Pakistani Literature Vol. 15 No. 1 by Pakistan Academy of Letters

PAKISTANI LITERATURE Vol.15

2012

No.01

Editor- in-Chief Abdul Hameed

Managing Editor Zaheer -ud-din Malik

Compiled and Edited by Sumaira Baqer Advisory Committee: Ejaz Rahim Waqas Khawaja M