon as he rose from the bed. "His insolence to us, we may forgive. After all he is our son. But he should not have given away the amulet. He must show due regard to Hazrat Peer and shouldn't forget that trains are still under the curse of Hazrat Sahib."

Days passed. Misri and Nisho waited for the promised letter. It did arrive to announce that Meetha had been selected to go to Warsak on two months training. He had requested his father to meet him at Kundian. "Please, Baba, do come to Kundian on the seventh of instant." "There", he-wrote, "I'll let you know of my intention about the matter you spoke of during my visit home. Moreover. I'll give you a portable radio transistor I've purchased for you. It requires only a few battery cells and you can take it anywhere you like. Or you may leave it with mother at home. You can get it when we meet at Kundian Railway station." Both Misri and Nisho were delighted by the letter. For a long time they kept looking at each other. Then they began to caress the 27

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letter of their son, as fondly as if their own son was sitting in front of them. "Array!â&#x20AC;? exclaimed Misri with a sudden realization. "Today is the seventh of instant!" He paused, resumed his seat and said; "But if I go on foot, I cannot reach Kundian in time. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll have to go by train!"

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"So what?" was Nisho's reply. Then to reassure her husband she said: "I can go and get you an amulet from the shrine of Hazrat Peer right now. What is a sum of fifteen or twenty rupees? Nothing in view of safety."

"Fifteen or twenty rupees'" exclaimed Misri in utter astonishment. "When the railroad was constructed", he recalled, "the amulet cost only one anna!" He reflected for some time and then remarked; "What a cursed indifferent world is this!" "Mind your language". Nisho admonished him gently. "Do you realize what you are saying? Whom you are criticizing?"

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Trembling with fear, Misri touched his ear lobes to beg forgiveness and muttered: "What a blasphemy have I uttered. And only because I was considering money as more important than any thing like everybody else does."

The world around him had changed, and so had he. When Nisho left for the shrine, finding himself alone, he burst into a fit of weeping as a mark of repentance. He kept weeping and begging forgiveness until his wife returned. Nisho had obtained the amulet for ten rupees. Misri put on his best pair of gold-embroidered shoes which had been carefully stored in a basket; and pulled out his well-starched turban from the box. He appeared very nervous. Again and again he checked the amulet tied around his shoulder to make sure that Jinns and Vampires of Hazrat Peer had not carried it away to punish his blasphemy. Nisho made every attempt to help him overcome his

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nervousness and promised to accompany him to the Railway Station.

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The station was at a distance of about three miles from the village. They reached the platform long before the arrival of the train. Seated under a tree, they began to discuss wedding plans of their son. Expressing his anxiety, Misri said; "These are hard times. People have no regard for anyone. What will happen if Meetha rejects the marriage proposal?" Nisho tried to allay his fears: "If he intended to decline, why would he call you to meet him at Kundian? Why would he purchase the radio for us? He's our true son. He can never say no to our proposal."

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The prospects of the radio led him to think of ways and means to dispel the children who'd swarm their house for radio programmes. What would be a proper answer if someone comes to borrow the radio? The loud whistle of the coming train put an end to their discussion. Misri stood up and became nervous once again. He checked the amulet to reassure himself. The train arrived. A fellow villager got down. He â&#x20AC;˘was surprised to see Misri over there. "What has inspired you to come for a railway journey?" He asked in astonishment.

It was Nisho who made the reply: "Meetha has sent for him... to give us a radio. He is going with blessings of Hazrat Peer." The fellow started admiring their son. Just then the train steamed off. Misri ran after the train in panic, and somehow got hold of a door handle; but unable to mount the foot pedal, his grip loosened and he fell down in such a way that his left foot was placed on the rail. Wheels of the boggles began to run over it, one by one. Somebody pulled the chain and the train stopped. Nisho yelled and screamed and rushed towards her husband. She caught hold of him, pulled him into her arms and settling him in her lap like a 29

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baby, she sat down. Meanwhile a crowd had gathered around them. Misri clutched his wounded foot. All his toes had been crushed by the rattling wheels. Blood streamed through the wound. A railway official arrived at the scene; saw the wounded man and growled; "Are you blind? Why didn't you board the train properly?"

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Simmering, Nisho yelled back at him: "You must be blind yourself! And your parents. And all your ancestors!" Mumbling some words, the railway official thought it proper to leave the spot. Nisho sat close to her husband. Their village fellow was tearing his turban to dress the wound, when the train started to move. "It has started again!", exclaimed Misri in bewilderment and turned his glance towards Nisho.

"Let that bastard go!" said Nisho, holding Misri’s arm. With a sudden jerk, he freed himself from her, and ran limping towards the train, leaving behind a trail of blood, and shouting all the while: "Eh, you! Stop it! Stop this mother of yours! I am bound for Kundian! I've got the ticket.”

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The train passed on. When the last bogey passed by him, he was left to gape like a vanquished man. Nisho and others came unto him. He kept staring at the train which was moving farther and farther away from him. Every minute faster than before. Finally it disappeared. "What a damned indifferent train is this? Would it make any difference if it had waited for me? Everything is cruel! And everybody is ungrateful in this century!” Writhing with pain Misri sat down and clutched his wounded paw. Nisho pushed his hands gently away, sat beside him and caught the wounded paw in her own hand. Bursting into tears, she said: "Why did you utter those blasphemous words against the holiness of Hazrat Peer?" The pale, forlorn face of Misri seemed as dejected as if the progress of Thal was centuries away. Translated by: Sajjad Shaikh **** 30

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Asghar Nadeem Syed

The Last Four Years of Saadat Hassan Manto (Saadat Hassan Manto ke Akhri Char Saal)

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There are several approaches to understand Manto and his art. The first approach is Manto himself; he says that he wants to disclose how he being a rogue became a fiction writer. His fiction writing is the result of a conflict of opposing elements. His father was a man of very unyielding character, but his mother was a very tenderhearted woman. One can imagine it that after having gone through those grindstones, in what a form he might have come out. He informs that he went through the entrance examination twice but failed. The readers may be astonished to know, he failed in the paper of Urdu.

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Manto is a fraud of the first degree; its further proof is that he often claims that he doesn’t think of the fiction, but the fiction itself thinks of him. This is a fraud too; however, I am aware of the fact when he has to write a fiction, he becomes restless like a hen before laying an egg. He doesn’t lay this egg secretly, but openly in front of all. Though the betel-leaf is on the table in front him yet he doesn’t know what to do. At last he takes up pen or pencil and in retribution writes 786. The first sentence that occurs in his mind, he starts the fiction with the same sentence. Babu Gopinath, Toba Teksingh, Hatak Mumi and Mozail, he has written all these fictions with the same fraudulent approach. These all claims of Manto are right; this is the inscription of his last age, I named it ‘age’ as if he lived a complete age. In this essay, Manto himself has dropped down the curtain of the theater of his life. “He was a person who never went on clear straight road, but walked on the taut rope; the people thought, then he would fall…then he would fall, the poor soul, never fell till today, but he fell prostrate never to rise up again.” Here I got a point to discover Manto; Manto to me is the longest short-story of Urdu literature. He was a short-story for 31

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himself but he became the longest one for his readers. On account of this Manto is the most grieved character of our literature which comes to an end before his death, at this sentence, “now this wretchedness must be finished.”

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This fact I have mentioned earlier which should have been said later. But to reach mystery of this sentence, Manto brimming with odds of life, journeying through the age of surging tempest, had already gained the courage to peek at each attitude, each temperament, and each corner of inner-self; and he wanted to experience this all with his impatient spirit. Even in the search of a human who possessed the last speck of humanism, he went through numerous individuals but he found them all perished from within. Had Manto not existed in the bustles of life, he would have remained hidden from so many multifarious human beings and their looks. According to Mumtaz Sheerin, “life, life, life… is life in front of Manto… life becomes fiction when moulded by the hands of Manto.” And then life entertained him so much by showing many amusements, fondness of seeing amusement made him amusement too. A. Hameed writes, “One day I was entering into a Chinese lunch home, beside a coffee house, I saw a heartrending spectacle near the last table with the rear wall. A servant of Adlugy had seized Manto by the shirt around his neck and he was shaking him severely. I along with some other men ran to the spot, reached there and got rescued Manto from the terrible clutches. The servant of Adlugy was shouting, “If you couldn’t pay why you took the wine on credit, now how I shall pay the owner.” It is the event of Manto’s last days, after his arrival in Mumbai; you might have known his relation to Lahore besides his relation to his cases. The society he was confronting proved for him so much malicious; and it didn’t contribute concession to Manto even of a single penny. Manto was bought too cheap; the rate at which the prostitute of Manto was sold, his fiction on the prostitute was bought much less than her price. This all he had been tolerating, and once gave expression to his last sentence, “now this wretchedness must be finished.” Manto had been busy in protecting the whole life, his ego, his creative ability and his integrity in the ongoing conflicts. His struggle against these odds of life can be candidly understood 32

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through his all writings. He throughout his life had been grappling against the factors like hypocrisy, double standard, insincerity, deceitfulness, disillusionment, sycophancy, pretentious nature of the social guardians, formation of lucrative ideology in the name of patriotism and vending of Eden in the name of religion. Shaheed Saaz, “Martyrs Maker” is such a fiction as it has conjoined ‘Eden vending’ to Taliban.

“At the time of Mughals, a big mansion was lying unoccupied, it was comprised of one hundred and fifty one small rooms, their condition was miserable and my skilled eyes guessed that their roofs would collapse with the very first heavy rain. Therefore, I bought the mansion paying rupees ten thousand and five hundred, and rented out to one thousand decrepit persons, got the rent of two months, ‘a rupee for a month’, on the third month as I presumed, on the pour of very first heavy rain, roofs of all rooms collapsed, and seven hundred people including children got martyrdom.” This prescription of martyrdom now has become very common.

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In the second phase Manto confronts elites, publishers, and starched-tempered purchasers of creative affection, in the third phase he deals with the progressive writers as well as with the remaining conventional literary figures. He had been pondering in confusion that elites of the era had been treating him as they thought it convenient but treatment of the literary intellectuals had also been shocking to him. The fourth phase proved fatal for him, this commences with August, 1947 when Pakistan came into being. He was too confounded to understand what had happened. I shall express my opinion on it later; first I shall refer to a stageplay written by a stunning satirist Anwar Maqsood: my friend, it was named ‘Quarter to 14th August’. When its script was received in the Arts Council Lahore for approval, all became perplexed how it should be permitted. At last it was decided that I should bell the cat as I was one among members of the Board of Governors. I went through the script; in it all political parties of Pakistan were ragged. I thought there was nothing objectionable, the play was attention-grabbing.

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It was the story in brief, “Three characters: Muhammad Ali Jinnah, Allama Iqbal and Maulana Shaukat Ali Johar were sitting at Karachi Airport to depart for Islamabad. Their seats were on chance, they came back from heaven and in the meanwhile all sorts of characters were in motion. At the occasion Maulana Shaukat Ali says to Allama Iqbal, “Allama! Had you dreamt the dream of Pakistan?” Allama replies, “Of course, I had dreamt?” Maulana Shaukat Ali says, “If you had dreamt the dream, was it indispensible to disclose it to Baba Quid-e-Azam?” Then Maulana Shaukat Ali says to Quid-e-Azam, “Hazarat! If Allama Iqbal disclosed the dream to you, was it indispensible to act upon it?” At the end a girl comes to Quaid-e-Azam Muhammad Ali Jinnah and gets an autograph, Maulana Shaukat Ali stops the girls and asks whether she knows Qauid-e-Azam. She replies, “There in the lounge my father is sitting, he has told me that there is sitting Christopherly in the adjoining lounge, get an autograph of him.” It is worth mentioning that in the film made on Muhammad Ali Jinnah, the role of Jinnah was performed by Christopherly, besides there was Shashi Kapur too. This drama gathered a record crowd in Lahore, Karachi and Islamabd.

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Saadat Hassan Manto, left everything behind and came here after Pakistan came into being, this time was the climax of his creative work. As a flame dazzles with full energy before it extinguishes, so whatever Saadat Hassan Manto wrote in that period, seems extreme madness in paying back all alone, all debts of the history. But in this madness he has written all which conveys the sense of suicidal attacks and hysterical terrorism in Pakistan, even in 2012. A letter to uncle Sam on 16 December 1951: “This country how it was segregated and it got freedom, you all know well about it. As my country got freedom after it had been shredded likewise I got freedom after I had been shredded. My dear uncle the matter isn’t hidden from a person like you who is a well-known experience scholar that how a bird feels if it gets freedom after its wings have been curtailed. How will be its freedom?”

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This description interprets numerous stories. What a long process of sufferings, delineate these four sentences! The wings which were curtailed were of history, the wings were of civilization of Ganga Jamni, they were a combine thought of hermits and mystics, they were the wings of geography or of the cultural inheritance. Leave it all here, see another letter how Pakistan of today reflects in Pakistan of 1951, and see in it a sarcastic attitude.

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“Though India be reluctant thousands of times, yet you shall sign with Pakistan the contract of military aid, because you are too much worried about solidarity of the biggest Islamic state in the world. Why should you not be worried about? Because the Mullah (religious leader) of here is the best contender of Russian Communism. If the contract of military aid is signed, first of all you equip with weapons these Mullahs, and send for them pure American clay-lumps, pure American beads, and pure American prayer-mats, also give priority to razors and scissors. If the prescription of Lajawab Hair-dye (Unprecedented Hair-dye) is included, it will work a wonder.” Now youmight have understood the satire and cut of each word, Pakistan of today is suffering through this all.

Manto is an artist associated to the traditions of fiction of the subcontinent that is why he used time and again the word ‘batwaray’ means partition which has been used by Bedi, Krishan Chander and other fiction writers too. This is the state of mind which Manto was going through in his last days and this is the temperament of Urdu fiction on account of which we brand it ‘secular fiction’. But this secular fiction has performed the role of a bridge between both of the countries and Manto is the most prominent pillar of this bridge; but this pillar in individual life tumbled in such a way as it collapsed. Manto himself states an account after coming back from Mumbai, “My mind couldn’t decide for three months, it seemed as if many films on one screen are being displayed simultaneously. They got confounded themselves, sometimes the streets and bazaars of Mumbai, sometimes speedy mini- trams and ass-carts of 35

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Karachi, and sometimes uproarious restaurants of Lahore; I didn’t know where I was. I sitting in the chair remained engrossed all day. At last one day I was stunned because the money that I brought from Mumbai, some of it at home and some of it at the bar of Clifton was consumed. Then I totally became aware that I was in Lahore.”

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It refers only to one thing when Manto had learnt how to pull on with the elites in Mumbai, and he had invited Ahmed Nadeem Qasmi in Delhi on their expense, he kept him along seven days with the result, “neither did eat, nor did drink, but only smashed a glass of twelve annas.” But the glass of Manto was empty because after Pakistan came into being his lifeline was cut off. He neither did have All India Radio Delhi nor publishers, nor film industry of Mumbai which compelled Manto for bounded labour but it certainly paid for it. He was provided with the necessity of night equally.

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The events of Pakistan will be stated later but just see how he departed from Delhi. “I contemplated a lot, but couldn’t understand, at last feeling harassed I said, “Let’s move from here.” Shiam had to do the shooting at night, I packed my luggage and the night went on so, when the morning broke, Shiam came back from shooting, he looked at my packed luggage, he only asked me, “leaving.” I responded, “Yes.” After that there was no conversation on migration between us. He helped me in loading my luggage, during this I had been telling joke about the night shooting and laughed heartily. When time of my departure approached, he took out a bottle of brandy, poured into two goblets and giving me he said, “Hiptulla.” I said, “Hiptulla” in response; and he while laughing aloud embraced me tight against his broad chest and he said, “Swine.” I blocked my tears; Shiam raised a heartfelt slogan, “Pakistan live long; India live long.” Then I went down where a truck was waiting for me. Shiam accompanied me to the harbour, there was a lot of time for the ship to leave the harbour, and he had been amusing my heart by telling me different jokes. When the whistle blew, he saying Hiptulla pressed my hand and went down the gangway.”

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Then he came to Lahore from his friend Hassan Abbas residing in Karachi but see agony Manto went through after leaving Mumbai and think awhile on its causes. “I was gloomy after leaving Mumbai, I had friends there, and I am proud of their friendship. I was married there, my first child was born there and the second one started the first day of his life there too. I earned from a few rupees to thousands and lakhs and spent them there. I loved it and even love today.”

This statement assists us in understating the agony he went through in a few last years of his life in Pakistan. The one who earned in lakhs when he used to enter into Pak Tea House, the writers used to hide in bath-room fearing, “Manto has come, make the wallets loose.” The names of those who used to hide in the bath-room are: Qayyum Nazar, and Shuhrat Bakhari. This event has been stated by A. Hameed, besides, A. Hameed of Amritsar, a friend of Manto has also stated, “I know well, Qayyum Nazar, and Shuhrat Bakhari never gave Mnato money to drink.”

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In Pakistan, Manto remained so much entangled for bread and butter and to secure his creative talent as he couldn’t understand to what direction he had to think of. He was arrested and prosecuted in several cases in Pakistan. He had been crumpled somewhere amid the progressive and their rival writers of right arm.

An event after Pakistan had come in to being: Manto went along a few artists to an exhibition of paintings; there they all insisted upon that to inaugurate the event Manto would cut the ribbon. Manto said, “Isn’t there any arrangement for the night?” In the meanwhile the host assured that certainly there would be, on this assurance Manto cut the ribbon. Such things never happened in Mumbai. Raja Mehdi Ali Khan, Krishan Chander, Bedi, Majrooh, Sahir, Asmat Chughtai, Kaifi Azmi, and Akhtar-al-Iman all were the guests of Mumbi Film Industry and they all were getting with respect according to their capacity. ‘Babu Gopinath’, the most bulbous fiction of that time isn’t only the fiction but also to some extent an account of Manto’s life in Mumbai. Manto and plot of the story merged into each other. It 37

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is unpredictable wherefrom the story starts and where Manto ends. Manto from top to toe, incarnation of innocence was accepting each aspect of life considering it enlightenment. Just like that as an innocent kitten plays with a wool-ball, sometimes it gets entangled, sometimes it gazes at the ball, sometimes places its head on its fluffy stuff and sometimes in resentment begins to avenge it and gets its legs entwined. Manto dealt the story with the same manner; the story is the wool-ball and Manto a kitten.

Time of Manto’s artistic excellence begins with ‘Babu Gopinath’ and then fictions like Toba Tek Singh, Khol Do (Untie), Thanda Gosht (Cold Meat), Nia Qanoon (New Constitution) and Gurmukh Singh Ki Wasiat (Will of Gurmukh Singh) became his pride. Manto how unclothed one by one the elites of society and politics is another tale but see this close-shaved tale: “What kind of people are of our nation, fifty swine were sought with a great difficulty have been slaughtered in that Mosque, there in the temples beef is being sold like hot cakes, but no one comes here to buy ham.”

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If we see Pakistan of today, Manto had clearly indicated the matter which in future interprets itself; I don’t want to give my own comments. Just see two references: “The British Imperialism played a game so hypocritically as even the coolest minds didn’t find any opportunity to think upon. This shrewdest surgeon lacerated and operated upon Hindustan laying her on the sills of cold stone. He segregated her parts with a great satisfaction and gratification and then fled away.” (Talkh Tursh Shereen Page-79) “On account of revolution that took place owing to Batwaray (partition), I had been rebellious for some time and even I am rebellious now too, but later on I accepted the horrendous reality.” (Jaib-e-Kafin Page-201) Saadat Hassn Manto wrote his first letter to Pandat Nehru published in the preface of his book titled ‘Baghair Unwan’, “I have another complaint to you; you are blocking the water of our rivers and seeing you the publishers of your kingdom are publishing my books without any constraint.” 38

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There are numerous such writings which provide the readers with causes of restlessness and impatience Manto went through in his last four years. Manto had to breathe in such a society in which Banti: the daughter of a coachman can’t get license of Tonga to drag the burden of family but gets easily a license to sit in the brothel. In Pakistan of that time political touts, religious touts, social venders and sellers of religious verdicts whatever were executing, it was beyond of Manto’s forbearance. He went through litigation; even then he had been trying to pull on, expostulating with the publishers.

At last Manto was brought to a mental hospital of Lahore where his Jangia was thieved, despite hectic search it couldn’t be found, at night his room-mate showed Manto, taking off his shirt that he was wearing his Jangia in such a way. At the same spot, he started to write the fiction Toba Tek Singh; the death of Manto was its finale when Toba Tek Singh was shot dead on the border between Pakistan and Hindustan, he wasn’t Toba Tek Singh but Saadat Hassan Manto himself.

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Translated By: Muhammad Shanazar

______________________________________________________ Adlugy: Name of the owner of tavern, Hiptulla: local expression pleasure. Jangia: An underwear with tight fitting from back to ankles and often with socks.

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Azra Abbas

Before Crossing the Road (Sarak Par Karne Se Pehley)

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Before crossing the road, he put his hands in his pockets, looked first left then right, brought his separated feet closer to each other. I should now cross the road, he said to himself. In both directions, the traffic was far off. He stepped forward. One hand was pulled out of the pocket. This was a habit that the hand would stay in one pocket or in both. Before crossing the road, he felt his hand swinging on his back and remembered that his mother used to laugh at this habit when he was small.

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In a single second, he thought of all these things and had taken the second or third step when a fast-moving vehicle came and pushed him from the back. The other hand also went in the pocket. He was in no hurry. The interference of the traffic and the rush did not make him restless. But he could have been in a hurry. It was his habit. He would be calm within seconds forgetting everything and within seconds he would become agitated, remembering everything. All the work would pile up and put a lot of weight on his head. He turned his face from left to right. Suddenly the traffic was flowing on the road. Standing there, he thought that coming and going depends upon the direction. This side of the road or that side, the meaning of coming or going could change. Now both of hands were out of his pockets. Even when not conscious, the same thing happened. The hands would come out of the pockets and start swinging. With the falling steps, the hands would make a circle and with this thought, there would be a consciousness of the rhythm of the hands. He would not be conscious. His mother often asked, why are you not conscious? Half of his years were gone but he would still not be conscious. Standing by the road, a lot of time passed. The fervor of crossing the road, once again made him move ahead. With both

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hands in his pocket, he stepped forward, pulled his hand out of his pocket and went on to the second step. This time the dumb roar came from the right side. He stepped back. Ach! how long will he have to stay here on one side? This traffic always appears out of the blue, very quietly, he thought while moving back. This time, both the hands were out of the pocket without his being conscious of it. This always happened to him. So many unexpected misfortunes kept coming his way and he wanted to move ahead. But to move further ahead, he always had to step back, so much so that he couldn't see anybody. He smiled.

Suddenly becoming conscious, he looked all around. The road was empty. He decided to move again. He brought both feet closer, shoved both hands in his pocket and then pulled one out. Then with one quick jump he was on the other side, he thought to himself. Again he was lost on the same side. Both of his hands were out of his pockets and one foot was ahead of the other. In front of him was the flow of the traffic, coming and going.

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And he could not make up his mind, whether it was coming or going or is at the same spot, like him. His hands once again went inside his pockets. Once again he brought his feet together to cross the road and his left hand was ready to swing in the air. Translated by: Asif Farrukhi ****

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Hameed Qaiser

Sound (Awaz)

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“Can you hear me?” “Yes, of course! But why, why do you ask this?” “You do grasp every single secret of my heart, don’t you?” “Well, yes! But, why, what’s gone wrong?” “Seems my voice has become totally soundless!” “Soundless? Your voice? What riddle is this today?”

“Perhaps my voice has lost its effectiveness! Or, maybe, people have lost their hearing!”n A little upset by his discourse, she kept quiet, but amazement was peeping through her eyes.

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“Listen! When no one responds to my voice, isn’t that my sound’s death? What else is it?

What’s wrong with you today? Are you ok? A little while ago you were lamenting the loss of your sound – and now, here comes this sudden comment on times! Anyway, what’s the problem?” “Have you ever called someone aloud from the midst of terribly tall rocky hills?” “Maybe, yes, sometimes in a dream, but why? Why should you ask all this?” Disregarding her, he went on, “Have you ever tried to hear your voice from within a deep well? In both cases, it’s your own sound that echoes and reverberates – nothing else at all!”

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After a pause, he resumed, “No one listens to me! No one understands me! My own echo keeps piercing my ears. If this isn’t sound’s death, what else is it?” The waiter came and left with the order for tea. He began to speak again.

O nl y

“I’m sure my voice is dead! And now – now, I’m suspended between being and nothingness –” “This is just your own whim. You are present before me, hale and hearty; very much alive with your voice! Come on, shed your worries and talk of something else.”

Regardless of what she said, he went on, “Speech is a great blessing! Without speech, humans would be mere bodies, having no soul! Simply worthless – no more than a carcass being hurried into a grave, lest it starts rotting odorously!” The waiter brought tea, placed everything on the table and left. She began to make and serve tea.

ev i

“Look”, said she, “You are losing heart for nothing. – You’ve got social status, a home and an office where you hold a central position! What else do you want?”

He had a sip of tea and a prolonged puff of a cigarette and indulged in wearing smoky circles of thoughts. “Ok!” she remarked, “Let’s presume no-one, no-one really responds to whatever you say. Never mind! Just ignore them. Here I am ready to hear and heed to whatever you say and quite capable of grasping every single sign of your glance. – So then, what’s the worry?” “You are also dumb and speechless like me! Has your voice any weight? The sort of importance your personal choice enjoys at your home is pretty obvious to me!”

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She said nothing, and, sat silent, revolving the cigarette lighter on the table. “Aren’t you engaged with dollars entirely against your wishes? When Farhan comes from America, you’ll be given to him in marriage! Call this wedding or business? Isn’t that the death of your voice? Or what else is this?”

O nl y

She answered, “You know it very well – rebelling against family conventions is, for an Eastern girl, to risk the honour and dignity of her parents.” Saying so, she looked into his eyes.

“Modern Woman – or so say our contemporary women – wants to go rubbing shoulders with men! On the other hand, our old, obsolete conventions and exploitative tendencies ensnare her like an octopus and crush her voice. – Thus clad in helplessness she becomes a coward!”

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His tone was serious, almost philosophical, but quite bitter.

“Are you taunting me? You are wrong, very wrong! I’m no coward! – But, if you regard defense of parental dignity and honour as cowardice, so be it!” she protested, her tone ringing with anger. “Look!” he said, “A voice which can protest against snatching of rights is the only voice worth regarding as effective or else, bigger and louder voices suppress and strangulate it.” In the ensuing pause of silence, he crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. “Maybe you are right, but I believe, if my love is really sincere, Farhan and his riches can never ever block my way! Come what may, my voice will surely join yours!” She spoke vehemently, confidently, optimistically. 44

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“It’s nothing but self-delusion. Regard life realistically: – a world where humans are measured by cash payment alone and where the highest bids are made for their attraction. How can you leave yourself there, just at the mercy of Fate?” “Lose not your heart, dear! My voice will join yours for ever!” she reassured him, and laid her hand upon his hand.

O nl y

“Well, the tragedy is even our twin but ineffective voices can do no one any harm, just as all the mingling voices of countless people sitting here, in this restaurant, are no more than a loud, jarring noise.” “Indeed!” she said, adding, “Yet, this noise is a proof that humans do exist!” Again, she labored to catch an argument.

ev i

After a little pause, she resumed, “My childhood was far better than this unimportant youth, because – because those were the days when even my crying carried enough weight; at the slightest sign of trouble to me, mother would be willing to lay down her life for me. For my defense or rescue or safety! In fact the whole family got perturbed!” She attempted to find another angle of discussion.

He didn’t say a word.

A long pause of silence ensued. Ultimately she got sick of the prevailing atmosphere and said, “Let’s go home! We are already very late.” But, instead of leaving, she went on to say, “Anyway, ever since I’ve stopped crying and started speaking, all those affectionate and helpful voices have turned hostile to me! How I miss them and cherish to hear them all again!” Recollection of childhood saddened her all the more. She paused for a while before resuming. 45

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“You are worried for nothing, indeed, nothing! To me, your voice is very much alive and vociferous! It still has the same chirping charm – and as mine joins yours, the audiences are naturally attracted. Look! Even now, all the people sitting at the tables all around us are constantly watching us through thievish glances.”

O nl y

Saying so, she herself cast a thievish glance at them all. He remained adamant.

“I can’t be carried away by such childish consolations! After all, why don’t you admit that my voice has become barren?” So saying, he slightly leaned towards her.

“Anything more, Sir?” intruded the waiter. “No, nothing more, friend. Just bring the bill, please!”

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He continued, after the waiter left, “To top it all, I know not what’s gone wrong with my folks at home: nobody pays serious attention to what I say.”

“I think we must leave now. We are already very late. Maybe you don’t know that I came here on the pretext of visiting my friend, Naheed. If mother phones there and finds out the truth, that’d seriously hurt her confidence in me.” She gave vent to her anxiety and apprehension.

“You must have seen that life-size female statue in the museum showcase who has probably forgotten to blink her eyes. Her sight makes me think she must have possessed a tinkling voice when alive – a charming specimen of Divine Creation! – But, alas! The ancient kings seized from her everything including her speech and had her carved into a lifeless stone statue, exactly as Anarkali was buried alive within the wall!”

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Evidently, he was quite sad.

O nl y

Presently, the waiter brought the bill. He paid him and turned towards her. She was still silent, mute like a lifeless stone statue! “People who express themselves are probably disliked in every age, because the words of a speaker may pierce far deeper than arrows and surgeons’ knives! And nowadays, in the contests between ideologies, their rightness is no longer deemed necessary. On the contrary, sharpness of tongue and diction, as well as loudness of utterances are regarded as more important attributes. And here am I, destitute of all these!”

“Can’t you change this topic, please? If you bore me anymore, I’ll leave instantly!” she warned him in utter irritation.

ev i

“For God’s sake, please try to understand my problem! The present situation has totally stifled me! How unlucky of me! I can’t express myself even over the phone! I keep repeating, “hello, hello”, but the phone is disconnected with the remark, “no sound!” If that’s not the death of my voice, what else is it?” said he, choked with tears. Failing to find any further argument to convince him, she kept quiet.

He went on, “At times, I feel myself as helpless as smaller nations besieged by Superpowers; mini-states whose policies, ideologies and liberties are pawned in lieu of loans and defence pacts for purchasing the latest armaments, and their tongues are slashed.” “Oh, my! Mourning the loss of your voice, you’ve landed in the middle of international politics! For God’s sake, talk of something else! I’m feeling giddy! Yes, very giddy!” Paying no heed to her, he continued his speech, “Moreover, the office where I’ve been undergoing drudgery for the past ten years is also posing me an awfully awkward situation!”

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Deeply concerned, she asked, “What! What happened in the office?” He replied, “Only the day before yesterday, our M.D. called me to his office, and, hurling a file at me in fury, he said don’t you know the consequences of such a bloody note?”

O nl y

“I tried to explain, ‘But, Sir, the matter is exactly as I’ve stated in my note. At this he lost his temper and burst out at me. So, whatever I had planned to say suddenly got buried within me.” “Look! The M.D. must be only trying to acquaint you with his own point of view.”

“No! No! You don’t know! He wanted to gag me, to crush my voice with his terribly loud and authoritative voice even though, as a subordinate, it is my duty to record facts as facts. If I have no right to express my mind, why am I given a crippled voice alongside abilities to think and comprehend? Why wasn’t I simply denied my voice?”

ev i

She was able to feel the venom mingled in his tone and temper. He resumed his speech.

“In the present age, speech is the most powerful weapon of Man.” “And this weapon you possess in good measure and ever use

it.”

She endeavored to pour a little humour into the awfully stiff air around them. “Of course, I do possess this weapon, but it is quite blunt. – It can strike, no doubt, but it cannot cut through!” He relied on an argument again.

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“In vain are you tiring yourself! You seem trapped by a whim. If you really know that your voice has lost its effectiveness, you must concentrate on writing. – Oh, yes! What about the book you had planned?” She had made an attempt to change the topic, but to no avail.

Once again, he relied on logic.

O nl y

“To hell with my book!” he roared. “Continuous writing has benumbed my fingers like my voice. Anyway, what use is writing? What harm can these lifeless words do to anyone? Deaf and dumb words grow old if long preserved in books and ultimately they also die. What’s the worth of dead words, words without a roaring sound? They are like arrows without a bow to shoot them.”

“Why must you always turn your words to the soundlessness of your voice?” She was really annoyed.

ev i

“Can you deny the importance of sound?” he asked. “No, not at all!” she remarked with confidence and said, “So what?”

At this, he lifted his head and found himself sitting all alone in front of a table in the Sheesh Mahal restaurant. He didn’t know when she had left, bored by his prolonged, unending discourse. He didn’t know whether or not she had been there at all. The Waiter stood in front of him, again, and said in his ever repeated, daily routine tone, “Sahib! It’s almost midnight. Aren’t you going home tonight?” Translated by: Prof. Sajjad Sheikh ****

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Mansha Yad

The Last Hungry Man Of The World (Dunya ka Akhari Bhooka Adami)

O nl y

Often it happens in life when we aren’t in a mood to listen, think or feel about others. At such moments our innate selfcenteredness becomes more perceptible and our hidden mask of hypocrisy gets revealed. Thus the hidden face comes out, in front of others and such fleeting moments leave behind lasting impacts on the mind.

It also occurs that certain circumstances may change our whole world, sometimes our humiliation in front of our close and fast friends creates devastating results and then we have to curse no one but ourselves which is nothing but crying over the spilt milk.

ev i

Once while coming back from a party along with my wife, I also went through the same sensation. It was midnight and almost all shopping malls, cash and carry centres and grocery shops were close, but there were a few men and women busy at the bakeries and, food stalls and restaurants.

I was feeling very sleepy and was driving fast to reach home as soon as possible. But my wife was still in a good spirit and seemed generous. She was wearing a stylish dress, precious jewelry and most of all she was aware of her stunning beauty. Though we had taken a square meal, yet she expressed her desire to have an ice-cream as now a days it has become a custom in a fashionable circle to go for outing at late midnight and enjoy edibles in the cars. So I stopped my car in front of an ice-cream parlour. While she was enjoying herself with the mango flavoured ice-cream and I was having my favourite cold drink, an old man with white beard having three baskets in his hands came and requested to me for some money. He said, “I am helpless, I haven’t

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taken a single morsel since morning.” I regarded him a habitual beggar and thought he might be telling cock and bull story just to obtain our sympathies, so I didn’t pay any heed to his pleas. I snubbed him and drove off my car.

O nl y

While I was taking a turn towards the road I cast a glance on him, I noticed his miserable plight and tears were rolling down from the cheeks of a sixty years old man. Having looked at him I began to feel burden on my conscience and repented on my callousness. If I could have helped him, a few pennies were enough to provide him with a meal but then the opportunity had gone out of the hands. My car was heading fast on the road.

Though I was moving ahead, yet my heart was repelling me to the market where a hungry man was panting for money. I reached my home but I couldn’t get rid of thoughts of the old-man. It seemed as if the old-man had obsessed my mind and gripped my heart, I felt as if he was accompany me wherever I moved.

ev i

I tried to comfort myself, I went for change, watched T.V, went through a few pages of a book, but nothing saved me from over whelming anguish of his thoughts. Time and again his weeping face appeared in front of my eyes. My conscience made me more and more restless; it seemed very hard to come out of his trance. I said to myself, “What was he asking for? Just for a penny, a rupee which is nothing for me.” I tried to deceive my conscience and began to justify my act of snubbing the old-man. I thought he might be a professional beggar, and might have been habitual of shedding crocodile tears to gain sympathies; or then he might have collected amount enough to have a dinner at any restaurant, but all these suppositions failed to convince my conscience. On the very next moment his weeping image re-emerged in my mind. His tears were the proof of his innocence as well as genuineness. I was tense and wanted to avoid this agony of remorse at any cost. I came out of my house, and again went back to the market where I met him just an hour ago. I was expecting that he might be 51

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O nl y

roaming there around the cars and be begging money from the people. When I reached there, I came out of my car and looked around well; but to my surprise I found him nowhere in the market. I searched for him every nook and corner in the market, checked all restaurants, food-stalls, footpaths, went into the nearby mosque, but I could not find him anywhere. Noting was changed, all affairs were going on in their routine, and everything was the same as it had been. People were gossiping, giggling, and enjoying themselves but the old man was found missing.

ev i

The old-man and I were in the same boat, he was going through hunger for food and I was hungry of spiritual deeds. I was repenting on my callousness. Socially and financially I enjoyed myself the top of hierarchal structure of the society but morally I was totally decrepit. I had each and every luxury of life but didn’t have a generous heart even to give a single penny from the treasury that God gifted to me. I thought what answer I would give to Allah Almighty who had bestowed countless blessings. It is the worst tragedy of this word that there is a variety of food items, bakery products, soft drinks, sweets and other edibles but a man like him is deprived of all these and is suffering intensely from hunger.

The whole night I kept on lobbing on the bed and my remorse became more troublesome and I couldn't sleep. Next day I again went to the market but couldn't see the old-man there. Then it became my routine matter to go there and search for the old-man and thenceforth I was unable to have proper sleep at nights. One day while skimming the newspaper I read a caption, “An old-man died in a road accident.” Though his identity was not mentioned in the paper yet I assumed for my satisfaction that the victim would be the same old-man who was the cause of my sleepless nights. I was shocked on reading the news of his death but that night I had peaceful and sound sleep. I thought that the last hungry man of the world kicked the baskets at last. Translated by: Syeda Tazeem Imran ****

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Musarat Kalanchvi

Journey of Noor (Noor ka Safar)

O nl y

Young Noor was trying to hear the conspiracies, which were heard in whispers form his grandfather’s room but was unable to get the discussion. He just listened the last sentence, which was about the news of his mother’s marriage. It was shocking moment for him, he remained stunned for a while, how was that possible for him to accept this bitter reality of life, just a few months back his father passed away. He could not even come out of that transitional period, and life once again played another game with him.

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His tears could not stop his mother. She went with mourning heart. Noor’s grandfather has taken a sufficient amount of money in exchange of his daughter. In return they refused to bring Noor along Sharmaa and he was sent to Nasim’s house. She was the elder sister of Noor, Who got married with her cousin. Nasim herself was unhappy because of her mother’s marriage but she could do nothing except cursing her fortune.

Nasim tried hard to prove herself as an affectionate guardian; she kept on trying to fill her mother’s place in Noor’s life. She used to say “Noor that I am like your mother; you are my son not brother, I am here for you; I will take great care of you, even more than a mother. I will prove that an elder sister can love more than a mother.” All these things were easy to say but difficult to prove. Moreover Nasim herself was a puppet in the hands of her husband. In the early morning Noor got up by listening the harsh voice of Hashim who was asking Noor to go with him for work. Nasim had no other option instead of sending Noor with her husband. That time Noor went into the nostalgia of his father’s memories when they both used to talk for hours. His father had made a

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number of promises with Noor. That one day he would purchase a bicycle for Noor, and he would go to school on that.

O nl y

Noor’s eyes filled with tears. The distorted picture of that shattered dream was enough to make him sad. He started thinking himself as the world’s most unfortunate boy. Time and circumstances made him the servant of his brother in law. His day started while listening the abusive voice of Hashim and the whole day he kept on obeying his orders, Take this, bring that ,come here, go there. Noor worked hard to see Hashim happy but he left no chance unturned to humiliate Noor. He always called Noor in harsh manner and never even hesitates to slap that young boy.

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One day, when Noor’s grand father came to see him, whether he was dead or alive, Noor’s love for his mother busted out and he forcefully insisted for a meeting with his mother. When he reached there, his step father greatly welcomed him and also gave some toffees to Noor, His cordial and nice behavior made Noor impressed but his good understanding had proven to be short term. That man leered Noor and showed his illicit likeness. He brought him out of the house and tried to abuse him sexually, the young boy of seven. Noor got frightened and ran fast and faster until he could see his grandfather.

He returned back to Hasim’s house where bad treatment of Hashim was waiting for him. But this time Noor had accepted the bitter but and harsh reality of life. He had no other option but Hashim. There were no limits to Hashim’s rudeness, his bad attitude made him sad but there was no way out for him. Time was passing on and Noor’s routine was becoming harder day by day. It was one hot noon. Sun was scorching on the heads and there was gloominess prevailing everywhere, when Rashid advised Hashim to send Noor for Dubai where Noor could get education side by side, there would also be the chances for earning money. (Hashim’s heart was filled with greed) and he asked how much amount he would pay him for this. Rashid replied that in Dubai, Sheikh would do take care of that child. He did not need to do anything but just to ride the camel. Infact camel race was a very

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popular and lovable hobby among sheikhs, and they preferred young boys, as they could run fast, in this way they could win that game.

O nl y

In spite of thinking for a while about Noorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s future Hashim was more interested in the amount which would be given to him at the cost of Noor. His selfishness convinced him to accept that proposal without wasting a moment and he gave his full consent for that horrible plan.

That night was really dreadful. Clouds had enveloped the moon and it looked that everything was covered with the sadness which was prevailing in the heart of Nasim. She was requesting her husband for not taking such a drastic step, and repeatedly asked the same question, what would she tell her mother? Who gave Noor to her, she could not play with the life of her innocent brother. But all her pleas went in vain. Hashim slapped her in reply to her arguments and threatened that he would throw her out of his house which was the first and last shelter for poor Nasim. She herself was helpless and dependent on Hashim. She could do nothing and was bound to act like a robot. The whole night her 55obbing were roaming in the house.

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Noor had also overheard their conversation. Hashim quickly moved towards Noor, convinced him in a very polite manner and showed him the dreams of bright future, then said, that his sister was creating hurdles in the way of your achievements. Noor could not realize the upcoming danger, he was already looking for a chance to get rid of this monotonous routine, and for that reason Dubai was the golden chance where his unfulfilled wishes could come true. Next week Noor was handed over to Rashidâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s friend, in return Hashim received a huge amount from that stranger. Nasim parted from Noor with tearful eyes. Now a new journey began for an unseen place and an unknown destination, the jeep was running fast and Noor was leaving behind everything of the village, trees, animals, crops, all his loving relative, old friends, caring sister, and even that grave yard where his father was buried.

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After a long span of time the man spoke to Noor, “from today onward your name is Amir, don’t forget you are Amir and that’s it.” In this way a new identity was given to Noor. He was no more the brother of his sister, son of his mother; he would be called Amir, Camel Rider Amir. Noor tried to resist this new identity but he was unable to give voice to his argument.

O nl y

Early the next morning, they reached Dubai. Noor was still lost in the memories. He found new land similar just like his village. Same birds were chirping on the trees, same sandy land, wind was dispersing the clouds, flower were blooming, same sunrays shone on his face. Noor was feeling happy and he welcomed that change whole heartedly, he had accepted the new identity for him “Amir”.

In the meantime the place came, where Noor had to stay. It was one among few houses of a desert. He stepped into the house; to his surprise nobody welcomed him. He waited for their greetings, then took initiative to break the ice and asked them “where did you come from? At what time do you leave for school? Those boys had fear on their faces, hearing these questions they laughed in a ridiculous and mysterious way.

ev i

Throughout the beginning Noor remained in confusion. Each and every day left a tragic impact on his mind. He got up with the harsh voice of a stranger. His breakfast was two bread pieces and in lunch half bowl of boiled rice was given. Noor was a village boy. Though he belonged to poor house but he used to take square meal there. This food was not enough for his meal and he remained hungry after having that. Noor was suffering from hunger, but he was more interested in his studies than food. He asked again from the stranger about school, but was replied with abusive language. Noor was being frightened from that rude man, but he could not resist his thirst for education and one day talked to his fellow boy. Noor: “When will they send us to school?” Boy: “We are not students.” Noor: “what do you mean, if we are not students, who are we?” Boy: “we are camel riders.” Noor: Exclaimed with joy, oh really! “I love to ride it, it will really be a fun game. Boy: “you would get to know soon.”

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After few weeks, the race day came. Desert was crowded with men, they all were calling each other “ya sheikh, ya sheikh.”

O nl y

Noor was put on one of the camel’s straddle. His heart was penetrating and body was shivering with fear. He closed his eyes. Suddenly the camel started running faster and faster. His bones started stretching, he was shrieking, other boys were also crying loudly but their yelling buried under the noisy crowd of the race. When he came back into his consciousness, he was lying on the same bed and in the same room. His body was aching with pain and his throat was scorched with thirst. Camel riding had proven to be an onerous task, which made him sick and he moaned with pain. Almost after every month Noor and other fellow boys suffered from the same agony and misery. In return they were paid some rupees.

That was a hot summer day. Sadness was prevailed the environment. Noor was not feeling well. He had fever and had headache. But Noor had to participate in the camel ride. It was for the first time when he showed resistance and bluntly refused to ride.

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He was forcefully tied on the straddle of a camel. Noor’s eyes were closed and it seemed to him that it would be the last day of his life. He became unconscious and couldn’t remember when jerks opened his belt open and he fell down from camel.

This was the turning point of the story. Noor’s mother burst into tears and then she brought me into the room where crippled Noor was lying on the bed. Translated by: Syeda Tazeem Imran ****

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Ada Jafarey

Arrival of the Spring (On the first tree in my new house)

O nl y

You share the secrets of the spring! You are a child who knows nothing of the world Who knows from which garden? You have come to me And with such love I grant you the place of honor in my courtyard!

Many years will pass When spring will come again You will play fine music On petals Of silken buds You will be in trance And spell out fragrances On the heart’s core.

ev i

The thoughts of youth And the demeanor of every beauty Are all alike (All colors pale and fade away Before one’s own reflection!) When spring will come again I do not know where I would be then Many twists and turns make The path to my journey’s end. You would forget me And the touch of my hands, The dreams in my eyes. But I will never forget you I am by nature a mother! Translated by: Asif Farrukhi **** 58

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Ahmad Nadeem Qasmi

Even Dust is Literate

The sea waves on the sand.

O nl y

The blowing wind writes on water, They are artiste ever celebrating life. The shooting stars scribble

Their illegible scrawls in the night sky. Leaves emboss forms in the air. The webs that spiders weave

In crannies behind doors,

Are maps the astronomers chart. Even the dust is literate

ev i

You can find its signature written On all that is there to read. Translated by: Riaz Ahmed

****

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Allama Muhammad Iqbal

The Ideas of Mehrab Gul the Afghan (Mehrab Gul Afghan ke Afkar)

O nl y

ev i

O my land of towering mountains Leaving you behind Where am I to go? In your rocky boulders Rests The dust of my forefathers. You are the land of the eagle And the white falcon. Alien to you Is the talk of the tulip And the rose, Unknown to you are The songs of the bulbul O my homeland! In your great undulating contours Dwells my paradise. Your earth has fragrance Your rivers are orient In their crystal purity. Can an eagle Ever be a slave Of a pigeon or a partridge? To save my flesh Do I slay the spirit that sits within? O my Indigence! What do you choose, The rewards of the white-man Or your own tattered robe You wear in pride?

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ev i

O nl y

The conflict Between nations is a reality Surviving from the onset of time To the Lofty firmament Neither you nor I Are the loved ones. Immerse yourself in your Ego. Do not lose hope For your wounds Are amenable To darning needle's craft. If the oneness of Allah Begins to dwell in your heart, You shall remain unique And unrivalled For all times to come.

Your prayer Cannot change What is penned in your fate But it is possible That you In your very essence change. If a revolution takes birth In your inner self It is not beyond the credible That it spreads To the East and the West And indeed beyond. The same wine endures The same tumult abides But the cup-bearer's stance And the customs of the assemblage 61

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May change Your prayer is That your dreams come true Mine is that your dreams may change. 4

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O nl y

The heavens With its crooked gait. The Sun And the Moon--All travelers, All weary of their unending journeys. Alexander had roared Like a thunderclap But of his fate you know well. Sudden death had come With one slicing thrust Of the sword And severed The head of Nadir Shah. But Afghanistan survived And so did its mountainous terrain. Sovereignty is that of God alone! Dominion is only that of the Almighty! When appetites endure Freemen into slaves change And lions into jackals. When deprivation And Ego-hood embrace It is then That you and I Are elevated To the majesty of kings. The fate of the nations always lies In the hands of the men of spirit Which seek not The path that Sultans seek.

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5 These schools and in the playgrounds These frolicking games. All this commotion But in the midst pleasures, each moment A new suffering, a new sorrow is born.

O nl y

In the eyes of the freebom What you gather thus is not knowledge But a poisonous blight. It provides No more than subsistence to our men.

My naive friend! Literature and philosophy Are of no avail---vital to man of action Is constant strife. The proficient has power Over the laws of nature. His evening is as radiant

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As the morning hours of the day. If man of destiny wants He can distil light like dewdrops From the sun with his skill.

In this world of constant change It is because of the man of creativity that Time continues to orbit In abject acquiescence.

Do not render worthless Your ego-hood with blind following. Take good care of it, nurture it For it is a peerless pearl. God help the nations. Which consider men and women In frolicking evenings Translated by: Riaz Ahmed ****

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Amjad Islam Amad

The Last Night of 2012

O nl y

What a strange night it is! Absorbed in the convulsions of future and past, The night last of the year.

The last night of the year, Inscribed on its forehead, an account Of each moment of the year bygone, And in it the dreams of open eyes, In the company of dormant fortune. The dawn like an unblemished paper, Will appear in the chamber of New Year, With another manuscript.

ev i

The last night of the year, Beneath the feet of which a pile is heaped Of dreams filled with Longings with no realization, Neither any route, nor destination, Nor any mystery has resolved; and to the distant Skyline where eyesight exhausts, In whose eyes at each moment blossom And wither the lotuses of hopes and expectations. Dense constellation of stars bustles in the sky, In such a way as if someone whispers â&#x20AC;&#x153;Take heed while stepping ahead.â&#x20AC;? At mid-night, From this side of the stagnant moment, All-around is a noise, and echoing clamour, And there from that side across is an alien world, Where half-ajar are the windows And the doors ridden with mysteries.

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O nl y

Several cities there are on this Earth, Where till now, in a new day, is alive In the past year, the figure of this withering night; And who will inform those friends who reside, Somewhere at the farthest end of alien lands, Amid the unidentified residences, They thrive till now in my heart, in my memories, In my dreams, if I exist in their minds. They be sworn of me, sworn of my love, They should dredge me again though for a moment, In the year who is alive now for them, And here it is vanishing away.

What a strange night it is! Absorbed in the convulsions of future and past, Such are the spectacles where we see the same colour, Now a bud and then a flower, And there are such moments as they seem, Now a river and then a bridge across.

****

ev i

Translated by: Muhammad Shanazar

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Asghar Nadeem Syed

I Am Appalled

ev i

O nl y

The deer is unafraid of the forest, The wild-cow is fearless of the meadows, The stag is not scared of drinking water Of the brook where hidden Alligators are in the chase. The soldier is unfrightened of the battlefield, But he is afraid of the mosque, where He is deployed at the time of Nimaz. The sparrow is not disgusted of the tree, In the branches of which clings a snake, The eagle is un-petrified of the rocks Where lightening thunders and strikes; But I am appalled at my own city, The child is afraid of going to school, And buying toys, The journalist is fearless on the front while reporting, But fearful while going alone along the road, And they have no dread interviewing the terrorists, Hidden in the dark grottoes; But afraid of the promenade in the park. I am appalled at my own city, (I confess) I am weaker than a baby-deer, I am more timid than a sparrow.

Translated by: Muhammad Shanazar ****

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Azra Abbas

ev i

If a man is Shot dead In front of your eyes, So what? You are just like the wall or the dust-bin, Or that tree, A few inches away from the one who died. You are immobile, inert. You are not even scared. You stand still, You do nothing Not even turn back To take a look, And later When your wifesistermother Is serving you dinner, You tell her you have something Eye-witnessed hot and fresh With tonight's dinner.

O nl y

Eye-Witness

Translated by: Asif Farrukhi ****

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FaizAhmed Faiz

Loveâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Enchained Captives (Ishq Apne Mujrimon Ko pa ba-jaulan le Chala)

O nl y

Wearing girdles Of hangman's rope Round their necks, The singers, day and night, Sang the songs of fidelity and resolve --Their fetters tinkling like ankle bells.

We who were neither in this lot Nor in that Stood by the curb Watching with envious eyes Rolling in silence The pearls of our tears.

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Turning back we saw that once radiant Red of flowers was now deathly pale. Where there was once the heart There was only pain, live was the feeling Of the noose around necks to our disdain, And in our feet the song of the waltzing chain. Lo! Loveâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s arrival And with the same lot we went enchained. Translated by: Riaz Ahmed ****

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Ijaz Kanwar Raja

Fragrant Flowers

O nl y

Fragrant flowers, colourful butterflies we fear, Woe the times, friends we fear.

We have to battle the waves to cross the tumultuous rivers but captains; It is our boats that we fear. What silence, no sighs, no dirges. In this quiet, our heartbeats we fear.

Temples and churches will become our sanctuaries. Dear God, it is our mosques that we fear.

ev i

Our emperor is a remnant of those barbarious despots Whose desolate vaults we fear

Dawn is yet to come wherefor these foot falls It is the tread of the unknown that we fear. Translated by: Attiya Shirazi ****

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Injila Hamesh

Paradox

Vanishes, goes out of sight,

O nl y

A crawling worm on the wall,

Whether it reaches on the other end Of the wall or falls in between, Only the wall is a propping Support of its existence.

The worm demands nothing Just liberty to crawl,

If it gets the opposite end,

Enjoys itself the tang of life;

ev i

But itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s being in life itself is a danger, For on existence of the lifeless worm, There stand erect giant

Lower and upper houses; But the dwellers put the worm down And they now in its anguish Will raise the slogans of protest. Translated by: Muhammad Shanazar ****

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Majeed Amjad

During A Mountanious Journey

ev i

A narrow path Winding Through the mountain And below, On each side. The open mouthed Ravines And ahead, Beyond the slopes A sharp turn And there Like an angel, Open winged, Bends a tall tree Holding which Go across Many a hesitating traveler. Here There is only The weak hand Of this decaying bent tree: Trustee Of the safety of many Who could fall Into the darkness Of the deep abyss. Ah! The life of those Elevated ones Who do not Even have the place That The bent branch occupies.

O nl y

(Aik Kohistani Safar Ke Doran)

Translated by: Riaz Ahmed 71

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Partau Rohilla

Strangers Parting

O nl y

During the self-same stroll Along the gardenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s narrow path We faced each other But neither looked up Quietly avoiding, with eyes down-cast These two strangers Stuck to their chosen walks in parting!

ev i

Yet even today When not a single sight Of this garden is the same Neither those nooks and corners Nor those side-walks It seems to me As if the same stranger

On whose feet I had cast my glance Is still standing there And on the slender foot-steps of the garden That moment Which fate had written from creation On the margin of my story Was waiting for me! Translated by: Ikram Azam ****

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Sarwar Kamran

The Last Eve in the Metropolis

O nl y

When skies begin to change New shawls of the seasons The people dress themselves In new costumes And begin to keep The old ones in the trunks, Then you halt for a while to remember me! I am a redundant attire Of every crawling moment.

ev i

When birds begin to migrate From the old regions, Swarms soar onwards in the skies, And they begin to ground themselves In the valleys; When some sparkling bird bathes, In circles of the lake of memories And fluttering his wings flies, And when that diminishes, Each moment into distant skies, And becomes a mark worth forgetting, Then you halt for a while to remember me! When in minarets of light Propped by hands of the sea, The burning fire begins to extinguish And in search of warmth and sometimes light The number of birds thumping down At the feet of minarets begin to grow, Then see a stray bird of the swarm Heading onwards at the sunset, Then you halt for a while to remember me!

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I who migrated too, And tumbled door to door in search of light, My presence in companies of friends, Was fire burning on torso of the sea, And its debacle appeared at last.

O nl y

Friends! You will not forget, But everything appeared to be forgotten, All divine booklets favour my conviction, Who…how long…whom ….anyone remembers, Other anxieties there are too, to be heeded; At times I shall be no more here, But my eyes, Immersed on the glassy windowpanes, Of the restaurants, Will ever remain behind, To see you friends, wrangling, squabbling On the dilemmas.

ev i

Friends! When evening begins to change Into deep dark night And sleep begins to flutter In eyes of the lamps along passages of the city And you intend to return, Scatter on the paths, Then you halt for a while to remember me! I who was given existence with the ink Nothingness, Came into the Kingdom of Being, Shimmered for a moment, And then dissolved. My dear ones! Be not diverged after my departure, The same pliable prescription of compromise, Is an antidote for all maladies. Whatever someone says…though all do the same, Every sanctimonious gets irritated on my thoughts, And his happiness lies in it. 74

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O nl y

Everything here is personified, Embodied by imposition of its own boundaries, In alteration of linkages, Each word in eyes Of the meaning is a stable light, Death: is a belief in the diseased truths, In this world of patients; And to articulate curiosity amid the dull-minded, Is a massive death of heart and soul! My eyes, Hung in the spaces on high crosses, Have been beholding since ages. My eyes only see, Here we all are words Dying like worms on the paper of time.

ev i

My eyes are static And everything is to pass on, Where are budging on grey in the mist, The marks of drifting faces of my friends, The ocean extends far beyond in thousands of miles, The earth is worn down to the depth of its core, Towns, cities and toy-like houses, Time taking along kids of centuries, And wearing the costume Of ruins has been passing on with no break in routine. We tumbled down From the dark clouds of Nothingness alone, alone, And a thick blotting-sponge of being Made us all nebulous, And being absorbed we have been dissolved, All those whom I be held at least bear the same tale. Friends! Whenever you stop in your dialogue, And I sojourn into your minds, Then have faith That before the total extinction I shall pour down, 75

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In the form of scalding drops of fresh blood, So that I might leave behind Some indelible deep marks. Some indelible deep marks!

O nl y

When skies begin to change, New shawls of the seasons, The people dress themselves In new costumes, And begin to keep The old ones in the trunks, Then you halt for a while to remember me! I am a redundant attire Of every crawling moment.

Translated by: Muhammad Shaanzar

ev i

****

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Sumaira Baqer

Yasrub

O nl y

Where shall we go, dad? To the shopping mall, eh? What gifts are there for me? Dolls, toys, and laces of pearls? How achingly beautiful on My long indigo-blue festive skirt, The dawn-grey pearls would look **

ev i

Dad, we must go back home before the eventide. Evening shadows scare me so! Mum says be home, the sun sets. Right ho, syas dad. Little girl big fears, Fear of darkness, fear of shadows, Yearning for mother-warmth, Longing for beloved child-brother, Rush of memories, Suddenly a cloud of doubt, Dark and sinister, Hung over her soul, “Never before was she pampered so. Why dolls and pearls today? Dad is treacherous, He is a mean, nasty, crafty, fellow, A breaker of promises, Prone to perjury, Cobras of hate with swinging crests… In his heart do hiss.” ** 77

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ev i

O nl y

Others would grumble, I guess “A girl is born to bow and to obey. Such a glittering stuff For a mere slip of a girl of six! Shame, o, shame.” Many a son had her two brothers. The man-sons give bower and honour to the clan. One feels proud and tall in them. Her father had sons three times three. Still, the lone, lorn girl-child Gave him nights, Restless and weary Moaning and groaning,” Swing me to and fro, Across your shoulders, Around them, over them. Buy me this, buy me that, A nagging past! “Dad, why am I not the delight of your eyes, Like the start-sheen You love me not. Why, O, why? Even the mother is so distant. To brothers I am tiresone and boring. We dwell under the same roof, Yet no heart aches for me **

The girl and her father Walked on and on and on, When the shadows thickened, They reached a verge Eerie in hour long silence. Her heart sank with fear. In tones tremulous she said, “This is a deary desert, Neither man nor mart is their, Only sands endless and bare. 78

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ev i

O nl y

“Is there a treasure-trove. Beneath the barren sands That you hid there long ago” “Yes, “say she, diamonds and pearl and gold And a life of honour, sacrifice, and valour. Are buried down below, To be found here and now. All right, all right, be that as it may, I feel the fatigue of the marathon walk, I feel the pangs of a deadly thirst, To home, sweet home, the very own home, I wish to go. ‘No, says the dread fater In a voice of cold command. You will live here Till the end of time….” “What? In a desert. Unfit for man or beast. No! No! No! To mother will I go, To the young brother, to hug and fondle, I cand hear him cry even now.” The man heard her not. He dug a hole. Deep enough and wide enough. She heard the same sepulchral voice. “Come here. Sleep in the bed of earth forever.” The faithless hands of iron, Began to bury her The girl screamed. Hysterical and grief-sticken. “Dear father, what means this? How could you do it? Who promised me dolls and pearls and robes Of slendor It is pitch dark; it is choking Lt me out, for hearenis sake. I swear never to ask for anything. 79

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O nl y

Neither your time, nor yours mony. Mother said, Be home eve the sun set.’ Let me out, please. I shall not be seen again. It is a promise and an oath. I shall never bother you again. Let me out, for God’s sake. I faint, I am dying. Am I not your own flesh? Your own blood? Won’t you miss me ever. Alas, weeing and wailing were bootless. She breathed her last In the vast loneliness of sands In the dark depth of a pit

ev i

Long ago when God’s glory Blazed across the sands of Arabia. People, gona astray, Flocked to the fold divine. Hard hearts melted with Conrition, Guilty feel turned to the scene of sin, Where the girl lay cold, Silent and still. Cries of anguish lingered in the air, Footprints of innocence, Of wistful hopes, Were large and bold on shifting sands. The killer father wailed loud and hoarse. Wht a foul deed hare I done on thee! My babe, my blossom, my beauty. He burnt in the fire of shame. In the pangs of repentance. To shriere him He sat out his life at the door of the Holy man. The holiest of the hol men. He made yasrub the light of the world.

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ev i

O nl y

He shatterd the idols of falsehood. Through his goodliness, His piety and perseverance, Love of the lord revailed over earth. He was mercy personified, From the sole of his feet, To the crown of his head. For him did God create heavens seven in number. For him did God create worlds seven in number. His name it told on the beads of angels and jims. Timelessly, eternally. Muhammad Mustafa, The preferred prophet of Allah, Light incarnate. Mercy into both worlds. Here and hereafter. Beloved of God. He, the mercy into worlds, listened In silence perfect To the heart-rending tale By the flinty father himself told. Not a word did he say, But on that holy beard and on that blessed face was seen. A wash of tears a pause. Then the prophet spoke. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Daughters in a home are the blessing of God. Be they the murdered ones or my own flesh Fatima. Would to God that no heart is empty of love. Of thine is sealed, Do have we will, it changeth not.â&#x20AC;?

Translated by: Rasheed Akhtar ****

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Syed Jamal Naqvi

Whoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s The Culprit?

Standing here With an outstretched hand That gamin

O nl y

This urchin

Sifting offal and trash over there On the garbage heap And yonder, the third child

The wretch, the heroin-addict

Sprawled half-dead near the foot path And finally, lo and behold

ev i

That pampered, darling scion

Whose precious toy is a Kalashnikov? These four samples

Culled from our society, our culture

Our own products, our own out puts So, whoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the villain, the culprit? And who deserves to be hanged For this crime against humanity And whose face-mask must now be lifted In the court of History Translated by: Tashna Barelvi

**** 82

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Bapsi Sidhwa

Sehra-bai

O nl y

The Jariwallas arrive in the early afternoon in a chauffeurdriven, locally-assembled, 1994 Toyota and are escorted to Sehrabai's bedroom. Hirabai Jariwalla's constant hilarity and the old goatish glint in Mr. Jariwalla's dissembling eyes lift Sehra-bai's spirits. In their company she is more like her old self, gracious and hospitable, and less contrary. The Jariwallas are persuaded to stay to lunch and Sehra-bai is brought to sit at the head of the table. Ruby believes Mr. Jariwalla was one of her mother's earliest admirers, and like most of that elite coterie, her confidant.

ev i

Mr. Jariwalla has always carried his integrity in the fixed contours of his boyish face and his cosmopolitan genes in the Chinese slant of his liquid eyes. Although his pink skin bears testimony to the Parsee claim to Aryan ancestry, his small features and hairless skin signify a Mongolian mixture. Well into his eighties by now, the retired banker still retains his trim form and straight bearing, and his precise and soft-spoken ways.

Hirabai, his plump consort, as loosely fleshed as he is tightly wrought, is his laughing-Buddha, his lucky talisman. Originally from Calcutta, she shimmied through her years in Lahore like an even-keeled boat cruising bright waters, and has arrived at the calm shore of an arthritic and liver-spotted old age without rancor. She is helped to the other end of the table by Ruby and sits there in her flame-red sari, cracking jokes and giggling like a palsied strawberry set in a Jell-O of infectious merriment. A contagion that lodged in a goatish and incurable twinkle in the apple other spouse's adoring eye ever since the day Jal J. first met his thirteenyear-old fiance at their engagement ceremony in Calcutta. "He plucked the words right off her lips ... he granted her littlest wish" says Sehra-bai after they leave. "When your husband

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is that good to you, you don't care about anything else ... you don't care what goes on in the rest of your life." And later that evening when they gather round her bed, she is still in a philosophical mood. "He kept her so happy Hirabai didn't even care all that much when her only son died." Sehra-bai's eyes become glazed and ruminative, and she sighs. "That is how it is when your husband is devoted to you. It cushions life's blows."

O nl y

"Did Grandpa make you happy?" asks Perin, "Did he pluck the words right off your lips?" "He was deaf when I spoke," says Sehra-bai with equanimity, "He never heard me." "But Grandpa was devoted to you," asserts Perin protectively, as if she was around when her grandfather was alive.

"Yes," says Sehra-bai, "In his own way he was devoted to me.â&#x20AC;? Although her voice is confident, her eyes diffident, shift to Ruby.

ev i

Ruby accompanied her mother to the Central Bank ever since she could remember. Mr. Jariwalla was chairman of the bank. Mr. Cooper was chairman after him. Whether she was going to the locker to change her jewelry, or with ledgers and files on some business errand assigned to her by Rustom, the trip to the bank was a formal occasion. And as befitted formal occasions, it was heralded by certain rites.

Sehra bolted the bedroom doors and removing the massive middle drawer from her cupboard, staggering under its wooden bulk, dumped it on one of the beds. She then pushed open the little doors of the secret chambers cunningly concealed on either side of the vacated spaces in the cupboard. When Ruby grew older she helped her mother remove the drawer and fetch the precious contents of the secret chambers. Perched sideways on the bed Sehra opened the little boxes lined with velvet to examine the diamond and emerald necklaces and earrings, the gold and ruby choker set, the delicately painted gold meena-work sets, the cloth pouches so heavy with gold

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O nl y

guineas Ruby needed both hands to lift them, the heavy handwrought twenty-two-carat gold chains, belts, bracelets and dangling earrings. Sehra would ponder them and set aside the items she might choose to wear at forthcoming events. The gold guineas, embossed with Queen Victoria's profile, were always at hand to give as wedding, Navjote, and new-born day gifts. The jewelry Sehra decided to relinquish to the bank locker she would wrap in silk scarf and pack into a leather handbag, reserved for the occasion.

Tucked beneath her arm, the bloated handbag was inadequately concealed by the scarf of Sehra's sari as, Ruby in tow, she swished solemnly across the dusty black-and-white squares of the bank floor. Her purposeful air and the preoccupied pucker of her lips indicated the enormity of the task she was about to accomplish â&#x20AC;&#x201D; a transaction that was, at the very least, commensurate with the stature of her husband's standing.

ev i

No one was fooled, not even the handsome turbaned Pathan security guard from the Khyber Pass who stood double-barreled guard outside the entrance and militarily salaamed when mother and daughter entered the building. As they put down their pens the bankers sighed: and the sighing bankers knew that whatever worldly airs she might put on, no matter what important reason she might assign her mission -- whether she'd come to balance a discrepancy in her husband's ledgers or to remove jewelry - Sehrabai was there to distract them from their drudgery and to refresh their eyes. As they ogled the goddess carting gold to the bank's steely vault, they hoped she would exchange a few words with them on her way out. But when Sehra arrived bearing ledgers memos and files, they knew their turn would surely come. Sooner or later, courting help, Chanel scented, she would spread the ponderous ledgers before them and, listing forward, follow their clever pens as they make the requisite entries, adjustment and corrections - a hair's breadth from her charmingly packaged bottom and bosom. ****

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Mohammad Ali

True son of the soil

ev i

O nl y

I proclaim myself to be the only person who can trace his ancestry generation-wise to the first man who ever set foot on this planet: Adam. If permitted, I can trace my ancestry to the specific pimate that had unwillingly turned human some six million years ago. However, in the stifling atmosphere of today, this preAdamite ambition might create religious misgivings and so we will stick with Adam as the starting point. Very few homo-sapiens know that Abel's fiancee was pregnant with my ancestor when he was justifiably killed by his own brother, Cain. (It is ironic that even at that age the institution of marriage for the satisfaction of man's basic instinct was not mandatory and engagements were thought to suffice for respectable families). This created a vendetta like situation within this small family which was resolved only when Abel's wife took away her son (born by that time) to a place far far away. This journey marks the most significant event after the creation of earth; first being the cosmic bombardment creating the planet itself. With Ozone layer fully in place by now, she was the first human to have witnessed its eventual dispensation. Burdened with a son and faced with a hostile climate, she is documented to have invented the use of flint stone to cook food. Although invention of wheel is a much later phenomenon, there is ample proof to suggest its inventor also to be one of my ancestors. As mentioned above, the land that she travelled to was very far from where she had dwelt with other humans. She was facilitated in this expedition by the expanse of an uninterrupted land mass. Oceans at the time existed but did not separate the land mass into continents; an uneasy truce existed between them. Though my family witnessed various Divine mood changes wherein creation was deliberately targeted for extinction, somehow they managed to prevail. It cannot be said if it was Divine humor itself or the obstinacy of its creation.

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It is confirmed that the mother and son lived a simple nomadic life. Though interrupted by the un-programmed movement of the tectonic plates accompanied by unbridled oozing out of molten lava- a crude form of destiny- the duo never posed a danger to the Cosmic script. My fossilized family records clearly lay down their path taken from Africa to Asia.

ev i

O nl y

My family saw and braved the various ages; the Stone Age transforming into bronze and then Iron Age. Afterwards, there is a break in the records till such time that humans reached the pinnacle of civilization: Sumer in the eighth century BC. They closely watched the rise of the Indus Valley Civilization and made fun of the Indian, Chinese and Sumerian ages. For the perpetual cynics who keep doubting my ancestry, even this claim can duly be ascertained through the cuneiforms and the successive records of all the Greek, Roman and Muslim historians that are duly preserved in the family archives. In fact, it is said that the Greek sage Aristotle has mentioned my family in one of his many theses. The point being made is that all along after the collision of the African continent with the Asian, which had facilitated the migration of the duo, the progeny somehow managed to shake off their nomadic spirit and barring a few short episodes, managed to retain more or less the same bearings they had inherited.

Time passed by and humans started adding to the scum of this planet. This superiority complex, thrust upon them as a part of natural selection, resulted in an absolute disrespect for all other cultures thereby spelling doom for them when a maverick of another age, Alexander shook them from their deep slumber. Nevertheless, the real distortion that my people ever faced in their character owed more to the influence of the lost Jewish tribe that had settled in its vicinity. Fast forward to the last century and the sub-Continent got divided into India and Pakistan. Another push at scene change button and we enter 1960, the year of Islamabad's birth. For the first time in its 200,000 years of existence, the sons of Adam and Abel i.e. my family in particular, received a true geographical identity: Islamabad. The fossilized family archives aided by later 87

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human endeavours of mind and spirit have yielded a wealth of evidence to lay claim to my family's persistent occupation of the land mass now called Islamabad. Once again, any skepticism pertaining to my claim would be extremely disrespectful not only to my family but the entire humanity. The deniers have been relentless in their criticism of my claim, calling it a real estate cover up, but could never refute it with any empirical evidence.

O nl y

The pretentious atmosphere of today wherein each person identifies himself with some geographical activity be it surviving the ice age or moving around the Cape of Good Hope to reach some Godforsaken country, my family holds the flag for being the true sons of the soil. I am the only human being who can unabashedly lay claim to belonging to Islamabad without having to explain where I originally come from. How many of us can make that claim? Let us be realistic, no one. This does arouse jealousy in the human heart, but then my family did not come with a Divine authority to change hearts.

****

ev i

The cynics shall continue to question the claim to my refulgent lineage. Well, all great people are assailed to cut them down to ordinary size anyway, so what is new about it. The best thing is that I belong to Islamabad and shall continue to do so till this entire land mass transforms into chimpanzees once again.

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Nilofer Sultana

A Goldmine

O nl y

I hated myself. Somehow, I have been indulging in self-hatred for one reason or the other. When I was a wee little boy, skeletal and scrawny, I hated myself for being an orphan. In my early school days I was a timid, shy boy, exceedingly introvert, completely averse to making friends. I could not consider myself at par with my school mates as I felt, I was the only one clad in shabby clothes; my worn out shoes, despite the repeated coats of polish, divulged the ugly secret of being mended and repaired times out of number.

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“Patience and contentment are the virtues that can always keep you happy and full of confidence. Don’t ask for the moon, my son. You cannot get too much too soon. Better days will come, I assure you.” My mother kept strumming such hypothetical clichés in my mind. I never believed in what she said. I was never interested with the moral-based stories with which my simple-minded mother tried to feed me instead of pleasing my taste buds with mouthfuls of creamy pudding. I was a good student and quite early in my student life, I made a firm resolution to study hard and carve out a lucrative career for myself. There was a kind of rebelliousness in me. My Destiny had mercilessly thrown me on the garbage heap of poverty. I had to wrest my share of happiness from the iron talons of destiny. I had to scale the unknown heights and had to go for a treasure hunt. Yes I had to excavate troves of fortune, however inaccessible. I do not recollect how and when but the thought, got entrenched in my mind that ‘Wealth is the passport to happiness.’ I did not bother the least whether my thoughts were wayward or rather realistic. I only knew that if I solve the riddle ‘how to get rich?’ I will find the key to happiness. During my school days I did something about which I was indecisive whether I should hate myself or not for what I did. I had

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to participate in a speech competition for which I made really hard efforts and prepared a thought-provoking speech. A class-mate of mine Idrees who came to school in a chauffeur driven car and everyone was in awe of him, approached me quite unexpectedly.

I stared at him just vacantly.

O nl y

“Sameer, I want to talk to you.” He addressed me in his peculiar haughty tone.

“I have to make a deal with you.” He riveted his gaze on me. “What kind of a deal?” I was really baffled.

“Give me your speech for the competition and I will pay you 1000 rupees in cash.”

“But my name has already been entered in the list of contesters.”

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“So what, just make an excuse that you are unwell or something. I am one of the speakers too. I just have to make use of the speech written by you. Even if I don’t win, you will not lose anything at all. Think about it.” He patted my shoulder condescendingly.

What was there to think about anyway? I readily handed over my speech and triumphantly pocketed the money that for me was a whacking amount. I pretended to be sick on the day the contest was to be held. Idrees got the first prize and clinched the trophy that could have been mine. But what would I have done with the trophy? Eaten it up to satiate my urge for a sumptuous feast? Or just decorate it on my moth-eaten bookshelf as a mark of my victory? Victory over what? My poverty? My thoughts so full of venom, often left me emotionally drained. The 1000 rupee note made me feel so elated. The list of my quite urgent needs was inexhaustible. I bought a new pair of shoes, an ordinary one for myself. I got a new shawl for my mother and forced her to throw

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the soiled, patchy one that she always wrapped around herself. She looked so happy but she did dart a question at me “Where did the money come from? “I sold a story that I wrote.” I told her the half truth.

O nl y

The first successful deal opened up an avenue for me. I started writing for the newspapers and magazines when I was a College student. I also earned a bit through the tuitions and doing other part time jobs. I really tried my best that my mother should no longer toil for a pittance here and a paltry sum there. But was I to make a palpable headway towards my goal? Not really. I just got a meager amount for one odd story at a time while sometimes an article of mine was rejected. One thing, however, was sure. I was not going to stop anywhere midway. I had to be a rich man one day, the sooner the better. I bought a few prize bonds too. But the jackpot kept eluding me, the lady luck kept avoiding me.

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And one fine day, I was a graduate. Now! I had almost won the race like the slow and steady, proverbial snail. My mother was starry-eyed; her dreams that once seemed so distant were about to materialize. She was sure, her son would be a government ‘officer’. This is how she pronounced the word. She had crossed the deserts and I had waded the marshes to be where we were, just around the valleys of our dreams. But the euphoria did not last long. Where were the lush slopes? We were still groping for a way along the craggy, rocky, mountains. I was looking for a job frantically, rummaging through all the newspapers I could lay my hands on. I loathed the people who interviewed me and then very meaningfully said, “We will let you know within a few days.” Know about what? That there are people far better than me in status and links with the higher ups, to fill the vacancy. I hated myself, as I always did for being no better than a pariah, a leper, a beggar, shunned and discarded by one and all. I felt miserable and I cried and prayed fervently to God to save me from utter disillusionment.

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O nl y

One day I was engaged in my usual search for a job in the ‘situation vacant’ columns of a widely circulated newspaper. Cursorily I glanced through the column ‘Matrimonial’ and my eyes got focused on an advertisement, ‘A multimillionaire businessman seeks a groom for his daughter with a slight health problem. The candidates should approach directly at the following address. No marriage bureauos please.’ Unknowingly I read and reread these lines, and a thought whirled in my mind like gusty winds. Clutching the newspaper firmly in my hands, I approached my mother who was stirring the onions in a frying pan. In undertones, I questioned her, “How long will you try to cook something with your rice and flour cans, almost always empty.” But I was loud enough when I said, “Mother dear, I have something important to discuss with you.”

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She looked flustered as more often than not, there was a clash of ideas between us. I called her a dreamer and she thought I was a born rebel, always at war with the forces far too stronger than me. She always tried to pacify me with her oft-repeated words, ‘Can anyone fight with one’s fate. Fate is very powerful, it overpowers us ever and always.’ And when I bombarded her with my fiery outbursts, she just murmured inaudibly.

“Mother dear, I have an idea.” I told her about the advertisement. Yes I had made up my mind. I was going to try my luck to be selected as a bridegroom of a bride---a bride who despite suffering from an ailment was rolling in wealth. Who really cared whether she was physically maimed or may be crippled. All I wanted was to relax and luxuriate with a wild abandon in opulence, comfort and a life of perfect ease. “You have gone out of your mind.” This was her first reaction. After a long suspenseful pause she said, “In other words you are going to sell your self-respect for money.” This made me angry and I almost thundered,

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“How long are we going to cling to our so-called self-respect and starve to death in the process? For God’s sake mother dear, think with a cool mind. It is a matter of mutual benefit, give and take. What really is wrong with that? A handicapped girl, or whatever the case may be, wants a husband and I desperately need money--yes money to lead a life I really want to.”

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“So you are a husband for sale? What exactly is your price? Who will do the bidding?” Mother was angry and visibly disappointed with her only son who was out to barter himself for money. I did not say anything as I did not want to hurt her with my blunt rudeness. She looked at me with an expression of dismay writ large on her face and then she said quite sarcastically,

“And what is the guarantee you will be chosen as a bridegroom. There will be many other candidates to try their luck. After all none of your lottery tickets have helped you so far?”

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The bitterness of my mother’s tone tore at my heart. For a brief moment, I felt decidedly weak and shriveled, almost voiceless and mentally exhausted. I was definitely embarking upon a vacuous venture. It was not my lot to hit the jackpot. I gathered my frayed nerves and tried to convince my mother with the sheer force of logic.

“Let me gamble for the last time. I assure you after this I will resign to my fate.” My mother thought one should not even think of amassing wealth through wrong, sinful or deceitful tactics. Arguments can be stretched to any limit and I did exchange arguments with my mother only to prevail upon her ultimately. She had to yield to my iron will at last. There we were at the gate of a palatial house. My hands trembled when I pressed the doorbell. I was visibly nervous and wanted to run away from the spot. But it was too late. The gates were flung open by a liveried guard and we were ushered in. My legs trembled as I tried to walk steadily on the velvety carpet of a 93

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very spacious drawing room. I felt an odd churning in my stomach; I had never felt so edgy while appearing for any of my interviews for various jobs. When the business tycoon Shiekh Farid entered the room and shook hands with me my heart was aflutter with fear___ the deadly fear of rejection and my mind was awash with uncertainties. This could be my first and last visit to this huge house. I prayed to God to help me. My prospective father-in-law looked at me from head to toe and I really felt cowered. I wanted to be out of the dilemma I had deliberately chosen for myself. Shiekh Farid’s baritone jolted me out of my thoughts.

“I would not question you about your motive to get married to my daughter. Perhaps both of us have our own selfish motives. So we are in no position to question each other. Let me tell you a few young men did come here but some of them rejected my daughter and some of them I did not like. May be both of us agree to accept each other. So no discussions, no pretensions. Have you earnestly decided to marry my daughter? Would you like to meet her?”

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I shook my head violently. What was the logic behind a meaningless rendezvous. I heard my mother speak as if from far away, “I beg your pardon Sir, but would you mind telling me---what-I mean what is the real problem with your daughter’s health?”

I looked at my mother reproachfully. Why was she asking useless questions? Didn’t she herself tell me on more than one occasion that beggars can never be choosers. What did it really matter if Nahid (for that was the girl’s name) was crippled, lame or had an ugly squint in her eyes. I heard the business tycoon speak after a prolonged fit of coughing, probably to clear his throat. “There is nothing so serious. She had a few bouts of typhoid in her childhood. At times she behaves foolishly, rather childishly. She is not mad. I have spent millions on her treatment. Many people think that marriage can be a cure for the slight mental disorder, if we can call it a disorder at all.”

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So it was destined for me, this time to win the lottery. I had made a very shrewd and calculated move. I had chosen a half-mad, dim-witted girl as my wife as this is what suited my very crafty plans--to get rich quickly. Mother was just quiet but for me it was a moment to rejoice over my triumph.

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And bravo, very soon I was a rich man, a highly paid general manager in my father-in-law’s textile mill. I received a magnificent house as a wedding gift, with vast lawns and a majestic front view. In that house (must I say my dream house), I lived with all the pomp and grandeur with my mother and my wife. My mother very seldom looked happy as if still there was something amiss in her life. I hardly had the time to ask her what more did she want? Why didn’t she thank her stars for no longer sloshing in the malodorous fens of poverty? As for my wife, she looked alright in appearance but that far away, idiotic look in her eyes, the frequent twitching of her eyes, her uncalled for laughter, her fits of crying, her drools, dribbles and so many things suggested that she was an abnormal person, not mentally stable nor physically attractive. She often looked very happy in my company. She kept parroting the words, “You are my husband, my demigod . I love you I worship you.” At times I told her to stop saying that and she would start giggling rather annoyingly. Sometimes she cried without any reason but most of the time there was the most idiotic smile on her face. She did not feel the need to dress up immaculately or to insist on going to a party, to a movie or for a dinner in an expensive hotel. But I had to play my cards very cautiously. I took her out off and on as I did not want my father in-law ever to regret his decision to choose me as his son-in-law. Admittedly I did not enjoy one stray moment of my wife’s company. I was fully immersed in my business, putting in it my heart, soul and energy. My motive was to enhance the business profits. No not due to my sincerity towards my father-in-law. I was the share-holder too and I wanted to get richer day by day. I was following a hectic schedule and was enjoying my work and my luxurious life style. I enjoyed the ride in my Mercedes Benz and not for a moment did I want to reminisce the life of squalor I had been leading before my marriage. There was no disturbance from 95

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anywhere and life was so easy and smooth till my new Secretary Nazli appeared on the scene. I was not a sentimental person at all. I was too busy to pay any personal attention to any of my employees.

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One day Nazli entered my office with her note pad and informed me about the engagements ahead. I don’t know how but her bewitching smile made me look at her intently. She had beautiful luminous eyes and her long tresses looked simply marvelous. My heart missed a beat. The quiver of the faint smile on her lips reminded me the saliva, drooling out of Nahid’s mouth when she smiled. Nazli looked like a dream girl. What was happening to me? I tried to avoid her but many a times she had to come across my way, though unintentionally. Should I get her transferred to some other branch of the office? “No” my heart protested violently. As a matter of fact, I started waiting for her to enter my office, unconsciously my eyes followed her everywhere and my heart seemed to fluster whenever her fingers touched mine while handing over the files. All this was happening to me for the first time in my life. So far I only worshipped the goddess of wealth. Now that I had found what I wanted, my heart was not listening to any reason. Why the hell was I bent upon incurring the wrath of my father-in-law? Why was I trying to destroy the ivory tower of my dreams? What would be the end result of my dalliance?

But as they say, the heart has reasons that reason knows not. Nazli had captivated my heart and mind. She was so svelte, her magnetic charm drew me towards her no matter however hard I tried to distance myself. I really felt helpless and I hated myself for this helplessness. There always was a reason to hate myself . But I loved Nazli, I loved her madly and I made this confession to her in my unguarded moments. I expected her to flare up in fury and slap me across my face. Quite contrary to my expectations, she responded with a winsome smile. “Let me tell you Sir, I love you passionately. I fell headlong for you the very first day I saw you.” I was stunned to hear her words. I was in a trance, transported to an enchanted world. I held her 96

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hand and kissed it really hard. Suddenly I saw shadows of sadness across her face.

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“Sir---.” Her melodic voice mesmerized me. “My name is not Sir, for your information. They call me Sameer” I dragged her in my lap. “Sir--Sameer, don’t do that. Someone can see us. I love you but it makes me sad to think---” “What?” “We have to cross rough mountains to be with each other. Sameer, you are the boss and I---I am but a very ordinary member of the staff. Can we--can we fight the world, the society, the world around us? Your father-in-law will swat both of us like flies.” Her tearful eyes simply fanned the flames of my wild passions.

“You know it and so do I that we cannot live without each other. We have to make a choice. Should we care for the world or for each other?

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Our trysts, the sweet rendezvous, the secret meetings brought us closer day by day. We kept distance in the office to avoid suspicions and gossips. We hardly talked to each other all day long only to rush into each others’ arms in the evenings. I started going home quite late in the night. Nahid greeted me with her usual churlish smile. She unlaced my shoes, kissed and then ardently pressed my feet. I tried to pull my feet but almost every night she repeated the words, “I am your wife. A wife must roll in her husband’s feet. This is what Aunty Riffat has always been telling me” She giggled wiping off the spittle from her face with her scarf. I pined for Nazli and felt really suffocated with Nahid around me. It was an ordeal to share the bed with Nahid. The nights were so long, dark and dismal without Nazli. I could do anything for her. Sometimes rolling in my bed, I was assailed with myriad random thoughts. If I leave everything to be with Nazli, will she accept me as a pauper or will she desert me? Possibly she was on the lookout for a rich husband. I knew she was a poor girl with no one to support her. She dispelled his negative thoughts. Nazli had cared for nothing in her love for him. She had never discouraged his 97

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advances and had given him all the physical pleasures he had not experienced so far. I had my fears, my doubts, but the moment I circled my arms around Nazli, there was nothing else that mattered. She was his world and he could not abandon this newfound fortress.

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One night, I kissed her lips and told her point blank. “Nazli, I am ready to leave everything for you, my job, my status, my so called wife--- My mother will protest but I am sure she will ultimately relent.”

“No, Sameer, I am not so selfish. Don’t you think of spoiling your career. Why should you punish an innocent girl for no fault of hers. We have both been acting very recklessly. Sameer, I will quit your life and find some other job. You have to carry on with your life as it was. ” She looked up at me as tears swam in her deep blue eyes. I kissed her beautiful eyes, held her tight in my arms and said,

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“You are not going anywhere. Have you heard me? We will be together ever and always. Let the damn world go to hell.” I did not pay any heed to whatever she said to register the gravity of the situation we were in.

That night when I entered my bedroom, Nahid was standing in the doorway. She took off my shoes, rested her lips on my toes but unexpectedly she did not giggle. She was in a serious mood. In very somber tones she questioned me, “Is she very beautiful?” “Yes” I said spontaneously and then added hastily, “Who are you talking about?” “It’s okay. I love you madly. You are the only one I can live and die for. But you can leave me. What makes you happy will make me happy too.” She flabbergasted me. “What do you mean?” I was almost speechless. I had come with the intention of telling her that we had to part our ways 98

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because I had found my true love. I was going to confess to her that I tied the knot with her for her wealth. But it was madness to go on living with her. This loveless marriage had to end. I could not punish myself throughout my life for something I did so foolishly. But what was happening here? I was floundering on my words and she was talking as if for me.

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“I want you to be happy Sameer, believe me.” No one would have an iota of doubt about her mental condition. She was talking so sensibly. “But before parting with me, I want you to fulfill a very small wish of mine. Please Sameer. Her pleas sounded so very genuine.

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“And what is that little wish of yours?” “Keep this house, live here with Maan Jee. I will leave the house. I will come here to meet Maan Jee in your absence. I promise. Maan Jee is my friend you know. You can bring your new bride to live here with you. Let it be a parting gift from me. I have already taken Papa’s permission. You don’t have to worry.” She baffled me. How did she know I wanted to leave her. Why was she making things so easy for me? I had hardly ever noticed that Nahid was so friendly with my mother. Mother used to admonish her lovingly for her foolish behaviour at times and Nahid always embraced her and both of them laughed their hearts out. I had hardly bothered about their mutual relationship. Had I neglected my mother all this time? The thought stabbed my heart like a sharp-edged knife. “I don’t know what you are saying. Why should I accept this house? Do I deserve it? What have I done for you? What have I given you? Not even a little bit of love? Do you think this selfish beast deserves anything at all? I wish, I really wish during the time we spent together, I could have given you something in the name of happiness. “Oh my God!” I felt the intense pain of my guilt pangs deep down.

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“Who says you have not given me any happiness. You have given me the biggest joy of my life.” She giggled and for the first time I did not think her laughter was foolish or abominable.

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“Have I? I don’t think I have ever thought about you seriously. Nahid a person like me who can stoop low for his selfish desires cannot give anything to anyone. I haven’t even been fair to my dear mother.” Queasy feelings over-powered me all of a sudden. “But believe me; you have given me the biggest joy of my life.” She blinked her eyes and I was sure she was just blabbering. “Okay tell me, what is that biggest joy of your life?” “I better not?” “Why not?”

“I don’t want to ---I mean I don’t want to make things difficult for you.” I saw tears in her eyes. “Okay don’t tell me. In that case I won’t accept your gift.”

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My threat worked instantaneously.

“Okay, okay I will tell you. You know what you have given me?”

“What?” “The child in my womb.” She said pacifically but she swept me off my feet. I almost jumped out of my chair. What had she said? My head started reeling. Not in the wildest of my dreams was I prepared to hear what I really had heard. My God, was she telling me I was to become a father in not too distant a future. I felt a wave of love surging up in me for the child yet to be born. I had not experienced the love of a father. All I had known throughout my life was an unbreakable bond between a mother and a son. And now something novel and unique was going to happen to him. How would Nazli feel about the news. Suddenly his thoughts veered towards Nazli. He felt her fingers all over his body. He thought of the blissful rendezvous with her. The very next moment 100

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Nahid’s words echoed in his mind. She had said something else too. Yes she was willing and more than happy living with her child for the rest of her life. He would be Sameer’s son, the man she doted upon, the only man in her life.

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“What are you thinking about? Just relax, go to sleep. Tomorrow morning before you wake up, I will leave.” This time again she giggled churlishly. But strangely enough I was not the least resentful. Something was happening deep down within me. Had I heard what Nahid had just said, ’I will leave early in the morning tomorrow?’ I did hear her distinctly, yet I lay on my bed motionless. Nahid left the room so that I could go to sleep and dream about Nazli, she and me dancing in the verdant jungles away from everybody. But where was Nazli? I felt the shadowy silhouette of Nazli was receding backwards till it disappeared into nothingness. I could not see her or I did not want to see her. “Forgive me Nazli, I cannot keep my promise with you. We part our ways and let me admit there is no pain anywhere in my heart.’ I was sure Nazli had got my message somewhere. Did I hate myself? Yes I did for not knowing what the real Nahid was like. I did not hate myself for betraying my beloved. It was a rude awakening for me.. I got up gingerly and peeked through the door of the adjoining room. Nahid was busy talking with my mother. They made a beautiful picture together. I inadvertently overheard their conversation,

“I pray for your health all the time. I am waiting so impatiently to hold my grandchild in my arms.” It was my mother’s long cherished dream to be a grandmother.

“I will never forgive Sameer for leaving you.” There were tears in my mother’s eyes. “Who said I am leaving Nahid?” I entered the room startling both the women out of their wits. They looked at me quizzically probably thinking whether I had lost my senses. I realized my mother had been discussing my waywardness with her daughter-inlaw urging her to drag her wayward husband back.. 101

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I stepped forward and took Nahid in my arms. I literally dragged her to my bedroom. For the first time in my married life I kissed her passionately and made love to her as avidly as I had never done before. “You are so sweet Sameer.” Nahid said innocently.

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“You know what you have given me? I asked her she shook her head. “A goldmine of love.”

The next morning as I was leaving for the office, my mother said, “Good-bye my son.” She had never sounded so loving, so happy. Driven by a strange instinct, I rushed towards her and burying my head in her bosom, I cried like a baby.

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****

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Raja Tridiv Roy

The Pater and Patrimony

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The old man looked from his papers on the writing desk. He peered over his bifocals and recognizing his son put his pen down. “Come in,” he said severely. “And stop clearing your throat in the disgustingly servile manner. Knock, can’t you?” Kabey shuffled in.

“Sit down. And listen.” The imperious old man took out a handkerchief and began polishing his spectacles. “You are waiting, avidly waiting for me to die, aren’t you?”

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I don’t want him to die. After all, he lays the golden eggs. But I do need some money – and quickly. There is this gambling debt… and sundry others… and that woman of mine did say something about fancying…. His father’s clear incisive voice broke into his thoughts.

“I regret to inform you, that the doctor has given me a clean bill of health.” He surveyed his son with a cool, calculating stare. “So any wishful thinking with regard to my imminent demise is not likely to materialize.” There was no reaction whatsoever. “Have I sired a complete nitwit? No one can be sure.” He almost sounded hopeful. “But such are the indications. Any comments to offer?” The old man half turned in his swivel chair and gazed out of the window. A flock of geese skirted the horizon, circled, and then headed for the distant marshes.

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For breaking open the Old Man’s safe Kabey had been thrashed to an inch of his life. He had then decamped with the booty to the nearest town and lived liked a lord for six months… Gertrude was great fun and Sylvia was stunning beauty--- a trifle possessive though. She had created a most unlady-like scene on discovering him in the arms of her younger sister…..

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“What are you dreaming about?” His father’s voice shattered his nostalgic reverie. Some wench, no doubt. Incorrigible rake. “Well, Sir, have you lost your tongue?”

Kabey sighed. He planned many an imaginary conversation with the Pater. His scintillating wit, his biting sarcasm and his irrefutable logic always reduced the Pater to a quailing, incoherent mass. Yet when confronted with the slight, gray haired Old Man in reality he invariably and immediately lost all his confidence. It had always been like that. “I believe you sent for me,” Kabey said to the paperweight.

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“Are you, Sir, addressing me by any chance?” “Yes.” Kabey looked at the flower vase.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes---Father.”

“You have not been misinformed. But I hope I have. Of course it is not true Kabey mumbled inaudibly. “Speak up, Sir,” thundered the Old Man. “Only three times,” conceded the son magnanimously. “Three times! You sound quite pleased! Ruffian! Do you know how many times I beat your mother in forty-five years of married life?” 104

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That is easy. “No times.” “No times! Execrable English! And you are wrong.” Ha! The Pater beat mother. This is indeed news. Must have deserved it. Or maybe he was drunk. Curiosity bolstered his flagging courage and he got out a monosyllabic ‘Why’.

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The Old Man had beaten his wife once when she had inadvertently (according to her) and through criminal neglect (according to him) administered Kabey the wrong medicine, thereby practically terminating his chequered career in early childhood.

“Never mind why,” the Old Man growled. “Suffice it to say that it was once and once only.” He leaned forward and peered myopically at his son. “A gentleman does not strike a woman.” With a twinkle in those bright eyes, he added, “And even a wife is considered a woman---more so nowadays.”

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Yes, Kabey remembered. A gentleman did not touch a woman he was not prepared to marry. Or was it a lady? He dressed for dinner even when he dined alone. He assiduously cultivated anonymity… or was it in conspicuity? … in dress and manner. A gentleman never retaliated when confronted with bad manners. He simply ignored them.

A gentleman -----

“How old are you?” “Twenty three.” “Twenty three what?” “Years.” Kabey sounded like a patient professor. “Ears! I’ll box them for you.”

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“Father,” Kabey amended quickly, recollecting that the fastidious Pater was stickler for all the inanities of a crumbled, decadent age. And he is as pedantic as he is didactic. Now, what is wrong with ‘no times’? Perfectly all right. But not with the Pater. He has to pick faults so he reads mistakes into everything I say or do. He is getting crotchety.”

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“You, Sir, have more than reached man’s estate.” How shriekingly obvious. Senility---perfect example of senile decay. “But,” continued the Old Man, “a hulk of worthless flesh with twenty-three misspent years to his debit, masquerading in the guise of man, does not qualify one to the dignity of the term.” Kabey blinked rapidly.

The Pater was enjoying himself playing me for mouse to his cat. When I burgle that safe we shall see who laughs from the wrong side of his face.

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“Wife beating is out of fashion. However, if you must take recourse to this obsolete form of expressing your husbandly displeasure, or your sadistic tendencies at least have the grace to indulge them in private. And preferably as infrequently as circumstances warrant, if they ever do.” This good-for-nothing puppy does not deserve my daughter-in-law. I should have brought him an uncouth Amazon for wife. “If you insist on ill-treating a good woman, a first rate wife and a sensible mother, you will lose her.” I was wondering how many women were under reference. Glad it’s merely that idiot wife of mine. He brightened perceptibly. “You are mistaken, dearest first bom, sadly mistaken if you think you can get rid of her. You can beat her black and blue, from dinner to breakfast but that will not bring you your cherished freedom. And that is merely my flowery manner of expressing myself. I get carried away with words. That is precisely why I am a

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good lawyer. Now, forget the non-sequiturs and apparent contradictions. In simple language---cease beating your wife.” Thank God, it’s over. I have terrible headache. What a tortuous mind and a rambling tongue. There should be a law against garrulity. Considering the interview over Kabey sighed and stood up.

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“And have the elementary courtesy to let your father conclude what he has to say. You have not been dismissed, Sir.” Kabey resumed his seat with alacrity and was assailed with a strong desire for a cigarette. Smoking before the Pater was out of the question so he sighed again.

“What is this business I hear of?” the Old Man left the question in the air---tentative, provocative, alarming --- and watched his son.

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Now, which episode has he ferreted out this time? Why does he not become a lawyer detective like Perry Mason, or one of those Mickey Spillages or something and flood the world with crime fiction. Why doesn’t he leave me alone?

“In regard to the wine seller’s daughter?” the Wine Seller’s Daughter--- it would make an interesting title. If ever I begin to write no book will be longer than three pages--- but there must be pictures. Was it not Alice who said something about a book being useless without pictures and conversation? Suddenly Kabey realized the implications of his father’s words. He swallowed a number of times. “Her father sells wine, Father,” he said quietly to the sheaf of papers on the desk. “What a brilliant feat of deduction!” The Old Man brought out his briar and proceeded to tamp tobacco into the bowl with slow deliberation. 107

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“I have half a mind to install you in Baker Street. Now, Sir, a gift is a gift. A second hand book given in the right spirit can be as welcome as a gold necklace.” Kabey winced. The Old Man lit his pipe. “And infinitely more if the former is acquired legitimately.” Shucks---he’s got back the bauble. Quite a Tec the Pater.

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The Old Man opened a drawer and brought out a heavy gold necklace. He spread it out neatly on his desk.

“Even I could appreciate your bursts of generosity---misplaced though they are---provided of course the little conventional definition of a gift were respected. The convention insists that the donor take the trouble to forbear from donating things belonging to others. This interpretation of course may be hopelessly outdated, though the law---and society in general---does not seem to think so. May I have your valued opinion, Sir?” the Old Man puffed away rhythmically.

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How he rambles. Age might mellow but it certainly wreaks havoc with one’s mind---and brain. Why not say----Give what is yours. Finis. Curtain. Anyhow, it was mine when I gave it. Possession is nine points of the law. You cannot possibly give if you do not first possess---doesn’t make sense. How I gained possession is my business. I am only answerable to a court of law. If he won’t use me it’s not my fault, surely. “When the recipient was informed that it was stolen property she blanched. You see, even a disillusioned woman of the world was taken in by you. Even she thought there was an element of honesty in you--- and a shred of decency. Of course you are devoid of both. But that is a secret between you and I. We have both known for a long time, have we not? Others will --- give them time.” The Old Man abruptly got up and proceeded to pace up and down the length of the room. He came back to his desk. “You shall get your inheritance.”

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That’s nothing new. But he will be dramatic. With his histrionic abilities he should have gone to Hollywood long ago. He would make a better Spencer Tracy than Tracy himself.

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“You will get forty acres of paddy land and ten thousand rupees---and odds and ends. After that you are on you own. Whether I die today or choose to go into suspended animation, to be resuscitated a million years hence, makes no difference. You get nothing more. You will forthwith take up residence at the Farm House and of course support your own family.” He relit his pipe. “Or would you rather wait?” That’s white! Really, the Pater’s true blue. Aloud he said, “No Father. And thanks.” “Here is your cheque and the deed of gift. The Farm Manager has been informed.” The Old Man handed over the papers.

“Incidentally, I would be inclined to retain him, if I were you.” Then seeing his son in a trance he smiled inwardly. “You may go,” he said gruffly.

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II A few months later, at the Farm, Kabey summoned the Manager to his presence. He had just completed breakfast.

“Good afternoon, Sir.” Kabey looked at his watch. Heavens---he is right. Thought it was around eight. “How is everything going?” He’s selling my lands at ridiculous prices. Must be making something on the side. But it’s true I don’t give him much time. But even then--- Well I can’t go asking people if they want to buy land. Wouldn’t even know whom to go to. “Badly, Sir.” I suppose he wants to sell more land. The Boss will pay even less now. And I’ve to convince the young Master that I could get no better rate. I am between the Devil and the Deep Sea. 109

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Kabey raised an eyebrow. “I was told you were efficient. Well, what is the problem?” “The Farm has become uneconomic, Sir. Wages are unpaid and…” “How many acres have we left?”

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“Fifteen, Sir.”

“How abut those ducks and things? Don’t they lay any more? And the cows and goats? Has every blasted bird and beast turned sterile?” “No Sir, they are quite prolific. But they can’t overproduce.”

“Why not? Give them extra nourishment. Hormone treatment, that sort of thing. You know?”

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“Won’t do, Sir. A cow cannot produce a calf in two months, nor a goat. A duck…..” Kabey waved him to silence. He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Well, you are the brain trust. What would you advise?”

“Sell the Farm, Sir,” replied the Manager promptly. To dilute the impression of over eagerness he added with a sympathetic note, “If I may say so, begging pardon, Sir, you have not the makings of a farmer.” “This is sheer insolence, Mr. Manager. Apologize this instant.”

“Yes, Sir.” “I ploughed with my own hands with blisters and all. Got kicked by a blasted cow…..” “Sir, the approach to a milch-cow is important. Yours was wrong.”

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“Hang the approach. I wouldn’t mind getting kicked by a horse but a bloody cow. It’s too much. And after all that you say I’m useless.” He lit another cigarette. “Absolute rubbish! I’m a first rate farmer.” He added in an undertone, “When I choose to be.”

O nl y

He glared at the Manager. “You’re forgiven. Now what the dickens am I to do? Are you positive accelerated breeding is out…no chance?”…….. The Manager scratched his head. “Won’t perform against nature, Sir.”

“Who’s asking them to? I am only thinking of hurrying the cycle a bit ---- sort of aiding Nature, as it were.” “No, Sir. Surfeit only leads to sluggishness.” Kabey snorted. “With what? I.O.Us? Can you arrange that?”

ev i

“No, Sir.” “By the way, I require ten thousand, rather quickly.” “Then you have to sell more land. Sir.” “I leave the details to you.” “Yes, Sir.”

The Manager promptly reported the matter to the Old Man who guffawed for a while. He handed over eight thousand rupees and instructed the Manager to inform his young Master that he had now only seven acres left. The Old Man had “bought” back the lands though legally they had never been mutated in Kabey’s favour in the first place. But he knew that his son would not bother with such matters, which he would categorize as “petty details.” At the culmination of a glorious binge Kabey discovered that of his patrimony he had nothing to show on the credit side of the ledger save a new wife. One morning he had woken up with a splitting headache in the wine seller’s house. It began to dawn on

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him that the wine seller’s daughter sleeping peacefully near him in full bridal trappings---must be his lawfully wedded wife. Some days later Kabey dreamed of his father, or so he thought. The half sleep vanished and he realized that he was not dreaming at all. It was stark reality. He closed his eyes again and prayed. O God let it be a bad dream. Let me wake up and find the Pater gone.

O nl y

“Have you completed your beauty sleep? No, no, do not trouble. Remain in bed. Relax. It is only your progenitor. There is no fool like an old fool---remember the saying?”

Kabey stared at the ceiling speechlessly. Now, how can I escape? The door’s bolted from the inside. How did the Pater get in? That bloody woman must have let him in. I’ll break her bone… Treacherous snake. Just because I married again. Well… how to escape…..

ev i

“Here is a stick, Sir, You have already had the pleasure of its acquaintance. The same one.” The Old Man glanced at the thick heavy dark brown walking stick on the table. “And here is pen and paper. The choice is yours. Which will it be?” “But what do I sign?” Kabey said shrinking further under the quilt. “Read it. Or shall I?”

Kabey made no move. He merely blinked a number of times as one emerging from a dark room to sudden dazzling sunlight. “It says: I, so and so, son of such and such et cetera et cetera.” The Old Man looked up. “It is couched in the usual legal terminology. In simple language it says that you willingly and while being in full possession of your faculties,” he stopped to grin broadly. “It is assumed, you know, that even a vegetable has faculties. The law is great. “It is pity you could not, rather did not, complete your legal studies. However, it says in effect that you revoke your second marriage; that such is mutually agreed upon by the contracting parties and you shall pay a consideration money--never mind the amount.”

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That is reasonable. Suits me fine. I’ll marry her again and we’ll have a rollicking time with the consideration money. Sort of wedding gift from the Pater. A rose by any other name sort of thing.

O nl y

The Old Man smiled. “The stick is purely psychological and symbolic. It is tedious flogging a bit of cabbage---and as purposeless. The real stick is three persons ready to go to court. They allege---these persons do --- that you owe one a sum of two thousand and seventy three rupees. The second swears that you got her in the family way. The third says you stole her necklace.” “But that’s mother.” “That she can hardly help being. It is regrettable but nevertheless an incontrovertible fact of life --- a fact of her life, yours and mine. Any comments, dearly beloved, sole surviving miss-issue?”

Timidly Kabey said, “What do I get?” If he offers five thousand I’ll ask for ten. I may even consider a compromise---say half way?

ev i

“A dose of spiritual medicine.” “But what medicine do……” “First, sign, then you shall be told.”

Kabey stretched out his hand for the pen. “Wait a minute.” His father opened the door and beckoned. Kabey’s uncle and the Old Man’s head clerk appeared. Kabey signed with manifest reluctance, inwardly exulting, for he had not forgotten the “consideration money.” The two appended their signatures as witnesses. Casually the Old Man said, “And when is my deadly beloved ex-second daughter-in-law getting remarried?” Kabey pricked his ears. What’s this? “Tonight, elder brother. All arrangements are complete.” “Thank you. Please take this paper with you. By the way,” the Old Man affected elaborate nonchalance “Have you, my brother, informed all concerned that your worthy nephew has expressed his

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unwillingness to go out of this compound until tomorrow morning? And that they are to countenance no countermanding of orders--your nephew’s own of course. That even physical restraint would be permissible. They have been told?” “Yes. And also that if he beats his wife you are to be informed forthwith.”

O nl y

“Good. Thank you.” They departed. “Now, Sir. You are entering the monastery tomorrow as a novitiate.”

“Me?” “Yes, Sir; none other. It is a rewarding experience. Of course you are at liberty to remain longer---but two weeks is the stipulated minimum. As a matter of renouncing this strife torm world for good. I, for one, would not dream of opposing such noble sentiments. Think about it.”

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“But I…” “Yes?” “I don’t wish to. Later, perhaps…” “Why, Sir?” “I am not prepared, “Kabey objected. “Mentally, I mean.”

The Old Man chuckled. “Mentally you may never be. Do you remember your Latin? Men’s-mentis-mind. And non compos mentis is a mind bereft of composure, purely euphemistically speaking. In relevance to you, Sir, the basic assumption of a mind is not only fallacious but perfectly meaningless. So a mindless person cannot be sane or insane. He is merely an animated vegetable. And more useless for he cannot be devoured, while more dangerous because he can. Society has three institutions for the likes of you---prisons, homes for the mentally retarded---again an understatement when applied to you---and monasteries.” The Old Man took a deep breath and continued. “Religious people, in common with women in love, are incorrigible optimists. They delight in the delusion of a reformed sinner. You, Sir, enter

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the third, first. Whether and when you enter the other two is entirely your privilege.” He picked up his hat and stick. “Report to the monastery tomorrow at ten---ante meridian. Good day to you, Sir.”

O nl y

At the doorway the Old Man paused. “Incidentally,” he said over his shoulder, “If you do return from your spiritual sojoum---I sincerely hope you do not---but should you do so, I might be inclined to consider an increase in your allowance. And you may also receive a bonus.”

“Bonus?” “Yes. It is rather involved and requires a mind with a certain amount of mathematical precision to grasp the intricacies of the proposition. Should occasion arise I shall endeavour to get it through the layers of fog that perpetually envelop your substitute for a brain. In simple language, it means the more you behave the more it pays---financially of course, and progressively. And you have to work for it. Anyhow, first things first.”

ev i

When the Old Man left Kabey wiggled his toes. He wished to ascertain whether the successive shocks had brought on complete paralysis. He was pleasantly reassured when his toes obeyed him promptly and faithfully.

“In simple language,” he drawled in perfect imitation of his father, “In simple language, it means the more you behave the more it pays.” I wonder how much the Pater paid the wine seller. And who the deuce is this slob who’s marrying my wench of a wife. A novice---a baldpate---ghastly. He ran a hand over his luxuriant wavy hair. And nothing to eat after midday. I’ll get cramps sitting cross-legged for hours through those interminable sutras…He lit a cigarette. It’s extremely doubtful if I’ll survive such a regimen for two weeks. Two Week. That increase better be substantial---and the bonus. Rather intriguing---a bonus. Sort of so many marks for civility, so many for punctuality, so many for depriving yourself of the pleasure of beating that bloody wife of yours---so many for remaining sober for so many days.

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His chain of thought was interrupted by the entry of his wife. She was a beautiful woman; guileless and cheerful and completely in love with her husband. She fiddled with the flowers and hummed some tune. “What the devil are you grinning at?” “At you. I heard everything.”

O nl y

“You did. You are gloating over the departure of your cosharer, are you? Wait and see……while I starve to death and go begging with a bowl, with a billiard ball for a head, you’ll eat ten meals a day……Ah! I’ll cut off your hair. Let’s see how you look. Then I’ll have an idea how I’ll look.”

The monks are kind, gentle souls. May be I can wangle a snack at sun down. They won’t know. I’ll have to bribe the cook. If he doesn’t co-operate I’ll thrash the life out of him. Can’t be done. Not while in yellow robes. I mean to say that would be going too far…… Women,

without

ev i

“You know what my sister said?” “Yes,” Kabey replied automatically. exception, are garrulous.

“No, you don’t.” “I don’t what? What are you yapping about, anyway?” “I said you did not know what my sister had said.” “Of course! Do. Said she’d seduce me tonight.” She did not rise to the bait. She said if you beat me again---,” she giggled. She went closer and whispered into his ear.

“What?” Kabey shrieked in outrage. “Wait till I catch that little minx. I’ll chop her into little bits and eat her with tomato sauce. Just wait.” Then the comic aspect of the whispered suggestion got the better of him and he erupted into boisterous laughter. ****

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Rashda Alvi

Romance

O nl y

Our hero was a civil servant; smart, handsome and a well placed man. He lacked nothing in his life but a wife. He could choose one for himself but his mother was adamant in finding one for him. She thought she would look for a girl with an appropriate background along with the obvious qualities. So he let her go ahead with it, on the condition that he would meet the girl before saying the final ‘yes’.

ev i

After a lot of running around, probes and post mortems, the right girl was found. There was great excitement and jubilation in the family. She was a beautiful, well educated girl with a background matching their own. His sister was over the moon, as she recommended her in the first place and knew her well. Actually the girl had been to their house once. He was careful of his sister’s friends, knowing he was a good catch. He took no notice of the new friend sitting in the drawing room. Arrangements were made to visit the girl’s family. He knew he would be under close scrutiny by the girl’s family. That was not a problem, he was familiar with the match-making system in his part of the world. Moreover with his qualifications he was confident he would come out with flying colours. Finally the day dawned. The welcome party was too big for his taste. It included too many females. How was he supposed to know which one was intended for him. The father-in-law to be, he realized, he had already met at some gathering or the other. The first obstacle being overcome without a hitch, he settled down comfortably. He was laughing at some joke of his father- in-law to be when the girl walked in. He was caught at an awkward moment. Anyhow he stood up, was introduced, exchanged some politesse, then the girl went and sat next to his sister. The sister and now the girl were sitting at such an angle that he would have to turn away

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from his father-in-law to be able to talk to her. He shifted a bit to accommodate the girl, but totally ignoring the prospective fatherin-law could be fatal in such situations. Moreover the old man never broke the chain of his conversation, and our courteous hero had to pretend to be paying full attention to him. The meeting was unsatisfying as far as he was concerned. He was sure he would not recognise the girl if he met her in the different environment.

O nl y

When his mother and sister came to know of his plight they laughed and refused to arrange another meeting just because he was sitting at the wrong angle. She couldn’t make a laughing stock of herself or her son. Challenging her arguments were wasted efforts, she would not accept that. She was not only a mother of a civil servant but a wife of one as well. She advised him to wait until next opportunity arose. The final ‘yes’ was said without him seeing the girl properly. That was frustrating indeed!

ev i

Our hero was not only a sober civil servant, he was also a young man at heart. He had some romantic notions of his own, but there he was with his very first romantic dream impending. It was disappointing. While talking to his sister he came to know that the girl left home at 7:30 daily for work with her father. The girl lived in the same street, only on the other end. An idea struck him like a lightening bolt.

The next morning he slipped out to his front garden with his binoculars. He could see the girl’s house clearly, only he was standing like a sore-thumb with binoculars on his eyes. He decided to take cover behind the low hedge at an appropriate gap. He adjusted his high powered binoculars and focused the lens when the door of the girl’s house started opening. In loomed the smiling, bright eyes of his father-in-law to be, directly looking at him. Forgetting his binoculars he nervously offered his greetings ‘Assalam-u-alaikum’ spontaneously. Another shock he received when the answer came from behind him. Baffled, he turned back on his heels to find his gardener looking at him with a twinkle in his eyes.

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O nl y

He was caught red handed acting like a peeping Tom, that also by a servant. He tried giving some explanations but could think of none. With dented pride and a heavy heart he quietly went in. He had failed in his mission and had no courage to repeat the experiment. He had already gone too far, a civil servant also had his limits. The only option open to him was to wait for providence to create another occasion to meet his wife to be. You may not believe some grapes are sour even for a civil servant. He married, lived happily ever after, often repeating the tale of the binoculars.

ev i

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Sarmad Sehbai

Miraji: The Return of Anima

O nl y

Miraji, Judah’s son, the lord of autoeroticism defies the generative order of nature by wasting his seed and deflates the ‘masculine`’ to androgynize himself. His attire is forbidding, he is an early day hippie, a modern punk, a walking theater who appears among straight people with a pointed moustache, long hair and an opera length string of beads. In his hands roll the triplets of tiny globes; totems of beauty, love and death.

An articulate broadcaster, a leading intellectual, editor of a prestigious literary journal and a critic par excellence Miraji, while mastering the ‘other’ alters the social codes of identity through his ambiguous poetry and his curious guise of anonymity. He is no martyr or a crusader but a fallen Adam tied to his belly and genitals; the twin demons of human existence.

ev i

What makes Miraji different from his contemporaries is his awakening of the ‘feminine`’, the anima, which by the early twentieth century was repressed by the dominant narratives of Hegelian idealism and Marx’s dialectical materialism. In the Subcontinent these narratives had found expression in Iqbal and later in the manifestoes and poetry of the Progressives of the thirties. Iqbal, in his dazzling flights of consciousness was pursuing an ideal man, who soared above the waist, while the Progressives romanced with the masses to idealize the universal Proletariat. In their aerial ascensions to metaphysical ideals, the ‘body’ was a hindrance. Body, as such is considered low and vulgar in the high seriousness of our literature. It is linked with the baser mortals while the ‘sublime’ is reserved for gods and godlike men. But ‘body’ remains a signifier of the instinctual being, the very tone of the ethnic skin of human beings. The new Adam of Iqbal and the

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universal Proletariat were not of flesh and blood but disembodied haloes of cerebral inventions. In their utopian heights, man was not discovered on earth but in heaven. The paradisal bliss was an escape from the original sin: the body.

O nl y

With the loss of the ‘instinctual’, there was more of ‘taukal’ and ‘taffakur’, intellect and philosophy in their work; the essence had become prior to existence. Such was the schizophrenia of the early twentieth century. Miraji dramatized this inane split of rationality and passion, of body and the mind. The areal flights of the idealists were without the touch of earth, the warmth of flesh and blood, without the tactile feel and the kinesthetic experience. Their two dimensional figures were representational without an earthly presence or what Camille Paglia calls ‘chthonian’, some thing miasmic and muddy, the pre-natal darkness, the unconscious, the womb itself where Miraji retreated among the din of pragmatism, rationality and predictability in the dominant art practices. His desire to escape in a jungle or the darkness of a temple or a cave or to be alone in some comfortable zone was the desire for the unconscious, the womb.

ev i

Both the progressives and Hegelian idealists were patriarchs, phallic ideologues with moral authority, projecting a male gaze that denied the feminine principle. To confront the ‘father’ and the male machoism, Sana Ullah Dar became a woman: Mira.

In representational art the narrative takes over by deferring the rawness and the presence of the experience. But as Mirza Ghalib tells us there is no ‘jalwa’, revelation, without ‘kisafat’, the materiality of things, it’s the presence and not re-presencing of things which creates great art. Miraji’s interest in myth also points to his preoccupation with the body as mythology embodies the projections of human imagination. He is a pagan priest who animates ordinary things and turns them into mythic experiences. Miraji carries in him the dark skinned Dravidian women who are fulsome unlike the flat picture queens from the Persian miniatures. Like Gauguin’s Tahitian women they walk bare on the earth. 121

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O nl y

Miraji eroticized the otherwise stoic and cerebral tone of Urdu poetry by embodying the desire into flesh and fantasy into a palpable sensation. He libidinied the high seriousness of literature with orgies of senses and coloures and liberated Urdu poetry from the rigid forms of poetry. His free use of Birij, Awadhi and Hindi evoked the Hindu past; an answer to the persianized diction of Iqbal, Rashed and Faiz who looked towards the court tradition of refined Urdu, cleansed of the native ethos. Miraji’s awakening the feminine against the patriarchy was a threat to the high moral code of both progressives and Iqbal’s didacticsim. His bodily intervention into their ‘narrational representations’ was a disturbing presence. It was not him ‘freeing the verse’ but ‘freeing the body’ that had invited their wrath.

ev i

Marginalized and excluded from their fold like Manto and Ismat he was labeled by the progressives as an individualist, morbid and sexually sick poet without any direction or purpose. But Miraji didn’t stop for the buzz words of his times; he went on sculpting images from his own biographical experiences. He refused to merge into the given social persona of some white collared revolutionary. He remained insoluble for the mainstream.

Miraji’s onanism was not simply to delink himself from the normal social practices, but also to hermaphrodize himself for a unisex experience. Sana Ulla Dar castrated the male and feminized himself by calling himself Mira. His journey from Sana Ulla to Miraji is through falling in love with a Bengali girl Mira Sen. Dedo, the land owner of Takht Hazara becomes Ranja and Izzat Baig becomes Manhiwal as these transformations are performed through the alchemy of love. Love disrupts identities and destabilizes the power hierarchies. It’s through love that Sana Ulllah becomes Miraji. But, why Miraji? Why not Mira Sen? The word ‘ji’ is a form of addressing someone with love, respect and devotion. Mira ji is not a name but a calling for his beloved. Perhaps at some time Sana Ulla Dar addressed Mira Sen for her attention by 122

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saying ‘Mira ji listen to me,’ and she did not respond. It appears that Sana Ullah had stilled that image by freezing the words ‘Mira ji’ that had turned into an eternal cry in the wilderness, ‘Miraji! Miraji!’ It became like Munch’s scream frozen in silence and thus becoming endless; a continuous calling for Mira.

O nl y

We know how Heer became Ranja by incessantly calling for Ranja, ‘Ranja Ranja akhdi mein apay Ranja hoi.’ Like Heer, Sana Ullah Dar had embraced his double, the ‘feminine’ in him and had become Miraji.

ev i

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Sumaira Baqer

The Legacy

O nl y

I was standing in a large passage way. Decorated with grand family portraits on both sides. The grandeur cast a spell of fascination making me feel very small. The style, and colossal impact of a family famous and renowned for its being well educated, well off, well settled and well known, all well in every aspect.

ev i

There I was standing almost stunned, alone rather bereft of my down to earth, middle class sophistication and mentality, wondering if a little girl the one shown in the family portraits could spend huge sums of money on such trivialities. Or could have tasted beyond imagination, each picture was telling an expensive story, the attire, background, construction, jewellery, long golf link, green pastures, pony riding, and stables, fish ponds and 7 th avenue, cold December nights and Niagra falls, smiling, eating, hiking and what not.

Every outfit worn by the young ones of that family were so up to date that could have been worn even today 30 years of those photographs were taken. Nothing is out of vogue and custom for the people having such remarkable traditions. The long gone is called again whenever they want or feel nostalgic. I was gathering some valuable pictures from the gallery to be printed in one of the up-coming news papers along with my article on the famous family describing its fairy tale life style with a title â&#x20AC;&#x153;icons of their time still in limelightâ&#x20AC;? I walked through a passage way and turned, finding myself in a little office. I went inside, a young woman greeted me formally,

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O nl y

giving a bubble gum smile more prominent from the right side and the other side of the mouth closed, may be the bubble gum tucked underneath the tongue, “ please have a seat” I followed, she said nothing, and continued speaking, no whispering on the telephone smilingly. Then she started abruptly, “so how did you find the gallery” have you taken the photographs you wanted to, “ I said” yes yes, I did, “that was good, “I spoking state of dreams actullay everything in those portraits was perfect, classical so good I said, the impact was still on my nerves I chocked then, recovered myself. She offered me a glass of water. I felt better, after drinking it, what heavenly. Water that was, blessed by the splendouer of those four walls, of was in. The feeling was lovely. I had taken the images to be printed; I thanked the mistress and set off my way.

ev i

It was scorching outside; the burning beams evaporated the moisture even within the layers of earth steam emitted from everywhere, from the roots, people, dunghills, garbage, slums of the city, rotting leftovers of vegetables and fruits, cars, scooters and even the bodies living or dead. The wrathful sun poured down fire, purifying every object of motion and life, and every process of decomposition.

There was a big jerk, I heard my taxi driver saying “We were stuck in a traffic jam. The feeling of being burnt under the naked sun was torturous and painful, I was wet and soaked in my own sweat and salt. It was so embarrassing; my clothes which were ironed and perfumed had clung to my body as if I was wearing them from a year or so. Shown as rags, what could be done? Everyone around me looked the same, It was about 20 minutes. I was dozing and as in a state of dream, a ghostly image appeared before my eyes! a haggard young woman, around 32, dry hair, circles around sunken eyes, colour less checks and lips, she had an expression of engraved depression and helplessness carved on her face, a young and pale apparition with no trace and maintence of her gender in her appearance, I noticed she was wearing a photograph like a necklace around her neck with an application for help and support, she was a lung cancer patient asking for money, I 125

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O nl y

could find no hope in her empty eyes, â&#x20AC;&#x153; The doomed creatureâ&#x20AC;? I pitied, I woke from the reality of gloom, when my taxi moved ahead with a huge jerk. The portraits hung in the gallery were classical but the one I had just seen was remarkable in every aspect. An actual picture of destruction and helplessness, disease and disaster. If she were rich she would have been smiling in style in one of those photographs I thought, right in the middle of the classical gallery of the icons of their times. What makes an icon? Who is an icon?

The question kept on repeating itself time and again without pause.

ev i

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Taimur Sabih

The Wealth of Innocence

O nl y

“I can't arrange the funds!” Lucifer said curtly. "Maybe later?” His wife, Delilah, spoke softly, but firmly. "Can't promise you anything.” His somewhere in the smoke of the cigarette.

face

disappeared

"You loved me. I mattered to you. Once.” Her eyes had a covert, but profound temper.

"Once. Everything was different, once. You weren't so materialistic.” He glared back at her.

ev i

"Materialistic? All you wanted from me was my body. Isn't that materialistic?” Her voice was sorrowful.

"And you gave it to me despite knowing my motives. You know why? Because of the money that I had.” Her husband replied spitefully as he bent down and held the arms of the easy chair that she was sitting in. She looked back at him as if she had nothing more to say. Her deep-set, black eyes firmly fixed upon the violent, distorted, once handsome visage of her husband. She could feel his breath on her face. It had been a long time since she had felt him this close to her. Lucifer turned around and left the bedroom without another word. She kept looking at the closed door for some time before closing her eyes. A few tears painfully fought their way out of the closed eyelids of her burning eyes. I could hear everything. I could hear the sobs of my mother, the low humming sound of her heart beat and even the thoughts and

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the dreams that she had. It was strange. Her every dream was about my father. Her heartbeat said a name that I knew was of my father, but I could not really discern what it was.

O nl y

I wished I could sleep at times, but sleep never came to my eyes. Sometimes it was the altercations between my parents and sometimes the weeping of my mother that kept me awake. And whenever I did get an opportunity to get some shut-eye, my mother would cringe in pain and adopt funny postures for hours and hours making it difficult for me to adjust. Even at nights, when she used to be sleeping peacefully, I heard my father making unusual sounds. Sounds that I wanted to make, sounds that only a weeping person could make.

"What is it that's gone wrong between us? Everything was so perfect. I loved you from the very depth of my heart and nothing will ever change that. Has it all changed because of the wealth that I lost? I must get an answer. This thought is killing me from within.” Lucifer wept beside his sleeping wife.

ev i

This is so weird!

Sometimes, I could feel my father's hands stroking the strange wall around me, but only partially. I always wondered why he wept only in the nights and not during the day so that I could sleep peacefully. Once I spoke to the strange, heavenly voice that I could hear in my head. "What is all that?” "Foolishness.” That is all that it said.

I wondered about that for a long time and the more I thought of it, the more it made sense. The next time when my parents argued I felt a bit agitated. Why can't we manage in a little less? And why can't you two let each other know about your feelings?

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But this confusion did not last for a very long time. One morning I heard a loud cry and then everything turned upside down. Then I heard the sound of rushing footsteps and I felt my mother's body being lifted. The next thing I remember was the nurse speaking to my parents.

O nl y

"He is beautiful Mr. and Mrs. Jones."

And there they were, holding me together, smiling. They were beautiful people who had turned into Lucifer and Delilah due to foolishness just like the voice said. Well, I had to set that right. I tried to lift my father's finger and pull it between my mother's fingers. It was heavy. But I tried again. I think he understood. He held my mother's hand and said something to her that made her turn red. I did not completely understand why that happened, but the smile on her face depicted that now everything was going to be perfect.

ev i

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Uneza Kanwal

The Mould

O nl y

The sky seldom turned into a woman’s colour___ a blazing red, a splinter in some unestimated part of the blue male sky, out riding the white clouds. The glaring outbursts of fertility and initiative seared him like a red hot coal. Her colours scared him, her will to outlive seemed outrageous, rather ugly.

He made a mould for her. A painters and pretty one. All she had to do was to wear it or it will wear her after a while.

ev i

She complained that it suffocated her. He assured that he had left certain chinks to breathe in the air. The darkness within hid all the colour, even her own colours, she protested “life is suffering, the more you get used to the darkness the more comfortable it becomes”.

He took good care of her, taught her the names of things he liked, ways of his world and the colours he commended. One night she dreamt of a red sky, the colour of life, blood, creativity he called it a nightmare. She wondered she had not seen the colour since ages. She admitted it fascinated her. He took all the pains to purge her of the obsession. He filled in all the chinks in her mould except for one. Confident that the measure will rid her and his world of the colour of annihilation. She saw herself bleeding to death the other night.

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He got furious, “The last chinks will have to be filled in”, he declared. “But I will die”, she protested.

O nl y

“It will be a respectable death, you will die warm and safe in this mould with the consolation that your husband put you to rest and outlived you”. She seemed convinced, after all nobody can live forever and the mould made dying seem much easier than living. Overwhelmed, she asked, “are you not afraid of dying’?

“Not for myself, I am afraid for you. You will not survive this vicious world. I will have to outlive you for your well being. I devised your life and now I choose an honourable death for you”.

“What if I step out of this mould, just for once and give life a last try”? She asked hesitantly. “You will be consumed by too much air and too many dangerous colours its threatening out here for you”.

ev i

‘Please let me live, I am afraid of the gloom inside”. She peeped out for the last time through the only chinks in her mould yet to be filled.

The glimpse of the dazzling reds, crimsons oranges, pinks left her breathless with her heart pounding in her ears. “ Do they not threaten you”? She asked after composing herself.

“I am strong enough to outface them, they cannot manipulate me”. “Perhaps I may also survive them”. “No, you cannot outstare them, they are evil. You are vulnerable. Trust me you do not belong out here”. “But they are so pleasing to look at”. “What made you say such a thing”? “They are my true colours”. 131

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“I never pictured you like that”. “I long to see myself like this with all the colours”. “You need exorcism”. “I need to live my colours”. “Then you do not need to live at all”.

O nl y

He filled in the last chink in the mould. “Let me live”! She pleaded. “Trust me, you will outlive me. The colours, the red sky this way, he reassured her.

ev i

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Reginald Massey

Pakistani Poetry in English (An Historical and Analytical Study)

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English is without doubt the international language of this planet. In fact, it has gone far beyond this planet. The first man to step on the face of the moon spoke to us Earthlings in English. He did not speak in French or Spanish, or Arabic or Hindi or Chinese. The Chinese, being a pragmatic non-sentimental Confucian people, got the message loud and clear.

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China, widely predicted to be the next Super Power, has earmarked vast sums to teach its graduates, technocrats and intellectual elite the best type of English. A leading Italian university has recently decided to switch to English as the medium of instruction. Much to the chagrin of the French, the mixed and impure language of Les Anglais has become the predominant means of communication across the world. English is a mixedbreed language and that is why it is so rich and varied. Shakespeare, to his eternal glory, knew how to manipulate words from Anglo-Saxon roots with those from Latin roots. In what actors call ‘The Scottish play’, Macbeth’s villainous wife tells him to wash his bloodstained hands just after he has murdered the innocent King Duncan. Macbeth answers: Clean my hand? No this my hand will rather The multitudinous seas incarnadine, Making the green one red.

In similar manner Hazrat Amir Khusro, who described himself as a Hindu Turk, wrote in a language compounded of Persian and local Indian languages such as Braj and Avadhi. It became known as Hindvi. In modern times the Pakistani poet Ibn-e-Insha brilliantly emulated the poetic diction of Amir Khusro. To emulate

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is not to imitate. An example of his poetry is the beautiful and sensitive Kal Chaudhvin ki Raat Thi.

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The English language is a vast empire with inputs from many continents and cultures. South Asia’s contributions to mainstream English are listed in the classic compilation Hobson-Jobson by Henry Yule and A.C. Burnell first published in 1886 and never out of print. It is still much read and enjoyed. I often dip into it for both information and pleasure because it mentions loanwords that have insinuated themselves into the phonology of English. Words, for example, such as ‘cash’ which derives from the Tamil ‘kasu’. And ‘khaki’ from the Urdu ‘khak’ (dust). Absolutely fascinating.

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Poetry is the highest form of literary expression composed by ‘The Select’ who work in monk-like solitude. Poetry can never be written by committees of scientists, philosophers, maulanas and learned professors. It has been truly said that poets are prophets, often crying in the wilderness. No one ever became a millionaire scribbling poetry. However, as Shelley proclaimed, they are the unacknowledged legislators of the world. In Pakistan’s case one can mention Iqbal and Faiz. And I wish to stress that both geniuses were well conversant with English literature and the thinking of the European Enlightenment. English in reality is the currency of the educated elites of the entire subcontinent.

Macaulay must be mentioned at this point. His famous Minute on Education (1835) opened the way for English into the subcontinent. A well known poet himself who was later raised to the peerage, he did go over the top when he wrote that “a single shelf of a good European library was worth the whole native literature of India and Arabia”. Nevertheless, English proved a blessing. Let me be frank: Jinnah won the case for Pakistan because of his brilliant advocacy and command of the English language. The Urdu-daans on their own could never have won the case. Let me digress a little but here it is perhaps permissible. At the midnight hour of India’s independence Nehru’s celebrated ‘Tryst with Destiny’ broadcast was delivered in English. But days before, 134

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on August 11, 1947, when Jinnah delivered his famous speech proclaiming the creation of an independent state called Pakistan he too spoke in English. Jinnah’s great declaration should be on the syllabus of every university in Pakistan. Hence English has a right to exist and thrive in both countries. The young people of Pakistan must be made aware of what the Father of the Nation said in English. In fact, after decades of fruitless and wasteful animosity, I suggest that writers and poets who write in English on both sides of the Wagah-Attari border should start forging bonds of mutuality.

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The South Indian Brahmin philosopher Radhakrishnan, a Sanskrit scholar who became President of India, admitted India’s debt to the British. He said that the British rulers had given India three great boons: Shakespeare, the Authorized Version of the Bible and the limited liability company. Radhakrishnan was right. The Authorized Version, known as the King James’s Version, is a model of the best English. Other versions of the Bible, and there are many, pale into insignificance before it in terms of poetic expression. Modern versions say that when Mary was carrying Jesus she was ‘pregnant’ or ‘expecting a child’. But Luke in the Authorized Version has it that Mary was “great with child”. Now that is poetry. There are thousands of translations of the Bible in various world languages. None of them can touch the English Authorized Version.

Now I come to the question of Pakistanis writing verse in English. We’ll have to go back a long way before the creation of Pakistan. The British wrested Hindustan from the Mughals. During the period of Muslim hegemony over a non-Muslim majority subcontinent, the minority Muslims had pride of place. When the British took over the Muslims’ power and privilege suffered. Their pride was dented and hence they rejected British education and the English language that went with it. In fact, anti-English fatwas were issued. The Hindus, on the other hand, took to British education and the English language with alacrity. The first Indian to write significant poetry in English was Michael Madhusudan Dutt (1824–1873). A Byronic character, he was a Bengali who had

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embraced Christianity. He is also known as the father of modern Bengal literature.

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It is only after Sir Syed Ahmed Khan founded an educational institution, later to become the Aligarh Muslim University that a Muslim intelligentsia on the European model emerged in India. However, there were exceptions. Consider the Suhrawardys of Bengal. Volumes could be written about them but special mention must be made of Hasan Shahid Suhrawardy (1890 – 1965) the elder brother of Huseyn Shaheed Suhrawardy who became Prime Minister of Pakistan. Hasan Shahid was a polymath. Poet, great linguist, diplomat, art critic, professor at various universities including the Imperial University of St. Petersburg and Tagore’s Visva-Bharati, he and his friend Ahmed Ali co-founded the Pakistan PEN. While at Oxford he assisted the Poet Laureate Robert Bridges to compile a poetry collection titled The Spirit of Man (Longmans, London. 1915). Amongst Hasan Shahid’s students was Alexander Kerensky who became Prime Minister of Russia. He was respected by figures such as Aldous Huxley, D.H. Lawrence, Jawaharlal Nehru and the Bengali painter Jaini Roy. It is a pity that today’s Pakistan has largely forgotten him. Worse has happened to two of the country’s greatest sons. Sir Muhammad Zafarullah Khan and Dr Abdus Salam have been effectively erased from the country’s history. Their ‘sin’ was that they happened to be Ahmadiyas, a sect declared to be ‘non Muslim’.

Jinnah’s friend and biographer Ghulam Ali Allana (1906-1985) was an accomplished poet in English and his collection At the Gate of Love, has many poems steeped in mystical thought. Perhaps his best known poem was I Had Reached Your Doorstep. It tells of a Sufi’s search for the ultimate truth. After 1947, for nationalistic reasons, the importance given to Urdu simply meant that English was overshadowed. Nevertheless verse continued to be written in English. It is unbelievable that the Sialkot born Taufiq Rafat (1927 – 1998) who did not imbibe English with his mother’s milk could write English verse with such nuanced sensitivity and impeccable cadence. And yet his poems have a definite Pakistan personality without being self-consciously 136

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‘Pakistani’. It is no wonder that he has been hailed as the Ezra Pound of Pakistan.

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Rafat’s collection Half Moon must be read and re-read and recited by all young Pakistanis who wish to write verse in English. The Medal, a poignant poem of his (included in Commonwealth Poems of Today, edited by Howard Sergeant, John Murray, London. 1967) ranks with Wilfred Owen’s anti-war poetry. It will interest researchers to know that it was the house of Murray that published the poetry of Byron.

There must be something in the age-old belief about the Chenab. How else can one explain the number of poets that Sialkot has produced? Iqbal and Faiz are well known but there are others as well. Another Sialkot born poet is Zulfikar Ghose (born 1935) who has gained a fine reputation as a poet in English throughout the English speaking world.

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His five collections The Loss of India, Jets from Orange, The Violent West, A Memory of Asia, and Selected Poems are evidence of his wide vision and catholic interests. He edited Pieces of Eight – eight poets from Pakistan: Zulfikar Ghose, M.K. Hameed, Shahid Hosain, Adrian Husain, Nadir Hussein, Kaleem Omar, Taufiq Rafat, Salman Tariq Kureishi (OUP, 1971). Ghose has taught at the University of Texas (Austin) for many years.

Adrian Husain won the Guinness Poetry Prize in 1968. His collection Desert Album was brought out by OUP and it was claimed that his verse transcends specific ethnicity. I do not however feel that an ethnic imprint diminishes the value of a wellcrafted poem. Husain’s two laments on the death of Benazir Bhutto are first class.

Ejaz Rahim’s large output is certainly ethnic, Pakistani ethnic, and that gives it character and integrity. His latest book Dear Maulana Sahib and Other Poems, his fourteenth collection, is a veritable feast of verse and I quote a particular gem:

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GIAN

To reach nirvana We need to blend Our lakes of joy With mountains of pain. To meet Bhagvaan We have to enter Kaaba Through the eye Of a needle.

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To attain gian We must learn to bend Perpendicular truth To serpentine illusions.

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Rahim has been honoured with the Sitara-e-Imtiaz for his contribution to literature as well as the Patras Bukhari Award of the Pakistan Academy of Letters. Now retired from high office in the civil service, he devotes himself to scholarship and poetry.

The leading humanist, intellectual and educator of Pakistani origin Alamgir Hashmi is considered by many critics to be one of the most significant voices of English language poetry. In 1985 he was given the Patras Bukhari Award. His Commonwealth Literature: An Essay towards the Re-definition of a Popular Culture (1983) and Pakistani Literature: The Contemporary English Writers (1987) are seminal works. In the latter book he defined the meaning and content of what he termed “Pakistani Literature (originally written) in English”. Daud Kamal (1935–1987) was Professor of English at Peshawar University. His first poetry book Compass of Love and Other Poems (1973) established his reputation. His translations of Ghalib and Faiz took the poetry of the subcontinent to the distant corners of the English speaking world.

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Maki Kureishi (1927–1995) taught English at Karachi University for many years and wrote verse that was calm and controlled. Her themes were warm and homely with titles such as for my Grandson. Fortunately Oxford University Press published her selected poems The Far Thing in 1997.

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Kaleem Omar (1937–2009) was a well known journalist who worked for the Jang Group. A good poet, the pressure of journalism left him little time for versification. However, he edited Wordfall: three Pakistani poets: Taufiq Rafat, Maki Kureishi, Kaleem Omar (OUP, 1975). Shahryar Rashed (1948–1998) was a diplomat who had a passion for poetry. His two collections are Hybrid and Liquid Clocks. His father, Noon Meem Rashed, was the avant garde Urdu poet who promoted free verse.

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M. Athar Tahir, another civil servant poet is much respected in literary circles. In 1990 he got the Shah Abdul Latif Bhitai Award and the next year the National Book Council Prize. In 1998 he was honoured with the Tamgha-e-Imtiaz.

After a short stint in the civil service Omer Tarin decided to become a fulltime academic. Much influenced by the Sufi and Bhakti poets of South Asia his verse reflects his deeply held convictions. His four collections are A Sad Piper, The Anvil of Dreams, Burnt Offerings, and The Harvest of Love Songs. As an historian he specializes in the British Raj period. The Lahore born Moniza Alvi lives in Britain but is conscious of her roots. Her first collection The Country at My Shoulder was short listed for the T.S. Eliot Prize and the Whitbread Poetry Award and thus gained the Poetry Society’s New Generation Poets promotion. In 1991 she was joint winner of the Poetry Business Prize. In 2002 she won the Cholmondeley Award for Poetry and in 2003 her poems were brought out in a bilingual English and Dutch edition. Split World: Poems 1990–2005 appeared in 2008. Last year Homesick for the Earth was published. It contained her version of the verses of the French poet Jules Supervielle. 139

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Waqas Ahmed Khwaja is Professor of English at Agnes Scott College, a centre of excellence in the State of Georgia. This is the college that Robert Frost visited every year to read his poems. Khwaja is a noted critic and translator and his verse has been well received. His latest collection is No One Waits for the Train (2007) which has poems about the Partition. In 2011 appeared Modern Poetry of Pakistan which he jointly edited and translated with the eminent Urdu poet Iftikhar Arif. This magnum opus has the poems of forty-two Pakistani poets representing seven different languages of Pakistan. Much is being written today about the efficacy of ‘soft power’ as opposed to military power. Here is an example of ‘soft power’ or, if I may coin a term, ‘poetry power’

Other names that merit mention are Shahid Hosain who edited, introduced and contributed to First Voices (OUP), an anthology of poems, Riaz Qadir, M.K. Hameed, Nadir Hussein, Salman Tariq Kureshi, Hina Babar Ali, Zeba Hassan Hafeez, Harris Khalique, Ilona Yusuf and Mehvash Amin.

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The English language poets of Pakistan are a thriving group of vibrant and creative men and women. They deserve wholehearted encouragement.

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Abdul Hameed

Mysticism and Islam

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Whereas it is very easy to define Islam which is complete surrender to God almighty Allah, complete peace within and without but the task to define mysticism is not so simple and easy. Webster defines it as “vague speculation, belief without foundation”. Anything which has no foundation and is a vague speculation makes the task of understanding mysticism very very difficult. Bertrand Russel in his book Mysticism and Logic points to the same difficulty by saying that you can not be a mystic and rational person at one and the same time. Webster also defines it as “the experience of mystical union or direct communication with ultimate reality”. Surely most of us would agree that without some sort of communion with ultimate reality, a religion, a creed would have nothing to distinguish it from a merely human construction. Without this ultimate aim it would be an ideology, a political agenda or an illusion. In a religion, the revelation or message of God is central to all its teachings but what is it that drives a prophet if not the experience of direct communion with God. Again why does one engage in religious practice if one is not convinced that some sort of direct communion with God is possible, if not in this world, then in the hereafter? Mysticism stresses the fact that many religious people have been seriously and intimately engaged with God or at the least, that they have been engaged with a quest for a communion with God. So we should agree that a religion in any meaningful sense of the word has something mystical about it. Although the experience of communion with God lies at the very foundation of religion in general and the quest for such communion has always motivated the practice of religious people, yet most of the earlier orientalists went to great length in order to show that mysticism as such was alien to Islam. They wanted to prove that any discussion of

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mystical topics in Islamic context in fact derives from outside sources such as Christianity, Zoroastrianism, Buddhism or Hinduism etc.

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One of the problems with "mysticism" is that there is no corresponding word in pre-modern languages primarily spoken by Muslims. The modern usage of the word has everything to do with the history of Christian tradition. But the fact is that there are many basic differences of outlook between Christianity and I slam. Sufism has had a much more pervasive presence in the Islamic tradition than has mysticism in Christian civilization.

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What is Sufism? There is no simple answer. It is certainly not a sect within Islam. It has nothing to do with two major denominations, i.e Sunnism and Shiaism, since it has been found in both since long. Both men & women engage in sufi practice and we may find one in a family to be a sufi while the others in that family may shirk. A husband may be a sufi while his wife may not and vice versa. Certainly not every Muslim is a sufi but Sufism has been present wherever there have been a sizable Muslim community.

The original Arabic word “sufi” which generally means “one who wears wool” does not offer much in clarifying the meaning since it simply suggests that early Muslims in general, and sufis in particular, had an ascetic tendency. Moreover many other words have also been used to designate the same teachings and practices like "Faqr" (poverty) and "Marifa" (gnosis). It is, in short, very difficult if not impossible to draw a clear distinction between Sufis and other Muslims. We need to begin by looking in broad outline at the teachings established by the Quran and Sunnah of the Prophet. As soon as we do so, we can see that Islam addresses three primary domains of human concern. These can be called Body, Mind, and Soul (Spirit); or Doing, Knowing and Being. The body is the realm of activity, ritual observance and social relationship. The mind is the realm of perceiving, believing, knowing and understanding. The

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soul/spirit is the realm of the deepest awareness of Self and of direct communion with God.

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The Quran is certainly unique among the scriptures in the degree to which it stresses the importance of knowledge and understanding. Many sayings of the last prophet with lasting message Muhammad (peace be upon him) confirm the importance of knowing things correctly. Because of this stress on knowledge, Islamic civilization has been marked by a high level of learning and scholarship. From the beginning it was an enormously literate culture.

As Islamic civilization developed, many Muslims devoted themselves to the pursuit of knowledge. These Muslims were not priests or clerks, since Islam has no priestly class. They were simply people who took seriously the various Quranic and Prophet's injunctions to seek knowledge, such as Prophet's saying, â&#x20AC;&#x153;the search for knowledge is incumbent upon every Muslim, male and female".

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Because of the devotion to knowledge and understanding, Muslims came to study and assimilate the sacred lore that was set down by the Quran and the Prophet with more and more attention to analysis, explanation, and the systematization. Some people were interested in learning everything that there is to know about the proper way of dealing with the body___ that is personal, social and cultural activities. What exactly does Quran command people to do? How exactly did Prophet put the Quranic commandments into practice. How does one perform the five pillars of Islam, i.e. Tauheed (uttering that there is only one and only God), five daily prayers, paying the alm-tax, obligatory fasting in the month of Ramzan and making pilgrimage to Makka for Hajj. What are the proper rules for inter-personal activities, marriage, inheritance, trade? The moment one takes Quran and the teachings of Holy Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) seriously all these questions need to be asked, answered and practiced accordingly. But this is all concerned with proper activity. The focus is on what the body performs.

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Other Muslims were much more concerned with how to understand the objects of faith, which the Quran designates as one and only God, the angels, the books (scriptures), the prophets the last day of judgment and divine providence. Muslims who focused on understanding these objects held that a person's faith depends upon knowledge. The claim of an ignorant person to believe in God is simply not enough. No one can believe in God without knowing who God is and what His real being entails. By the same token, no one can claim to believe in the other objects of faith without knowledge. What exactly are "angels" that Muslims should have faith in them, etc? Having faith in any of these depends upon knowledge, and achieving sound knowledge of such realities is very difficult. All those who want to achieve adequate understanding in Islamic terms must dedicate themselves to the study of God's self revelation in both Quran and Sunnah of the Prophet. In short, for these people learning and knowledge are essential.

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Still there were certain Muslims who focused their attention not primarily on activity or understanding, but on developing the love, generosity, nobility, justice and sincerity that are commanded by Quran and Sunnah. For such Muslims the basic question was this: how can one become a good person? How can one develop all the beautiful character traits and virtues that were found in the last prophet with lasting message.

One might ask why most Muslim scholars became specialists in one of these domains rather than attempting to encompass all three. First of all, generally they did try to encompass all three domains, but doing so is almost impossible. Specialization, after all, works when one needs to know something completely and thoroughly. Each of these three domains___ proper human activity, correct understanding of God and His world and the actualization of virtue and goodness___ can be unpacked and analyzed without end. There is a second reason for specialization that perhaps is more telling: People have natural aptitudes, personal inclinations and mental limitations. The fact that someone may have a gift for 144

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hockey does not mean that he will be equally good in football or mathematics. The fact that someone may have great aptitude for understanding religious law for deriving proper rules from revealed injunctions does not in any way imply that he will also have an aptitude for theology, or that he will necessarily attempt to become a better and more virtuous person.

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From the very beginning of Islam, being a Muslim meant recognizing that Quran and Prophet provided the basic guidelines for bringing the body, the mind and spirit into conformity with the divine purpose in creating the welfare society. However people differed among themselves as to which guidelines were the most important and how they should put into practice. Some Muslims were naturally inclined to place their first priority in the proper activity, others felt that they should focus their attention on the mind and expand their understanding of God and His creation, and still some others held that the whole point of human existence was to harness the body and the mind in order to strengthen the spirit and to achieve communion with God.

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Scholars who dedicated most of their energy to providing the guidelines for proper activity came to be known as "jurists" (fuqha). They busied themselves with understanding the principals and rules of proper Islamic activity based on Quran and Sunnah of the Prophet, the opinion of the Prophet's companions and the view of learned Muslims of earlier generations. Scholars who focused on understanding the objects of faith became differentiated into several schools of thought. The dogmatic theologians (the authorities in kalam) said that the best way to understand God is by rational interpretation of Quran. The philosophers held that human reason is a sufficient guide to the truth of things and that divine revelation may not be indispensable for understanding that truth. The Sufis maintained that the best and most reliable path to correct understanding was by direct communion with God. Scholars associated with Sufism developed a distinctive methodology. With good reason their approach has been called 145

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"mystical". Webster's second definition of mysticism tells us that it can mean the doctrine or belief that direct knowledge of God is attainable through immediate intuition, insight or illumination and in a way differing from ordinary sense perception. This doctrine is certainly characteristic of the Sufi approach to understanding of God and His world. However, they held that this direct knowledge which they typically called “unvailing” (kashf) must be rooted in the Quran and Sunnah of the Prophet. Many of them also had a good deal of respect for the various rational approaches to knowledge. They maintained ‘that despite the opinion of the philosophers’ reason alone is not sufficient to attain knowledge of God and despite the opinions of the theologians; a merely rational understanding of Quran is also inadequate. They thought that people must attune their intentions, their love, and their sincerity to the divine will. Human beings have the potential to become brilliant mirrors reflecting the divine reality. They can do so if they follow the guidance of the last prophet. The proper role of human beings in the universe is to be representative of God on earth. People can do so by "submitting" and "surrendering" to God and by acting as His "servant" (abd). Once they become perfect servants, God may then choose to make them his "viceregents" (khalifa).

The Sufis apparently took Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) as their model. God revealed Quran to him, thereby sending his last message through His last messenger. They were not longing and striving to receive new messages, but rather to actualize their understanding of what they considered the final and the most perfect/protected book i.e Quran. They thought that the best way to understand God, the world and specially oneself was to search God in one's own spirit. To do so, one had to empty oneself of impurities/ illusions and to make room for God in the heart. Egotism, pride and non-permissible worldly ambitions obscure the divine image. One must "polish the mirror of the heart" by overcoming one' s own desires and making way for God's desires. One does so not by conforming to the expectations of family and society or by becoming learned, but by following the dictates of God and his messenger with utmost sincerity and love.

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Sufis were differentiated from ordinary Muslims not so much by what they did, but rather by their singleâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;minded dedication to actualizing their spirits and living in the presence of God. One of the most prominent methods they employed in the attempt to keep God constantly in their mind is known as the "remembrance of God" (zikr-ullah). They held that anyone who can remember that he is always in the presence of God will overcome all worldly illusions. It is only such a state when one will be given access to spiritual reality and Real Being just as Holy Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) was given during his night journey to God's presence known as Miraj un Nabi.

The actual practice of remembrance or zikr, a word that also means "mention" takes diverse forms. The Quran refers to itself as zikr and it commands faithful and believers to remember God by reciting its verses. Many Muslims, sufis included, placed great emphasis on regular recitation of Quran. Quran also calls the daily prayer by the name of "zikr", and this is another reason for the central importance of the five daily prayers for all Muslims.

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This is an extremely brief and rudimentary account of Sufi approach to Islamic teachings and practices. It needs to be kept in mind that in Islamic history, Sufism came to be associated with thousands of teachers, numerous institutions, and a vast literature. Although there is a great deal of disagreement amongst different schools of thought within Sufis, yet if we want to say that there is a common thread tying all of this together, we will not be far from the mark if we call it" the quest for direct communion with Godâ&#x20AC;?.

A Few Merits and Demerits Of Sufism

Sufis generally are very good at reaching out to people through psychological techniques. They know how to address, and influence people. Even for solution of very small problem of someone they would work hard and may give a lot of time. That is the reason, they are liked and loved by the people. They are generally very pleasant, polite and soft in approach. This impresses people a lot.

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The disciples of a certain spiritual guide /teacher/murshid/pir make an organized group. They are generally very strongly knit group of individuals who, if properly guided and used, can do wonders.

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The remembrance of God exercises or zikr lessons help provide relief from tension, anxiety and depression. These concentration exercises tend to be of great virtue, providing relief and solace to the needy. Sufism in this sense can be termed as inner, somewhat mystical or psycho-spiritual dimension of religion.

There is yet another dimension of Sufism. In it one is taught to always think of his/her spiritual teacher or commonly called Murshid. A disciple has to be unconditionally obedient to one's murshid. This blind bondage to someone other than God's last Prophet is an un-islamic approach. Quran tells us that for our deeds, we ourselves are accountable before God almighty Allah, and the excuse that one followed a Murshid unquestionably and unwittingly is not tenable, most surely will not be entertained.

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Many of the practices which most of the Murshids demand of their disciples like concentration exercises apparently do not originate from the last Prophet. If it be true, and apparently it is, one may not find favour with God. ****

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Syeda Saleha

Shahzad Ahmed A Writer and a Social Thinker

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Shahzad Ahmed, a poet, prose writer, philosopher, psychologist and a translator left us on August, 13th 2012 at the age of eighty, while still active working as the director of Majlis e Adab. He was one of the contemporaries of Faiz Ahmad Faiz and Habib Jalib, though not as revolutionary in the sense Faiz and Jalib were. Yet, he is acknowledged as a progressive thinker. He was the voice of reason, who believed in scientific approach towards life. His was a multi-dimensional personality, who slammed orthodoxy and was critical of traditional beliefs that hampered human development.

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Shehzad was a prolific writer who had at least five collections of poetry to his credit. His poetry consists of ghazals as well as nazams which are mostly in blank verse. There is a sadness and softness in his poetry. His ghazals have a classical touch. Ghazal has changed its colour, diction and content throughout the period of its existence and these changes are visible in his poetry. His nazams are more reflective of contemporary social and political issues. Though Ahmed has his place in Urdu poetry but his place as a social thinker and humanist is no less important. His prose writings comprise of a few books on Psychology (he is a Master from Govt. College Lahore), some translations which include books on Islamic Philosophy, Islamic Art, Islamic culture. He also translated a book written by Dr. Abdul Salam Idealogies and Reality. Titled in Urdu as Arman Aur Haqeeqat. Ahmed's range of subject is varied and wide and cannot be covered in a short article. So, let us limit ourselves with some social issues which have been his main concern. Here he emerges

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as a great humanist and a supporter of suppressed classes. Though he raised these issues long time back they are as relevant today as they were then and as a matter of fact have assumed more importance. One such issue is the status of women in our present social and political milieu. Our print media and electronic media carries barbaric stories where women are tortured, raped, harassed, burnt and paraded nude in public places, and we do not see enough action on the part of the state though a lip service is offered now and then. Shehzad's book Do Rukh (Two Sides) published in 1990, contains two articles, Aurat (woman) and Heer Waris Shah wherein he is critical of both feudalism and capitalism as the exploiters of women albeit with a difference that the feudals treat women as slaves but in Capitalism she is offered certain freedom yet she is still used as an object to enhance their business interests. He is well aware of the dialectics of Socialism and claims that it is the only system which gives equal rights to both men and women. Though after the break down of Soviet Socialist Republic, but that is a different story.

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As far as Pakistan is concerned it is still a feudal society. Shahzad's analysis of Heer Waris Shah will be of interest to the readers. There is an article in his book Do Rukh wherein he criticizes writers like Rashid Anwar, Ali Abbas Jalal Puri who have not hesitated to change the original content of the great classic by inducing their own thoughts. It is a pity that after the establishment of Pakistan when Heer was included in the Punjab Fazil course some guardians of morality protested that Heer is fahash, that its content is not suitable for our women folk. The emphasis was more on content than its assumed morality. She loves Ranjha and when forced to marry Khedo she plans to run away with Ranjha but Ranjha is not as daring. Ranjha has not attained that height that will liberate him from societal fear. So Heer is married to Kheeda against her wish. Yet her love for Ranjha never dies. Heer constantly endeavors to change Ranjha into perfection, but fails. According to Shahzad Heer Waris Shah is a protest against feudal system which ends into tragedy because that era lacked the will to change the society. A society requires industrial base to fight against class distinction and repressions. A classless society is synonymous with equality---economic equality 150

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and parity between both the sexes. Shahzad questions when one of the members is slave and the other is free, how can there be equality?

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Two more articles included in the book will be of interest to the readers. They are about fahashi and pornography. Both the articles are relevant even today. Though Manto has been awarded by the government for his excellence in writing, the debate is still alive in electronic and print media. Shahzad poses two questions. He asks whether fahashi is in itself a disease or a symptom of some disease. Can a sick society be constrained by ethic based bounds? His contention is that a system based on exploitation and male chauvinism are two vices wich give birth to this disease. Economically empowered forces force the underdogs to act according to their whims. They do not hesitate to play foul. As far as male chauvinism is concerned, instances of kidnapping, rape, forced marriages, killings in the name of honour abound in our society. And as far as capitalism is concerned, women are used as an object to promote business interests. So, the question is whether a society can be cured simply by changing the mode of advertisement? Women are focused in advertisements more than men, because the male dominated society is more attracted to women. So, fahashi is more relevant to men than women. A man taking a bath on the roadside is no problem to a woman. But a woman has to cover herself to secure herself from the greedy looks of men. Vulgarity and economics are closely interconnected. A poor woman who neither has char dewari or a chador, can she be condemned as a shameless soul? Cultural invasion is another worry that haunts our society. The West is shattering our morality, our values and our faith through its music, movies and so on. We are also apprehensive of the cultural influences from across the border. Though we have been through changes, especially during the last two centuries, immediately after the Industrial Revolution, the colonial rule and now the satellites, the revolution through tele-communication has transformed the world into a global village. Changes are there to stay, they will continue in future as well whether one likes it or not. Shahzad was well aware of the changes. He in his thought provoking article,'A 151

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Questionnaire, which could not be released ponders how the world is changing. He had written this article in the last decade of the twentieth century. Quoting Koestler and Toffler he says that while changes in cultural values are hailed by some and retorted by others, the question is whether we should protect at all costs that which are the fruits of centuries of evolution for civilization, or should we assume it as a burden and throw it away regardless of its consequences. Is it that the machines have become the ideal of men and he wants to change his psyche completely? Then Shahzad elaborates the phenomenon through the example of creativeness. Sometimes it so happens that the characters in a story become independent of its creator. Then the writer has no control over them. They choose their own path and the writer has just to accompany them documenting only his observations.

History plays its role in social development. Individuals may become a deterrent and like to stop the process. But history moves forward and only a few intelligent brains can foresee the future. Shahzad was definitely one of them.

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Zulfikar Ghose

Combating Writer's Block

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Back in 1922 there was a writer named Sydney Schiff who suffered from what's known as writer's block and his friend T. S. Eliot wrote him a letter with this advice: "I am very sorry that you are finding it difficult to get on with your work; I have been through the same ordeal often and know how agonizing it is. But a moment comes when the thing comes out almost automatically; I think that it is partly the anxiety and the desire to express it exactly that form the obstacle; then a moment of self-forgetfulness arrives and releases the inspiration. I imagine that all writers who have arrived at a degree of consciousness in their mental activity suffer in this way."

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Elizabeth Bishop, writing in a letter to Marianne Moore that "it is really because I want to do something well that I don't do it at all", expresses the anxiety of some writers who want their next work to be so superior that they can't put a word down for fear that what gets written will be of inferior quality.

When teaching fiction writing, I used to tell my students who complained that they suffered from writer's block: Your problem is that you think you need a great idea before you start your story, so first of all disabuse yourself of the fallacy that stories are based on writers having ideas. What you need is some event, basically an image that engages the senses, and the story will follow. Just put down a sentence in which there is some action that can be presented as an image, point as it were the lens of a moving camera at the image and then follow the action that is bound to generate itself, keep going until the action completes itself, and you will have a story. Or simply make up a random sentence, such as this clichĂŠd example: "Mary saw the shining brass door handle turn, the door

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burst open and John stagger in holding a bloodied handkerchief to his mouth." Or a variation: "John quietly opened the door to the bedroom and seeing Mary sitting on the edge of the bed removing her stockings whistled a happy tune." Whatever the first sentence, there is always a sentence that has to come next, which, of course, will be determined by what's contained in the first sentence. There is absolutely no reason why the writer should be stuck.

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After the sentence about John holding the bloodied handkerchief to his mouth, you could write: "What happened," Mary asked, "did you fall off the bicycle?" Or she might have said, "John, I've always told you, boxing is not your sport!" Or, "So, the dentist decided to take your teeth out?"

If John had fallen off the bicycle, then perhaps he is a ten-yearold and Mary is his older sister. If he has been boxing, then she might be his mother and he a teenager. And if heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s had his teeth out, he could be middle-aged and Mary his wife. In each case, a particular character would take shape and trigger off a variety of stories.

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Or if the writer's first sentence had been the one about John whistling a happy tune on seeing Mary removing her stockings, then what follows that provocative scene ought to be quite interesting. The writer can set up a titillating erotic expectation, add teasing hints with further suggestive images, and instead of leading to the expected action in the bed make something else happen, like a burglar breaking in, that first frustrates the reader and then has him utterly absorbed in some new drama. The alternatives of what happens next are infinite once one has that first sentence. Given the same first sentence, a hundred writers will come up with a hundred different stories because each imagination is filled with a store of images that have accumulated as a unique body of personal associations in the individual's brain as a sum of all the experience that person has had until that moment. And what is remarkable is that even when the first sentence is entirely arbitrary, or just a silly joke like Mary removing her stockings, there is an unconscious impulse which 154

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then develops the story and, extracting ideas from the individual writer's associations and background, gives the work its unique quality.

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The succession of sentences that will emerge will depend on the quality of one's brain, and each brain has a built-in predilection that favors a particular way of writing. A writer like Graham Greene could only work with formula fiction while a Beckett felt driven to subvert common forms. If your interest is in the traditional, formulaic story, then you will create a story that fulfils that predetermined pattern; if your obsession is with creating something original, you will take one of those clichĂŠd opening sentences and follow them with sentences that pervert the formulaic expectation.

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You can start with Jack and Jill going up the hill to fetch a pail of water; but instead of their coming tumbling down, you can make them linger by the well and have the first intimations of sexual attraction, or give them a fright by making them see a dead body in the well, or surprise them with a view of the other side of the hill which appears so enchanting that they throw away their pail and go running hand-in-hand to the magical new world.

But whatever your approach, something has to follow even an arbitrary opening, and once begun you will be surprised how absorbed you become in the writing and don't even realize you're doing it and suddenly the thing is complete. Either you will have fun making up fantastic situations or, more likely, you will be pulled into some buried memory and, without even a conscious awareness, find your imagination giving that personal association a new objective reality. Sometimes, what looks complete turns out to be flawed and needs revision before it's presentable. T. S. Eliot's great poem, The Waste Land, was originally a series of poems given the awful title, He Do the Police in Different Voices. As such, it would have ended up in the rubbish dump of literary history, but, with Ezra Pound's help, Eliot transformed those fragments into one of the most memorable works of literature. In fact, literature has many 155

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examples of some of the greatest writers converting very poor early drafts to masterpieces. As a writer, you never actually finish a work, you simply reach a point where you decide to stop making any more changes to it; a great writer perseveres longer before coming to that decision. It is not the ideas in a work or its relevance to its time that makes a work great; it is always the quality of its language. A good writer is one who remains in a state of dissatisfaction with the shape of the words first suggested by his brain and stubbornly keeps altering them until they fall into an unexpected shape which, once found, is seen to possess a peculiarly gratifying inevitability.

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I'm talking of literary work, which involves aesthetic questions that are perhaps irrelevant to, say, the writing of a scientific paper. However, I do think that the cause of a writer's block is common to all writers. It is mainly the fear that what one is about to write is going to turn out bad, and not at all worthy of one's brilliantly original mind and the undisputed talent of a great genius which one secretly attributes to oneself; it is the terror of being found out to be a fraud and an utter mediocrity, a terror so strong that one becomes frozen and can't write a word. When this mood strikes a writer, an enormous depression sets in, and there is a reluctance to write anything at all unless there is some certainty that what will emerge will be so extraordinary the whole world will give one a standing ovation. Which, of course, will never happen; with the exception perhaps of some remarkable freaks of nature, such as Mozart and Shakespeare, most of us mortals are condemned to endless chipping away before we can create anything resembling a monumentâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;and are lucky if the figure that gets created is not that of a dwarf. This anxiety, this fear that generates the writer's block is associated with vanity. One wants to be seen as beautiful, talented, learned, original, etc., and not just another worthless hack. That surely is true of most of us, we would not be human else. It requires a tremendous discipline to quieten the noisy tormented self and to accept the reality that I, as one more individual, am not that important, certainly not as important as the art in which I'm trying to shape a new form or express an idea in an original style. 156

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But people have a general resentment against life and often think, indeed are convinced, that life has treated them unfairly, that if they could only change the conditions of their existence, they would be more productive, happier, etc. It is the illusion of paradise as that elsewhere from where it has been our misfortune to be excluded.

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In the end, of course, there is a certain quirk in one's brain, which determines our outlook on life as well as much of our behavior, about which there is absolutely nothing that we can do. But what does help is a degree of self-knowledge. If one understands those aspects of the agitated self that are rooted in vanity then it should be possible to release oneself from that troubling anxiety and discover the liberation (what Eliot called "a moment of self-forgetfulness") in which the mind creates for the sheer pleasure of doing so.

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The best liberation from one's enslavement to the atrocious imposition of vanity, which, demanding that we write only if we can produce a masterpiece, impedes one's creativity, can be achieved by reading a work of undisputed greatness concurrently with one's work in progress. When I was writing The Murder of Aziz Khan, I read Tolstoy's War and Peace, and on days when I thought I was stuck I'd say to myself, "If Tolstoy could write nearly 1,500 pages with such apparent fluency, then I can at least squeeze out half a page before I go to sleep." Wallace Stevens wrote in a letter: "I sit down every evening after dinner and, after a little music, put my forefinger in the middle of my forehead and struggle with my imagination." That is one way to avoid writer's block, to form a habit of regular work, to create a daily ritual for oneself. Another is to remember that with persistence any poor work can be transformed into a masterpiece. In his book Resistance and Persistence, Sean Scully, one of the finest painters in the international art scene today, described such a transformation: "I went to the studio in Barcelona. I was tired and I was getting ill, and I didn't want to work at all. I had no energy and I had a headache. I started working on the painting I had 157

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abandoned a couple of weeks before because it was my least favouriteâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;it was the 'abandoned oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; left standing up against the wall. So I reluctantly put it on the painting wall and started working. Then something happened, and I painted as if I couldn't make a mistake. Three hours later it was finished, and it was the most beautiful painting in the room. That's painting. You never know. You never know what you will get when you start."

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Scully's kind of disciplined persistence is what Eliot was recommending to Sydney Schiff to overcome writer's block. One suggestion I used to make to my similarly afflicted writing students was to work on a translation: take another author's work and remake it as your own; this will concentrate your mind, forcing it to look for the right words and doing so restore your confidence as a writer. One of the finest translations in modern literature is C.K. Scott Moncrieffâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s rendering of Proust's great novel, titled Remembrance of Things Past; however, Scott Moncrieff died before he could tackle the final volume of the long French novel, and it was Schiff, writing under the pseudonym of Stephen Hudson, who completed the work.

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Muneeza Shamsai

Book Review: between Clay and Dust

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Once a upon a time, in the subcontinent, there existed a hierarchy of customs and cultures within which professions such as that of the pahalwan and the tawaif were patronized by the elite and governed by strict rituals, customs and codes. Musharraf Farooqi's new novel Between Clay and Dust tells the tale of an aging, famed pahalwan, Ustad Ramzi, and an elderly and celebrated tawaif Gohar Jan. Both continue to live in the crumbling inner city of a nameless town, which has seen great changes after Partition. The timeless etiquette and ruts of a world known to them cannot cope with the confrontation with modernity.

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Farooqi's spare, tightly honed prose and the quiet unfurling of the plot resembles the seamless movements of a dance, in which sudden implosions of violence and unexpected denouements are reflected by a change in the dancer's steps but are contained within the fluidity of the whole. A narrative enhances this sense of physicality and grace where much is suggested through gesture and nuance. At the same time, Farooqi's eye for detail vividly brings to life the two main protagonists and their respective establishments.

Both Ustad Ramzi and Gohar Jan belong to professions, which exploit the human body, but the timeless disciplines and codes of honor provide an achor, which imbues their days with order, dignity and meaning. Ustad Ramzi's craft glorifies the muscle power and strength of the male body, but he has made a vow of celibacy. On the other hand, Gohar Jan's absolute dedication to her art as a singer and a musician, veils the sale of the female body that is implicit to life in the kotha. In traditional society, the onset of old age would have meant that Ustad Ramzi and Gohar Jan would continue to earn by training younger apprentices to follow the traditions of their

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respective establishments. But in the modern day, they have become but obsolete vestiges of a lost world.

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Ustad Ramzi, the head of a pahalwan clan, holds the title of Ustad -e-Zaman, which he had won 15 years earlier, in 1935, after defeating the defending champions___ his clan's long-time rivals. Daily, he begins the day by pounding clay in the wrestler's akhara, of which he is a custodian. He is aware of the pain in his joints and other symptoms of deteriorating health. His brother Tamami, 20 years his junior, has no interest in the rituals his brother holds dear, nor offers to help. Tamami is also a reckless braggart. He taunts Imama, the champion of a rival clan, and challenges him to a match. Ustad Ramzi knows his brother is not ready for such a bout. He steps in to fight in Tamami's stead. The preparations for the grand spectacle include plates of dried dates and pitchers of sardai "prepared with almonds, milk and herbs" for the spectators. Ustad Ramzi, dressed in a white turban and a coverlet "embroidered with Quranic verses," is carried to the ground on the shoulders of the trainees, reciting auspicious verses. Farooqi describes the fight in wonderful visual detail, including Ustad Ramziâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s growing awareness of his own limitations and his near-defeat. Ustad Ramzi realizes that Tamami is stronger than him, even if he does not have the requisite skills or discipline. Tamami gradually starts training other pahalwans of the clan. But Ustad Ramzi's hopes and aspirations of creating in Tamami a worthy heir are shattered when he learns of Tamami's increasing dependence on the insidious Gulab Deen, a professional promoter. Ustad Ramzi is outraged at Gulab Deen's proposal to fix matches. As his relationship with his brother deteriorates, so does his hold on everything he holds dear, including the land and property his family has owned for generations, and which now come under the purview of the municipality as does Gohar Jan's derelict home. The interplay between Ustad Ramzi and the courteous Gohar Jan provides a foil to the ustad's increasing enmity and distance with his violent, foul-tempered brother. Gohar Jan holds regular mehfils in her music room. There Ustad Ramzi discovers the power of music to calm and soothe the spirits. These gatherings entail a strict etiquette. Bolsters are placed on the white floor 160

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covering. Hookahs are filled by servants and Malka, a beautiful young, nayika, welcomes the guests with paan. At the center of it all, is the commanding presence of Gohar Jan, a woman once renowned for her "stately and austereâ&#x20AC;? beauty, who is still famous for her voice and her music, in the best classical traditions.

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Gohar Jan is aware that after Partition many of the nearby kothas have closed down and young trainee nayikas have left the district to enter the film industry and other professions. Gohar Jan's kotha includes the 23- year-old Malka, who was found on Gohar Jan's doorstep as a baby. Malka enjoys a rather privileged position, though Gohar Jan shows her little affection. Her attitude towards Malka perplexes her old retainer Banday Ali. He perceives Malka's as an important source of income for the kotha in the future, instead, Gohar Jan negotiates Malka's marriage to an infatuated newcomer in the music room in fulfillment of a vow that Gohar Jan had made long ago. Thus Gohar Jan implies that a life of respectability, whatever the cost, is always a preferable option to the kotha___ a statement which echoes that of Mirza Ruswa's famous heroine, Umrao Jan Ada.

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The income from Gohar Jan's kotha continues to dwindle. Soon her mehfils end too, unknown to Ustad Ramzi. He arrives one day at the music room at the usual hour, only to find no one there. Gohar Jan is too polite to send him away. She insists on playing for him___ a performance which not only re-unites her with her music, but with her own self as well. "Even though it felt strange for her to play for her lone audience, Gohar Jan experienced a familiar joy upon touching, after many days, the well-seasoned wood of the sitar, The fingers of her hand glided over the wooden neck of the instrument, curled over the wooden neck of the wood. She felt she had recovered a part of herself as her hands held the instrument. Curled around the frets, caressed the strings, and with their touch breathed warmth into the wood. She felt she had recovered a part of herself as her hands held the instrument. Playing it gave her a sense of completeness."

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The unlikely friendship that develops between Ustad Ramzi and Gohar Jan is also a comment on both as artists and their commitment to their art. Their silent understanding of each other and their respective heroic struggles, against all odds, to cling to their sense of self, impel the plot. Meanwhile a new breed of men___ among them government officials and municipal inspectors draw up new plans for the dilapidated, flooded, inner city.

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Amjad Hussain

My Dinner And Field Trip With A Quiet Hero: Neil Armstrong

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America and the world have lost a genuine hero with the passing of Neil Armstrong. As the first man to step on the moon, he received instant fame. But he remained an unassuming man. His astronaut colleagues basked in the glory of their accomplishments, but Mr. Armstrong shunned all publicity and preferred privacy. He refused to give interviews, sign autographs, or pose for photographs.

Because of his obsession with privacy, he was called a recluse. However, on rare occasions when he was in public, he was as a courtly gentleman. I was fortunate to meet him briefly about a month before he passed away on August 25.

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In July, I traveled to Flagstaff, Ariz, as part of the University of Toledo delegation attending the inauguration of the Discovery Channel Telescope at Lowell Observatory. UT is part of a consortium___ Boston University and the University of Maryland are the other members___ that has bought into use of the telescope.

Mr. Armstrong was the keynote speaker at the First Light Gala. When a newly commissioned telescope gets its first images from space, this is called first light. Mr. Armstrong was seated at the table next to mine. During the evening, many people approached him, even though guests had been requested not to do so by the organizers. He politely said hello and exchanged pleasantries. But his shyness was evident during these brief encounters. During the introduction of the keynote speaker, the master of ceremonies, asked audience members to raise their hands if they remembered where they were at the time of the Apollo 11 landing. 163

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Every hand went up. To the delight of the audience, Mr. Armstrong also raised his hand.

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In his remark, he was humble, self-effacing, and articulate. He said that after President John Kennedy declared that America would land a man on the moon before the 1960s ended, the National Aeronautics and Space Administration took up the challenge. NASA assembled the best and brightest people for the project. Mr. Armstrong said his role, as a technician, was minimal. He was there to install mirrors on the surface of the moon. He went on to say, tongue still in cheek, that scientists wanted to measure the exact distance between the Earth and the moon, because his travel expenses were based on the distance he had gone.

He repeated his plea that space exploration should be continued, because it is essential to the survival of our species. He concluded by showing a simulation of his landing and how he manually landed the spacecraft. He got a sustained standing ovation.

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The next day, we went to see the new telescope, in Coconino National Forest near Happy Jack, about an hour's drive from flagstaff. Soon Mr. Armstrong and his astronomer friends from Lowell joined us.

For about 30 minutes, Jeff Hall, the energetic and affable director of the observatory, told us about the telescope, Mr. Armstrong asked questions and engaged Mr. Hall in scientific discussion. He also met and exchanged pleasantries with others in the group. After we toured the facility, Mr. Armstrong left for Flagstaff. About a month later, he died of complications of heart surgery. Neil Armstrong cared deeply about his country and its space program. He did not hesitate to criticize the government for its recent cancellation of the space-shuttle and manned-exploration programs. He was an uncommon hero, and a class act.

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Carlo Coppola

An Interview of “Noon Meem Rashid” Do you think that the progressives have outlived their effectiveness?

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A: The effectiveness of Progressives, in my view, lies in the ‘proliferation’ of their movement, because it is as a consequence of their movement that writers today, even many ghazal writers, cannot afford to close their eyes to their social environment and to their problems of man as a whole.

It was more than a coincidence that the two movements in Urdu, one for the change of form and idiom and the other for the change of content, arose, together and then converged to produce the ‘new’ writer of today.

Would you care to comment on the poetry of Faiz Ahmed Faiz, who is generally considered the foremost Progressive poet?

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Today, it is no longer fashionable for any to call himself a ‘progressive’ with a sense of superiority, or to dub anyone a ‘reactionary’ in any obviously derogatory sense. Today, no writing can produce much echo unless it is directly or indirectly related to the life of the people.

A: Beginning with my introduction to Faiz’s first collection, a great deal has been written on his poetry. While the old masters of Urdu verse, Josh Malihabadi and Hafiz Jallandhari are still alive and prospering, Faiz remains the most popular poet today who, after Iqbal is the best known abroad. My opinion that “Faiz stands at the junction of romanticism and realism,” which I expressed some 25 years ago, still largely

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holds true, Faiz has inherited the wistfulness and sadness of the disappointed lover of the traditional ghazal in a large measure (this may be one reason why he feels very much at, home in the ghazal form); and to this, I presume must have been added some influence of the English romantic poets, particularly Shelley and Keats, (who were a part of our discipline at the University), because they seem to have left a clear mark on his imagery. His soft sentimentalism and his repeated reference to “pain” immediately remind one of the two great English romantic poets. From the Persian and Urdu ghazal, he has borrowed the whole complex of symbolism, myth and even phraseology which, in spite of his apparent contemporary consciousness, render him a mystic in line with Hafiz and Saadi, who were no less conscious of their own immediate environment.

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But, in using the traditional parlance, he does not always seek his personal catharsis alone, as the traditional poet did. His method is to awaken first within himself and then in the mind of his reader a pain and pathos which would link his experience with the experience of mankind as a whole. Thus, he enables the timeworn cliches of the Persian and Urdu ghazal to acquire a renewed sensitivity and to be recharged with meaning, so that the solitary suffering of the disappointed romantic lover is transformed into the suffering humanity at large. The traditional poet was often a mere lonely prowler, but Faiz stalks his quarry, using the same the old weapons of the ghazal writer, with a clear awareness of a multitude behind him, this explains his constant reference, even appeal, to “comrades’ and “friends” in his poetry. Q:

How would you describe the literary scene of Pakistan today?

A: Writers Guild which came into being in 1959 under the direct state encouragement and patronage with the declared object of “uniting Pakistani Writers under the present regime for the greater glory of Pakistan.” Whatever the nature of the Guild’s affiliations and whatever the objectives may be one remarkable achievement of this organization has been that it has brought writers of all 166

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denominations and beliefs under its wings, irrespective of the languages they use for their writings and has thus opened the doors for a new dialogue between them.

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Furthermore, the Pakistani writer has never before seen so much “affluence,” in the form of prizes and awards, as the Guild through its influence with the moneyed classes had made possible for him today. Some of the routine activities of the Guild have closely followed the pattern set by the other literary societies, such as weekly meetings and occasional “Evenings with So and So.” The Guild has also been promoting special sales of books autographed by the authors on the spot. It publishes a monthly magazine which is a kind of literary miscellany of poetry, fiction, criticism and news of the literary world.

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Now coming to the more recent generation of Urdu poets who have appeared on the scene during the ten or fifteen years, in spite of their own claim that they are in revolt against everything that has gone before, they are by and large the followers of the traditions laid down by Miraji and his immediate followers. Whatever the nature of their revolt, I consider it most encouraging that a group of poets has arisen with a courage to challenge some of the existing rules of poetry and to provide a new appraisal of them in the light of their personal experience.

The main purpose of poetry, as stated, by some of their apologists, is the personal delectation of the reader. Poetry, according to them, must entertain before it can sublimate or edify, and this alone can guarantee that whatever they write will eventually join the mainstream of literature and civilization. They believe in no tradition, although some of them have advocated the revival of the ghazal form, and they believe that no ethical values, religious concepts or philosophical thought can compensate for the basic purpose of poetry-enjoyment. ****

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Rasheed Akhtar

A Dialogue Across The Shadows

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Way back in 1968, when I migrated to the U.K. from Pakistan the British industry was booming and there were vacancies everywere. I did a lot of odd jobs…postman, dish washer, factoryhand-----and made a mess of each one of them. The trouble was that the work in nearly all the cases was physical in nature, while I had neither the physique nor the mindset to enjoy it. However, the hoped-for relief arrived when I was accepted for an overseas teachers course. In Jan. 1971, I was posted to one of the tough neighborhoods in London where I met an English girl who was also just beginning her career. She was the first woman in Britain to make her amorous intent manifest to me and she received an ardent response. Our whirl-wind romance led to a shot-gun marriage barely a month after our first encounter. She was 23, 1 31. To be honest we entered marriage with different feelings and expectations. In her, it was an intense passion; it absorbed the whole of her being; its white heat and purity approached holiness. My sentiments, I am afraid, were not so sublime. I sought in wedlock companionship as well as domestic comforts of carpet slippers, consoling bosom and pillow-smoothing variety. Marriage to me was not an end but the means to an end___success and progress in the world. Our life moved along smoothly until our baby boy arrived in December 1971. Nothing concentrates the mind of a mother as the event of the first birth. She began to brood endlessly over her present, future and recent past. From the tortured depths of her soul, there grew in her an acute awareness that she had surrendered her precious all, body, mind, and soul to someone who did not even appreciate her, much less requite her love. In the silence of her torment, she took the fateful decision of leaving her husband, her new-born and her still warm home. This act of hers broke apart

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the shared life of three human beings, setting them off in different directions and on different paths towards their inexorable destinies.

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Generally, a mother fights like a wounded tigress for the custody of children. Why didn’t she? One can only guess. In my own case, the difficulties were practical and formidable. A working man is not designed by nature to take care of a month-old baby. I did have the option of sending him to Pakistan where the street would have decided how he was going to grow up. The prospect filled me with raw fear. This was a very agonizing period for me, wavering between alternatives and being unable to make up my mind one way or the other. Meanwhile, my in-laws had contacted Barnardo’s complex and met with the social worker in charge of the case. During the talk, she told me that they had found a white-collar family where the child would have a secure and affectionate environment. From her description there arose in my mind the picture of a neat and a smiling home, filled not only with care and love but also milk, fruit and honey. Perceiving the tussle that was still going on between my head and heart, the social workers said “Of course the final decision is yours and yours alone. But in a situation like this one should think more of the child’s future than one’s own feelings.” That clinched the matter. I gave my joyless consent to the adoption which then went through without any hitch. This was in November 1972.

I returned to Pakistan in 1985. Three years later my family arranged a marriage for me, which proved a dismal failure. Two creatures brisling with mutual hostility were yoked together partly by the force of custom and partly for reasons of expediency. I was glad when this loveless, joyless, childless marriage was over and done with. It was a cold and lonely union indeed. The yearning to see my son was always there; sometime in the background, sometime in the foreground and all the time in the inner recesses of mind. There was a feeling of guilt too for abandoning him. Curiosity was one of the factors as well. I had an intense desire to see how he was shaping. I expected him to be a distinguished doctor or a first-rate engineer. Living in a leafy suburban home with his car on a still Sunday afternoon with the 169

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slow restful motions of a contented family man. One point always bothered me during these happy day dreams. What was my place in this self-contained, happy world? “None” was the correct answer. So I promised that I would not be intrusive; only at Christmas would I send beautiful hand-crafted artifacts from Pakistan.

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I took the first step towards tracing him in 1998 though there were formidable problems. First, I had stopped living in the U.K. since 1977. Second, the existing law forbade blood-relatives to initiate search for the adopted child. However, in March 2008 the office of the Register General informed me that the law has been amended to allow natural relatives to initiate the search for adopted children through go-between agencies. I was overjoyed. In due course, I contacted Barnardo’s the charity which had arranged the adoption. Lois Williams, s social worker in making connections, was assigned to my case.

ev i

Some time after, I was supplied significant details about my son. I learnt that he had visited Barnardo’s in 2001 to seek information about his origins; that he had been suffering from drug problems since early twenties, and that he had a history of break downs. To be honest, it gave me an odd satisfaction in some strange sort of way as I thought he may need me now. I relished the idea of giving him nourishing soups, weak teas and saying soothing words of solace when his heart grew heavy with sorrow. After 18 months of twists, turns, false leads and cold trails, Lois Williams called, “Rashid we have located your son and I have spoken to him.” There was a brief pause and then she added,“ there is good news and bad news.” The good news is that he is happy to learn that you want to meet him. He would like to hear from you,” there was a slightly longer pause, then she said,” the bad news is that he is suffering from cancer and is under treatment in a hospital.” It was a stunning blow which numbed my mind. How ghastly to have your wish fulfilled in such a way that it loses all its meanings, all its truth, all its joy. At the end, she asked me to compose a letter to my ailing son which I did. I kept its tone light to cheer him up and emphasized my ordinary humanity. 170

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O nl y

While waiting for the reply, I had time to absorb the shock and take a fresh look at the situation. I was hopeful that he would recover. After his release from hospital, I intended to suggest that he should stay with me for sometime in this small, scenic and sleepy town tucked away in the countryside of the Punjab--- the heartland of Sufism, which is a variety of mysticism with a warm, human feel. I had figured that the rich spirituality of the East would be balm to his ravaged soul. The idea that I may be able to nurse my scarred child back to health and happiness filled me with vast elation. I had an almost religious emotion that my life had been spared so that I could finish this holy mission in the final years. It gave a kind of subdued zest to my existence.

ev i

After a month of tedious waiting his reply arrived through Lois Williams. He told her that he was too ill to respond early. He ended his letter with, “Please tell my father it will be sometime before I can make any move.” I was thrilled to bits to see the phrase “My father” there. It meant that he had owned me and accepted me. There was a tidal wave of happiness, over-flowing love for the son and effervescence of goodwill and gratitude for everybody. This was, without doubt, one of my finest moments. In that uplifting moment I guessed that it wan’t be long before I could be flying to see him. It caused a swell of complex emotions in me___ base happiness, deep remorse, a haunting fear of failure, of not hitting it off, a timed hope of building a rich and lasting relationship from this scratch. The days of euphoria ended two months after his letter when I received an unexpected telephone call from Lois telling me that my son had died on May 3 in Hospital. It was shattering news that fundamentally changed the complexion of my life. I had built my life round him. With his passing away, I saw no purpose and no meaning in life. However, with the passage of time, the grief mellowed and sad wisdom came along to console. Death is final and irreversible. Those who are left behind must go on living with quiet dignity till the end of their allotted days. There is nobility of sorts in keeping up the appearance of interest in the world when your own world has gone empty; there is heroism of stoic hue in practicing’ effort’ living to worn smoothness. 171

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O nl y

The question, ‘what went wrong with my son’ had haunted me for a long time. It came back with vengeance after his death. A healthy, bouncing baby is brought up in a secure and caring environment. How could he descend into the world of drugs and breakdowns? I also felt an over-powering desire to have a set of his photographs which would create a living image in my mind. The adoptive family was in the best position to answer the question and supply the photographs. The family was contacted through Barnardo’s and after some time they obliged us on both counts. In their letter they stated that the son had a very happy and smooth childhood; got good grades, had many friends and enjoyed the countryside where the family lived. The trouble started in his teen years when, looking back at his adoption, he felt that it was an act of rejection by his natural parents. He felt deeply hurt inside. His parents, relatives and social workers could not persuade him to see adoption in a positive light--- as a means of access to a better life. The situation was further aggravated by his ‘otherness’. His biological origins were different from the rest. He was driven to seek refuge in drugs which then led to further distress.

ev i

The photographs they sent were of good quality, in color and shiny, showing him in different moods, years and dress. Looking at these, I felt a joy so keen that it verged on pain; a pain so sweet that it became pleasurable. These wistful tokens of remembrance will always illumine the shrines in my thought and in my heart. ****

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Amra Raza

Hunger

O nl y

The moon cools in the curry of a dawn And waits to b found, By the eager fingers of the day Quickly swallowed, Washed down With a sea of Salty, forthy buttermilk.

ev i

The sun rises in the tandoor of the horizon Another morsel Baked Spiced Seasoned Burning the tongue.

Hot and spicy, it cools Delicious As it slides Down The throat Of the Karachi skyline Till the next bite

****

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Athar Tahir

Drafts

O nl y

Sorting these drafts after decades Each sheet with its sepia date and place Speaks for an echoing instant Of what ignited them And why the words were so set.

Here is one about Iona We walked one wet day After the Hilary term. Another celebrates the wedding Of the youngest sister, now dead.

ev i

A clutch mulls over land and trees And fog Auden thanked. An insertion here, a deletion there To exact the text. They have served. To the man who minds the gate I give them all to burn For a few minutes In the winter night. And keep warm. ****

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Ejaz Rahim

Raja Tridev Roy

O nl y

Chief of The Chakmas In Self-Exile (Author of ‘The Departed Melody’)

Raja Sahib! The melody Has only departed from the mind Self-exiled to the heart Where songs find Another season of bloom And a fresh blossoming As in spring time.

ev i

The realization of descent From the Enlightened One Sets you and your kin apart Being the ancient badge Of the Chakma nation.

Realisation is also the cross Human beings must bear For making sense of a world Torn by affliction and distress. How realisation is born Remains a mystery Beyond understanding’s ken Despite the march of science And reason’s ascent. It may spring from wisdom, Instinct or experience Or appear uncaused

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Like an artist’s inspiration Breaking into efflorescence From mundane soils and paints Spiraling and gyrating In an ecstatic motion Towards the gates of heaven.

O nl y

Without realization Enlightenment remains A pipedream, a diversion Or a juggler’s sleight of hand For the ignorant And indeed the bane Of power-deluded brains.

ev i

Without realization We worship forms Of clay and stones Images that stare indifferently At our exertions And can one assert Hand over heart They savour our prostrations Or answer our oblations!

Buddha’s realization came From nursing human suffering Like a personal wound. Realisation becomes unstoppable Once it begins its pilgrimage Of self-awakening. Void of realization We are like insomniacs Moving our bodies around Over a slippery ground In search of unreal Happiness and elation.

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Realisation is the thing That begins the quest For the reality Behind things.

O nl y

Temples, gurdawaras and mosques Churches and synagogues Monasteries and ashrams Are like launching pads Points of exit and entrance In the long voyage That starts with realization And threads its way Through metaphysical domains And mystical stations To spiritual realms Whose absence from our midst Is but another name For wilderness.

ev i

Without realization Art and culture sprout Like lotuses floating Upon lake waters But human beings themselves Are apt to sink. It is the stepping stone To the celestial. Those who think Divinity can be stormed With a whirlwind glance Must first learn to woo Self-effacing raindrops Courting the sands. Exuberance of joy Sans experience of pain Is a vain endeavour 177

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Although time has advanced At a rapid pace It seems paradoxical That history lags behind The milestone that Buddha Stood upon.

ev i

The age of violence persists Power and wealth propel Like engines of greed. Pride and prejudice reign Like absolute sovereigns. The powerful still placate Mammon and his minions While the world hurtles Towards armageddons.

O nl y

From the standpoint Of faith’s assurance And love’s enduringness.

Raja Sahib, we know Your voluntary banishment Stems from a belief In the sapience Of Buddha’s passion. Gautama’s self-exile Was a tidal leap Into the ocean Dividing earth from heaven. He skillfully removed Cobwebs of superstition And blinding beliefs Blocking our vision. He supplanted Indira’s might With Brahma’s gentleness. Through his exertions 178

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The mythical gave way To the ethical – The quotidian to the ethereal.

O nl y

Gautama led our sights away From garlanded idols And gilded goddesses To the essence That gives meaning To existence.

What a journey it was Before Enlightenment ensued. Buddha did not succumb To fancy nostrums Or gossamer dreamings About human fate Preached by Kassapas Of that age.

ev i

He turned away From futile theorems On truth’s fatuity And life’s decrepitude.

He bid Alora Kaloma adieu Holding the yoga trance Too transient to float In a sea of turbulence. In this arduous journey He starved himself To the bare bones On Niranjara’s bank Without finding a trace Of nirvana’s cherished boat. Finally, Enlightenment came Not from extremity 179

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Of privation and grief But from the sanity Of the Middle WayThat self-fulfilling path Between penitence and dalliance.

ev i

The answer Buddha found Is still with us – Lust for power And greed of wealth Must be replaced By the will to care For all the children Of our mother earth Remoulding the future Through the rule of mercy And the law of love.

O nl y

He taught acceptance of pain Before transcending the same For finding relief From individual heartbreak And universal sorrow.

Blessed with the key of the Middle Path To the door of deliverance He stepped out into the world A teacher and exemplar To the very core. When he saw thirty youngsters Chasing a courtesan In the streets He said to them, ‘what is better?’ And they listened to him Turning away from sin. To merchants enamoured By worldly possessions He proclaimed, ‘what is better?’ 180

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O nl y

And they mended their ways Responding to him. Rulers and priests swerved In his direction Like trees in the breeze Including King Bambisara of Magada And Pasendi, Kosala’s chief___ The two mightiest sovereigns Of their times.

Nature and history offer No certitude In a weather-beaten world. King Bambisara’s avowal Of Buddha’s truth Could not save him From his own cruel scion Who threw him in a dungeon And pushed him to oblivion.

ev i

King Prasenda too Tasted banishment and death At the usurping hands Of his ungrateful heir.

The politicians of that age Laughed themselves hoarse – ‘Where are the fathers Of these sons?’ they mocked. But history’s verdict runs On a different plane – The fathers have gone their way But where are the sons Of these fathers today? Success may not be guaranteed To the seeking souls But the joy of effort Is a perennial spring. 181

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It is better to have loved And lost than to be nailed To eternal lovelessness. Buddha’s dharma liberates The human spirit From Karma’s heartless pit.

O nl y

III

Raja Tridev Roy! You represent The Chakmas’ resolve To keep Buddha’s lamp Shining on a darkling plain Where the gods of geopolitics Play perfidious games Day in, day out.

ev i

In such an age and clime You have chosen to invoke A long exile And carried on your head A heavy burden of loneliness Instead of a golden crown Because you wish to sustain The lamp’s healing flame Inside your heart. You have gifted a lifetime To remain loyal To Buddha’s name And to the land You call Paravarti With so much affection. Your exile is no small thing But a banishment From illusion to reality. The departed melody 182

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Hope springs eternal In the human breast But when it enters Historyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s miraculous womb It stands immortalized.

Love has the power To grow Taller than The tallest monument On earth.

O nl y

May not come again But the memory of that music Shall remain To inspire those Who recognize Buddhaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s name As a beacon.

****

ev i

Love has the power To glow endlessly In the embers Of the darkest hours.

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Foqia Hayee

A Girl of Today

O nl y

I saw this girl standing, waiting for a bus With no apparent worries and no visible fuss

Ears pierced and a silver chain with a heart at the end A delicate chain, with no bend

In her ear was a plug, with a wire coming out Listening to something on radio no doubt But she was also reading a book

With nowhere else to look

Mouth chewing a piece of gum

Unconcerned with the humdrum

ev i

She sure is an average girl of today Going home at the end of a long working day Trying her best to get on with life through the years

Using all senses eyes, mouth, hands and ears All busy right now, working flat out you might say Best of luck to her and the other such girls of today ****

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Jam Jamali

Malala!

ev i

O nl y

Oh! My daughter's age mate! Alas! The world is but a bait For the soulless super powers Who hoard arsenal towers? And they want to sell And tum our land into hell No one busts the attackers Be they extremist gladiators Or mercenaries and king-makers Who would do the dreadful drill? And would our innocent people kill For minting money would the munitions use Determned to set a ruse. All discerning daughters and sons of the soil say In a vociferous voice it is they! Creators of mujahideen and talban Whom they are now condemning from dusk to dawn The kings, capitalists and feudal lords bigotry need, And upon it the hawks fondly feed. My dear daughter may you hover In loveâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s bower May you recover and live long And of enlightenment may sing a song! ****

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Javed Iqbal

Warring Against The Sun

O nl y

Early in the morning when the Sun rays laughingly entered into the tent, Sahiba thought that before Tajo’s return It would had been worth interlacing His wrinkled old sweater, Which was torn from places And its threads were loosely hung outside.

Tajo was not to come! So he did not.

ev i

Though Sahiba’s long waiting didn’t Let the time pass, The weather was changed and All the drops of water had Joined hands together To save their own lives. They stood frozen In the valley Like a piece of rock Against the sun; It was then that Sahiba decided to To go out to look for her husband Tajo. Away from the tent, Miles and miles away, Cutting through the piercing wind, Going across the white islands Covered with frost, And stepping over the crackling

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In the music of The whistling mind She could hear Her name again and again Being called By someone!

O nl y

Sheets of frozen water, When she passed by the cluster of wells; The particular one Of their chain on which, Far, far away in that direction, Tajo often used to go, She saw that The dried up heaps of mud, Emptied from the bags Had shaped themselves one over the other, Around the mouths of these wells Like the garlands of tiny graves.

ev i

****

187

Translated by: Javed Iqbal

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Khwaja Waqas Ahmed

Piya Torey Nain

O nl y

Raag Saakh For Ustads Amanat Ali Khan and Fateh Ali Khan

ev i

beloved your eyes your eyes beloved your eyes be lov ed be laa aa aa aav ed be laav ed your eyes your eyes your aa aa aa aa ees

beloved your eyes strike at my heart beloved your eyes

piyatoreynain piyatoreynain piyatoreynain turn towards me show your mercy compassion for what I suffer afflicted afflicted I afflicted I touch your feet preserve my shame my honor maintain 188

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belovedyoureyes belovedyoureyes belovedyoureyes be lov ed your eyes

O nl y

eyes aeyes aa aa aa eees aaa aaa aaa eees

gamapa gamapa gamapadasa gamapadasa mapadanida da mapadanida da danida danida

ev i

taanidaetanoom tanananana derayna taanidaetanoom tanananana derayna taanidaetanoom tanananana derayna taanidaetanoom tanananana derayna deraynaan taanidaetanoom tanananana derayna taanideetanooom deraynaa aaa aaa aaa aaa aaa aaa taanidaetanoom tanananana derayna taanidaetanoom tanidaetanoom taanidaetanoom tanananana deraynaan tananadereynaan noomtadereynaan tananadereynaan noomtadereynaan tannanaderderdeen tana derey naan tannanaderderdeen tana derey naan tananaderderdeen tananadereynaan tananaderderdeen tananadereynaan tananaderderdeen tananadereynaan ta ****

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M. Saleem-ur-Rehman

O nl y

Elsewhere

We think,who know so little, that you have worked your way from one darkness to another, unlearning,without caring to, how to read,how to be a father or a son or whosoever or whatever; things which glue together what we take to be a society.

ev i

But why should it be dark or light elsewhere, or day or night or even climates, seasons, weather? In a freedom given by unending resources, everything renewable instantaneously, you probably enter an ending without beginning, alive forever in an ambiguity, turning, as the mood maybe, into pure light or pure darkness.

****

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Muhammad Shanazar

An Ode to The Detached Leaves

O nl y

Ah! The blows of autumnal wind, Cold and callous, have encroached at last, They have made the leaves their victims. Look! They fall like drops of rain, Bearing no strength of their own. They move with the gushes of wind, Without their own consent, They oscillate on the wings of some invisible agents, Who possess the secret powers, To dispose what one proposes.

ev i

I recall once they were attached hard, To the branches and boughs of the shadowy trees; And sap ran into their veins, As blood runs into the human network; And they fluttered resisting each coldhearted gust. They were resolute to go through each ebb and flow, Establishing firm relations to the nourishing limbs. And Mother Nature came stealthily to give them wash, At the moonlit nights with the drops of dew. While they fluttered, they produced symphony, Unknown even to the ancient master musicians; And they whispered in mysterious sounds, Only understood by the cuckoos or nightingales: The singers and agents of the feral world.

Now they rustle with each move of the autumnal gusts, Or crackle under the feet like too crispy dried petals; And some float on the stagnant water with green surface. Ah! 21st century is the dawn of autumnal winds, The blows and fatal gusts have diverted the civilizations, And they now move on the tacks of conflicts, Human beings fall like leaves, waft along the blows, Detaching themselves from the nourishing boughs And shadowy branches of faith, love and tolerance.

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Rasheed Ahmed

I wish my dreams Where not like waters Of subterranean streams

O nl y

A Sufiâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Task

Bearing bregs and remains of mud Beneath colossal burdens of earth

I wish I had all my days and nights

Raised above the dust of toiling feet Far away from sluttish city shrieks Unfettered, quietly inserted in a shack I would lustrate to learn loss and thirst

ev i

And seek union with my beloved Creator And then I would hope to ascend Into firmamentâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s serene depths

I wish I could always hold My muslin dreams in celestial shells Made of mid-night stars and morning clouds Resonant with blissful waters That would come down on me incessantly And cleans my dark tumultuous dreams Of concealed dregs and rmains of mud ****

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Reginald Massey

The Afternoon Amidst the Oleanders

We said the simplest things.

O nl y

That afternoon amidst the oleanders Things that lovers had said before; Declaration and questionings.

And the squirrel stopped and envied us Then flicked away, a streak of grey,

And the sparrows in the bougainvillea Built their homes throughout the day.

And the flower-bed armed with cannas Defied the might of suns and kings,

ev i

But we just said the simplest things That afternoon amidst the oleandersâ&#x20AC;Śâ&#x20AC;Ś

****

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Safdar Bhatti

A separate room Rather small, unfurnished, Mortar nibbled out here And there, neglected-For odds and ends As a retreat condign Spared by the folk.

O nl y

Store

ev i

A man of middling age Gaunt and lean yet decent A self-made scholar having learnt Of missals sout-warming A greater much deal Quilled by the wits redoubted From Homer until Hardly--The man visted by none By none his seclusion except In the very retention Of odds and ends His residence keeps. ****

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Mir TanhaYousufi

The Other Self

O nl y

He was in his prime youth, tall and handsome, just like me. He and I entered the garden together in the scorching heat of the noon. This garden of five to seven acres is all around the biggest masjid of the city. It is a combination of tall shady trees and an orchard.

On Friday, the masjid, its courtyard and this garden are packed with the faithful; the prayer mats are lined up even up to the roads outside the boundary of the garden. Take it as the most sacred place of the city.

ev i

Before coming here, he and I were standing together in the queue of the bank to pay the electricity bill. The weirdness of unwanted thoughts had gripped the mind whereas the prevalent scorching hot atmosphere had upset me to the extent that soon after paying the bill I moved here. What was his problem? Why did he follow me here? I had no idea. After passing the main entrance, I had looked around for some dense shade. Leaving me he reached under the mulberry tree, picked the dustbin lying nearby, turned it upside down and sat down on it as if it was a stool. I headed towards a clump of lebbek trees making an umbrella of dense shade.

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He rested his back against the mulberry trunk. He was facing westwards (the Qibla) so that the main gate of the masjid was right in front of him. His eyes were locked at the dome of the masjid.

O nl y

I was lying with my weight on the left elbow; watching him intensely but he was totally unaware of my presence. We were probably at twenty to twenty-five yards from each other. Thus his face was clearly visible. Cross-fingered, his hands were pressed between his knees. He kept on looking at the dome, his eyelids went a bit upwards and now he was staring at the two minarets, one by one; his head bowed suddenly.

After a while, his shoulders started trembling. A bit later he raised his head; tears were glistening down across his cheeks. His glance was restless between the dome and the minarets and his sighs were audible to me.

ev i

I picked myself up and walked to him to console him. As I approached him, he stared at me with such an expression that without uttering a word and asking anything, I returned under the shade of the lebbek trees.

He kept crying for half an hour. After bracing the situation, I stood up. Exiting the garden I observed that he was walking alongside

me.

He was silent but his face bore the freshness of bathed flowers that had enjoyed the monsoon showers. He did not say a word. We entered the home together as one. Translated by: SafdarWamiq ****

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Parveen Malik

Beloved! Hurro Go on Flowing

O nl y

No one knows when the serpentine road made its way for the first time while leading through the grey mounds. This wasn’t known to her too though she had been passing through there for the last several years. Each time when the bus took turn at the bend and the water of Herro River shown itself like glistening silver, Surayya’s heart wished to jump down, dive like a bird and rest on the cold sand on the bank of the Herro. Each time it so happened that she raised a corner of her veil and peeped out of the bus so that she should go on seeing the glimmering water of Herro, but when the bus crossed the bridge humming, she became piqued.

ev i

“God forbid! How fast are these buses, it seems the driver is contesting against the wind.” Then she drew the veil over her face and sneaked a look around at the passengers to find if anyone else also wanted to stop the bus racing against the wind at the same moment and at the same spot. But noe of them had any wish of that kind. Their faces were gloomy as if they had come to mourn someone; they were all hushed, as if embarrassed on their own plight.

“These people are mad or I am,” she began to ponder. Since her childhood she seemed aloof from all other girls. It wasn’t on account of that she was as beautiful as a fairy or captivated the hearts of others by conversing with them. No, not at all, she was just reasonable in form and figure, neither beautiful nor ugly; but the poor soul didn’t know how to speak. Not only was it difficult for her to speak among a few people, but also she was afraid of going near them, lest she should have to respond to someone. She often made the use of gestures to demand bread or water. Once her grandmother struck her hand against her forehead and said, “Ah! How my grand-daughter will go through the odds of life, she is as harmless as God’s cow, neither agrees nor disagrees.” When other

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girls played Kehri Kara, even at that moment she too remained engrossed, perching on the branch of some tree and thought, “If God had given wings to the people how leisurely they would have been soaring into the air.”

O nl y

Feeling bored sitting in the trees, she started playing with her dolls; she talked to them in whispers while making pretty garments for the dolls. At that moment if any girl came near her she became silent like the velvet-mite which shrinks into a round ball when someone touches it. Her brothers and sisters had already branded her ‘mad’, gradually her other playmates discarded her too. As she would become adamant at times they decided they didn’t have any need to strike their heads against a stone just for nothing.

ev i

Two paternal uncles of Surayya left the village and began to live in the city. When her father missed them badly, he along with all other members of the family often went to see them. When Surayya reached the bus stop, she became so much thrilled, she wished to get a pair of wings to fly into the air, and longed to reach the Herro Bridge in no time; but the bus had to follow its own time schedule to leave the bus stop. This intervening time proved for Surayya very cumbersome. She jostled for a seat near the window, as soon as the bus left the stop; she began to wait impatiently for the bridge of Herro.

When and how the seeping water made its channel through those grey hillocks, no one knew. This wasn’t in the knowledge of Surayya, nor did the older folk of the village know the secret. Why this flowing water was named Herro, no one knew the reason. It was a small river, the river imprisoned between high banks which couldn’t alter its own route. The mode it adopted, in the same mode it remained flowing. In winter, the water of Herro would shrink and flow against one bank and in front of it wash clean the sand that lay scattered and which glinted i in the mild sunlight like silvery ornaments. As soon as spring approached, water began to unfold its limbs and made ineffectual attempts to rise to the yellow and azure coloured wild flowers growing along the banks. When the dark clouds of 198

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O nl y

monsoon came being drifted on the winds, singing malhar, Herro brimmed in such a way as if saying, “Save me else big rivers will swallow me.” But the monsoon is a season for the rivers like a night of union, at such a time no one listens to the shrieks. The clouds while thundering replenish Herro to its brim. It begins to flow helplessly to the Indus; to impede its flow it embraces the hillocks; but the Indus is a river of elegance and grandeur, it is not in the authority of poor Herro to refuse if the Indus summoned it. Surayya too didn’t find any opportunity to act in accordance to her consent. Her life like the flowing water of Herro was moving ahead; wherever she stopped her steps she was lashed by a voice, “The unmarried daughters aren’t to follow their consent; after marriage you do whatever you wish.”

ev i

There and then her heart urged to sit for a moment on the sand of Herro to look around and think, but she never divulged before anyone this secret. She knew that first of all they all would make fun of her; besides, only for her the bus couldn’t be stopped. However, it would have been another matter if she owned her own car, wherever she liked, she would stop, and when her heart wished, she would move on. She said to herself, “When God bestows me witha car I shall think about it.” Whenever she passed by the Herro, she consoled her heart with these thoughts, but upon reaching the city could only loiter immersed in her private world. Her paternal cousins made every effort to humour her; they became tired of showing their costumes of the latest fashion and newest ornaments to surprise her. They did it just to hear her say “Ah! Wherefrom did you purchase these ornaments, they are so bewitching?” But she showed no interest. In her thoughts she remained seated on the bank of the Herro, all happy and carefree like a bird. Herro seemed to her, her confidant. After having gone through the matric examination, when there was a discussion on her college career, Surayya said, “I shall go and come back daily as there is a bus every fifteen minutes.” “There is no need to go and come back daily, when there is the house of your uncle in the city. Why you then will travel daily the journey of forty miles,” her father announced his decision. It was a 199

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matter of her education but the subjects were chosen by her brother. She blubbered a lot, “I won’t study these subjects.” But no one heeded her protest. “If you don’t want to study, don’t; seeing your fondness we have decided to send you to college, otherwise ten classes are enough,” his brother said. Then Surayya came to the city.

O nl y

She did want to get education but on the soil of her village. Not in the city. Like the poor Herro she also could not do as she pleased. Suryya in the city lost herself in the ocean of people. A mountain of the fleeting years had been growing on her way; she remained too busy in the grind to visit the village crossing this mountain. Both of her elder brothers had already settled in the city. When the whole family shifted to the city, the streets of the village became a fiction for Suryya, but sometimes the banks of Herro glistened in her dreams and she woke up nervously, after a night of tossing and turning on the bed.

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Then the decision of her marriage to her paternal cousin was made. The pipe-organs, time and again, blew forth the same tune to Surayya sitting in Manyun, “Now do what your inner-self urges.” She, folding the wings of her desires came to her in-laws. Iftikhar raised her mantle from the face and spoke to her for the first time, “Surayya, henceforth your new life is beginning, in the past you lived for yourself, now you will have to live for others, for my sisters, for my mother, you will be the guardian of our desires.” Surayya bundled her hopes and desires once again. One day her sister-in-law said, “Bhabi shouldn’t we go to the village, we shall munch sugarcane, besides, eat saag of mustard and bread of maize,” she said clucking her tongue as if she was tasting them all. “Ask your brother for permission,” Surayya replied in a low voice. Iftikhar said, “It is a nice idea, there will be an excursion for one or two days.” They all got themselves prepared and left for the village. Surayya sat in the front seat of the van shutting her eyes and began thinking, “I have been hesitant for nothing, Iftikhar is a very nice man, had I asked him before, he would have certainly taken me to the village.” The mile-stones were running behind in 200

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front of her closed eyes. Now the first mile passed…now the second…now third…fourth…fifth…then she opened her eyes, in front of her the silvery bridge of the Herro was beaming. Her eyes became radiant like beacons. “Would you stopover here for a while?” she said to Iftikhar hesitatingly.

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“Why! What is here?” The bewildered tone of Iftikhar reminded her indifference of the passengers travelling in the bus. She felt as if she was sitting then in the bus among some alien passengers. “Nothing! I said just for nothing, go on, you needn’t stop.” It seemed as if someone poured water upon her radiant eyes and in the courtyard of her heart the poor mad creature bewailed: “Beloved! Herro Go on flowing, Talking of my misfortune, Be not annoyed, go on glowing.”

Translated by: Muhammad Shanazar

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****

______________________________________________________ Kehri Kara: A game of children played in the Punjab. A symphony of five harmonious tunes, deemed if Malhar: Saag: Manyun:

composed and sung with deep sincerity and true spirit, brings rain. A dish made of fresh leaves and sprouts of mustard. A marriage custom before departure of the bride to her in-laws.

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Qamar Abdullah

Slippery Routes

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Those days were very hard for the Muslims in U.K, especially Pakistanis were much more indignant. The British always avoided their direct encounter for fear of being thrashed. There had been processions and rallies at all places in Europe since publication of a blasphemous article in the newspaper. The Muslims were giving vent to their anger, what else could the poor creatures do. The ones who have the authority can do a lot but the helpless in such a situation do nothing except weeping and wailing. Americans and Europeans think a hundred times before killing a cat, a rat or a dog but when their Daisy-cutters and Cruise-missiles shred human bodies, their shrieks drowned in the terrific explosions they were relieved to know it were the Muslims killed, not human beings.

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Yasir a businessman in Bradford was much distressed and perturbed, his heart burned in helplessness. He wanted to do something worth-while., He devised a plan for a grand protest rally and to make it historic. He worked day and night with keen devotion. While sitting at his shop, he distributed handouts and pamphlets, he insisted upon each and every customer who came to his shop to partake in the rally.

Only one day behind for the protest rally. After giving final touches to the protest rally, Yasir along with his two or three friends reached his shop. Sirhindar Singh, one of his old friends, was already waiting for him at the store. Seeing Yasir so active and engaged he said, ‘Friend Yasir! You are so much preoccupied that you have forgotten your business.” “Sirhindar Ji the problem is of a very severe nature, it is a matter of life and death, an Englishman has desecrated our Holy Book!” Yasir responded in the same tone. Sirhindar Singh said, “Whatever the article was, one thing is worth-mentioning, the Holy Quran has gone in the hands of each Englishman, now they will find out a lot of the secrets, it is the main heading line of the newspapers today that the Holy Quran is the best selling book in U.K.” 202

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While Sirhindar was making thesecomments, Shaheen Mushtaq appeared in the scene. He was a man of shot-temper, but on that day he was somewhat more indignant, he seemed as angry as a flame of the conflagration. In rage his lips and cheeks throbbed, he gazed and gazed at Yasir and his friends with angry eyes. “Sir you will attend the protest rally tomorrow.” Yasir said to him earnestly joining the palms of both of his hands.

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Shaheen Mushtaq in response became more furious. He just stared hard but did not give any verbal expression. “See! He has become silent; certainly he will join the procession.” Yasir whispered to Tariq. Shaheen Mushtaq was still staring at Yasir. It was his wont to raise a slogan aloud, “God is the Truth.” The slogan made the whole shop tremble.

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“Liar, fraudulent, deceitful, you commit frauds among yourselves and now beguile God and His Holy Book too….. everyone gives others pieces of advice to correct themselves and he himself performs condemnable deeds, I once partook in the protest held at Victoria Park….great speeches and slogans…I heard a voice through the clouds, “O! Non-believers! Kill; kill these penis sliced worthless, vile Muslims.” Shaheen Mushtaq said and then he burst into tears and went out with a heavy heart. Yasir and his friends made many attempts to detain him for a while but he did not listen and went away without looking back.

Sirhindar Singh becoming embarrassed said to Yasir, “He is your religious head, he criticizes and condemns you too.” “Sardar Ji, whomsoever he insults makes that person prosperous, rather he makes him very successful, the secrets of his expression are beyond understanding,” Yasir replied. “Yasir! There is a secret matter.” Sardar said. “And what is that.” Yasir asked. “Is your religious book sublime?” Sirhindar Singh asked. “Did you ever read it?” Yasir said in surprise. “ No; I didn’t get a chance to read it, but my father often told me when he was a child, he fell ill, the doctors declared that his disease was incurable; his father took him to a Maulvi to get him blessed with the divine verses of the Holy Quran. As a result he was permanently cured.” 203

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While talking, the Sirdar struck his turban with both hands as if he had remembered something. Then he rubbed his forehead and spoke after heaving a sigh, “Friend Yasir! I also have a brain tumour, my head always keeps pounding; Take me to some Maulvi who may cure my disease also with the blessing of the verses.”

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“Ok come tomorrow after the protest rally, I shall get you cured.” Yasir replied to Sirhindar Singh.

On the next day the protest rally came out in Bradford. It was really the biggest one in England, the leaders and scholars gave Yasir the credit for the enormous success of the rally. Yasir also delivered an impressive speech, worth-listening and very emotional. All participants of the rally became were spell bound. At the end of the proceedings he presented the resolution. He had hardly begun when his mobile rang; after having listened to the call he blossomed like a rose. People thought perhaps the Interior Minister of U.K had assured him to arrest the culprit. Yasir resented the delayas he wanted to get over with the function and reach home as early as possible.

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When he came back home, having seen him, his wife thought he might have got the culprit arrested. He was so much excited that he could not speak, out of breath he said to his wife, “Where have you placed the parcels which came from Pakistan?” She told him that those were in the drawing room.

He unsealed the parcels impatiently, out of the huge volumes he took out small packets, kissed them with excitedly and began to conceal them in the cupboard. He discarded the books and said to himself, “Bravo Tafay Balakoti! What a work your brain has achieved! What an excellent plan! What a beautiful style you devised! Bravo! This time you have made me tremendously successful.” In the meanwhile the door opened; Sirhindar Singh entered the room huffing, out of breath. He fell onto the sofa and spoke with great difficulty, “Friend Yasir! Many congratulations… your rally

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was a tremendous one.” “O! Sardar Ji, forget it, forget it, the matter of the rally is just like, ‘out of sight out of mind.” Sirhindar Singh rose from the sofa and sat beside him on the carpet, he propped his head in both of his hands and spoke, “Friend! Headache has killed me, the doctor told me that I am to be operated upon and there is no certainty of success, now takes me to your Maulvi to get me blessed with verses of the Holy Quran”

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Sirhindar Singh went close to the books scattered in the room. He took one of the books and having seen it he got a severe shock and trembled suddenly. He kissed the Holy Quran, placing it on his aching-head he muttered, “I feel as if an electric current is passing through my body.” He stood up straight; his eyes began to rain big drops of tears. He looked at the Holy Quran in excitement, he kissed it and then he gazed at Yasir who was busy in hoarding small packets in the cupboard, it was his most precious and sacred treasure of his life. Sirhindar Singh was trembling as if the earth had been snatched from beneath his feet; he embraced the Holy Quran, gazed at it, and went out of the room as if he understood the mysterious conversation of Shaheen Mushtaq which he made on the previous evening while leaving the shop.

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Yasir stood up., He followed Sirhindar Singh a few steps and said: “Sardar Ji! Stay here for a while, you were not steady on your feet when you came here; it is raining heavily outside. Besides, you are a patient, you might slip and die.”

“Fellows! Leave it….leave it, I have understood the conversation of Shaheen Mushtaq…. I kissed the Holy Book; placed it on my head …. The whole pain went away from my head….now I shall always keep it embracing…. It will never let me bend…. It will show me the route even in the darkness…. Now I shall not slip…. you the Muslims are hypocrites, you will slip on the slippery routes.” Sirhindar Singh went away muttering some incomprehensible words like Shaheen Mushtaq. Translated from Pothohari by: Muhammad Shanazar ****

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Sheeraz Tahir

Brotherhood

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Those were the early days of winter, the months of October, and November, he farmers had just sown wheat. I finished my night duty and hastened to my home. I had been very worried lately. I didn’t know what was going to happen. My father was not well, it seemed the time of his death had come. A man becomes more fretful when he is penniless; money is a great thing, it holds up one’s courage. In the same anxiety I opened the door of the porch; a thin trail of smoke was coming out from the open door of the kitchen. Rozman, my wife, had made tea and was weaving a sweater. Entering the kitchen I said, “Today you again have woken up too early, hundreds of times I have forbidden you not to do so, you do not take care of yourself, if you once catch cold the thing will go out of control; I do not have the money for the vans to carry you to the doctors.”

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I sat down beside her on the bench. The smoke was stinging my eyes, but I did not bother nor did Rozman respond to what I said. Instead, without looking at me, she placed a full cup of tea in front of me, on the wooden shaft of the cot. She said, “You talk about early waking, I did not even have a wink the whole night. Suleman’s wife became ill last night, the poor soul barely escaped death; she was taken to the hospital. God knows what might have happenened if she was not taken to the hospital in time. Suleman went around the whole vicinity at midnight, he shouted to all for help, it was late at night, the people were asleep locking their doors; besides, no one opens the doors at such a time, anything may happen. He shouted for help for a long time; the fact is I was alone and afraid too, but I felt pity for him, God bless him, anything could have happened to him. I opened the window to what was the matter. When he told me, I called him in and gave him two hundred rupees from the trunk which I had saved for ourselves.”

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What Rozman said made me miserable, it was hard to swallow, the hot tea scalded my mouth, with great difficulty I gulped it down. She began again, “Suleman’s wife gave birth to a doll like baby-daughter, white and beautiful. May God bestow me a daughter too like hers.” I wished I could smash her mouth with the cup… to put an end to her generosity … “she herself lives from hand to mouth and asks every one to be her guest” I told myself.

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She could not know how irritated I was after listening to her. She was showing her efficiency, she said “The doctor advised it will be nice if she remains admitted in the hospital for a few days. ….she may die in case she is taken back home. She has a severe weakness of blood ….they have been starving had nothing to eat exceot the ashes of the hearth…. I also gave them all grocery from the kitchen…. the poor creatures will have something to eat for a few days and get welll now she even cannot even turn on her bed.”

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My temperature rose…. I had taken a cup of tea…. I wished I could grab her from the braid of her hair and crush her against the wall…. all her compassion would evaporate …. but I restrained myself, drank the anger and said, “What will you do? Will you go to the house of your mother? Do you know how I brought the grocery?”

She did not reply and began to stir the ashes of the hearth and I remembered the day when I brought the goods from the grocery. I remembered the day when after having done my job early in the morning I stood in front of the shop of one Sheikh Sahib. I stood there waiting for him like an orphan. When he came, he opened the shop and went straight inside. I did not have the courage to speak; I did not know how I should ask him that I needed the goods on credit. When he had arranged the goods and put the different items on display, I blurted, but I did not know whether he listened to me or not. I said to him, “I need some edibles and other things on credit just for a month.” I also told him about the pressing necessity. Had there not been the matter of credit, I would not have discussed the domestic affairs with him. He looked at me and at the same time 207

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made his face very ugly; I wished the earth to swallow me so embarrassed I was. It had been better if he had picked up the five kilo slab and hit me on the head in stead of making a face like that. A more hideous face I had not seen before in my life. I feared what next he was going to do to give further meaning to that ugly expression. However he stuffed the goods into the shopper and said, “I don’t sell on credit especially early in the morning, however I have a great deference for you, the pressing necessity you have told me about, I could not refuse your request, but keep in mind the amount must be paid on the 1st and not on the 2nd of the next month.”

I held the shopper but felt it was too heavy. It seemed it was riveted to the wooden bench or I had lost the strength of my arms. I wished I could leave the items there and walk off free from the shop. I did not want to carry the stuff nor could I leave it behind. I consoled my heart, made it devoid of all feelings, remained hesitant for some time, made the last effort with all my strength and placed the load on my shoulder. It felt like a slab of cement.

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I had never bought items of the kitchen on credit in my life; I was so ashamed I did not go through the bazaar nor did I take the bus. It was like I had committed a crime. I didn’t want to be seen. In such a perplexed condition of the mind I began to walk along the rail-track bypassing the bazaar. On the way I saw two acquaintances fro my village but I avoided them. A little further a few boys of the village were leading their cattle across the railtrack I thought of helping them cross the railway line with the cattle but I could not summon the courage to do that. I was too ashamed to face even these innocent village boys. The shopper on my shoulder felt as it was loosening like the legs of an evil-spirit. I became afraid of the shopper, I felt its feet would touch the earth very soon and the evil-spirit would kill me by taking out my heart from the chest. Small drops of sweat began to pop out from my forehead. I unfastened my muffler from the head and put it around my neck. The breeze touching my ears refreshed me, I seemed to recover myself. I was near the crossing. As I crossed it I saw my son running towards me. I took him to one 208

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side. When I embraced him a comforting cold went through my heart. But at the same time I thought how hard was life, I realised it on that day; I did not feel it on the birth of my first son. My mother was alive and she used to manage all affairs of the house. I did not know how to buy the stuff nor knew how to take care of my son. After her death I knew how what great support mothers are. A person’s worth is known too late when he leaves the world. After her death I knew how hard it was to bring up a son or a daughter. I thought I would have to bring him up alone by myself as I had lost the sense of security my mother’s presence gave me..

While I was absorbed in these thoughts, Rozman re-boiled the tea and she handed me another cup. I jerked it away as if I had come to my senses, but I did not let her feel. I took the cup and again began to sip it. Rozman restarted her story: “I know Suleman is a wicked person in the village…. all people abhor him…. no one talks to him…it is right also no one talks to this drunkard and addict.”

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“Leave the topic” I intervened and further said, “What did he do to us last week….he unleashed our buffalo and let it loose on the rail-track…. what might have happened if the train had come….could we have sustained the loss of twenty five or thirty thousand?…. it was only yesterday…. he stole the mouth-net of our cow-calf…. it is a worthless thing…. he is a man dreadful man….you feel pity for him and by assisting him you want to do him a good deed…. it is better to throw a stone into the puddle than do him any good…. I avoid meeting such an awful man even on the way…. I do not know why you have become so kind hearted …. I felt like asking you to go to the house of your mother….in case you live there a few days you will learn the lesson.” I do not know what she was made of …. My words had no effect on her. I did not know what I should say to her…. She was not worth-beating in such a condition. I taunted her a lot….she stood up there and sat beside me on the bench…. She placed her hand on my shoulder and spoke, “I shall go to the house of my mother…. it is no matter…. God is my guardian…. he will provide 209

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for me….look! Men good and bad are everywhere…. after all brotherhood is something…. was that not our duty to do as I did …. speak to me, tell me if I did something wrong ?” I could not respond, I went into the room and wondered how Rozman had uttered such an enormous truth. Hadn’t she risen in her height and become greater than me.

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Translated from Pothohari by: Muhammad Shanazar

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Faqir Muhammad Faqir

Disposition

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A flower pleaded with a thorn thus, “Hark! Prick me not so oft: don’t insist on enmity. The gust of wind wherever hurls me, I am pricked all the same!

Let not my politeness make you feel remorseful I’ll continue to spread my fragrance in spite of your sharp pricks

The thorn listened and replied, “Listen, O flower delicate! We all have our dispositions Mine is to prick, and yours to perfume We just can’t help it

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But I’ll stop pricking if you stop Spreading your fragrance

Translated by: Muhammad Zulfiqar Ali ****

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Farheen Chaudhry

The Wrap of Silence and Me

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Wrapping myself in silence Getting some empty time I badly want an isolated space And need to talk to me

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Years have gone I have not had a chance to listen to me But what to do…… There are so many problems Neither have I got a wrap of silence Nor I get the empty time What I have are calls from all around “O Young Lady! Where are you? Will you be working at a stretch till tomorrow?” Someone says “Where do you keep yourself so busy the whole day? Where is my meal, where is the laundry?” Then calls another “Mom! Car tank is empty I need to go… Where is your wallet?” All of a sudden the cell phone rings in a corner “Listen to me! Listen to me! If you don’t No one will call you Everything suits at its time!” If no one else The maid, the gardener, the milkman And the neighborhood Throw the bundles of their sorrows on my doorsteps

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The night falls I pick up these bundles One by one And make heap of them all The night keeps moving The wrap of silence looks at me I return the glance In waiting, in longing The wind of hue and cry blows Drowning me deepâ&#x20AC;Ś

Translated by: Mir TanhaYousufi

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Muhammad Junaid Akram

‘Aliph’ alone I seek

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‘Aliph Allah is the Infinite Unique; all else shall perish The world is a jeering show of passing things! Whoever touches ‘Aliph’ becomes sublime, All secrets are unfolded to him

Without ‘Aliph’ nothing lasts, all die In ‘Aliph’, the dead come to life

Translated by: Mohammad Zulfiqar Ali

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______________________________________________________ Since ‘Aliph’ is the first letter of ‘Allah’, the Embodiment of Oneness, no other letter was found that could reflect its essence, so I used the same to reflect its uniqueness and retain its flavour.

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Nasreen Anjum Bhatti

Shamlat

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The Common Lot The Village Green Grandpa! Common lot I am the village green, Belonging to your grandsons, I am vanquished, So, no need for lances hidden under beds Or held in hands

Time can turn into a bier, Then what will you do Should we remind you, We are all surrounded

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The balmy breeze does not blow Around the well anymore What did you put in our foundation That did not sprout. The crops wither, the rich repasts are forgotten We have lost our appetites. Oh Father! I am not a bounty or a platter I am unable to account for my life. Bring your hooka and come sit on the bed No matter how persistent the denial I am not a used utensil To be carelessly tossed around I am like the shadow of old hay strewn under the bed Termites crawl all over my being Crisscrossing from one end to the other With each round some essence of my being they take away

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I am clinging to grass blades, Grass rich like a woven cozy blanket For this semblance of security we sisters cling When we did not bear the burden how we laughed with abandon Ha, ha, lets not ask for trouble

Metal utensils they have melted We also left our platter on the Mouth of the cannon

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Clay pots are not pots They are trust

It contained dough for delicious herb bread With patterns kncaded on it

Hear me, O one wearing the ring Since that day, these termites have Not left me in peace They do not ask for a portion Neither are we fully measured He came to ask for some But things unraveled out of control

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Destiny does not wash away shame The enclosure of the tree that sprouted on my palm Waits patiently, eternally by the wayside To withness the splendor of the rider Who passes by Come sit by me beloved Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t sit by me beloved. I am a possession With no will to do as my heart desires I stand and laugh hysterically I am like a prostitute Who invites leers from all men? But no one takes her hand and stands by her. Translated by: Atiya Shrerazi **** 216

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Ali Baba

Crazy People

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“Oh, kill him with spears, the (obscenity deleted) ---! Stab him with straight knives.” “Allah o Akbar, Allah o Akbar. As salat khairum min un nom.” “Oh, save me, oh hornets are stinging me.”

“Come on my mare, show me the Taj Mahal.”

“Cheap, cheap, drink the sweet urine, four annas for a pao, four annas for a pao – you will be sorry if you don’t.” “Fire, oh, oh! Fire! My body is on fire!”

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The morning sun had barely come out when strange noises and shouts began to be heard from ward No. 3. As the nights became colder, the mad inmates became delirious and started crooning and singing. Ward no. 3 has no roof and on one side of the tall wall, women are stuffed in while men are on the other side. There is no arrangement to keep the inmates safe from the biting cold at night and when the long winter nights become longer in the freezing breeze all one can hear in the, eerie silence is the shouting, screaming, yelling and obscenities that the insane hurl at each other to beat the cold. It must have been around eleven one night when the half-crazy Gagan came running to me. “Sain, hurry up! You know that Bengali crazy man, Jhanak, he will die; by the Holy Quran he is turning into a corpse__” Whenever there is some trouble brewing in the mad house, Gagan comes running to me. He has been assigned to me for cleaning and household chores. It is barely a month that I have

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taken charge at this hospital, but he and I have become friends, almost as if we have known each other from eternity. Gagan’s heart is soft like wax. When he sees others in trouble, he becomes worried and sometimes he even starts crying. There is lot of noise in Ward number 3.

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“Oh, he is dead – come on recite the kalma and carry him. Allah o Akbar.” “The cursed ones die with no fateha or darood. It is forbidden to read the Quran for a non-believer.” “Oh, what’s happened to him?” I swing my torch and ask about him.

“Sain, that large banyan tree, he slipped from it suddenly and fell down.”

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“So then what you should do is to go and get Dr Allah Dina, hurry –I explain to him and rush towards Ward no. 3.” “Anybody who comes here, we will (obscenity deleted) --- his wife.”

“Cursed be your face, you (obscenity deleted) ---, give the orders for us to be sent to hell, otherwise we will shove our fingers and tear up your ----”. “Allah o Akbar! Allah o Akbar!”

There is a lot of noise and commotion in Ward no. 3. The political types have called up a meeting of their own and are sitting separately. I listen to the curses and abuses with one ear and push these out of the other, and I turn towards the Bengali lunatic. Ever since I have come to the hospital, I have felt sorry for him, without any apparent reason. I have gone through Jhanak’s entire record. Immediately after Partition, when tanneries were being set up in Sindh, he came from East Pakistan to Hyderabad along with other 218

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Hindu and Muslim labourers, and worked in thirteen or fourteen tanneries, ate a few morsels for his meals and saved the remaining amount for sending it to his wife and children; every year he thought of going home to Bengal but then sent that money to his family too. Then suddenly he lost his balance. Slowly, his friends all went back to Bengal and Jhanak was left behind, stranded forever. Before losing his mind, he was a jolly fellow who loved little children. In the hospital, Jhanak was a dangerous and a lunatic on the loose with no home or family. “The boy doctor is here -- the boy doctor is here” “Cock a doodle doo --- c-c-- cock a doodle do!”

“Don’t be a coward, doctor. Give me a bidi otherwise I will tell the Higher Ups that it is you who abducted my wife, not the wadera!”

Nearby, another looney is singing: “Man dies and the mullah watches, like a peacock”

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They see the torch in my hand and there is a rush among the inmates. I go near Jhanak and examine him closely.

Jhanak is lying there as if he had been beaten up with sticks and lathis and next to him is a branch of the banyan tree. Jhanak’s body is marked with bruises. I find him in the throes of death. His arm and spine are broken. His body is stiff and weak and at the same time there is immense pain and anguish in his eyes. Even close to death, he has his hand over his heart to save the pocket of his torn coat. Before his breathing comes to a stop, I put my hands under his neck and legs and try to lift him and rush him towards the main building of the hospital. “Make him sleep with your wife.” “By the Quran, this new doctor is also a faggot like Dr Allah Dina” With great difficulty and with the help of the half-crazy inmates, I pushed and carried Jhanak all the way from the main 219

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gates of Ward no. 3 to the hospital’s main building and the aged Dr Allah Dina came and stood before me. “My friend, are you crazy? What strange practice have you started?” “Yes, my friend. Even the doctors of the mad are mad themselves.”

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“So why are you spoiling other people’s sleep? Why did you have to send that madman to my home? He must have rung the doorbell at least ten times and awoke everybody at my home. Look, I am not a bachelor like you!” “Sorry, sir! I apologize. I could see that the lights in your bungalow are on, so I thought that you must be awake. This poor man is about to die!”

“You are really dumb. We have no control over anybody’s life.” For a minute I am amazed at what Dr Allah Dina is saying. My rage is mounting.

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“Sorry! I should have not sent somebody to fetch you. You were probably busy with something important.”

“I was writing a short story for Radio Pakistan. The government gives us no additional payment for taking care of these crazy people that we should be staying with them for 24 hours. Mister, you are new here, I hope that you don’t go around saying afterwards that nobody cooperated with you.” Dr Allah Dina is visibly flustered and turns back to go home.

The half crazy ones from Ward no. 2 run quickly and get a stretcher. I hurriedly put Jhanak on the stretcher and take him to my office so that I can give him the emergency treatment. He is foaming at his mouth and strange sounds are coming from his throat, as if his breathing was being choked. His lungs are not functioning. As he has fallen from a great height, his bones 220

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have pierced out of his skin and he is bent backwards, like a hunchback. Even while taking his last breath, Jhanak is not willing to take his hand out of the pocket of his dirty, smelly old coat. For a brief instant, the sorrow of centuries lights up his eyes. He is in great pain and he opens his mouth to scream and it seems that his yawns are like death. Some incomprehensible words can be heard from him:

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"La – Kom –la – Kom—bondhu Komilla."

As vomit gurgles out of his mouth, his feet begin to stiffen. With a rasping gasp, he takes his last breath. One of his arms is around my neck and the other, firmly planted inside the pocket of his tattered coat.

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“Jhanak, my brother – brother Jhanak” the half-crazy Gagan screams and falls on the floor. I free my neck from Jahnak’s lifeless arm, straighten his twisted hands and feet, and then feeling something, begin to pull out various things from the pockets of his coat. In his pocket, there is an old, battered doll made out of camphor which he had bought ages ago for his young daughter, Kamla. I put my hand on his face to close his eyes for ever and quickly leave the room.

Translated by: Asif Farrukhi and Shah Mohammed Pirzada ****

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Amar Jaleel

Adamâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Mother

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The day I saw Adamâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mother begging near the Regal Bus Stop, I knew that Adam would not last long. His days were numbered. Adam Khan was a junior clerk in our office. All day long he typed, coughed and spat out blood. Initially he typed with great speed, he could type sixty words per minute and that day his speed came to twenty words per minute; the office superintendent issued to Adam his first letter of warning.

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Adam must have been about eighteen or twenty years old. After having passed his matriculation he joined our office as a junior clerk. He was given a seat in the open verandah just outside the room where Bashir the Non-believer, Wahab Tarzan and I had our seats and there he could type up to sixty words a minute initially and then his typing speed reduced to twenty words a minute. Not only had his typing speed declined but his health also. The day he was issued a warning letter by the office superintendent, he became frightened. His job was temporary; initially he was appointed on probationary terms and conditions for the period of one year and he could be dismissed without giving any reason. All these conditions were noted in his letter of appointment. Almost eight months after his joining Adam received the first warning; in consequence he began to crouch low over the typing machine. Instead of typing twenty words, he started typing twenty-five words per minute. He could not increase his speed anymore. The period of typing twenty-five words per minute also remained for a while for Adam, his typing speed decreased more down to fifteen and afterwards, ten words per minute. Then there came the day when he could type no more than five words per minute despite his serious efforts. Then a day came when he left the office and later on he did not return the next morning. On the

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third day after Adam had left the office his mother came with his application for leave. After seeing the application for leave, the office superintendent flew into anger. He gave his comments on the application, “Adam is a thief, incompetent and in the habit of slipping away from the office, hence his application for leave is declined”. The Administrator also gave due regard to the comments penned by the office superintendent and not only he had stopped Adam’s salary but also issued a notice to him with the instructions to produce a medical certificate.

The next day Adam’s mother turned up with a certificate from a doctor working in some charitable hospital to the effect that Adam was suffering from tuberculosis. The news that Adam was the patient of tuberculosis, spread throughout the office like a wild fire. I also remarked looking at the typing machine, “The machine ate up Adam!” “Machines do not eat up men,” Bashir the Nonbeliever said, “It is the man who eats up other men.”

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Wahab Tarzan and I stared back at Bashir the Non-believer. He was in the habit of reading all day and muttering strange things. Bashir the Non-believer said, “Prophets are banned in Pakistan, otherwise the office superintendent would have declared himself a prophet.” Wahab Tarzan scolded him, “Stop your nonsense. I am very sad right now!” “Only human beings become sad,” Bashir the Non-believer replied, “but you are Tarzan!” Wahab Tarzan was then ready to throw a chair at him.

“No need to give me a proof,” Bashir the Non-believer said, “I have already accepted that you are Tarzan.” Wahab Tarzan kept the chair back in its place and sat on it. He stared at Bashir seething with anger, “You are such a vile creature.” “I do not deny it,” Bashir the Non-believer said, “but thank God that I am a human being and not Tarzan, like you!” Wahab picked up the chair again. “You needn’t bring the holy name of God on your dirty tongue, you unbeliever! “Why not?” Bashir shouted, “Are you some sort of body-guard of God?” If I had not intervened, they would have come to blows. I tried to pacify Wahab that Bashir the Non-believer was a true non223

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believer and he would go straight to hell after his death. Wahab pushed the chair back. “I will let him spare just because you are saying so. Otherwise I would have dispatched him straight to hell!”

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“That is in God’s authority and you should not interfere in it.” I told him and then turned towards Bashir the Non-believer and asked him, “Has the office superintendent come up with some new sensation?” Bashir replied, “The office superintendent has discovered that the health certificate Adam provided at the time of joining the office was a fake!”

I was surprised on hearing Bashir’s comment. The day Adam joined the office and I met him for the first time, he was a hale and hearty young man, and looking at Adam deep down in my heart I cursed all those popular magazines and newspapers who kept printing pessimistic articles about the younger generation. I turned to Bashir and asked him, “Had Adam had been suffering from tuberculosis prior to joining this office?’

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“Do you see Wahab Tarzan? He works for two hours before coming to the office and for two hours after going back home. “One day, Adam had fist-fight with Wahab for a prize of half a seer jalebis and one seer of milk.” I turned to look at Wahab Tarzan who appeared sheepish. Bashir went on to say, “I was the referee. It did not take Adam more than a minute to bring down Wahab’s arm.” I asked Wahab, “What is this Non-believer saying? Is this true, O Tarzan?” Wahab replied with a bowed head. “Adam’s fist was strong like iron.” That evening, Wahab Tarzan, Bashir the Non-believer and I went to Adam’s home. He lived in a filthy, dark lane of Bhimpura. The katcha house had only one room where Adam lived with his aged mother. The single room served as the bedroom, drawing room, dining room, bath-room and kitchen for Adam and his mother. Seeing us, a sad, feeble smile appeared on Adam’s dry lips. He was lying on dirty bed-sheet on a charpoi. The colour of his face was yellow and wasted muscles covered his bones. Next to the charpoi, there was a rusty bucket containing blood-sputum. He tried to sit up but couldn’t.

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“How are you, Adam?” I asked him. The same smile spread on Adam’s lips. In a weak voice he said, “The doctor from the charity hospital tells me that I will be all right very soon.” “What the doctor says is correct, Adam Khan” Wahab Tarzan took Adam’s weak hands in his iron-like grip. “Soon you will be all right. Don’t lose hope. Trust in God!” The smile evaporated from Adam’s lips. He fixed his eyes on Wahab’s face. Wahab’s eagle eyes soon brimmed with tears. Bashir the Non-believer turned to me and said, “It is out of God’s hands now. “I whispered to him to keep quiet. “You are sure a candidate for hell. You will meet a terrible fate.” “For the moment, it is Adam’s fate which is terrible. Don’t you worry about “Me.” Bashir replied. “We should take Adam to some sanatorium.” What Bashir said appealed to me. I asked if it was possible.

“Why not?” I tried to console him. “There is a compounder in the Ojha Sanatorium who is a friend of mine. He will surely help us.” Adam stared fixedly at the cobwebs hanging low from the roof. Then he turned towards us, “I have not received the last month’s salary from the office.”

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“We have the rule of law in our country, Adam Khan.” Bashir the Non-believer said. “You were on a temporary assignment and you still are. According to the rule, those who are on temporary assignments are not paid for the leave period. You are not above the law, Adam!” Bashir’s reply made the mood in the room even grimmer and more serious. Wahab Tarzan held up Bashir the Non-believer’s hand in his iron grip and said “Shut up, you son of the law!” Adam kept staring at the cobwebs on the roof. “Doctors have asked me to eat plenty of eggs, butter, milk and fruit.” “Then why don’t you eat these things?” Bashir said in a sardonic manner. “Fruit, milk, butter and eggs are God’s creation and are meant for all people. All these bounties are for human beings.” Wahab Tarzan leapt forwards and caught hold of Bashir’s collar. “Society is filled with low-born like you and they have taken possession of control God’s bounties.” “As if these are not 225

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God’s bounties, but evacuee properties that whoever wants to can fill up a claim form and take possession.” Bashir freed his shirt from Wahab’s hands. “It is the cruelty which rules the day and you too are cruel, Wahab!”

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Wahab Tarzan pulled back his hand. Adam asked, “How much does an egg cost?” My heart was touched by Adam’s question. “There is no cost for God’s bounties, Adam. “Bashir shot a glance towards Wahab. “But when a society is riddled with god’s bodyguards, they capture god’s bounties and put up a cost for everything.”

“I cannot tolerate this anymore.” Wahab remarked, writhing his hands. “You must make this son of a non-believer understand how things are, otherwise, by God; I will tear him apart, limb to limb.” I turned to Bashir. “Can’t you hold your tongue for a few minutes?” Bashir the Non-believer became silent. Wahab Tarzan kept calling him names under his breath.

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Adam said, “My mother had gone to buy some apples for me, but the fruit-seller handed her stale and shriveled pears.” “Pakistani people get shriveled pears instead of apples.” Bashir the Nonbeliever spoke again. “And the people of our country eat those shriveled pears believing them to be apples.” Just then Adam’s mother entered carrying four glasses of tea from the bakrawallah, three for us and one for Adam. She placed the glasses of tea on the edge of the charpoi and gave support to Adam’s head and back for him to sit up. Wahab Tarzan moved quickly to prop up a pillow for him to rest his back. But even this proved to be strain for Adam and he was breathing heavily. His face was drenched with sweat. His eyes were drooping. Wahab Tarzan sat next to him on the charpoi and took out his handkerchief from his pocket to wipe away the drops of sweat from his brows. In a little while, Adam began to feel better. Wahab handed him the glass of tea. With tremulous hands, he took the glass and began to sip slowly. He said, “Milk has become costly. This is why I drink tea. There is milk in tea.” “You will get plenty of milk, butter, eggs and fruits, Adam. You will also get good medical treatment. “Wahab Tarzan gently

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moved a strand of hair from Adam’s brow. “You will come out of the sanatorium fighting fit and you will push down my arm when we shall have fist fight.”

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“Help me lie down.” Adam said, closing his eyes. “I am very tired. Let me fall asleep.” Holding up his back with one arm, Wahab helped him move up. Then he shifted the pillow and gently helped him lie down. Adam fell asleep and we came out of his house. Then for three months we forgot all about Adam. One day I saw Adam’s mother begging near the Regal bus stop. She was squatting on the pavement and next to her, was Adam’s x-ray and a bottle of medicine which was empty.

On reaching the office, I went to Wahab Tarzan and Bashir the Non-believer and told them that I had seen Adam’s mother. Bashir immediately believed what I said but Wahab Tarzan could not accept what I was saying. I repeatedly insisted but he refused to accept it. “Unless and until I see with my own eyes what you are telling me, I will not believe it!”

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To confirm this, Wahab went on a bicycle towards the Regal bus stop. He came back after a little while. He was as hard as iron but then he was shaking like straw. “Yes, Adam’s mother is sitting on the footpath near the Regal bus stop. She has Adam’s x-ray and an empty bottle of medicine with her. She is begging.”

The three of us immediately consulted each other. We decided that we would manage a reasonable collection for Adam and take it to his house that very day so that some food and medicines could be obtained for him and the next day we would try to get him admitted in the sanatorium at all cost. Wahab Tarzan, Bashir the Non-believer and I started collecting donations for Adam’s food and medicines. We went to the office Administrator and told him that we had seen Adam’s mother begging on the streets. The Administrator was surprised and he said, “I do not believe this. You must be lying.” Wahab Tarzan put his hand over his eyes. “With these eyes I have seen Adam’s mother begging near the regal bus stop.” “Impossible.” The 227

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Administrator slammed his fist on the desk. “Adam had neither a father nor a mother.” “We are not talking of Baba Adam. He was free of such shackles.” Bashir the Non-believer said. “We are speaking of Adam Khan, the junior clerk.”

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“Oh! That Adam.” The Administrator took out his wallet and handed us a fifty-paisa coin. “I have accepted Adam’s leave but without pay. This is the rule and I cannot change it.”

From the Administrator’s room, we went to the office superintendent; he was standing outside his room. He said, “What are the three of you tricksters doing here?’ Bashir replied, “We are collecting money for Adam’s medicines and food.” “What you are doing is illegal,” the office superintendent said, “It is against the rules to collect any donation in the office”. “We have seen Adam’s mother begging in the streets,” Bashir the Non-believer said in a harsh tone, “what could be a worse offense than this that Adam’s mother is out begging on the streets?” Without another word, the office superintendent took out two rupees from his pocket and handed them to us.

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In about five or six hours, we managed to collect about fortyfive rupees. Somehow we did not want to go to Adam’s mother near the bus stop and give her the money over there. We thought that we should go to Bhimpura, see Adam once again and give the amount to his mother for food and medicine. We immediately set out towards Bhimpura.

When we reached there we were surprised to see a building where Adam’s katcha hut once stood. We could not believe in our eyes. Bashir knocked on the door. A well-dressed young man came out. He was about the same age as Adam. He looked at us with an air of questioning. Bashir asked him whether the old woman and her sick son were living there “Oh! Now I understand,” the young man said, “about two months ago, the old woman’s son died.” “What!” we exclaimed in surprise, “Adam is dead?” “The old woman could not pay the rent of the hut. She had to vacate it,” the young man continued without

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any hesitation, “I have seen that old woman begging near the regal bus stop.”

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Suddenly I felt as if all life was drained away from my legs. I put my hand over Wahab Tarzan’s shoulder. Wahab was cold as ice and Bashir the Non-believer was silent as stone. The young man looked at us in surprise and said to us: “Are you related to that the old woman and her son?” Wahab Tarzan and I remained silent, but Bashir the Non-believer replied, “Nobody in the world is related to anybody else.”

Then without consulting each other or saying a word, we went towards the Regal bus stop. Near the bus stop, Adam’s mother was sitting on the pavement. Next to her were Adam’s x-ray and an empty bottle of medicine. Her head was bowed and her one hand with the palm upwards rested on her knee. I did not have the power in me to give her the money. I handed over the forty-five rupees to Wahab Tarzan and asked him to give them to Adam’s mother. “No, no!” Wahab Tarzan said with a shaking voice, “I cannot give this money to Adam’s mother.”

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Bashir the Non-believer took the money from Wahab Tarzan’s hands and went towards Adam’s mother. He went up where she was sitting and stood there for a few minutes and then sat down on the pavement next to her. Her head was bowed and one hand was resting on her knee with the palm upwards.

Wahab Tarzan, Bashir the Non-believer and I kept looking at her. With trembling hands, Bashir the Non-believer put the money on her upward turned hand. Then suddenly he shot up from the pavement, and passing through the traffic walked quickly towards us. He had tears in his eyes. His voice almost choking, he said, “I have just handed over charity to Adam’s mother, charity money for Adam’s mother.” And with this, Bashir the Non-believer started sobbing. Translated by: Asif Farrukhi and Shah Muhammed Pirzada ****

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Ibrahim Khalil

Mystery of Golden Ring

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â&#x20AC;&#x153;Shamsu Coolie was brought to the hospital by police men for examination. The concerned magistrate had referred the ailing loner to me for hospitalization in the mental asylum to enable me to make a thorough examination of his mental health. I was also required to give my opinion in the court of law.

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Shamsu was personally known to me, as he carried my luggage many a time, to and from the railway platform during my official tours. Shamsu was a coolie by profession, but personally he was a cultured man unlike other coolies. He never quarreled with me on wages as other coolies did for more money. I always trusted him with my luggage at the platform while I gossiped with my friends at a tea shop, just to while away time, till the arrival of the train. On cuch occasions, Shamsu acted as a reliable custodian of my luggage.

When the policeman brought Shamsu to the hospital, I was shocked to see him, more so because he was being described as a criminal. I was anxious to know the nature of his crime as nothing was written in the papers referred to me by the concerned magistrate. When I looked at Shamsu, he burst into tears. His white flowing beard became wet with tears. After sometime, when he calmed down, I consoled him and he looked comforted by my assurance. I politely asked him to explain as to what had happened? With tears rolling down his cheeks, he said: â&#x20AC;&#x153;Dr. Saheb, I have not committed any crime. I am only a victim of misunderstanding. This is the normal practice of the police to trap an innocent man. He cursed the police constable for implicating him in a fabricated case. He was not only arrested but also tortured.

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I fully believed the story of the innocent man. His age at that time must have been around sixty. He hailed from NWFP. His emotional behaviour was indicative of the correctness of his statement. During the course of investigation, I inquired about the charges leveled against him. He replied: “I was accused of assaulting a girl and robbing her of a golden ring.”

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In a state of surprise I just stared at him and he hung his head in shame. I developed some doubts on his reaction. I assured Shamsu sympathetically that I would help him provided he spoke the truth and did not hide the facts. However, Shamsu told me the entire story as described below:

Shamsu said: “Some time, I become gloomy, when I remember the painful events of my past. I remained idle for the whole day at the railway station watching trains come and go without approaching passengers to take their luggage. On that day too I was sad like that, lost in painful memories. I didn’t even eat that day.

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At about 11:00 p.m. a train steamed in from Lahore and a burqa clad lady got down from the female compartment. She kept standing at the platform for sometime, perhaps waiting for a relative who did not reach in time. Thinking that the lady was perhaps in need of a coolie to take her luggage, I went forward and asked her whether she needed my services. As the lady was all alone, she asked me to take the luggage from the compartment. I found that the luggage was quite heavy but I took out the luggage. The lady asked me to place the luggage in the train bound for Mirpurkhas. I nodded and loaded the luggage on my back, crossed the over-head bridge and went to the waiting room where I unloaded myself. The room was fully occupied by women, and therefore, I asked the ‘lady’ to make herself comfortable on the easy chair lying outside the room. The entire place was overcrowded with passengers who were waiting for the connecting trains. As I was to be relieved of my duty only when she had left by the Mirpurkhas train, I asked the lady to give me four annas for a cup of tea and a bun. The lady extended her hand to give me the money. I was surprised to see the golden ring which she was 231

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wearing. I had recognized the ring. The coins which I received from her slipped through my fingers. Out of curiosity, my fingers touched the golden ring and I tried to see it more closely.

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This enraged the lady and she raised a hue and cry. She accused me of having intended to rob her of the golden ring. Thereafter, the men inside and outside the waiting room caught me and manhandled me. The police was called and I was labeled a robber. This was the entire story of my supposed crime.” he said. As I was not satisfied with his statement I asked him to explain in detail as to why the golden ring attracted him so much? Recalling memories of his disturbed past he said that his present way of life was different from the past when he lived comfortably as a feudal lord at his native place, Haripur Hazara.

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He went on to say: “Despite my comfortable living, I was the most unfortunate man as during a short span of time, my family members died one after the other, so much so that my mother and my wife also died, leaving me alone with an innocent infant girl of twenty days whom I was to look after both as mother and father.”

He further said: “Before her death, my wife gave me two gifts, one was the golden ring and the other was an infant. As her last will, she told me in a trembling voice that I should give this golden ring at the time of the wedding of our daughter on her behalf. As a result of shock, I lost my mental balance and my other relatives snatched away from me my daughter as well as the golden ring and other belongings. In this state of mental torture and deprivation, I left my native place and came to Hyderabad, where I settled and decided to work as a coolie. For the last twenty years, he further said, he had been working as a coolie. Thus it was that he was surprised to see that worn by an unknown lady. He said, he was greatly surprised and just out of curiosity he touched the golden ring presuming that to be his wife’s. It is true he said that he also tried to hold the hand of the lady in order to see the ring more closely with which he was very familiar.. 232

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I told him that this could not have been the hand of his wife as she had died according to his statement about twenty years back. He, however, said in a firm voice that the golden ring was the same which was purchased by him for his wife and which his wife wanted to give on the occasion of their daughterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wedding.

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I was much intrigued by the story and wanted to solve mystery to help Shamsu out of this situation. Under the circumstances, I was compelled to send a report to the magistrate to allow Shamsu to remain under treatment for sometime more, as he was not in a sound frame of mind. After the expiry of ten days allowed by the court, Shamsu was required to appear before the magistrate for initial hearing of the case. I was also required to send a certificate about the mental health of the patient.

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On the day of the hearing, the lady and her husband were present in the court. Before the court resumed its hearing, a young man in a captainâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s uniform was introduced to me as the husband of the lady. I took the captain aside and narrated the entire story to him and assured him that Shamsu was not a criminal but was his father-in-law who had left his native place about twenty years ago. On hearing the story, the captain was surprised and he called his wife.

The captain asked me to narrate the same story to his wife. I repeated the facts and the last incident which created the misunderstanding. Our discussion was not liked by the prosecutor, but my argument that it was a family affair, which was being misconstrued, convinced him with some mental reservations. In order to satisfy the lady and her husband Captain Aziz, I made some searching queries, as follows: I: where from did you get the ring which has become the bone of contention?

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Mrs Aziz: It belongs to my mother, which was given to me by my uncle on the occasion of my wedding. I: Believe your mother had expired while you were an infant.

I: Do you come from Haripur?

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Mrs. Aziz: I learnt this from relatives but how do you happen to know about it?

Mrs. Aziz: Yes, Yes, (Surprisingly) I: Is your name, Neelam Jan?

Mrs Aziz : From parent’s side my name is Neelam, about which my husband is unaware.

I: The name of your father is Shamsuddin, who suddenly disappeared while you were still an infant..

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Mrs. Aziz: (Little disturbed). What is all this about? How do you know the secrets of our family?

I: My girl, don’t be perturbed. The unfortunate Shamsu is your missing father Shamsuddin, who while recognizing the ring, tried to examine it closely and by doing so, he held your hand just to see the design of the ring which he had given to your mother as a wedding ring. It was his misfortune that his curiosity landed him in trouble. Captain Aziz and the sub-inspector (Prosecutor) were surprised to see the turning point in the case. Alt last, the handcuffs put on Shamsu were removed. He stared at me in confusion. Mrs. Aziz, extended her hand to her father. Shamsu said in utter surprise, ‘the same ring, the same ring!’

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Mrs. Aziz took off her veil so that her father could see her. Shamsu cried “O, Neelam Jan, my daughter!” Mrs Aziz: “Father, I am your Neelam.” Mrs Aziz embraced her father. Shamsu cried emotionally: “Allah! I am grateful!”

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Soon after his expression of gratitude, he fainted. I rushed to examine him, but this time, he was out of reach. He had crossed the platform of life, leaving behind passengers, their luggage and above all his own daughter, Neelam Jan, wearing the “same golden ring.”` Translated by: Abdul Haleem Shaikh

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Manzoor Kohyar

Democracy

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“And that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”

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When those words rose from the tablet of wisdom and somehow started appearing in every corner of the world like towers of light, the worshippers of darkness went into mourning, … some hung blinds in front of the towers, some closed their eyes, some denied their existence by hiding themselves in holes...some tried to turn them off but succeeded only temporarily.. But one light lit up another... dawn continued to spread its glow … sparks here and a wild fire there... a star here, a burning sun there… when it wasn’t possible for them to block the light, the worshippers of darkness took on a new face… with new colors and new struts.. mules appeared as horses, wolves as sheep, foxes as goats, crocodiles as dolphins, alligators as buffaloes… venomous snakes hidden under the garb of innocence… full of poison like pit vipers… raised a great hue and cry… tears flowed in sympathy for the nation… hearts sank…

First the people mistook them for their facades, but soon the reality was exposed… They now knew that they were like those herdsmen who eventually drive you to the butcher’s… sealing your fate for a bargain… So the fire kept burning here and there. Many a men got slaughtered in our streets, for that fire… brides became widows… sisters lost their brothers… mothers their sons… simple people turned into rebels.. just for that fire…decades of suppression… lashes, prison, bullets, rape… having borne all the abuses, the lamp was lit at the town square after years, the light spread. It was yet to be brought to every household…

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Streets, sidewalks, roads were to be kept bright so nobody would commit a crime, oppress the people or divide them… but the worshippers of the dark couldn’t accept the light of that single lamp even… stones in hands, hiding in the dark alleys they waited in ambush … awaiting the chance to put out the little lamp of democracy…

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Even the scrawniest of bats was peeved, “what worth is this democracy that makes you beg for votes from worthless people… requesting the street vendors and donkey cart drivers... great democracy! What for?!”… The big vampire had his own grouse: “for someone who has ruled for generations, the word democracy itself is an insult and dishonour. [Majority of mules doesn’t count]... some say, people are the bearers of power. Vote is power...the common man musters strength to throw us off their backs…!! Before further insults and difficulties, we must deal with this!”

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With this thought, all small and big bats got together in a dark dry well… they waited for their master for they were sure that the days of deceit and cunning will be back and darkness will prevail… According to the plan, Dracula arrived accompanied by his witch queen… Dracula! , requested the witch queen, “O! King of conspiracies! Reader of the holy books of the world in reverse, scholar of anti-knowledge! Every passing day, the light of democracy keeps spreading and darkness contracting… give us a remedy, so we don’t have to worry about this light any more”… Old books that contained schemes of deceit were opened. The witch queen started reading from a page, “O drinker of the blood of innocent people,, Dracula! The rules to bring about the kingdom of evil or dictatorship say… repeating these can bring back those times in which the scent of blood and the joy of barbarism will be rife… bustling cities will be muted… murderous raids will be conducted in the dark… there will be screams everywhere.. There will be no one, to neither notice it nor do anything about it... Dracula couldn’t hold himself, “Yes! Queen of deceit, mistress of cunning! We long for those times, our hearts have no comfort… quickly! Tell us those priceless principles…” 237

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The witch began: “The first unprincipled principle is to make people uncomfortable, so that they lose their faith in democracy. For this you must first choose people who look like champions of democracy but actually are frightening ghosts, hangmen on the inside, arrogant liars… they have blood of the innocent people on their hands, always churning out conspiracies, ready to go for terrorism… such enemies of peace, you must find.”

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“I have them!” declared Dracula, pointing to the audience in front of him… The nasty flock of bats bowed in acknowledgment… The witch continued happily, “Real driver of the evil forces, truly you are the fountain of cleverness… Now you must send those ghosts to the enemies of darkness such that the keepers of the light consider them lovers of the lamp and take them as their friends…

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“You must keep this scheme secret so that they don’t sense any danger or worry...and then when an insect sleeping on the branch of a tree falls down as it turns in its sleep... and gets eaten by a bird while it tries to get back up on the tree... that way you must add the water of terrorism, instead of the oil of struggle into that lamp of light, through these ghosts… The light of democracy will die out itself and its keepers will be eaten up by the belly of darkness…

“The second so-called principle is that you must always keep your ears open like a wolf and your sense of smell like a dog… always keep looking for the enemy’s weaknesses and whenever you find the keepers of the light in some trouble, you must attack them at once and sink your sharp teeth into their throats and never think about any kindness for them or of letting them be… ” “The third principle is that you show yourself as the most devoted worshipper and guide of the light... get yourself counted as a lover of religion and flag bearer of ethics… when you hit your enemy, show compassion for them at the outset… employ every trick to get them on your side.. The cowards with fear... the brave by beseeching them... the money grabbers with money… control the weak and those equal to you with force... as long as you have 238

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strength, destroy your enemies like you break to pieces an earthen pot… O brother of evil! O man of terror! This prescription is ancient... It’s essence is the advice given to Raja Dhurtshetera… this resulted in the death of thousands of men in the battle of Mahabharata… so take with you every devil of the world and victory will fall at your feet like a warm dead body…”

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And then Dracula, his ghosts and bats, went out to destroy the light of democracy, according to advice of the witch …

That day when water was to be put in the lamp instead of oil… some lover of democracy got to know of it somehow and he exposed the secret plan of the evil ghosts...The ghosts let out terrifying screams to frighten the people… the bats threw stones and Dracula threw fireballs and arrows at the lamp of democracy.. But the keepers of democracy stood like a wall in front of the lamp … took all the arrows and stones on their bodies.. Thus was Dracula’s first scheme failed and when the news got to the queen of witches, she appealed to the evil powers of the world to hatch a new conspiracy…

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Translated by: Balach Hussain

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Saleem Korai

The Running Man Before Light

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Khuda Dino, whom all the villagers called â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Khudanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;, was digging a small grave in the middle of the night. It was the first time that he was digging a grave. He had never dug a grave before. Whenever a person died in his village, it would be Naboo Dayo, who would do this job. Naboo Dayo was a widower and without an offspring. When in his youth, his relatives got him write to offer two or three girl issues to be assigned to them and then they consented to give him a girl to be married to him. Naboo Dayo had before hand decided that he would never give his daughters to be married in his in-laws, but man proposes God disposes. His wife died before giving birth to any child. Perhaps his luck was not in his favour. Khuda Dino remembered Naboo Dayo who would arrive very early and be ready to dig a grave for every person of his village. One knows not what thoughts were pressing his mind. He was feeling a sort of abhorrence for himself. When his father died, he was not so a little boy. He remembers very well the features and countenance of his father, He remembers well the getting up early of his father and remembers too, the driving the team of oxen very early to the land.

When the sun came up high enough, he would take two chappaties of great millets, applied with pure ghee placed between two pindies and a pot of whey and would carry to his father. Khudan and his brothers were all three, Khudan was the eldest, at the second number was Juman and Haqan was the third. After the demise of their father, Khudan came to work under a skilled person to make Biddies, so that he may learn to make Biddies and be able to take care of his mother and brothers. He remembered everything. He strained every nerve and struggled hard for living a comfortable and prosperous life and for passing a life of respect and honour.

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At every turn of spadeful of his spade, he has been thinking, various thoughts like snakes are stinging him. It looks to him that hundreds of scorpions with their tails up are rolling along his body and every part and portion of his body is being stung. He has just jumped out of the grave and holding up his trousers, raising both parts of his shalwar, he has been shaking them. It makes him feel that innumerable scorpions are stuck up in the hair of his legs. Out of fear, he shakes the hair of his legs and while shaking, he puts off his shirt from his neck and panting and panting he falls down. Turning his eyes, because of lunar tenth and so far his eye sight was able to let him observe, nothing but only graves upon graves were discerned to him, the dilapidated graves made with katcha bricks as well as old graves made with Pacca bricks, "which were worn out due to rain and dampness or humidity, recently made graves with katcha as well as pacca bricks, Kirir, Kandero, and Khabar (all names of plants of Sindh) and much far beyond the house of Qadoo, which is at the verge of the graveyard, when right from morning till evening, drug addicts are there , but nobody remains there; All the night a bulb, by making a hook is stuck up in the passing by wires of the wapda and is lit up there. Mostly the bulb is on day and night. The drug addicts fully intoxicated, who takes trouble to make the bulb on and off. A few months ago some dacoits had stayed in the house. Once there was confrontation by the police, the entire graveyard was under siege by the police. There was firing and shooting all the night, but dacoits had fled away. In the front, under the dry tree of Kandero his father was buried. His grave is made with pacca bricks and cement. Among all the graves, this grave stands with splendour and glory. The Mulla of the village comes daily to make recitation from the Holy Quran, therefore a piece of a mat is laid from the side of the head of the grave. Khudan reflects that money is everything-religion as well as life, both remain intact. But without money, let other tilings be apart, even father and mother do not regard. From inside his heart, a weak and dim noise comes that father and mother are sincere and above greed and selfishness. "It is all non-sense" he mutters. In haste, I have set all myself to dig at 241

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improper place or the land is hard or it is some, one else's grave, he thinks. He is feeling his hands painful. He has given a good and enough time to making Biddies, but he had never made any excavation nor had he used a spade.

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Because of his father's demise the Wadero had allotted the land to some other fanners, because Khudan as well as his brothers were not so strong or able to do cultivation. In one way or the other, they grew up after experiencing many vicissitudes of life.

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Khudan had two wives and seven daughters, four from the first wife and three from the second wife. Till the number of daughters had not exceeded more than three or four, he liked daughters. He was above all cares and anxieties, but on the birth of the fifth daughter, he became melancholy and dejected and coming at the grave of his father, he wept. He at the grave of his father, made implication and beseeched that he may lodge the request in the court of God to bless him with a son. He used to think that those people of his village, who remain famished for two times and ate only one time a day, are blessed with four or five sons. No doubt, God is unconcerned and indifferent. He may bless if He likes or may snatch or take back the one already blessed, if He wishes so.

Whenever someone asking about his issues, felt sorrow or sympathy. This made him feel angry. He felt their pretended sincerity in their expressions of sympathy. He was very angry with Ghulam Sarwar, who before becoming Tapedar, was called "Saroo" But after mach wandering and exertion, he got the post of Tapedar, he was changed to Ghulam Sarwar. He had studied together with him up to the class fifth. Whenever the Tapedar met him, he using abusive word about his sister, used to tease him "You have no capability. You are begetting only daughters" Khudan would get enraged. At one time, it came to his heart to respond him that the boys whom you trust your own sons are not his, but are the sons of master Hajan. But keeping him self pacified, he would control and swallow his fury. He was a person of maintaining, relations and possessing helpful 242

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nature, but understood everything. Khudan understood very well that the Tapedar tried to bother him and distress or vex him because inspite of being not much educated, he is a man of wealth and that he could engage a man like a Tapedar as his servant. Khudan had a big mansion-like house in the village which was wholly constructed with pacca bricks and cement. In that house, every comfort was available such as could be available even in a bungalow of a town.

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Both young brothers of Khudan used to make rounds between Saudi and Pakistan as if some one gives rounds between two different neighbourhoods of a town. All the people of his village got envious and were jealous of his prosperity. Some times, the people of his village, out of jealousy, would say "Sir, it is the earning of heroin which speaksâ&#x20AC;?. He, being blown by irritation, would respond, my son, the income of heroin demands much exertion of head and life. If it had been an easy job, even an ordinary, boasting and bragging person like you would have adopted this job with great fondness and liking. Uttering these words, Khudan used to smile while the face of others would turn pale.

Both the wives of Khudan used to pull on with harmony and affection. They never quarrelled between themselves, though in many a house of his village, there was a sort of disagreement or ill will in full swing otherwise in a house where a, male has two wives and there may not be any wrangling, the mystery of such situation is untrue. A house near his had a raised wall for all the time and the master of the house, in order to be saved and remain affected from this raised: protecting wall, would be sitting in the tavern of Qadoo and would take a drink of Indian hemp and would be playing. Again Khudan, picking the-spade, is digging the grave. He knows that the grave must be dug so deep that dog may not bring the corpse out. With the sense of dogs in his mind, he begins to feel that many dogs are sitting around in wait, when they get the chance to pluck out and tear the dead. He gets affrighted. Now he thinks of his house where he lives with his two wives, the mother, 243

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seven daughters and Sakina. Sakina is the wife of his near relative, Nooral. Nooral made beddies together with him and was much more friendly than being a relative. Juman and Haqan, when set themselves in business of heroin, then, Khudan was struck with pity for Nooral and spoke to his brothers to pull Nooral out of poverty. In this way; Nooral joined with Juman and Haqan in the business of heroin. As Nooral had no one to guide or to help, therefore he left his wife Sakina at Khudan's house and when retuned to his village after two or four months, he would take away his wife to his own house, but due to severe and strict watch and vigilance, about a year and a half has passed, when he came to his village.

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Khudan was much worried about the marriage of his own brothers. In the early days, because of poverty and harsh attitude and temper of his brothers. There was none among his relatives ready and willing to offer their daughters to be engaged to them. Khudan thought perhaps he won't see his brothers to be bedecked as bride grooms. But when the goddess-of heroin crossed the threshold of his house, every relative got ready and willing to offer his daughter to be engaged. But because of the business of heroin, return of Juman and Haqan would occur once or hardly half or like once in a blue moon, to their house after two or three months and that their visit of one time gradually decreased also and inspite of Khudan's pressing again and again they did not come to their village. On the contrary, they told Khudan "If money is abundant, houses are everywhere from Karachi to Saudi. Which house may we go and which we may not go.â&#x20AC;? Khudan did not like the answer of their brothers and was unable to say anything more, because of unknown and unpremedated fear or fright, whether they may get irritated and the flow of money like rain may stop. The house expenses kept moving. Sometimes the anguish of having no son would pierce into his heart like a dagger. Sakina did all the domestic chores as if she was a maid servant. Khudan thought himself guilty because of Nooral's not coming and cursed the day when he let Nooral join his brothers in that trade. He always with the feelings of pity, sympathy and anger. Thought about Sakina. He felt that it was he who had spoiled and ruined the 244

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life of sakina. He used to imagine how happy Sakina lived her life when Nooral used to return home daily in the evening from the town. As soon as he came, he used to sit on the Charpaee placed in the open space. Sakina brought a glass and a jug of water and he while sitting washed his face and feet and lay on the cot. Sakina stared at his face with love and affection. Sakina is not happy without Nooral. He felt that the red blushing of her checks has vanished. It occurred to him that Sakina had been that dry and unsoaked land where no farmer might have ever made furrows with plough. Though Nooral had made Sakina full of all lustre with gold. Seeing Sakina's necklace with thirteen hanging chains the wife of the landlord of the village would turn the lashes other eyes up and down, but why did it occur to Khudan as if Sakina was like a dry tree which stands as the gate of the village mosque and that tree is decorated with coloured bulbs on the twenty seventh Ramadan and it shines and glitters all the night, but when the man belonging to decoration removes off the bulbs, it looks more misshapen and gloomy. He can not think any more beyond that. All his thoughts would stop at this point that now when his brothers come, he would fight with them and would press them that it was enough. "You, let Nooral be free so that he might live with his wife and enjoy his life. But one day when both his wives and his mother and all his daughters went to attend a marriage in the village and Sakina because of not feeling well was left behind then Khudan, because of his ill-intention and villainy, a new relationship was created, between Khudan and Sakina which socially was much nefarious and stagnant Sakina did all her efforts to save herself but that day Khudan's mind was over dominated with foul intention and thinking or finding Sakina all alone it excited Khudan to commit a sinful deed. Sakina was wholly tattered and broken. After that day whenever she looked herself in the mirror, her appearance looked frightful like a witch. Khudan never again came near Sakina. When she saw Khudan, she felt her heart painfully anguished. She felt her breath suffocating. She felt Khudan like a mad dog, which almost bites even its master. Other wise before this, she called him again and again as brother and Khudan thought his duty to accept all her desires and now they are afraid and avoid each other's shadow. If Khudan went inside the room, she would walk out, in the open space. If Khudan sat on the 245

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cot to eat meal, she would begin to wash pots and utensils. It looked to Sakina as if bad and foul smelling had entered into her physic which taking bath for hundred times is never washed out but it grows more and more. After a month or so, she was cursed. Where does the sin hide. She thought many times to tell all this to Khudan, but so a big house entirely full with people. On the other hand to see her by Khudan and to flee away from her. Upon whom she may divulge her painful suffering should she tell to Khudan's wives or Khudan's mother, with what courage and dare might she tell them. She kept thinking and thinking and remained burning within, slowly and slowly like a wet stick in the fire, the internal suffering inside the heart. No body looked or felt it. Her breath got suffocating; her heart dictated to her that by kneeling down upside down with knees on the ground, she might let her body wave in a fit. Then all the in mates of the house would assemble at her and would say, "Mercy, have mercy oh saint!" she would keep waving and waving till entirely exhausted and would be about to fall when some one would bring her some sweet water to drink.

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When Sakina married Nooral, NooraFs mother was alive. She would feel over joyed to see her. Besides that a son like a moon was born to her she rejoiced, danced and Jumped out of joy all the six days. When the youngster was able to sit, she would carry her grandson here and there all the time. He is wholly and solely after Nooral, the forehead, nose, ears, hands and feet, but his eyes are white cat eyed like those of her mother. Oh sister, I like white cateyed eyes. Because of those, white brown eyes, with many entreaties and words of beseech, obtained Sakina. Sakina's father never consented. God may grant him stay in the paradise, but before him I was Shahul. I brought the spiritual leader from Riyasat. At last, he was made to surrender. Then laughing a broad laugh, she began to sing a marriage sung, "I am coming, carrying cloves and cardamoms in a dish, my heart's beloved, the most beautiful is before me and I am coming while dancing." In the open space, Sakina, keeping her hands on her waist, would look at her, would feel conceited and lull of vanity; as if the whole of the universe was hers. What does it matter, if her husband was a poor one who made biddies. There is no value or compensation to love.

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Sakina thought had her mother-in-law not died suddenly and her little son had not passed away because of poverty, Nooral would never have left her and made his journey to Saudia. Sakina remembers that when her son was suffering from neck-breaking fever and because of paucity of money his proper treatment could not be had and he expired. The entire universe of Sakina became darkened and now when she remembers her kid, streams of tears begin to flow along her cheeks. But now she was not able to think anything more. When she went into the bathroom, she would make her shower on and she herself would keep sobbing in a corner. Because of fast flow of water, the noise other sobbing did not come out to be heard. Thoughts over thoughts in her mind would create a storm. She thought that the small bathroom other house was tar better than this good bathroom, where a boring was made and a hand pump was installed. When she bathed much in it the drops of water on her body would look to her like pearls. Then she would walk like a pea-hen and would get her hair dry, free from anxiety and worry and care. In the evening, after moving the hand pump, she would fill two big buckets for Nooral. When Nooral came, he would soak the biddies leaves and took bath after wards. Little and little necessities, little and little desires and wishes. Nothing is due against any body, nor nothing is to be from any body. In a little veranda, down on the mat her mother-in-law would sew rilhies (A thick sheet like bed to be spread on the cot). When ones were over, she would begin to prepare others. She would say, "I do not know how many days of my life are there. I may make and give you as many rilhies as you may wear them out till you may be hoary headed old, even then you may not be able to feel short of them.â&#x20AC;? Her mother-in-law was largely full of telling stories. Nights may fall short and pass away but there is no end to her stories. Always one or the other woman would be sitting before her. Her mother-in-law would also be getting puffs from the hooka (the pipe) and would be busy in making rilhies in front of visiting women. She was expert in cutting triangles she made so fine and graceful cuts that countless women would visit her in her house for getting the cuts made by her.

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Once a woman of another neighborhood came, from whom her mother-in-law asked, "Oh, tell me, Janul, have they killed Husna as Kari (A woman marked with a stigma of losing her honour and charity by under going illicit coitus with a man, not being her lawful husband).

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"Lo, listen to her, sister! The whole of the village, is conversant with the news and it is you who ask about it." "No, how do I know? I am sitting all the day in the house. How can I leave Sakina all alone in the house." Pointing to her grandson, she began to say, "Had I not been here, this most caressed son of Sakina would have taken our breath out".

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"Well sister! Curse and fie upon the attachment! That unfortunate Sheral used to ply the tractor of Serai (Noble man). The girl got attached with him. No body knew it. Eventually her own relatives came to know about the affair. Last night, as soon as Sheral, leaping over the fence, entered into the house and went to the side where the buffalo was tied in the house, the inmates living in the house fall upon him. Husna, well prepared, was also sitting there. Then attacks upon attacks took place with great force and strength, Sheral fled away. Perhaps his stars were in the ascendant, but they made a finish and end of Husna with blows of axes, but wither (where) would Sheral flee away. Men had gone after him tracing him up to the town." "Janul! The girl was not seemingly such a girl." Her mother-inlaw said out of sorrow. "But Sister! What can be said! The corpse was also hurried without a coffin. The corpse was laid without bath. They were saying that offering prayer over such a dead woman was not permissible." Her mother-in-law asked. "Did you go to their house?" "Yes, I am also coming from there. No tear gets dry from her mother's eyes, but calm and silent. The inward painful fists are 248

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there within. Oh! Mother! She did not come to know what her daughter was doing". "Stop! Sister, now tell something else. My heart is sinking. The unfortunate (girl), since childhood, played with Nooral. I asked for her hand for Nooral but, refused saying that she is proposedly betrothed to her cousin." Her mother-in-law, saying these words and getting up from the mat, stretched to lie on the cot. My heart is feeling inclined to vomit, Janul!" It appears to me as if the girl is still playing in the open space of my house. Today, the job of making/sewing rilhies would not be done by me. Listening to these words, Janul sprang up. "You are really telling the truth. I have no peace and rest. I also get leave of you. I go." Next day, in the morning, Janul came again. As soon as she came, she cried and said. "Oh! Woman! Some thing great and formidable has happened."

"What has happened again?" Sheral had gone to the graveyard, at night. The cursed Sheral brought the corpse out. He gave bath and burried the corpse again with proper coffin."

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"What! How it might have happened." The mother-in-law's mouth was left gaped open. In the morning, herdsmen went and found that the whole of the grave was sprinkled with flowers. Empty earthen pats, soap, empty bottles of scents and the cot turned upside down were placed beside the grave. The way of telling the story by Janul made Sakina give a loud laughter. At this, the mother-in-law giving her rebuke, told her, "why girl! You are laughing.â&#x20AC;? Sakina, controlling her laugh, entered into the room. Outside, Janul continued telling, now the inmates of the houses have gone mad. How can they be able to bear such a great trouble and insult. Sheral proved a great shameless person can one behave like this? All these events were revolving in the mind of Sakina. She like a bruised bird, was left agitated in the depth of her heart. At night when every body was sleeping and was enjoying sound sleep on his bed sakina wept slowly and slowly. Her pillow got wet. After much weeping and after much time, she slept away. Almost, it 249

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appeared to her that all of a sudden, an axe had struck her neck. Her neck has fallen away. She fell into sobbing. She was swept away in thinking. Behind her, there was no body or relative to weep and lament. Everybody, talking her without relatives and or stranger, would taunt and say "what daughter-in-law, with brown eyes shahul had brought. She thought it was also well that the younger brother of Khudan had no much association with the people of the village. They were irritable by nature and did not wait to fight for trifle. It was the reason that village women did not come to their house, otherwise some or the other old woman might have, at once, observed the growing abdomen of Sakina and then in the entire village, she might have heralded about it. However as the days passed, her worry and anxiety kept increasing. It was Khudan who avoided her and kept himself aloof in facing her. At last one day Sakina caught an opportunity. She told everything to Khudan. It worked as if a wall had fallen upon Khudan. He felt himself going down in the quagmire. It looked to him as if some one was forcefully putting the rotten flesh of a dead animal into his mouth. His tongue began to be dry. He turning his tongue here and there repeatedly began to make his mouth wet. His heart dictated to him to go and throw himself before a running train. His head would strike against the front of the train. Blood would spread on the road.

If someone of his village caught a sight of him, the news would reach every nook and corner of his village, otherwise taking him for unknown and heirless, his body will be burned. But by doing this, sakina can not be saved- What answer will she give? It is his fault. Why sakina should suffer. Khudan! What did you do this? May your foot fall on the Black Snake. You did not think of the situation becoming before or after and in this way, you acted like a swine. No any swine has consciousness of relationship. He begins to curse himself. Oh! Nooral! Why did you let sakina stay with us? The entire fault is of Nooral No, it is not so. Nooral has no any other near relative. At what other place, he should have left sakina. If Nooral, that dog had not gone, what would have happened. Oh! It is the hunger of stomach. All this happening is of stomach. Different thoughts began to sting like wasps.

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Khudan, after having rested from fatigue, for a while, began to dig the grave. Beside him, a dead child covered with white cloth like a plastic doll was lying silent. It came to occur to his mind how much he was engulfed with confusions and complications simply to get rid of the child.

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In the beginning he told his mother that excess had been committed by her son Juman. The helpless mother simple by nature got distressed. She took sakina to a lady doctor, but the lady doctor could not pluck her heart. She replied that it was too late. At present, there is danger to the life of the woman. Helplessly, she had to wait for full months. A baby was born. To hide one crime, another crime was committed. The child was killed.

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Now the grave is ready for the child. Khudan, with his own hands, lowers the corpse of the child into the grave. Now the grave is being hurried with earth, Khudan begins to tread and trample with his feet upon the earth of the grave. Every limb of his body has got fatigued. All of a sudden the light of a torch falls upon his face. The idea of dacoits comes to his mind. Cold shivering comes out of his body. He takes to his heels and begins to run away from the site. Behind the noise of many running people follows him and some words strike upon his ears, "Stop, you are under the siege of the police otherwise a fire will be shot."

He desires to stop, but does not stop. What reply would he give? What pretence of staying in the graveyard at night would he make? They would see the recently prepared grave. Everything of his will be exposed. He would be demoralized and humiliated in the whole of the village. Disdainful and contemptuous spitting from every side. Everybody will look at him with contempt and disdain and then a cartridge would pierce into the breast of Khudan from Nooral's side. There was no other way for him than to escape. He begins to run, very fast. The policemen set themselves to follow after him. Light is following him. The area of the graveyard is about to be ended. In front there is the Otaq of the Wadero. In no time, he will arrive at the bundles of dry straw of rice, lying besides the outer wall-of the Otaq. He will leap over the bundles of straw weeds and will go and hide behind them and, changing the 251

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street, he will arrive at the front of his house. His thought is faster than his running His body collects every nerve and strength. Pursuing light does not stop. All of a sudden, the noise of bursting a shot is heard. The shot of a rifle pierces into his back and crosses through his breast. The policemen run and come near him and the light upon his fallen body stops.

Melted better Flat plate like made of dried stems of wheat Hand made cigarette Trousers Unbaked Baked A person who performs religious duties Land lord or head of a village or town Cot cobra An outer room for male guests

Ghee : Pindies : Biddies : Shalwar : Katcha : Pacca : Mulla : Wadero : Charpaee : Black snake: Otaq :

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GLOSSAY

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****

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Hassan Dar

You think that marriage Is the ultimate reality

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The Wind Is The Sea's Lover

That will take you away from me, But don't you think it is enough That the sky is a friend of the clouds Trees are the sons of the earth The wind is the sea's lover Waterfalls are the laughter of the mountains And you are my beloved.

****

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Translated by: Asif Farrukhi and Shah Mohammed Pirzada

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Khadim Mangi

An Entreaty! O, Mohan, my borther,

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Never abandon Sindh, our Mother,

Though peace is nowhere to be found, Horrors rule the land,

Robberies, kidnappings are the day’s routine No one’s honor is safe,,

Yet, against all odds, we shall fight,

To guard everyone’s honor with collective might, We might die but shall return without pause, In Dodos’ and Sobhos’ role and shape,

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Be hopeful, with enlightenment

All agonies of injustices shall end. O, Mohan, my brother!

Never abandon Sindh, our Mother Translated by: Jam Jamali ****

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Mohammad Ali Manjhi

Your Yearnings Your yearnings,

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Like ardent lovers, Often ring a bell, In my inner temple, And ignite aloes Whose incensed fumes

Pervade the air Your yearnings,

Like devout devotees,

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Come dancing in ecstasy Jingling anklets

On their whirling limbs In my inner temple. Your yearnings, Often cast a spell!! Your yearnings Often ring a bell!!

Translated by: Jam Jamali ****

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Shaikh Ayaz

Dialogue

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Wadera: "I have milked my buffaloes, There's steam coming out of the cooking pot -Is there lightning outside? Is it raining outside? Hari: "My intestines coil with hunger, the fire In my kitchen is out Is there lightning outside? Is it raining outside?

Wadera: "I have my father's heifers and bullocks of good breed To make my cows pregnant Is there lightning outside? Is it raining outside?

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Hari: "I have neither cows nor father's heifers And no worry if anything makes my cows pregnant Is there lightning outside? Is it raining outside?

Wadera: "My autaq has a solid roof And if there's lightning outside, let there be lightning And if it rains outside let it rain Hari: "My hut has a blue roof and it makes loud noises, Lightning, let lightning be all the more Rain, let rain be all the more!â&#x20AC;? Translated by: Asif Farrukhi and Shah Mohammed Pirzada ****

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Aseer Mangal

B. P.

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When Spalmai returned home exhausted, she fell straight on the chair. She caught her aching head in her both hands tightly. She felt as if her B.P. was low. After sometime she got up, went to the kitchen, made tea, but didn’t drink a sip of it. After walking here and there in the courtyard, she went to her room, switched on the tape-recorder and enjoyed some songs. But even then she was not relieved of her tension. The more she put aside the fellow from her mind, the more he was there like a nightmare, every minute of his presence, every word of his conversation. Her mouth dried up. She filled a glass from the water-cooler. She took a draught from it and threw away the remaining outside the window. Then she lay down in her bed. After being silent for sometime, she whispered: “God knows, what does he want of me?”

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Gul was a junior doctor in a big hospital. But he enjoyed so much reputation that even the senior doctors respected him. He was not only expert in his profession but was a handsome young man as well. He had a jolly way and when he passed by people turned to look towards him. Every nurse and female doctor liked him. He was not a miser and spent all he earned.

Spalmai had joined this hospital as a nurse recently. She was only concerned with her job, and didn’t pay any attention to others. One day when Dr. Gul saw her he felt as if jolted by an earthquake. When he started talking to her purposelessly, she didn’t respond positively. Dr. Gul felt insulted. Probably, it was the first time in his life that a nurse had ignored his attention. He was surprised when he thought about it. He told himself: “Never mind, I’ll teach her a lesson.” Today when he came out of his office with a tired face he didn’t step in the canteen and proceeded straight to the hostel. Unwillingly, he gossiped with his friends for a long time. When at

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night he relaxed in his bed, Spalmai’s lovely eyes fascinated him. He couldn’t sleep all night long. Early next morning upon reaching the hospital, he called the peon to go to the nurses room for calling Spalmai: “Sister! Dr. Gul wants you.” “Dr. Gul!” Spalmai was surprised.

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The peon explained, “I mean Dr. Gul.”

Hearing this, the nurses who were present there, laughed heartily and one of them teased: “Be careful! Dr. Gul’s B.P. is always high.” “I don’t care”, Spalmai retorted angrily.

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She put her “dupata” on her head and went to the office hastily. The next day, the whole hospital resounded with Gul and Spalmai’s affair. If on the one hand the doctor was proud of his superiority and youth, on the other hand Spalmai was proud of her beauty. Dr. Gul had made up his mind that if Spalmai was to serve here, she would have to obey him. On the other hand, when Spalmai finished her routine duty, she was not concerned with anyone. Some sympathetic colleagues tried to reconcile the two. But Gul was as proud as before because Spalmai was merely a nurse. Due to Dr. Gul her B.P. was all the time fluctuating.

Sometimes when she was very angry she felt mentally tortured and cried in the company of nurses. When Spalmai compared Dr. Gul with Akram, there was a lot of difference between the two. These were the days of her college life, when her friends used to tease her with Akram’s name. But in fact Spalmai liked him much and he was also in love with Spalmai. Their love was ideal. Their love was the talk of the town. Now here Gul was trying to take the place of Akram but Spalmai….. One day all the nurses were surprised when she entered into Dr. Gul’s office smilingly. When Dr. Gul observed it, he too got up from his seat with fear and amazement. She stood there quietly for a moment and then told the doctor: “Please come to my house today!” 258

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“Please take your seat just for a while”, the doctor requested hurriedly.

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“No, I don’t want to sit.” After saying these words, Spalmai went out of his office and Gul took his seat. After contemplating for sometimes a meaningful smile appeared on his lips and he was fully satisfied. In the evening Dr. Gul proceeded to Spalmai’s house with many aspirations and hopes. He rang the bell. A child opened the door of the guest room. The doctor entered and took his seat on the sofa. He took hold of a paper on the nearby table and went through it. He gazed at the front wall attentively. At that moment many romantic thoughts passed through his mind like a film one after the other. Every character was in front of him, some dim and some visible, God knows he remembered how many and compared them with Spalmai. Just then Spalmai entered the guest room with a tray of tea. She filled two cups hurriedly. When the doctor saw Spalmai in her house in her private dress, he felt as if a fairy was in front of him, and it was another beautiful scene of his life. He observed a lot of difference between the hospital dress and her private dress. He was about to lose his senses. “O, God! What I see”, was uttered from his mouth unexpectedly.”

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“Doctor sahib! The tea is getting cold.” “Oh, tea”, as if he had got up from a deep sleep and then he took the cup with shaking hands. But Spalmai was the center of his attention all the time. At that very moment a beautiful young man along with a lovely child entered the guest room. Spalmai stood up. When the doctor looked at the young man he lost his senses. The child extended his small hand: “Uncle! Assalam-o-Alaikum.”

Dr. Gul worriedly looked towards Spalmai, the young man and the child one by one. Observing it Spalmai said: Dr. Sahib! He is my husband, Akram Khan and he is the token of our love’” she said pointing to the young man and the child. The cup dropped from the doctor’s hand along with his B.P. Translated by: Prof. Dawar Khan Daud ****

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Qalandar Momand

Gajray (Bracelets)

"Father! I want my bracelets."

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When Shayrdil crossed the Khan's marshland and approached the little island in the river, the crying of Sheereena reached his ears. God knows why she was crying now: but Shayrdil felt that she was still upset over the earlier incident. Moving on he glanced back at the village. In a few houses, scattered here and there, oillamps were lit. He tried, but without success, to hear the sound in his imagination.. When finally through reasoning he managed to do so, he recalled how Sheereena had confronted him outright:

"Little one if I ever get to Peshawar, what to talk of bracelets, I shall get you something even better."

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"No! I want my bracelets!" Sheereena sobbed giving vent to her pent-up emotions. "My little child, stop crying please! I shall get you what you want," It was apparent from the tone and the manner of Shayrdil that he wanted to pacify her somehow.

"But when?"

"When I get to Peshawar."

"No! You are lying. You will not get me the bracelets," and she began to sob again. Shayrdil was quiet for a while but then he picked her up roughly from her cot and threw her on the ground. Then overwhelmed by a sense of fear and superstitio, he ran out of the house and took the path to the grove of trees on the outskirts of the village. When the village was left behind him he thought to himself, "How, after all, is Sheereena to blame for all this? Why

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was I rough with her? God knows why I beat her!" And he became pensive; his head, suddenly heavy, began to ache a little. But he went on thinking, "God knows why women love bracelets so much?"

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His thought process opened the book of his sub-conscious mind and located in it the image of an evening seven years ago, when returning from the fields with his bullocks, Sheereena's mother, then still a maid, accosted him and exactly like Sheereena asked him to bring her the bracelets But at that time he had neither got angry nor raised his hand to hit Raykhmeena. Then why had he done so today, he asked himself. And when he was at a loss for an answer, he smiled to himself. But the sound of Sheereena's crying from the village obliterated the smile and in his mind he again felt guilty. When Shayrdil was reaping his crop, he again felt as if Sheereena was standing close by and watching him.

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"Father! I want my bracelets!" and he turned his face away. Moonlight through the branches of a bayra tree fell on his face. "I wonder what day of the lunar month it could possibly be?" he asked himself. When, to formulate an answer to his own query, he looked up at the crescent, he remembered the tears streaming down the innocent face of Sheereena and the crescent appeared to him just like a broken bracelet. He swallowed ruefully and checked the tears in his eyes. He began to reap feverishly. He went on reaping mechanically but remembered Sheereena every now and then becoming sad and despondent. “Bracelets are not such a difficult thing to procure that I cannot do so for the child,” he thought to himself. "But how? I am not in a position to go to Peshawar." And simultaneously with this thought of not being able to get to Peshawar, the sinews of his body became taut. He stopped reaping and looked all about him. Complete silence! Except for the chirping of the crickets nothing else was audible. Occasionally from the direction of the village the sound of music and singing would drift with the breeze and Shayrdil would surmise that this was either a musical evening in the hujra of the Khan or else it was someone’s radio playing. God knows why this evoked his anger. 261

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He thought he heard peels of laughter coming with the sound of music. This brought forth a torrent of curses from his mouth as he glanced at the piles of freshly cut wheat all around him.

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"So we are being evicted by this...!" and he followed up the previous imprecation by another equally strong one and started to gather in the harvested wheat. And when, to tie the sheaves of the harvested wheat, he made a rope from its stalks, he was once again, and suddenly, reminded of Sheereena's bracelets; reminded so intensely that he left the wheat un-garnered to return to the village immediately.

The village was absolutely quiet. When Shayrdil reached his house, the inmates were all asleep. Beside Raykhmeena lay Sheereena in deep slumber. As he lowered his face to kiss Sheereena he heard the dying sobs in her breast on account of the earlier incident and his heart could take it no longer.

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When Shayrdil got to his bed he pondered over what needed to be done for getting Sheereena her bracelets. His mind would conjure up every possible impediment and become indecisive. "If I do not get her the bracelets, I would not be able to sustain this grief; and if I were to decide to go to Peshawar, this too would not be possible," and his reasoning would falter and get entwined again. "Surely, being One and the Only One suits the Creator alone! If only I were not the only son, I would not have had to undergo this constant fear of the Khan evicting my family from the house and land if I were not to be!" With such thoughts running through his mind, he dozed off. When the mullah gave the call for the morning prayer, he was already awake. Putting his chader on his shoulder and picking up his sickle from the doonkacha in the courtyard, he left the house. Actually he could not face Sheereena. When a little after sunrise his neighbourâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s son brought the father his tea, and behind him, at a distance, he could see Sheereena, with the bread-basket on her head and walking in his direction with tired steps, Shayrdil felt as if molten lead had circulated through his entire body. And when in great haste he managed to get to where Sheereena was, the lead had got to his eyes. He took the bread from her and cuddling her 262

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managed to say, "Oh my little girl!" and no more, as the molten lead dripped from his eyes. As he drank the tea Sheereena got busy making bracelets from the wheat straw. When Shayrdil turned his gaze towards her he lost all self-control and an involuntary shivering overcame him. His head throbbed with pain.

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"Little girl! Take these utensils away," he swept the perspiration from his moustache and eyebrows with the back of his hand. As Sheereena bent down to pick the utensils, Shayrdil took his decision on the spur of the moment. "Little girl! Tomorrow is a Friday. I shall go to Peshawar and get you your bracelets, fine!! Now go home, my darling!" and, from a distance, he pressed his lips into a flying kiss.

When Sheereena awoke in the morning there was great commotion in the village and from the nearby houses came the sound of wailing. When Sheereena glanced at her mother, her eyes too were sore from weeping.

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"Mother! Where is my father?" she asked, surprised. "He's outside," Raykhmeena replied in a voice of suppressed anguish. And as she turned her face towards her daughter, Sheereena fled into the street. When Sheereena neared the hujra she saw her father from a distance. She ran towards him, and by the time others became aware of her presence she was in his embrace. "Father! Have you not brought me my bracelets?" â&#x20AC;&#x153;Little one! Here I am about to proceed", and he took out his hands from the folds of his chader to caress the child's hair but hastened to withdraw and cover them up. "What a fine pair of bracelets you've got for yourself!" said Sheereena uncovering his menacled hands. "Get me a pair like these! Alright father, but without the chains!" And God alone knows why Shayrdil smiled! Translated by: Imtiaz Ahmed Sahibzada **** 263

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Rahat Zakheli

The Widow Girl

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Merjan goggled with furious eyes at Merghay, her daughter-inlaw and roared like a lioness, "Black calamity! you have licked up my rose-like son, the pupil of my eye and...... and now you are disgracing us more".

Streams of transparent tears spurted out from the eyes of Merghay. She looked towards MerJan, her mother-in-law, and asked her in beseeching words, "But what is my fault m ......" Merghay could not complete her sentence for MerJan turned to her like a black cobra and said, "Ruination seize thee and thy weeping". Here a word slipped out of my mouth and there.... And there you started pouring tears. You are frightening me by weeping? Let the father of Jamal Khan come home. He will dash you to the ground.”

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Merghay, heart-broken Merghay could not sustain her silence any more. A frightening cry came out of her mouth and covering her face with the edge of her dirty and worn-out veil, said in complaining words: "Mother! why do you sprinkle salt over my wounded heart." MerJan without saying a word hit her with a deadly punch and threatened her:, “Beware, never call me mother otherwise I will unroot your tongue from your palate. Burn that home where a sinister seedling like you grows. Dry grow the womb of those mothers where an ill palmed like you are born. Do I sprinkle salt on your heart? Wretched! you have burnt my heart. Such an ill–faced as you may never step into anyone's compound. May God you get out of this house with yellow sole. May your foot slip on a round stone. Oh God! To dust went my nine years old gem.........” Merghay had received the blow on her flank. She was wriggling with pain. The corner of her worn-out veil was wet with

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her tears. She said in challenging words, "Mother I cannot endure your beating anymore. What wrong have I done? Why do you beat me for there is nothing wrong with me?"

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How a Pukhtun maiden dare question her mother-in-law! It was such a sin on the part of Merghay that cannot be forgiven. Fire was burning in the chest of MerJan. She was screaming and all the neighbors were listening, "Liar, cajoler, you are quarreling with me. Oi, slightly I touched her with the tips of my fingers and she pretends as if she has been wounded by a sword.â&#x20AC;? Then she turns to her once again and says, â&#x20AC;&#x153;If you were such a flower-bud, then why did your parents made you marry? Better you had been an amulet hanging in their necks. O people, she cannot thread a needle and pretends to be a darling one, "No work, no task, for four breads you ask. Cooking is a mountain for you. And the moment I turn away my eyes you will leave all the utensils unwashed."

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After having unloaded the full venom of her tongue on her daughter in law she started to denounce all her living and dead relatives and did not spare cven the very old and the young ones. The ill-fated widow could hardly say aword in her defencwe. All she could do was weep and sob on her helpless situation.

Merghay was pretty as well as talented girl and equally loved by her parents and relatives. Her peers always claimed that she could express herself beautifully and her talk impressed everyone. Even now when her peers got together and rode the whirligig on Eid day, they would remember her past beauty and the memories of her playfulness. Her parents thought her birth was a good omen for the whole family. But the Pukhtun society, its customs and superstitions, made her ill fated and ill starred. A fifteen years old maiden was married to a mere boy of nine years. Greed for money had made her father blind for he with his own hands sat her in a palanquin and got her married in a far off village for the temptation of money. After a few months, her plaits were unbraided and now she was a young widow. A mountain of sorrow fell upon the head of a young girl. She had no room in her paternal home and her inlaws called her a bad-omen who had brought misfortune on the 265

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family. She had to endure the calumny and railings of the whole family and she had to bear the revilement by her in-laws. She had to work all day long but had no right to shut her eyes at night. It seemed that she was not eating food but food was eating her. She did not care for her dirty rags but longed for a shroud. That day seemed unnatural to her when she would not be rebuked ten or twenty times. Since her widowhood, she had not experienced the gap of four days without a shoe beating four times a day. Green marks were visible on various parts of her head. One day she was combing her hair. Her father in law lashed her on her back with a fresh mulberry-stick, so ruthlessly that for many days she could not work with that hand. As her own veil was badly torned she put on a new one, given by her mother. Her father in law poured a bottle of oil on her back and almost burnt her but she had a narrow escape. What was today’s bickering about?

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It so happened that this girl who was hardly sixteen or seventeen years old had been turning the handmill all day long. The summer sweat was flowing from her body like an inundation, so she climbed to the roof to breathe in the open air. It was a black calamity for her, it pricked Merjan, her mother in law, like a thorn in the eye. Late in the might when Merghay had hardly straightened her back in the bed, Gul Muhammad came in the house and began reproaching her, "what broke your back? The wick still burns in the lamp and ... and you are already lying dead in the bed? Go and fetch a hand-wash.” Hearing him, MerJan leapt from the bed and stood before him:"Let this queen of the palace take rest. Ask me if you need any service, I will do it." By then Merghay was also standing submissively in front of him having a vessel of water and a hand-wash in her hands. MerJan pushed her back and she fell down on the ground. MerJan said, "Enough, enough, forgive me. I can serve my own spouse. You are a princess, go and rest in the bed, the daughter of a baron! Merghay turned her tearful eyes towards her and said, "I am not a princess but a hand-maiden of yours. You are offended for nothing.” MerJan picked up a piece of a pointed rock and shouted, "You are quarreling with me again. O people! Behold, what wrong have I done to her. She is busy all the time busy fussing about her 266

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hair and stands on the roof but when I exhort her, "daughter, standing on the roof does not look nice in respectable households like ours; you are a widow, guard your honour and the honour of our family. Then, O’ people, is it a sin I have committed? Since then she is sullen and all frowns. She used such foul and abusive language that I cannot tell and is still pouring more on me"

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When Gul Muhammad heard these words, he said to his wife, "why do you pollute your tongue talking with such a whore. She will one day disgrace the whole family. Your over indulgence has spoiled her. When I wanted to burn her and nip this evil in the bud, why then you got her released. Now watch the pageant and enjoy yourself."

Merghay, bowing and touching his feet with her head sobbed, "Father may I be ruined if I may have uttered a word. God knows why since morning she has been cursing me."

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Kicking he head, Gul Muhammad said, "Get back, be off, may death come to you and we get rid of you. You swallowed my gemlike son and now you are disgracing us."

Merghay rose, holding her head with her hands she entreated gul Muhammad: "Father! If you doubt me then burn me now without any delay, so my ashes be thrown on the dust-heap and no body will know if it belongs to me or to our hearth.........” Gul Muhammad foamed with anger and striking her with a stick roared: "Impure, dirty hedgehog, you want to be burnt by me?" Merghay replied, “Yes father I want to be burnt by you, burn me with your own hand. My life and death would show no difference." Today the face of unlucky Merghay was bright. Blood had circulated in her body. She had come to her parental home for the marriage of her brother after a period of two years. In her in laws home her limbs had grown blue by beating; here, she thought she would enjoy a few days and forget her pain and sorrows. But her fate sneered at her and said, “Widows cannot laugh. The lap of your mother is a hot oven for you."

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Merghay met her old female friends and peers after a long time, so she enjoyed their company. She threw behind the thoughts of her miserable time and the victimization of her in laws and met each one of them happily. She had also put on new clothes after a long time. A few signs of her past beauty reappeared on her face. She played with her peers the domestic instruments of music and sang songs with them.

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Che gul la la da bhara ra shi.. Zama ye khawakh di pa spcen mekh parateh Gardoona: "when my elder brother comes home I love the dust covering his white face.â&#x20AC;? The wedding hours were coming nearer. The dresses of the bride and bridegroom were exhibited to the women as was the custom. They touched each pair of dress and congratulated the mother of the bridegroom. Unfortunately Merghay also touched the bridal turban of her brother. No sooner had she touched it than all the women cried with one voice. "Oh ... oh...... what are you doing? It is a badomen." When her mother saw that slapped her so hard the marks of her fingers got engraved on her face. Merghay was standing with tearful eyes in front of her mother, staring at her to know if she was the woman who had fed her the milk from her own breasts or it was some one else in a motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s disguise. But when she heard her repeat "why did you touch the bridal dress," she saw in the mirror of her tear that she was not her own mother but a paragon of superstitions. It was God's mercy that her father was standing near by, who said to his wife," Never mind, to err is human," otherwise her mother could have been more harsh to her. Merghayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s heart rose to her throat. She wanted to cry but could not for it was a badomen in the hour of joy. She went to her room with tearful eyes, took off her new clothes and put on the old ones. She covered her face with the veil and lay down in her cot. The wedding ceremony was performed, the bride was brought, the celebrations ended but Merghay was no where to be seen. No one asked for her; no one remembered her and who would remember an unlucky widow. Then darkness covered the faces of all things. One could hear a heart rending sigh. Merghay was neither afraid of snakes nor of scorpions and robbers. She was going all alone on the road, fromAdezai to Peshawar, with a new determination. When she reached the bank of the river she ascended the top of the beam, and 268

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burst into tears. Then she looked up to the sky and said, "O God! an unfortunate person like me has no room even in the lap of her own mother, for I am unlucky and a bad omen for them. I have no complaint against my in-laws for we have no old relation with them, but my own mother whose bosom for me was not only a feeding source but a play ground and resting place, is now forbidden for me. I am unlucky in my parental home, unlucky in my in-laws, unlucky in my neighborhood, unlucky in the company of my peers, for I am a widow. Alas’..... My God, why have you created women so helpless in the society of Pukhtuns who suppose themselves to be the best Muslims, who call people for prayer and themselves pray too; but is it the way of Islam as they deal with a widow? O God! Would you make them happy in this world, and grant them paradise in the Hereafter? Why do you not rain stones on their heads. O God! For two years I have been enduring this hellish torment, this physical and mental torture, then would you tell me how much time remains in my punishment or is it a lifelong condemnation? If it is a life-long suffering then is it not better to wind it up for what is left for me here? If I marry it is a shame. If I claim my right, it is a shame. If I open my mouth, it is a shame. My sitting, standing, eating, drinking, wearing and walking -- all are a shame. Now it is better to hide this bag of shame." She said sobbing and addressed the river with these words: "O river! You are one of those who cover the shame of others. You have a vast heart. You have the honour of generosity. For God's sake give me a little room under your skirt, in your lap and spread your cover, your veil on me. There is no other place except this one in the vast world of human beings. I have come to you to find a shelter in this abysmal world, lest you too like my in-laws and mother pushes me back." Then the sound of a “plop” was heard. The heart of the river was softened with the entreating words of Merghay, it opened its bosom and with great affection embraced the svelte Merghay and spread its long skirt on the widow, on a widow who had no place in the lap of her mother. ****

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Zaitoon Bano

Existing Griefs

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Today, when Minha looked at her face in the mirror after 23 years she wondered if she was seeing herself or it was her grand mother looking back at her from the surface of the mirror. But when she examined the image closely and touched her face she could not help smiling. She whispered to herself. "Yes Minha, it is you, not someone else.” She put away the mirror, lost in her thoughts. After a while she again looked at herself in the mirror but this time she held the mirror a little away from her face creating a distance that reflected the face of a 23 years old girl. Here was the real Minha, the Minha who had no rival either in beauty or ability in the whole village.

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Minha was the daughter of poor parents, so poor she was always clad in knotted rags. They could barely afford a hand to mouth existence. Her father was old and suffered from asthma. Her mother gathered dung to make dung cakes which she sold to a potter, Samander by name, to fire his kiln. The unsold remnants kept her own hearth warm. Samander would pay her part of the price. The balance was to be paid when his pots and pitchers were sold away. Minha’s mother divide her earnings into two parts; she used one half for daily expenditure on domestic needs and the other half she gave to her daughter to put that in a buried pot for hard times. She was constantly worried about her husband’s health who could die any day. And as was feared his end came at last. Qajeeray, Minha’s mother, gave her husband a decent burial which earned her the appreciation of the people, but she soon realized that deserted homes had no use for words of praise. What she wanted was the honour of good proposal for her daughter. But she didn’t get a penny or even a grain of rice for her daughter’s wedding. She realized that all those customs were hollow and 270

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hypocritical. She put together all her resources married her daughter to Habib, the son of Zaino.

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Habib’s mother Zaino was a sympathetic and soft hearted woman, and belonged to a comparatively well off farmer family on Qajeeray;s maternal side; so on account of this relationship, Habib was a distant nephew of her’s. Minha soon became a darling of Habib's family and even conquered the hearts of folks around in the neighbourhood too. Of course, she was charming but even more than that she was intelligent and able. She had experienced hard life of her parental home but now as she was the head of a well-heeled family and being a good counselor all problems were solved through her advice. She had inherited this wisdom from her mother On her wedding day,, Qajeeray had whispered into her ear: “My daughter, as you are leaving your home for your in-laws’, so your real home is now that one, where you will open your closed eyes. You will be welcomed here as a guest but if you return here as an estranged wife you will not be allowed even a short stay here”. When often Minha recalled these words; they rang in her ears. She remembered them at every step of her life. She decided she would leave this advice as a legacy to her daughter when she became a mother. But her desire was never fulfilled because she was windowed after giving birth to two sons. Habib was killed in a legal case for giving witness against the son of Rahim.

It was a small matter, a mere trifle. One day when Habib was busy in his fields in the upper land area. Khaney, the son of Rahim came along with his cattle and drove them in the standing crops of Malik Qader Khan adjacent to Rahim’s land Habib drove away the cattle and stopped them from entering his fields. Khaney was beside himself with rage and challenged Habib. “Who are you? How dare you stop my cattle from grazing?” he bellowed. "My son! they are eating the green crop of Malik Qader Khan, who is close to you. Still nobody lets any one’s cattle graze in his fields," Habib advised him!

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â&#x20AC;&#x153;It does not belong to you: my father has permitted me to leave my cattle at large on the wheat crop of Qader Khan and if someone comes in my way, my father will himself give him a suitable response. Let me call my father to see you first." Saying these threatening words, he ran to the lower land where his father was sitting in his Jangay with a loaded gun in his hand.

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The case prolonged and reached the court. Actually Rahim who had an old grouse to settle with Qader Khan allowed the case to drag on to irritate him. He had grown rich and developed a kind of rivalry with Qader Khan whose clan had both respect and honour in society. Rahim could not bear that, but when Habib told the real story he became a thorn in his eyes. Habib tried his best and told them that such a trifling matter was not worthy of litigation, but Rahim did not agree and refused reconciliation.

Next day Rahim claimed that Qader Khan had aimed his gun at his son to shoot him. But the case was dismissed due to the actual witness of Habib. Rahim could not digest this humiliation and shot Habib to death.

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Habib was stealthily fired at; nobody knew about his murderer. But his children were orphaned. The aged parents of Habib died on account of the untimely death of their son and Minha was widowd with two children, all lonely and wretched. There was no one now to put his hand on her head. She had no brother in law to pursue her husbandâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s murder and her sisters in law were all married to men who had no interest in the case. The aged mother of Minha used to come and see her and her little children but financially.she could not help her for she herself lived from hand to mouth. At the time of Minha's widowhood, Safi was hardly a few monthsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; old and Adil was less than two years. Minha tried her best to lookafter her two children with her utmost care and zest. She was satisfied when they were educated and stood on their own feet. Adil now is an Army officer while Safi is a doctor in an Army hospital. One day she called them home but neither of her sons knew about the secret of her emergency call. Since the death and burial

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of her husband, she had buried this secret in the abyss of her heart and wanted to keep it hidden until the full growth of her children.

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The secret was that, that on the sudden death of Habib, all the village people had gathered except for the family of Rahim who arrived only after the completion of the burial rites. This aroused suspicion but none could say a word for the one hand the family was in grief and on the other they were all afraid. The witness of Habib had ended his life and the spilling of his blood was still fresh. A few of them whispered to Zaino and Sanobor that if they suspected anyone they should sue him. But they knew their suspiction would bring no fruit for he had been killed by an unknown sniper. It could be he was killed mistakenly. For this reason no one was blamed. But Minha knew the whole truth, she was a woman of honour and could relinquish her revenge. Her father in law and mother In-law did not sue against anyone; they took the right step for if they accused some wrong person, the case would have surely been dismissed. But in her heart Minha had resolved she would take revenge by any means.

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Now, after a period of 23 years, Minha had become aged and Rahim was near his death; then what was the use of taking revenge from a person whose sands of life were running out. He had been paralysed a few years ago and was regarded already as dead. But Minha was not satisfied with it. The real culprit was his son, Khaney, a scoundrel. Minha wanted to take her revenge from him. On the other hand she feared for her own sonsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; life too. Minha had called her sons to take the revenge of their fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s murder while Khaney was already entangled in another murder case. She wanted to disclose the whole matter to Safi and Adil. She was very happy because she had made a proper plan. Today, she had broken her oath not to see her face in the mirror till her children were old and strong enough to take revenge of their father. She was happy for she had kept her words. Minha told the whole story to her sons and was about to tell them the actual thing when the door was knocked at. Safi thought that someone from the village wanted to see him, so he rushed to the door but

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returned immediately. His mother asked him who it was at the door. “lt was Dilawar, the coach man”. Safi answered. “Dilawar? What brought him here?” “How?” Adil enquired.

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"Uncle Rahim had sent him. He wants to see me" Safi replied. Hearing these words, Minha showered him with questions,"why, why does he want to see you.” He wants to see me for a medical check up and treatment", Safi said calmly

“Oh treatment? Treatment? Okay, go my son and cure him. God Himself has entraped the criminal, go and cures him to become food for the insects of the grave, but...but secretly, as silently as your father turned to clay, but oh, not turned to clay as people say, go and let his murderer go the same way.” She was trembling with rage, her face was furious and her eyes were.full of tears. “Listen mother! your feelings are true and justified, but....but, none has witnessed the murderer of my father and suspicions....."

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Adil had not yet completed his sentence that Minha said,"Adil my son! it is not the suspicion of your mother, but it is an open secret and all the people of the village know that neither Rahim nor his family had participated in the funeral ceremony of your father". “Perhaps, they had their own reasons for that...” answered Adil. But she was not ready to accept his argument any more; so she said, “and had not your father stood witness against him in the court? Leave it all.... go my son Safi....hurry up, the time is passing....but see! forget all your doubts,...the soul of your father is anxious...hurry up. Thank God you made me capable to hold the veil of modesty with both my hands and keeping on the path of honour.” When Safi took his medical bag and was going towards the home of uncle Rahim, she appreciated his role and said, "go my son, go and never forget the young and fresh blood of your father." Rahim, who now was called Rahimay, was ill and had been lying

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in bed for a long time. He could not move for both his hands and legs were paralysed. His wife had died two years ago. The estranged wife of Khaney had left her home and living with her parents. The major part of his property had been sold to meet the expenses of his treatment and the lavish and extravagant ways of his son. A small piece of land still remained and that too was on the verge of transaction but Rahimey refused to put his signature on the stamp papers.

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When the news of Safi reached uncle Rahimey, it seemed that his soul had re-entered his body. He could not clearly speak but when he heard the news of Dr. Safi, his sealed mouth opened. He lisped: "Come my son, come, my helpless body is waiting for you. I am a sinner but now the water has gone through the channel. In this world I have experienced the torment of the hereafter". Dr. Safi remained quiet.. At first, like the traditional doctor he examined his chest and whole body with the stethoscope but during that time his mind was struggling between the desire of his mother and the simi dead body of Rahimey. He was the son of a Pakhtun mother and her words for revenge were in his mind. Her elder son Adil could fulfill her desire but perhaps God had granted this blessed chance to him, Safi. He took out a small vial and filled a syringe with the medicine. He was breathing hard and his hands were trembling. He once again looked at his patient and rolled his sleeve up to administer the injection. But in that time an idea struck his mind. He put the filled syringe aside and took up another bottle, filled the syringe with it and brought it near the arm of uncle Rahimey. But suddenly another idea came into his mind, he put it aside and took up the first one. He repeated this action many times. lt made him nervous and breathless and more helpless than uncle Rahimey. He had forgotten the skill of a doctor and was gazing at the prepared syringes as an illiterate person. Rahimey, who was watching this situation, came to know his intention. He said to Safi: "Safi, my son! take up the syringe which you have filled at first and not like doctor Safiullah but like the son of Habib,.., oh, nothing can cure me but that oneâ&#x20AC;Śdo not fear....be a Pakhtun... hurry up.....don't think...hurry up. I feel happy to die than to live

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and die, again and again. Oh, to die with the hand of Habib's son, Habib, who died in the bloom of his youth.â&#x20AC;?

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Safi took a syringe hesitatingly, thrust it into his arm and emptied it all. He did not say even a word during this time and did not wait to see its effect too. He collected his medicines, put them in the bag and rushed out. He was all sweat. All his body was shivering like an autumn beaten leaf and in such a position he entered his home. Minha was awaiting him on the door. When she saw her son in this condition, she rushed to him and said, "My brave son, my honourable son, my son! Did you fulfill my desire? Your dignity shows that you have fulfilled my longing, you have avenged your father. Let me take my veil, I will visit the grave of your father and congratulate him. Today, my longing has been fulfilled and my Safi has avenged his father. I will go to give him this good news".

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Minha took the veil and rushed out to the village graveyard; Adil, till then had observed his body language thoroughly and decided that "Safi being a doctor, acting on his wrong Pakhtoon tradition has stained an unremoveable black spot on the forehead of an honorable profession. Why this earth does not burst and devour you. You are a shame for the whole nation. You are a coward. A revenge is always taken from a living one, not from a dead person. What did you want from him? Was this punishment less for him that being alive he is lying on his death bed. Having so much education you did not become a man? O wolf say? What did you do?" Adil had caught him with his arms and was shaking him. Safiâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mouth was dry. His face was pale like a dead body. His lips slowly opened and he said, "My elder brother! I left the longing of my mother with her. The profession of a doctor overcame the love of my mother". Saying these words he flung himself on the nearest bed. The bag of medicine fell down on the floor and small bottles of life and death got scattered. Adil, with reverence, bent down over him, kissed his forehead and with tearful eyes began to collect the bottles of medicine from the floor. Translated by: Pervez Sheikh ****

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Ajmal Khattak

The Masters Are Masters

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No doubt the masters are masters and the wise are wise, they being the residents of Paradise deserve it by birth; but it is a tragedy that they suffer through the region of Hell. Let us we should contribute to gain Paradise for those deprived wise poor.

I want to make humanity understand with due apology that peace is the foremost requirement of the world. I also put a question to the social lords why their hearts become gloomy when my shack is lighted with a lamp; but on the other side when I breathe beneath the burden of troubles; they derive pleasure out of my misery.

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When I laugh though with a miserable pretended laughter, they can’t tolerate even my mocked pleasure and they go through a shock; but on the other side when I suffer from hunger and blare due to starvation they aren’t worried.

The rich become angry with us when they see us resting though we are hungry. When we try to give vent to our demands, they give a louder yell in response to make us silent. I pray to God Almighty that He may listen to our cries otherwise we shall be finished in the darkness of injustice as there is no one who may rescues us out of the environment where we have nothing but smoke to breathe. O! God Almighty I send upward sighs with my tears; you have the power to raise either a tempest of wind or rain, surging rivers are in your control. I am afraid lest any word or whimper of infidelity should slip from my lips and I may be condemned to Hell. I desire that my life be sacrificed to gain your pleasure as I don’t want to be hungry in the world

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hereafter. I may face scorpions of this world though by weeping and complaining but I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t face the scorpions of Hell in the world hereafter therefore I seek your shelter.

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The hell of our bellies is empty, but belly of the Hell will be surfeited as we shall be fuel of the Hell hereafter. We the poor are here the food of butchers, but in the next world we shall be indiscriminately the food of serpents, it is pity that the poor neither can escape from hell of hunger in this world, nor in the world hereafter. Translated by: Pervez Sheikh

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****

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Ameer Hamza Khan Shinwari

Come To Set A Hut In The Forest

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Come to set a hut in the forest, by doing so we shall change this world into the world of lovers. We shall sing like Philomels (Nightingales) amid the flowers so we shall change our sorrows into pleasures. We shall amorously see into the eyes of each other until we shall lose ourselves.

If early rays of the sun come to give us a treat, or flowers unfurl their petals around our sleeping spot, or if morning breeze comes with its drowsy effects, we shall not pay heed to any object except merging into one.

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When we shall light a lamp, the evening will appear as if it has in her hands a cup of twilight. Our eyes will express our love through winks and seeing us loving so much each other the stars themselves will become shy.

O! My love come, we shall swing on each beam of the moon, fragrance of flowers may sway us softly to some remote world. We shall collect garlands of flowers for each other and we shall go on swinging forever, till time cease to exist. Translated by: Pervez Sheikh ****

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Azam Khan Azam

Why Do We Weep?

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You are the breeze; you dress up yourself with flowers. Your task is to bloom the buds, and garnish tassels of the rose-plants with the gems of dewdrops. You are carefree; it is not your responsibility to share burden of the poverty stricken people, even then what is the reason of your weeping and wailing.

You are the soul and charm of the colourful meadows. You always enjoy yourself by oscillating as if on the swing of love and everyone in his life loves you. When you move on, you always get enchanting scenes which give you nothing else but smiles, even then what is the reason of your weeping and wailing.

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You are the grace of loving Nature, you beautify yourself with azure colour of the sky and you make up your face with the red colour of morning. Whenever you blow you heal up wounds of the humanity and you deliver and distribute smiles all over the world, even then what is the reason of your weeping and wailing. When you blow you remove bubbles from the countenance of water, you are too delicate to face hardships of life. Harsh wind troubles you and it does not suit to your temperament, you have the privilege to play in the arms of Zephyr (Greek god of the west wind), even then what is the reason of your weeping and wailing. Translated by: Pervez Sheikh **** 280

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Syeda Hassina Gul

Excellent itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s, a Free Thinker Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m

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Though there are numerous restrictions upon me, my hands are tight fastened, my lips are locked, my eyes are taped, yet I am proud of being a thinker. I condemn all restrictions because I have to compose odes, write poems, create gongs and I shall have to engage myself in every fruitful activity.

I want to be free, therefore, I love freedom, if anyone is hurt and wishes to capture me, he should do it with pleasure but my art will never be chained. It is excellent that I am a thinker and I am proud of it.

****

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Translated by: Prof. Dawar Khan Daud

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Ghani Parwaz

Bitter Taste

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“Welcome, Sir! --- We have been waiting for you for a long time,” headmaster Niaz Muhammad said, quickly rising from his chair and smiling, as Rahmat entered the office. He embraced him with joy and made him sit in the seat of honour, and told the peon to bring tea. “Diluk, go quickly and bring some tea for the guest! But make some special tea!”

Rahmat thought that “I am a popular young poet and writer. I have been working for the people’s welfare, awareness and progress. My poems and prose have been published in literary journals. Why should not educated and knowledgeable people want to see me?”

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“Well, Sir, when did you arrive?” asked the headmaster. “Yesterday,” Rehmat answered.

“From where?”

“From my home in Pasni.” “What brings you to our humble door?”

“It has been a long time that I have not seen your school. Now that I am in the village, I wanted to come to hear your news.” “You have done well,” the headmaster said, nodding his head pleasantly. “We have been very desirous to see you; the point is that we need you very much. It is good that you have come.”

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Afterwards, the headmaster became occupied with office work, letters and files, discussion with the school clerk about school problems. For this reason there was very little opportunity for conversation with the guest. Rahmat thought about himself and about the headmaster Niaz Muhammad. Today for the first time he felt his importance and greatness, for the first time he was aware that there are some very nice people in the world. This man wishes to see me very much, but what about? Does he want me to read my poems to him or listen to my prose? Has he himself begun to write something literary and wants to show me an article for correction? Is he going to organize any literary programme, and wants my help or advice? I can’t say with certainly. But there is no doubt that he has some important thing in mind to consult me about. Why should not be so? He has concerns with the Education Department. This is a department which is most advanced in this respect than other departments. This department has given birth to so many literary, scientific and political personalities which no other department has done. Apparently this man is very cultured as well as talented. He is a high school headmaster, with double M.As, one in Urdu and the other in English, and he has also done an M. Ed. A relationship or at least friendship of such a person with some literary figure is not at all a strange thing. Today he needs me for some important consultation. Perhaps he will consult me here, or else he will take me home with him. Well, if he does it here, fine; and if at home, it will be fine too. It makes no difference to me.

After this train of thought ended, he prepared himself mentallyfor any work he may be asked to do and waited for the conversation to begin. Tea arrived. The peon poured it out and gave it to the seated persons. The first cup was given to him. When he had finished his tea and emptied his cup, the headmaster said to the peon, “Give our guest another cup of tea.” The peon again filled his cup. When Rahmat raised his second cup and took the first sip, he choked as the headmaster asked, “Are you receiving letters from the sergeant or not?” 284

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“Which sergeant?” he asked in surprise. “Your elder brother, Sergeant Rasool Babeksh in Bahrain,” answered the headmaster. “Yes, I am receiving his letters.”

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Rahmat had not expected that a question about his brother would come up, and at first his thoughts had not gone in that direction and he was surprised. But his surprise quickly ended, more or less. He knew that this man was an admirer of his brother and always asked about him. That is why he knows all about him. He knows even his brother and relatives. But all his fine thoughts were dashed to ground soon.

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“The very moment when you were arriving, I got news from this brother that you are the younger brother of the sergeant,” he said, pointing towards a young man sitting at his side. “The problem is this that my younger brother has gone to Bahrain. I have heard that up to now he is unemployed; I need a letter of recommendation from you to your brother for him. I think that perhaps, with your brother’s help he will find a job. Pardon me sir! --- up to now I haven’t asked your name.”

And Rahmat felt the bitter taste of tea in his mouth. Translated by: Ghani Parwaz ****

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Hakim Baluch

The Hostage Corpse

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"Life is a fear but man takes refuge in it. Life itself seeks refuge in death, as Ali says: Life is protected by death. So man is faced with a paradox and cannot decide whether to put his life in the protection of death's fear or should put himself in the protection of life's living hopes. What do you think Asim?"

"I don't know who is protected by whom? Let the philosophers think what they like to. I am glad that you have come back after so many years. We all missed you and have been longing to see you all these years." "You are right my dear friend! There is a saying that friends can always meet but that depends on life. But now I have come to see my friend for the last time as he is dead.

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â&#x20AC;&#x153;Please! Tighten up the reins of your steed and spur it so that we may not miss the last chance of seeing our departed friend." I did utter these words with a great sense of loss. At the same time I felt being a bit insolent to call him a friend as Mir Gohram was a mentor of mine and a very senior literary figure of our time. But writers and poets, I reminded myself, do not mind such trivialitiesâ&#x20AC;?. "My dear we are not going to Sarlat; and Nawar is not far away. And for a German vehicle it won't take long to traverse that much of distance. It can easily cover two hundred kilometres in one hour". Asim said this with the pride of a wealthy owner. "I know these vehicles run very fast on their own German autobahns, not on our camel tracks which we call highways." I found that Asim was steering with great speed on the ruggedhill track. May be he took it ill what I had observed a few

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moments ago. I was alarmed and instantly tried to bring him back to the presence of my company and said to him, "Asim do you remember how the vultures of greed had pervaded the last quarter of the life of our national poet?" On hearing my voice he was virtually startled as if he was oblivious to my presence.

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"It is good that he is now relieved of this humbug," he said. But I could not judge whether he responded to me or was absorbed in his memories of the departed soul, and had uttered these words in a mood of soliloquy. He again kept his quiet. Therefore I asked him, "How"?

"Chakar. Thanks God! You were away in alien lands and did not see the last years of Mir Gohram's life. Those vultures and vampires had sucked his blood to the last drop but they were not content even with that. They kept taking away the flesh of his bones till his last breath. Though he did not utter a single word of complaint yet one could easily discern that he was badly hurt within. They say he was killed by those heart wounds." â&#x20AC;&#x153;It may be true then" I observed.

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He continued in a sad distressful tone, "I don't know what was the cause of his death, but I know it for sure that those hovering vultures and vampires were the main cause of his destruction and death".

"Might be it is as you say. But about one year ago I had met the Sardar in London; he gave a totally different picture to me about our national poet. According to him Mir Gohram was very happy, particularly after meeting the martial-law governor of the province. He would ring up the Sardar regularly and keep him hanging for at least one hour narrating his momentous meeting with the military ruler. The Sardar in his haughty and sarcastic way also observed: "Look Chakar I somehow had a feeling that he might have lost his sense of discretion and might have gone mad because despite my reluctance he kept on narrating it to the last, like a stubborn child and cajoled me to listen, to be with him."

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To an observation of mine that one is prone to become a child in that part of one's age, the Sardar did not agree and said "No it is not like that. Had our national poet been mad, he would not have done all that; or would have kept his silence like Faiz. By the way our poet had not been an active political worker or leader throughout his life. Nobody pointed a finger at Faiz. Similarly none would have deplored our poet; had he not been indulging in all this frivolous activity". I had not finished my long narration but Asim interrupted me to say. "Who says that Faiz Sahib was silent? Don't you remember Faiz Sahib's poem which he narrated to us in London wherein he says: In the labyrinth corridors of greed one has pawned the cap and the other sold the Turban.”

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"Yes, Asim I remember it perfectly well. It was the most popular piece of poetry those days. This was noted down by a common friend of ours and given to me to present it to Ata Shad and ask him to compose such poetry. But our national poet in many respects was a thought follower of Allama Iqbal. Iqbal has prayed to God:

'Grant these chickens of the falcon feathers to fly’. God granted his prayers. Now the chicks of his country have over grown feathers and are very busy flying. And our poet termed them as the moon and sun of Baluchistan. And his prayers seem to have become a bad omen." Asim supported the arguments and said: "Look we have been inflicted by the malady of eclipses, that is to say that our days have turned bad. There are many stars in the skies but none suffers such eclipses which the sun and moon experience periodically. It is not the curse of any poet or any poem. Every one suffers from his own malady". "Dear, you‘ve snatched from my mouth what I was about to utter. You are right. Every thing moves in its own orbit. Our

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falcons have also grown feathers and are circling in their orbits. Iqbal has also said: the falcon has its own world and the vultureits own.â&#x20AC;? Our discussion had hardly come to an end when we reached the valley of the late poet.

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"I was afraid we would be late and the mullahs might have buried him after Asar prayers. But thank God, we are just in time." said Asim! "You are a good driver" I said. The moment we got down, I saw Mr. Ajove standing there. "You are looking at the little man. Do you remember him? He is a friend of our young age, let us go and say hello to him". I said.

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Who knows what brought him here; he has come to join the crowd and collect intelligence and double his sins". "I don't ubderstand. What do you mean" I asked him, surprised by his remark.

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"Don't you remember that literary meeting at Karachi University where Mir Gohram had told us how he had changed his poetic surname (Takhallus).

"Not exactly," I said. "I don't even know what his original poetic name was? He said, "Both of them had been using the same surname Ajove, as their Takhallus". â&#x20AC;&#x153;I still don't recollect what he had said about his earlier surname" I said. "Asim please don't talk in puzzles. Tell me what the actual story is". Asim said: "Then I think you were not present in that meeting; what he told us was alarming in the sense that this poet was an agent of the intelligence network of The Empire despite being a

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member of the inner circle of the Party. The Mir wanted us to distance ourselves from him. So he changed his name to avoid his comrades’ suspicions about his activities."

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I did not believe that and asked him to shun such gossip as in those days it was a fashion in the social circles to indulge in this kind of mud-slugging against comrades and colleagues. Asim did not give in and asked me not to speak to Ajove as the Mir in his last days had also warned us to beware of him and of his mischief. We were still arguing when Mr. Ajove came to us and hugged me with his slim arms and greeting me warmly in his old usual polite and elderly way. Then he asked me when did I return from London? I also wished him warmly and condoled with him and told him I was coming straight from the Airport to bid farewell to my departed friend and see his face for the last time but I found that all the people were waiting for something or someone. He was quiet for a long time but his eyes became tearful. At last he spoke in a choked voice:

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"Mir Chakar, what can I say. I must praise you for undertaking such a long journey and travel up to this valley just to see your friend embarking on his last Journey and say farewell to him. But his near and dear ones are not allowing any one to pay one’s last respects to him and see his face even ritually. We were hoping that Mir Gosee would be coming and we would offer our respects together but it is our bad luck that Martial Law authorities did not release him." Asim was indignant to hear that. He said: "My God, how can his relatives behave like this even after his death. Why are they being so nasty? This is his last ritual." I could see the old gentleman was already charged. He broke into tears and said mournfully: "Mir Chakar knows them well. He had been a class-mate, college and university fellow of all those siblings of Mir’s brothers and sisters. He had worked together in Verna Vaninda Gal and BSO.”

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Asim asked him if Mir Gohram had any son left behind. Mr. Ajove said: "He did not have any male issue. That was his bad luck. He had four daughters only. This is a great social drawback in a male dominated tribal society. It made him look to his nephews for the safe future and protection of their Siahsari (female honour). He became almost dependent upon them. And they in turn exploited this indulgence to their utmost advantage. They did not have pity on him. They not only drained and squeezed his blood but also picked his flesh.” “The poor poet had to bow his once proud head and accept their frivolous demands and compromised his reputation for the sake of his daughters. Now they are planning to sell his remnants. In all this a young falcon, Sulmainan, is their godfather. They are delaying the ritual prayers and burial as Sulmainan is in Quetta. They are awaiting his instructions for the future course of action."

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I was really getting nauseated. I did not like what he was saying and the way he was saying that, I got angry and interrupted him: "This is the malice of poets against one another! May God protect us and take us in his safety. What sort of news or what sort of instructions the man is going to bring from Quetta? The Mullahs say that the ritual prayers and burial cannot be held after sunset."

Seeing my indignance he said: "Sir, you are a person without guile. They are not innocent as you are. For a long period you have been away from the country. On such occasions, these days, Mullah's verdict does not work. It is martial law order that prevails. Who can face these arrogant Generals? They are out of the reach of a poor poet like me or a helpless Mullah like him. A colonel may deal with the Generals. We are a people of no consequence. They can do what we can’t even think of." Just to change the topic I asked, "Sir, please tell us who was a greater player of words or poetic tricks, you or our national poet?” “What can I say? I cannot compete with him in the art of poetic conceit and play on words. I am a poor man. These days he had broken his bond with the people as his new military mentors had

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taken him to international frontiers where our feathers would be burnt". I said jokingly; "Look Asim, our champion poet of freedom is talking of burning feathers." He quipped: "Because I cannot reach the burning bush".

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All of us smiled but kept quiet on account of the mourning. Asim joined us and said, "But sir, the angels must dread to fly over the burning bush. Man has reached it, and gone beyond it. Moses and Muhammad (PBUH) stand witness to it. So the progeny of Adam must not be afraid of it. His wings won't be burnt; he has none. He should avoid burning his fingers. Adam had already lost the paradise. His offspring has nothing to lose. So he should not be shy of doing such things. Pakistanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s national poet had asked our God to wait for the return of his prodigal son because it was He who ordered Adam to be thrown out of The Garden of Eden: "Why did you order me to undertake this journey, the business of the world is entanglingly lengthy, so wait for me to return."

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â&#x20AC;&#x153;Almighty God would keepi waiting till the return of the last man from here to there".

The poor poet could no more keep his silence and again spoke with the anguish of a burning heart, "The Almighty is waiting there. Two helpless and distressed poets are waiting here, one dead and one living. The once mighty poet and now the powerless dead and dependent, is waiting to get rid of and be relieved of the sharp piercing bite of the beaks of these vultures and their godfather. And we are all here waiting for him to come and end our long wait, this sahkandin (death pangs)". His sad painful utterance made all of us gloomy. Our eyes filled up with tears. A death like silence pervaded all over. I, along with Asim, went into sthe tent to meet the mourning kiths and kins of the departed soul. We offered condolences and shared our grief with them. It was almost sunset. The western 292

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horizon was turning yellowish. But Col. Sulmainan had not turned up. I went out of the tent to see the sinking sun and share with Mother Nature the scenic beauties created by the gore of the dying day on the horizon of sandy lands and mix the blood of my unshed tears with its gloom and grandeur. Both Ajove and Asim followed me. All the three of us stood in silence staring at the western horizon to be part of it at this moment of despair and death.

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Ajove, then, spoke to me in a whisper, "Do you know, what do the people say"?

“What about” I asked, “Let them say whatever they like. I felt so lonely and depressed in the tent that I could stand that no longer and ran out to be with Mother Nature and colour my loneliness in its gold. Both of you intruded in our mutual interaction and broke our line of communication. Let the people bark and spit their venom". When I ended my tirade, Ajove spoke with patience, "Mir, I am sorry you could not understand the purpose of my expression. I was going to tell you another story which is the talk of the town".

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I asked him impatiently. "Come up; tell us. What are the people carrying on their tongues? The Baluch says “the flood of streams can be contained but the spite of people's tongue cannot be controlled”.

"Be patient!" the poet said impatiently. "You are a lucky man; you have been far away from the heat and dust of this rusted land. They say that the last breath of the poet had been prolonged into a long lingering agony of approaching death. God knows better what is true and what is false. But illa-billa bar garden-e-mullah (May the burden be on the mullah’s neck). They say in fact the last breath was not so long as they made it. The last gasp would have been the final hiccup of the dying man; but to his disadvantage, Suleiman appeared just at that precise moment along with other kith and kin. He turned all of them out and summoned the Chief Medical Officer to the bed side who agreed with the attending doctor that the man was dead. But the colonel did not agree and

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wanted him to keep him alive artificially; others requested him not to prolong the moment. He did not concede and asked them to be patient and wait as he had seen a number of such cases in the battle field where the dead had returned to life. He is my elder brother. He had lived in honour and dignity and I want him to pass away in that way and we must give a befitting farewell in his last journey to the hereafter. God will bring good to all of us. Be patient and wait here. I am flying to Rawalpindi right now. I will meet the great general and ask him as to when he would find time to join us for the funeral prayers." “For three days no one was allowed to enter the room. On the fourth day Mir Gohram was taken back to the I.C.U.” To us it is ‘I see you’ I said. It means, I will take care of you.

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“May God take care of the people and in his mercy may He keep them away from the asylums or hospitals and nursing homes. One feels that every patient must have given an I.O.U. (I owe you) to the doctors to redeem them from the agony of disease and distress. He seemed to have put his full signature on a blank sheet of paper wherein no amount had been specified. He has pledged his everything to them. He is in debt of an unknown amount which he had not borrowed. The same was the case of our poor poet. He was also in debt of an un-borrowed loan because he had been asked to sign a pledge without going through its contents. He was the father of four daughters. It was enough for him to pledge his everything for the welfare and well-being of his female descendents. He had to be sensitive and responsive to every demand of his nephews. And to listen to his younger brother, was more necessary as he was a military officer. Repeated Martial Laws made him more important than his rank. All these loans were hanging around the neck of the national poet like an albatross. Only death could have redeemed it but here death also seemed helpless. He was still waiting to pay it in his coffin. The mullahs also are of the view that without paying one’s debt, or someone redeeming a pledge on the dead man’s behalf, the funeral prayers cannot be held. So we are waiting for the colonel to come and bring with him the redemption certificate".

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"Oh, is it so, you mean, old manm, that the Chief Falcon had gone to meet the padre general, who must have declined to oblige him and the Colonel must have come to Quetta and entrenched him there. Is it so"? I asked him.

O nl y

He said, "Impossible. Had he not succeeded in his mission he would not have permitted the removal of Mir Gohram's corpse from the I.C.U.". I was shaken. I spoke haltingly: "You mean it was his corpse!"

He said with confidence,"You think that was a living body fighting the angel of death in the I.C.U. No! My dear. It was his lifeless body which they had kept purposefully. Now they have kept the dead body in the coffin and locked it in that box and were refusing to open it for the last viewing of his friends and well wishers".

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We were busy in our conversation when a helicopter landed on the freshly made helipad, next to the graveyard. We thanked God and took a sigh of relief that the "Chief Guestâ&#x20AC;? had finally arrived. And the poetâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s body would at last be relieved of its endless wait. But to our dismay, the colonel disembarked all alone. He did not talk to any of us, nor even cast a glance in my direction as I was expecting that he would exchange greetings with me. He went directly to his sons and nephews and asked them in a commanding tone, "Boys! Take this coffin back to the house. The general will come himself tomorrow and join us in the funeral". Mr. Ajove raised his voices and yelled painfully: "Fear the Almighty God, Colonel! Do not keep the corpse of this heirless poet as hostage. His soul is in great distress". The boys lifted the bier on their shoulders and took it to the house. Translated by: Hakim Baluch ****

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Muhammad Tahir

Shabo

O nl y

When I was old enough to occasionally sit with Baba Shabo, I realized that he was not at all as horrible as people at home described him to be. Certainly, he did not like the attitude of other people and never talked to anyone. A frightful silence marked his face.

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The chariot of life rolled on. The days of Shabo's life were running out fast. Every evening Shabo stood at our door, asking for food in God's name. Then he would not be seen by anyone till the next day. B'aba Shabo begged in our neighborhood. He had been living in Quetta since his youth. Nobody knew which clan or tribe he belonged to, who he was, and where he had come from. He told no one about himself. He would mention the names of Pir Balanosh and Dalbandin some tines but when someone else mentioned Dalbandin, he would burst into tears.

Earlier Baba Shabo used to beg from door to door but when he learned that we were from Dalbandin, he stopped that practice and came to our house only. He lived in a hut he had built himself at the foot of the hills with twigs and grass. He never allowed anyone inside. He never went to the bazaar either. Every morning and evening, he came to our house which was not far from his hut. Shabo's life was a riddle. Some considered him to be a saint, others thought he was a Sufi; and still others regarded him as a spiritual leader. But we called him 'Baba' and used his name to frighten the children. Village children avoided him. Baba Shabo was a riddle no one could solve. As a student I had read about religion and people like Baba Shabo who was also found among Christians and Buddhists. I had also read about Sufis who had renounced the world. This prompted

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me to try and get closer to Baba Shabo to gain some knowledge about his world. But Baba Shabo started showing signs of displeasure. I had a burning desire to leam from him but I could see no way to fulfill this wish.

O nl y

Time was passing. Baba Shabo started to lose his teeth and his dark face began to show wrinkles. He stooped and his hands trembled. The once stout Baba Shabo was reduced to a skeleton. Still, despite his old age, he made it a point to come to our house. If sometimes we offered to deliver his food at his hut, he would shake his head and say, 'No, no.' One day when I came home at night, I heard that Baba Shabo had not come to get his food. I decided to take his food to his hut if he did not turn up the next day.

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The day dawned. The morning advanced to noon and then noon turned into evening. But Baba Shabo did not turn up for his food. I got worried. He had never fallen ill and never failed to come for food. Why he has not come? Has he died? Or is he angry, or has he gone somewhere? What is the matter? I was anxious to find out. But I remembered he had forbidden us to come to his hut. I could not gather the courage to go to him. But there was no alternative? At last 1 made up my mind.

With a lamp in my hand and bread under my arm, I started towards his hut. I reached the foot of the hill. There was a graveyard there. I could hear the jackals howling in the hills. Dogs were barking. Except for these sounds, there was complete silence all around. I was advancing towards the hut of Baba Shabo, and my heart was pounding because of fear of dacoits. Finally, I was there. I shouted, 'Baba Shabo'; but there was no response. I called three or four times, but to no avail. Trembling with fear, I stepped inside. It was quite big inside. I could see a pitcher in a corner. I took a few steps further inside. Baba Shabo was lying on the floor. Moving closer, I called him again but there was no reply. I put 297

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down the lamp and placed my hand on his shoulder. He was hot. I shook him gently. He opened his eyes and looked at me. He called my name and again closed his eyes. I told him that I had brought him food. After some time, he opened his eyes again, looked at me and said, 'Water.'

O nl y

I filled a cup from the pitcher. First, I gave him some food and then water. He drank the water, sighed and addressing me by my name said: "It is good that you have come in the last moments of my life. You used to ask questions that I never answered. Now ask whatever you want since these are the last moments of unfortunate Shabo." I had nothing to say. The old man was running high fever. What should I ask him? Seeing me sitting quietly, he said; "Why don't you ask me something?" I said, "I have always wanted to know the secrets of your life."

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Shabo turned towards me and said: "I belong to Dalbandin. I am a slave. When I was young I used to attend (ceremonial) gatherings and took part in them. During the day I served my masters and at night entertained them with Balochi poetry and songs. People used to come from far off places in large numbers to hear me sing. They also brought gifts for me. I lived a life free of worldly worries and was a stranger to pain and suffering. But good luck deserted me and the days of my happiness came to an end. I was totally lost. It was bad luck for me. I happened to see a girl from a rich family and she captured my heart." "The maiden too was attracted by my melodious voice and fell in love with me. But social customs, the taboos of the high and low, of the master and slave, came in my way. She stopped seeing me. This intensified the fire of love and made me insane. But this made my poetry and my voice even more impressive and people's admiration grew for me. The fragrance of love and musk, they say, cannot be concealed. People came to know about our love, that Shamloâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s tresses had enslaved me. When her mother learned about our love she locked up Shamlo in the house and complained to the tribal chief about me. That was the beginning of my misfortunes. I have since lived in perpetual misery that I will never forget till doomsday." 298

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"I was a slave and the girl belonged to the nobility. The chief was cruel and the world callous. I was wretched and helpless. They tortured me, made me stand whole nights in the cold, to erase Shamlo from my heart. All this torture was kind of relief to me. At last, for the sake of my life and the honour of Shamlo, I left Dalbandin. Ever since, I have lived with her love in my heart".

O nl y

After narrating his story, Baba Shabo's eyes shone as if a great weight had been lifted from his heart. His broad dark face blossomed like a flower. His eyes filled up with tears before closing for ever. Translated by: Dr. Nimat Ullah Gichki

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Murad Sahir

The Chief

O nl y

For five years not a single drop of rain had fallen. Famine blighted the region. There was not a grain of wheat, and even for one whole rupee, it was difficult to buy a few kilos of red sorghum. Dates, the principal food of the region, were being sold like gold. It was fortunate if one could get pulses or rice. It was a famine so severe that one's own dear children were a burden on one's soul. Nobody could come to the help of another. It had broken bonds of friendships, friendships that only death could break.

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Qasim, the young son of Chief Shahsawar, had to leave the country because of the famine. He fled to save himself from starvation. He had become a soldier in the Muscat army. The Chief was stricken with grief. No one saw him laughing or engage in cheerful conversation. Starving, he did not show any effect of the famine on himself. He was much more worried and depressed for his son than the torture of hunger.

Today, the Chief was sitting on the platform under his thatched hut. Nearby Dadu was skinning a goat. Children sitting around him were trying to pull out the entrails of the goat which had come out even before Dadu could rip the belly open. This goat was a sacrifice offered by the Chief to a great saint, Abdul Qadir Gilani, for the safe return of his son from Muscat. He had been offering this sacrifice every six months. Dadu skinned the animal. Afteropening the belly he took a large knife, pulled down the shoulder blades of the goat and separated the right shoulder for prediction. Putting that aside, he cut up the rest into portions. Then he held the bared bone of the shoulder blade towards the sun and examined it carefully. The Chief said: "Listen Dadu, examine it very carefully. Let us see if it is going to rain this year? The famine has destroyed our people. Our flocks and herds are dying of hunger and thirst;

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and the trees have become dry bushes. May God give us some relief. What do you see?"

O nl y

Drawn by the scent of the sacrifice, a few men from the neighbourhood gathered around Dadu. All eyes were fixed upon Dadu's wrinkled face as he examined the tell tale bone. At last Dadu spoke; "Sir, I see good news in this shoulder blade." The words were hardly out of Dadu's mouth when the Chief cried: "Good news? Examine it very carefully, what does the blade say"? The Chief snatched the blade from Dadu's hand and sat down to examine it minutely himself. "Sir," said Dadu to the Chief, "look here, at this place," (pointing to a spot in the blade), "don't you think that dust is rising out of it? To my knowledge, there will be a heavy rainfall. But if not rain, then certainly a heavy black storm will come over the land; but most probably in my opinion, it will be rain." The Chief said, "Dadu, now you examine it closely. God willing we will have rain. And if you are proved right, I will give you new clothes for your dress."

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An elderly man drew near and snatched the blade from Dadu's hand. Now everyone in the hut was examining it. You would think that there was really something written on the shoulder blade that there was actually something to be seen on it. Dadu, on the orders of the Chief, divided the meat, a small piece for each family. But nobody bothered about the meat. It was the shoulder blade that was being circulated in the village, from house to house. By evening, no one there was left who had not examined the shoulder blade at least once. A month later, it was put in a sack and hung inside the Chiefâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hut. Six months passed. Doshamba, a recruit of the Muscat Army came to the village on leave. He came to call on the Chief who was sitting in council in his hut. Everyone began to ask him about Muscat. The Chief himself was very happy to hear the news of his son, Qasim. Qasim had sent some gifts. Fifty rupees, a tin of Muscati halva and some clothes. But the best news of all was that Qasim himself was coming by the next ship. Doshamba handed over all the gifts to the Chief. He took out some peanuts and cashews from a small packet and distributed them among the 301

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children. In a cheerful mood, the Chief asked Doshamba to be his guest and asked his maid servants to grind some grain for Chariki who was due to come one or two days before the arrival of the ship to meet the young Chief.

O nl y

At last the day came when Chariki was to go and meet the young Chief. Chariki saddled a dark gray camel, and spread a colourful rug on it. He put his supplies in the sacks and took leave of the Chief. He set off for the sea port. On that day, the sky was overcast with thick clouds, and rain seemed certain. Everyone was happy that the clouds had come finally, and it was about to rain. The dry fields would get water and the days of the dreadful famine would be over. The plains and mountain passes would be green again. The cattle were craving for the green grass.

After three days Chariki arrived at the port. Two days later a boat arrived, with his master aboard. Chariki unloaded the baggage and brought it to the shore. The animals loaded, they set out homewards next day.

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Throughout the way, the master's camel ran at a high speed and it was hardly possible for Chariki's camel to keep pace with him. In two days, they arrived at a village. The chief of the village was a friend of Qasim's. Their own village was at half a day's journey from there. The master said to Chariki, "Please go before me, and tell the chief that I shall wait here till the heat of the day is over. With God's help, I shall arrive in the evening." Chariki was pleased by this order as taking the good news to the Chief meant a new dress for him. Chariki set off immediately. The Chief sitting in his hut, his eyes fixed on the path, awaited them. He recognized Chariki from a distance, but he was very disturbed to see Chariki coming alone. 'Where is the young Chief? Where is his camel?' he wondered. Chariki came and presented salaams to all. The greeting was still on Chariki's lips, when the Chief asked, in fear and anguish: "Chariki! Why have you come alone? Where is your master?" Chariki laughed and said, "The young master is resting at Chief Mahmud's village. He has sent me to inform you he himself, along with his friends, will be home tonight."

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When the Chief heard this news, his heart bounced with joy. He ordered Syahuk to give Chariki a lot of sweets for bringing such sweet news." He further ordered: "Go and select two goats from the flock and bring them here. The young chief will be our guest tonight.

O nl y

The news traveled like lightning through the village. It created a great deal of hustle and bustle. The maid servants got busy on the grinding-stone. And Dadu sharpened his rusty knives again. Another man went out to collect firewood. Today there were more clouds then ever seen before. A black wind was rising in the east. There were flashes of lightning now and then. After the evening prayers, Qasim took leave of Chief Mahmud. Mahmud begged him to stay for the night and go the next morning. But Qasim did not listen.

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The gray camel was running along the road and visibility was good. But only after a short distance from his village, the black wind caught him. It blew very strongly. It was so dark that nothing could be seen. The path took a turn, and Qasim set out along a dam surrounded by date palms, in the direction of a large bushy tree where the farmers had stored their grass. He had just arrived near the tree when the rain began to pour down. It seemed water was being poured from a bucket. Mixed with rain there were hailstones, each the size of a large round date. Qasim just managed to tie his camel to the trunk of the tree and found himself a seat leaning against the tree. Big bolts of thunder shot through the sky. Chief Shahsawar was listening to and Chariki was telling him about flood water on the way. He was laughing aloud at every word. God was merciful. There was rain and at last after such a long time his son would soon be with him. Suddenly, there was a tremendous sound. One would think as if the sky had exploded. For a moment, everything in the sky and on the earth lit up. A scream was heard in the distance. It was as if a mountain had fallen. The Chief jumped in his seat. He rushed out shouting, "Chariki, I think lightning has struck somewhere, what a loud thunder?" It is late. If he is not already on his way, let him stay. O God, where is he. It is a stormy rain and angry winds." 303

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The rain made it impossible for the Chief to stand outside, so he came back in but fear and worry gripped his heart. Just then, Syahuk came in and said: "Master, did you hear that blast? There is a tree, used as grass store at the border of Hudadat's land. The lightning has hit it. That clap must have been of that thunder”.

O nl y

At last the rain stopped. The villagers rushed to look at the tree Chariki was also with them. When they got there, they saw the tree was split into two.

The neck of the Chief’s dark gray camel was visible under its broken branches. Chariki with a cry fell upon the broken branches of the tree. Realizing what had happened, other men lifted the branches of the tree and Qasim's corpse came to view. Now there were cries all over. Chariki started shouting for help. He got up, four or five other men came running behind him to the village. When the news reached Chief Shahsawar, his face turned black like a griddle. He could not utter a word. A hue and cry rose from his house. A wooden stretcher was sent to bring the son’s body.

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Since that evening the Chief has remained silent. He has no tears in his eyes.

The clouds shed their waters and went away. The land became green again. Dadu's shoulder blade prediction proved correct. But for the Chief, the beautiful world was ruined and there was darkness all over. In his hut, the Chief sits on the ground, his eyes fixed on the path on which his son has long since come....... and gone. Translated by: Dr. Nimat Ullah Gichki ****

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Saba Dashtiyari

Futile Struggle

O nl y

I always saw him in a gloomy mood swimming in the turbulent currents of the sea of his sorrow. At times one thought, he was searching something he had lost. It seemed as if the object he had lost had hidden itself somewhere in the sky to reach where one would need moving a mountain range. His condition was very frightening to me. At times the thought would throw me on a bed of piercing sharp thorns and at times I would get so disturbed I would forget my own self.

I always asked myself, "What is he?" He did not talk much. If there was a big gathering of friends, he would utter only some small broken words like, yes or no. That too if one insisted. At times I would feel like asking college students about him. But my conscience always stopped me. I would be afraid the friends would make fun and also because it would shatter his image in my mind.

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Some people create beautiful pictures in their mind for their joy and will never like them to get dusty or look misty, because this would arrest the inner growth of their thoughts and when this growth is arrested, his inner self will be paralyzed. I had therefore shut my mouth and had never asked anyone about him. Time passed as usual. I used to go to college once in a while to chat with my friends, but he was never mentioned. We discussed other problems and issues. But to be honest, I wanted someone to talk about him. Anyway, that did not happen. Earlier, he could be seen every now and then, but for some time now, I came to know he had not been seen so often in the hostel. This increased my anxiety. My other friends did not have a good opinion about him. In the beginning I did not understand its reason. But (as a matter of fact)

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he was not so close to me, so I could not ask friends why they were neglecting him. I just liked his good behavior. Actually he was an ugly and unclean person. But when he was deep in thought and looked upset, his ugliness and unpleasantness disappeared.

O nl y

Sometimes I thought that the college friends did not like him because of his ugliness and did not care about him? But.this was not the case. There were many other ugly guys in our group. Whatever, I did not understand the reason. For some other reason our friends did not call him by his name. The truth is that it was he who had created the feeling and realization of national rights in the hearts of his friends. It was he who had taught them the methods of resistance and showed them the right path of national struggle. But in this time of injustice and tyranny the general practice was to kill the very sense of awakening. One day the Army men came and took him away, to an unknown place.

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Three years passed (only God knows) in great trouble and difficulty. Who knows how much they have suffered and endured what hardships? Who knows how many of them had died helplessly in torture camps? After three years in prison Shahdad was, at last, free. But now he was not the same person. His mother had died in tears. His father's back bent down and he was still unable to straighten himself up. Shahdad still talked of national rights. But earlier he was talking with his tongue and now he was talking with his silence. It was because of this silence that his friends called him insane and the teachers regarded him as incompetent. The sun was setting like a tired traveller and its yellow colour had given a beautiful look to the sky. Suddenly I saw Shahdad, who was gazing at the setting sun. I walked slowly towards him and put my hand on his shoulder. He turned his face towards me. "What are you looking at," I asked. "The outcome of my struggle", was the answer. Translated by: Dr. Nimat Ullah Gichki **** 306

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Waheed Zaheer

VVIP Pain/Agony

O nl y

It was his ambition to qualify for a superior post. To achieve this aim, he spent most of his time in libraries; whenever he hadtime, he met his educated friends and very occasionally visited his mentors in order to extract some valuable piece of knowledge from them. When on late nights he was hunched over his books under the lamp, his mother would come up to him and talk to him about this or that.

Tonight his mother came and sat close to him and said, “Ali, my son, you are working so hard whereas Aman brother’s son has secured a job. It’s a top job which he has bought for only 5 lac rupees.”

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“Oh my beloved mother! Again and again I have tried to make you understand that the difference between buying a job and winning a job through hard-work and competition is like buying a body and associating pure relations with it, and now you decide which practice is better”. Ali’s mother felt her talk had irked her son. Ali also sensed the complexity of the example he had posed to his mother; therefore, he humoured his mother by changing the topic and said; “Mother, you don’t worry; only a few days are left. You know for purchasing a post one has to mortgage his conscience first, modesty afterwards and then so and so…... However, mother you will be seeing a fine dish washer at your own house and then you won’t have to go clean other people’s dishes.” But mother was not much amused by this answer. She had heard that before.Ali understood her disappointment. He pleaded: “Mother, this is my last chance. The mistakes I made in my previous examination will not be repeated this time. To qualify for the CSS is not an easy task, but for those who are studying with concentration and hard work. And mother; now I have gone through all those difficulties and obstacles which caused my failure

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in previous examinations….. You just pray for me. Tomorrow is my first paper for which my preparation is absolutely perfect.”

O nl y

To motivate and encourage her son she said: “I too believe and have confidence in you that you will get through this …. and I shall be fortunate to give a sincere, talented he and learned son to my nation.” Then both of them before retiring for the night reckoned the glimmering flame of the candle as the beginning of prosperity and comfort…... The mother then went to sleep but how could Ali sleep. Tears and expectations defined his life; such eyes can become drowsy but not intoxicated.

When his mother awoke early next morning and entered Ali’s room to awake him, she was surprised to see Ali was already up and ready to leave for the exams. Ali had got everything set during the night to realize his dream and was so excited he could hardly take a few sips of tea at his breakfast.

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After embracing his mother, he took his old cycle out and set off towards the examination centre. As a precaution, he left an hour earlier just in case the tyres went flat.

He had hardly travelled a furlong from his house when he was stopped by law enforcement personnel at a post and was stopped from going any further. They told him to take some other route. Ali listened to them calmly and without arguing with them proceeded ahead. Soon Ali arrived at the next crossing; he saw armoured vehicles and met numerous hurdles on the road; the personnel here again told him the road was closed. “You can find a way ahead” they said. Ali expressed his gratitude to Allah for he had left far earlier or otherwise he would be late. Ali was now getting angry but he had an aim too and it was the last chance for CSS. At that critical juncture, he was feeling fragile like a glass that could break into pieces by the slightest shock. He 308

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thought about his mother, how long was she going to do the dishes for other people? He wiped the sweat from his brow and for the first time, in the extreme cold of the morning felt the burning of ice.

O nl y

Ali had reached the next crossing; on the one hand he had wasted half an hour going around the obstacles and on the other he felt as if the distance to the examination hall was stretching like rubber. “Oh! What a traffic jam!” he grumbled reaching another chowk. “Vehicles, cycles, motorcycles and pedestrians all are waiting for the un-blocking of the road, and this is the only passage to the city”, he thought getting worried for the first time.

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He learned from the bitter conversation of the public held up for long awaiting the clearance of the road that it was a VVIP movement. Ali remembered his father telling him: “on such occasions our cherished desire to catch a glimpse of our leader would some times be fulfilled. We would greet him waving our hands and discuss the event boastfully among ourselves”. Then Ali felt the heat of the sun scorching the people and testing their patience. But they stood there with sullen lips shivering and their fists clenched.

All of a sudden hooters started blaring and a number of vehicles rumbled past the standing traffic. Ali thanked God and watched his watch, only fifteen minutes were left for the start of the exam. But the traffic was not allowed to proceed although the VVIP convoy had passed. Then he got a message from the first row of the multitude that a little while back a high official had passed to confirm the clearance of the road and the security arrangements.From among the multitude someone recounted how a woman had died in a rickshaw during a VVIP movement last time. While Ali was thinking about the tragic story and his nervous state, he suddenly heard the loud hiss of a deflating tyre. It was his bicycle. Alarmed, he saw the needle of his watch. He could not 309

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O nl y

suppress his cry of desperation: “O, only 5 minutes are left!” What happened next Ali could not remember how he threw away his cycle and when the hooter bellowed and how he ran breaking the safety fences and reached the VIP road. In a flash a powerful hand had clasped him. He was felled to the ground under a shower of kicks and fists. Then for a long time he did not know what had happened. It was very quiet.All around him. According to TV news bulletins the VIP had reached his destination safely and the, terrorist had failed in his attempt and had been arrested. Ali’s mother was told, by the owner of the house, how a terrorist attempt was frustrated and the culprit named Ali was apprehended. After seeing the breaking news clip on the television, Ali’s mother lost her mind and was seen shrieking incoherently about the innocence of her son.

Translated By: Mohammad Najeeb

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Mir Gul Khan Naseer

Having Nothing

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O nl y

A security man On a cold night Standing at a roundabout Has every passer by In his sight.... Monitoring suspects Checking some and letting Others go at will He intercepts me on my old bike Comes closer and Asks me to Unzip my bag These books and diary And these pens, he asks What are these for Writing? What ? I am getting a little suspicious. You look like A foreigner Where do you live? What do you do? Another security man Joined the inquiry I know him, Sir! he said He is a harmless man A poet He has nothing But some books of History, philosophy and poetry All useless stuff A harmless man Let him go!!! Translated by: Khuda Bukhsh Shakaib 311

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Mir Gul Khan Naseer

Never say you are alone My soul companion!

O nl y

Never Say You Are Alone

Our’s is a spicy tale Intriguing, puzzling my heart

For unfinished seasons You’ve toyed with my heart

Like soft pouring moonlight Like joyous rain, you’ve been to me

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Alone, at home? Come, Let my arms encircle you

It’s only with you that I breathe, and feel alive Translated by: Khuda Bukhsh Shakaib ****

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Noor Khan M. Hassani

Freedom

O nl y

What’s freedom? The question bothers me Does it mean to have a piece of land to live? Or the sentiments and dreams Of its dwellers is it If it’s only land,

Then fruitless trees and thorny bushes alone We’ve sowed that we want to flower If it is the heart’s passions And love

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Then we have to begin from the beginning Uproot suppression, disunity, despair and exploitation, And sow seeds of love and affection In the soil to harvest the flowers of freedom

But continue to sow weeds and thorns And await a harvest of sorrow and strife Translated from Brahvi by: Noor Khan M. Hassani ****

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Noor Khan M. Hassani

That you be mine

O nl y

Milestone

Was the goal of this life long struggle? But now having you I feel its only a resting point On the road I see your finger Far, too far

Beckoning towards the goal Beyond the horizon!

****

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Translated from Brahvi by: Noor Khan M. Hassani

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Muhammad Ismail Wali

The Bird’s Story

O nl y

Once upon a time there was a bird. She was sitting on a hedgewall busy stringing her beads. She dropped a bead in the bush down below. The bird asked the bush, “Can you hand me the piece, please.” The bush retorted, “Why should I?”

The bird threatened, “I will burn you”

The bush replied, “Try, if you can.” The bird asked the fire to burn the bush, but the fire refused, “Why should I?” It said.

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The bird said, “OK, I’ll ask water to put you out.” “Then do” the fire said.

The bird turned to water, “Water! Water! Put out the fire.” But water said, “Why should I?” The bird threatened, “I‘ll tell the ox to drink you up.” “Go ahead” the water challenged. “Ox! Ox! Drink up the water,” the bird ordered. But the ox refused, “Why should I” it bellowed. The bird said: “I will make the wolf devour you.”

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“You are welcome” the ox taunted. The bird then turned to the wolf: “Wolf! O Wolf! Eat him up!” The wolf said, “Why should I. I am not hungry.”

O nl y

“I will make the gunman shoot you” the bird threatened the wolf. “Yes go ahead. Ask Him.”The wolf challenged her.

The bird asked the gunman: “Gunman! O Gunman! Kill the wolf.” “Any reason?” the gunman asked refusing to oblige her.

The bird was angry. She said, “I will ask the rat to munch away the straps of your gun.” The gunman laughed. “You are welcome. Ask Mr Rat.”

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The bird called the rat,” Rat! O Rat! Eat the straps of his gun.” But the rat said, “I don’t relish gun straps”

“Then I will ask the cat to eat what she relishes most”, the bird said. “Please do”, replied the rat calmly. The cat also refused the delicious offer and meowed: “Thank you please, my tummy is full”. “I will make the matron beat you.” The bird told the cat. “Why will she beat me? I am her pet” replied the cat. The bird then approached the matron, “Matron! Matron! Give this cat a good thrashing.” But the matron yelled “Why?” 316

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The bird cried:” I will make the wind blow away your wool.” The matron said, “Come on, let’s see if you can.” The bird flew to the wind and chirped: “Wind! O Wind! Blow away the matron’s wool.”

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The wind was a friend of the bird. It blew away the matron’s wool. The matron got angry and beat the cat; the cat ran after the rat; the rat hurried to eat the sling; the gunman picked up his gun to kill the wolf; the wolf pounced on the ox; the ox ran fast to drink up the water; the water gushed forth to extinguish the fire; the fire burst into flame to burn the bush but the bush picked up the fallen bead and handed it back to the bird. Translated from khowar folk lore: Muhammad Ismail Wali

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Muhammad Ismail Wali

The Goat’s Tale

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Once upon a time there lived a goat with her three kids: Bibi Zhoor-Zhoor, Khunza Zhoor-Zhoor and Mirza Zhoor-Zhoor. They lived in a pen. The mother goat used to go out for grazing in the morning and return in the evening to feed her kids. One day a wolf came to their door and said, “I am your mother; my udder is full of milk and my horns are oiled.” The moment the kids opened the door, Bibi Zhoor Zhoor and Khunza Zhoor Zhoor were devoured by the wolf, but Mirza Zhoor Zhoor slipped away to inform her mother of the mishap. The mother goat made cheese and butter to offer to a blacksmith and to request him to make iron horns for her. The blacksmith made the horns and fitted them on her skull with the advice not to drink water on the day of fighting the wolf. The wolf also went to the blacksmith with the same request, but the blacksmith made wooden horns for him and advised him to drink water to his full.

The goat and the wolf fought on a plain ground with the result that the goat struck her iron horns into the wolf’s stomach and ripped it open, and her two kids—Khunza Zhoor Zhoor and Bibi Zhoor jumped out alive – and the wolf fell dead. The goat went to her pen and lived happily with her three kids thereafter. Translated from khowar folk lore: Muhammad Ismail Wali ****

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Note:

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Khowar culture is rich in folk literature which suggests the centuries-old human experience in the mountainous valleys of Chitral. A folk song relates to the sensitive issue of hunting, a subject which has universally recognized ecological importance. The song is in the form of a dialogue between a mother wild goat (Ibex) and her child. The following nursery rhyme is sung to pacify children:

A Khowar Nursery Rhyme

Mother! Mother! What is over there? A village shepherd, dear! Mother! Mother! What shines over there? Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s light falling on snow, dear!

Child: Mother: Child: Mother:

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(Meantime, the gun goes off and hits the mother, and she falls bleeding). Child:

Mother: Mother:

Whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s that, flowing from your body, Mother! Mother! My sweat, in this heat, dear! My dear! Dear God, Your Mercy, dear God!

Translated from khowar folk lore: Muhammad Ismail Wali ****

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During the pastoral age, Khowar girls used to play Hoop-gyay, a game involving pairs of girls holding their hands in a crisscross way and singing the following song while jumping on their feet.

Song of Hoopgya

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A man appeared from nearby; Looking up the sky; Stockings rolled up to the knee; He sat down in our courtyard Like he were my son-in-law We sang: Mother weeps, father laughs One for separation; the other, For money. Gyay-ge Hooqpgyay-ga Come up! Uprooting the wild plant Come up! Making through the rocks Come up! We are young. And full of youthful energy O joy! O joy! O joy! Let’s enjoy O Sister! O lady! Come There’s a rose in the garden I can smell it! She – my rival – may beat me Hit the big pitcher And the pitcher will sling away. Gyay-ge Hooqpgyay-ga Come up! Uproot the bitter plant Come up! Making way through the rocks; We are young and full of youthful energy Come up! Young ones

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Come up! Come up to enjoy! O joy! O joy! O joy! The respected sister came on the bridge She has something holy Hidden in her shawl,

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Girls play Hoop-gyay all with chime Boys play hockey-- waste of time Play, together clasping! There! A boy fell down gasping. Gyay-ge Hooqpgyay-ga Come up! Uproot the bitter plant Come up! Making way through the rocks; We are young And full of youthful energy Come up! Young ones Come up! Come up to enjoy! O joy! O joy! O joy Gyay gaâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;

A brood of chicken on this side A brood of chicken on that side; Once there a walnut tree Shook down in a spree; We are free; we are free. Gyay-ge Hooqpgyay-ga Come up! Uproot the bitter plant Come up! Making way through the rocks; We are young And full of youthful energy. Come up! Young ones Come up to enjoy! O joy! O joy! O joy! Soup of oats, the rural way; Corn-porridge, the urban way. 321

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Out of the way! Out of the way! Gyay-ge Hooqpgyay-ga Come up! Uproot the bitter plant Come up! Making way through the rocks We are young And full of youthful energy Come up! Young ones Come up! Come up to enjoy! O joy! O joy! O joy!

Translated from khowar folk lore: Muhammad Ismail Wali

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N. M. Rashid

Hasan Kooza Gar

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(A poem with exceptional depth and beauty.A fine example of Rashid’s intriguing imagery and symbolism.)

Jahandad! In the street below, in front of your door is standing HasanKooza Gar (clay potter) whose head is burning with fire of grief. This morning I saw you on the shop of Yusuf, the old perfumer. I observed again the erstwhile brilliance in your eyes because of which I have been in a trance, roaming about as a madman for the last nine years.

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In these years, I never turned around to look at my forlorn and forsaken pots. Those lifeless creatures of clay colour and glaze the sources of my subsistence and the pride of my artistry. These pots kept whispering to each other “where is HasanKooza Gar now?” Has he become a proud demigod who has turned his face with disdain from his own creations?

Jahanzad! Those years time was passing me as if I was a ruined and buried city. In the vats, the clay whose sweet smell used to cast a spell of ecstasy over me has become hard like stone. Flasks, flagons, chandeliers and flower vases which were assets of my livelihood and expression of my art were lying broken and neglected. And I myself, HasanKooza Gar am sitting near the potter’s wheel with feet in the mud, with disheveled hair and dust over my head which is bent over my knees. I am like a grieving god who shapes the fluid pots of dreams with the day of conjecture. Jahandad! You were an adolescent nine year (years) ago but you must have noticed that, HasanKooza Gar was enraptured by the brilliance of your eyes which used to send my body and soul into the pathway of moon and clouds.

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Jahandad! That dreamy night of Baghdad, the bank of River Tigris, that boat and the sleepy eyes of the boatman, for an emaciated and grief stricken pots maker---that one night had the effect of a magnet which pulled his heart and soul and that effect is still envolved to his mind. The magic of that night was like the current of a river as which HasanKooza Gar was so deeply submerged that he has not come out of it yet.

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Jahandad! Every day that ill-fated woman comes and shakes my shoulder saying “HasanKooza Gar! Come back to your senses. Look at the desolate condition of your house”. Finding me with my feet on the potter’s wheel and head bent over my knees she enquires “how will the empty stomachs of the children be filled?”

She admonishes me “Hasan you have become victim of love but love is the pastime of the wealthy. Just look at walls and doors of your dilapidated house”. This woeful wailing was like a call to a person drowned in a whirlpool.

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The torrent of her tears felt by me like falling of flowers because I, HasanKooza Gar was a botanic in a ruined city of illusions where there was no sound, no movement, no shadow of a flying bird--- no sign of life.

Jahanzad! Today I am standing in yours street in the coldness of night with disheveled hair. From the window your bewitching eyes are looking at me. Jahandad! The world is a potter’s wheel where like carafes, flasks and flagons, human beings are shaped or disfigured. I am also a human being but due to those nine years which I passed in the mold of grief, I have become a heap of dust without a trace of water. Jahanzad! This morning in the bazaar at the shop of Yusuf: the perfumer, your eyes have again spoken something to me. The teasing brightness of those eyes has sprinkled a little moisture which might turn this heap of dust into day.

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Jahanzad! Who can measure the dimensions of desire but if you so wish I can once again become the same Kooza Gar whose flasks and flagons were the pride of each house, village and city, with which the abodes of the princes and the panders used to shine.

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Jahandad! Who knows the limit to desire but at your behest I could return to my abandoned flasks and flagons---return to the dry vats of clay --- to the sources of my livelihood and expression of my artistry.So that with this wet clay, colour and glaze I can bring out those sparks which would enlighten the darkness of abandoned hearts. Translated into English by: Masood Akhtar Zaigham

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N. M. Rashid

Hasan Morgane De Toi (Unpoème avec uneprofondeurexceptionnelle et la beauté. Unbelexemple de l'imagerieintrigante Rashid et du symbolisme.)

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Jahanzad! Dans la rue, en face de votreporteestdebout HasanKooza Gar (argile de potier) dont la tête est en feu de la douleur. Cematin, je vousai vu à la boutique de Yusuf, le parfumeurancienne.J'aiobservé encore l'éclatd'antan à vosyeux à cause de laquellej'aiétédansunétat de transe, rôdercomme un fou pendant les neufdernièresannées.

Danscesannées, je n'aijamais fait demi-tour pour regardermes pots désespérés et abandonnés. Cescréaturesinanimées de couleurargileetglaçure des sources de ma subsistance et l'orgueil de mon art. Ces pots gardéchuchoter entre eux "oùestHasanKooza Gar maintenant?" Est-ildevenuun demi-dieufier qui a tourné son visage avec mépris de sesproprescréations?

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Jahanzad! Moment oùcesannées me passer commesij' étaisuneville en ruinesetenterré. Dans les cuves, l'argiledont la douceodeurutilisé pour lancer un sort surmoi de l'extaseestdevenudurcomme de la pierre. Flacons, flacons, chandeliers et vases à fleurs qui étaientactifs de mongagne-pain et l'expression de mon art gisaientbrisés et négligé. Et moi-même, HasanKooza Gar suisassisprès de la roue du potier avec les piedsdans la boue, les cheveuxépars et de la poussièresur ma tête qui estcourbésurmesgenoux. Je suiscomme un dieudeuil qui façonne les pots de liquide de rêves avec le jour de la conjecture. Jahanzad! Vousétiezun adolescent de neufans (années) ilya, maisvousavezdûremarquerque, HasanKooza Gar étaitfascinéparl'éclat de vosyeux qui l'habituded' envoyermon corps et âmedans la voie de la lune et des nuages.

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Jahanzad! Cettenuit de rêve de Bagdad, la banque du fleuve Tigre, le bateau et les yeuxendormis du batelier, pour une machine à émacié et le chagrin des pots frappée --- d'unenuit a eul'effet d'un aimant qui tire son cœur et de l'âme et queeffetest encore évolué à son esprit. La magie de cettenuitétaitcomme le courant d'un fleuve qui HasanKooza Gar aétésiprofondémentimmergéqu'iln'est pas sorti de lui encore.

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Jahanzad! Chaque jour quemalheureuse femme vientsecouemonépaule en disant "HasanKooza Gar! Revenez à vossens.Regardezl'état de désolation de votremaison". Me trouver avec mespiedssur le tour du potieret la tête penchéesurmesgenoux, elle se demande «comment les estomacs vides d'enfantscombler?"

Elle exhortemoi "Hasanvousêtesdevenuvictime de l'amour, maisl'amourest le passe-temps des riches.Il suffit de regarder les murs et les portes de votremaisondélabrée". Cegémissement lamentable étaitcommeunappel à unepersonnes'estnoyéedans un tourbillon.

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Le torrent de larmesressenti par moicomme la chute des fleursparcequemoi, Hasanétait un spectacle Kooza Gar botaniquedansuneville en ruine des illusions oùiln'yavaitaucunbruit, aucunmouvement, pas l'ombre d'un oiseau qui vole --- aucunsigne de vie.

Jahanzad! Aujourd'hui, je suisdeboutdans la rue vôtredans la froideur de la nuit avec les cheveuxébouriffés. De la fenêtre de tesyeuxenvoûtants me regardent. Jahanzad! Le monde est un tour de potieroù, comme carafes, flacons et flacons, les êtreshumainssont en formeoudéfigurés. Je suisaussi un êtrehumain, mais à cause de cesneufannéesquej'aipasséesdans le moule de la douleur, je suisdevenu un tas de poussière sans laisser de trace d'eau. Jahanzad! Cematin, dans le bazar à la boutique de Yusuf: le parfumeur, vosyeuxont de nouveau parléquelque chose pour moi.

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La luminositétaquineries de sesyeux a saupoudré un peud'humidité qui pourrait transformer cetas de poussièredans la journée.

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Jahanzad! Qui peutmesurer les dimensions du désir, maissivous le souhaitez je peuxredevenir le même Gar Koozadont les flacons et flacons faisaient la fierté de chaquemaison, le village et la ville, avec laquelle les demeures des princes et les flatteutilisés pour briller. Jahanzad! Qui sait la limite de désir, mais à votreordre je pouvaisrevenir à mesfioleset de flacons abandonnées --retournervers les cuves à sec d'argile --- aux sources de ma vie et de mon expression artistique. Alorsque, avec cetteargile, de couleuret de l'émailhumideque je peuxapporter à cesétincelles qui illuminentl'obscurité des cœursabandonnés.

Translated into French by: HastinNauraini

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[巴基斯坦] N. M. 拉希德

哈桑·库扎·嘉禾

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这首诗，意蕴深刻，奇异而美丽。迷人的意向和象征，是拉希德诗歌的特例。阿汗扎德！在大街上，（陶艺家）哈桑·库扎·嘉禾站在你门前，头上燃着悲伤的火焰。今天早晨，我看到你在老字号香料店，约瑟夫店。我又一次从你眼里，扑捉到你昔日的辉煌，因为过去九年，我如同一个疯子，在恍惚迷离里徘徊。

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这些年，我从来没有回头看看，被我遗弃的，孤独的陶器。这些土色，没有生命的东西，上着的釉子源于我生活的源泉，对自由艺术的自豪。这些陶器一直在低语“哈桑库扎嘉禾你在哪里？”他已经变成一个自豪，受人敬仰的人了吗？他已经不屑于自己的创作了吗？

阿汗扎德！这些年，时光从我身边溜走，就像被这座城市毁灭埋葬。在电视胸腔镜里，那搓带着甜味的泥土，昔日曾对我释放心醉神迷的符咒，现在已经变得硬如磐石。烧瓶、酒壶、烛台和花瓶，我艺术的表现，我生活的财富，现在已经被忽略，躺在那里，已经破碎。我，我本人，哈桑·库扎·嘉禾，头发蓬乱，灰头土脸，头垂在膝盖下面，踩着泥浆，坐在陶工旋盘旁。像一个悲伤的神，揣摩一整天，只为这液体陶罐塑造梦想。阿汗扎德！九年前你还是个青春少年，但是你一定注意到了，哈桑·库扎·嘉禾已经被你眼中的光彩陶醉，这光芒曾经把我的躯体和灵魂送达，通向月亮和彩云的路。

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阿汗扎德！那个巴格达，梦幻之夜，底格里斯河畔，小船上，船夫们睡眼朦胧，一个憔悴，恶病缠身，忧伤的制陶人—— 那一晚，一块磁铁吸引了他，牵着他的心和灵魂，这种引力一直在他的心里。那个魔法之夜，就像河中旋流，哈桑库扎嘉禾，被深深地淹没，至今还没浮出水面。

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阿汗扎德！每一天，一个不幸的女人走过来，摇摇我的肩膀说：“哈桑·库扎·嘉禾！醒醒吧，看看你这屋子的荒凉光景。” 看着我脚踩陶工转盘，头垂在膝盖下，她询问道：“孩子们饥得荒怎么办？”

她告诫我：“哈桑，你已成为爱情的牺牲品，但爱情是富人的消遣。看看这破房子、这墙壁、这门。这悲惨的哀号，就像给一个漩涡里溺死得人，打电话一样。

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我感觉她奔流的泪水，如同纷纷凋落的花瓣。因为，我，哈桑·库扎·嘉禾，是一颗植物，长在一座毁灭城市的幻影里，这里没有声音，没有乐章，没有飞鸟的影子—— 没有生命的迹象。

阿汗扎德！今夜，很冷，我站在大街上，头发蓬乱。你迷人的眼，透过窗户，远远望着我。阿汗扎德！世界就是，一个匠心之轮，人类被形成、或者被毁灭，就像这些咖啡瓶、烧瓶、酒瓶一样。我也是人类，但是这9年里，我在模具的悲哀里度过，已经变成一堆灰烬，没有了一丝水分。阿汗扎德！今天早晨，在集市，约瑟夫店：香料商，你的双眼又对我述说着什么。这明亮的眼睛，虽微显嘲弄，可眼里喷洒出的一点点水分，可能会把这堆尘土变成白昼。阿汗扎德！谁能测量欲望的维度，但如果你愿意，我可以再成为，哈桑·库扎·嘉禾，让他的烧瓶、酒瓶成为每个家庭

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，每个村落，每个城市的骄傲，让驻地王子和老鸨也用它来照亮。阿汗扎德！谁能知晓欲望的极限，但你的启示，使我重拾曾被抛弃的烧瓶、酒瓶——重提大桶的干粘土—— 重温生活艺术的表现之源。之所以用潮湿的粘土，色彩和釉子，因为我能带来，生命之火，照亮一颗绝望的心。

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Translated by: Sophy Chen，苏菲译 **** N. M. Rashid

Comlekci Hasan

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Ey Cihanzad, sokagin obur ucunda kapi onunde duran benim Ben, yanik basli comlekci Hasan Sabahleyin carsida gordum seni Yasli attar Yusufun dukkaninda Gozlerinde bir pirilti vardi Bir pirilti ki onun hasretinde cilginlar gibi Tam dokuz yil dolasa kalmistim Ey Cihanzad, tam dokuz yil dolasakalmistim Tipki cilginlar gibi O donem boyuncageriye donup Bakamadim hic uzuntulu comleklerime Becerekli ellerimin yarattigi o comlekler Kuklalar gibiydi hepsi Bican halk olan o zavalli comlekler Camur ve turlu renklerle yaratmistim onlari ben Sorardi birbirinden fisiltilarla "Comlekci Hasan'ImIz nerelere kaybolmusacaba Bizimle ilgili calismalarvasitasiyla Bir hukumdar olarak tum hukumdarlar gibi Zannederiz o da dolasmaktadir yer yer!" Degersiz geciminin tazahurune destek olan o comlekler Ey Cihanzad, dokuz yil suren o devir Gomulmus sehirlerde gecirilen

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Ve hic bitmiyen bir sure gibi geliyordubana Kovalarda kalan camur tas gibi donmustu Bir zaman vardi ki kurban oluyordum Ayni camurun kokusuna Kirilmistibutun kadehlerve surahiler Ibrikler, vazolar, ve avizeler Degersiz geciminin tazahurune destek olan Seylerin hepsi kirilmis duruyordu Bana, comlekci Hasan'a gelince Ayaklarim hep camur icinde Acik basim hep tozia dolu Kirilmis kafatasi, karmakarisik saclar, Ve kalcaya dayanan basla Kederli bir yarim ilah gibi Cicek ve renklerle ruyalarimda Seyyal comlekler yapa kalmistim Ey Cihanzad, dokuz yil once Bilgisiz olmaniza ragmeniyi biliyordunuz ki Ben, yani comlekci Hasan Kafkasya ya benziyen ufuklari isitan gozlerinde Bir piriltiya sahid olmustum Bir pirilti ki canim ve turn vucudum Bulutlar ve mehtap ikisi icin Bir patika gorevini almistir uzerine Ey Cihanzad. Bagdad In ruya renkli gecesi Dicle nehrinin o sahilleri O kayik kayikcinin da kapatilmis gozleri Sikintili ve kederli bir comlekci icin O tek bir sisli gece ki onunla hala Baglanmis duruyor vucudu Onun cani ve onun cehresi Ama o tek gecede belli olan zevk Nehrin tek dalgasiydi ki onunda Comlekci Hasan bogulmustu Ama ne var kizavalli Bir daha cikamamistir yukariya Ey Cihanzad. Devri hazirda her gun. Evet her gun O yanik kismet sahibi bana gelip Beni gbrunce comiekcinin tekerlegi uzerinde 337

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Ayaklarim camurda basim da kucakta Omuzumu tutup beni sarsmaya baslar (ayni tekeriek ki yillar yili Hayattakalmamin tek dayanagi idi) Omuzlarimi tutup sarsar beni ve diyor Aklini basina getir ey coimlekci Hasan Viran evine bir baksana Nasil dolduracaksin gocuklarinin tandirlarini Ey Hasan sen sevginin avi dusmussun Sevgi nedir ki. Oyunudur zenginlerin Sen kendi evinin kapilar ve duvarlarina bak Bu kederli cagri kulaklarima Batmak uzere olan bir kisiye Girdap altindan galen cagri gibi gelir! Goz yaslarinin o yigini gercekten cicekler yigini idi evet Ama ben. Comlekci Hasan. Vehimler sehrinin harabelerinin meraklisi idim Oyle harabeler ki oralarda Ne bir ses olsun ne bir hareket Ne de ucan kuslarin golgeleri. Hayatin bir tek emaresi bile olmasin Ey Cihanzad. Bugun senin sokaginda Gecenin usutucu karanliginda Evinin kapisina karsi durmaktayim Altust olmustur basim ve tum saclarim Bugun bir kere daha beni pencereden gozetliyor Kafkasiya gibi tilsimli gozlerin Ey Cihanzad. Bugunku dunya da cornlekci tekerligi gibidir Bu tekerlik uzerinde surahi ve kadeh Ibrik. Avize ve vazolar gibi Iyi ve kotu insanlar uretiliyor Ben de bir insanim Ne var ki kaderin kalibinda gecirdigim O dokuz yildan dolayi bugun comlekci Hasan Bir toz yiginina benziyen biridir Bu yiginda nem tesiri bile kalmamistir hic Ey Cihanzad. Bu sabah attar Yusuf un dukkaninda Gozlerin bir daha bazi seyler soylediler banadonebilirim Bu gozlerin parlak isvebazligindandir ki 338

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Bu toz yigininda bir daha Nemden dolayi yavas bir titreme hissedilmistir Kim bilir bu kadar nem toz yiginini Qamura cevirir Isteklerin genisligini kimse bilmiyorsa da ey Cihanzad Ama sen istersen bir daha comlekciligine donebilirim Bir comlekci ki onun yarattigi cornlekler Her palas her sokak her sehir ve her kasaba icin Fahir sebebi idi o comlekler Zenginler olsun ya da dilenciler Ikisinin evierini parlatir comlekler

Isteklerin genisligini kim bilir ey Cihanzad ama Istersen bir daha doneyim yalniz birakilmis comieklerime Kuru camuru ve renkleri iceren kovalara Gecim vasitasinin hunerinin tezahurune destekliyenlere Ki ben camur ve cesitli renklerle O kadar kivilcimlar yaratayim ki bunlarla Kalplerin harabeleri parlasinlar!

Translated in Turkish by: Masood Sheikh

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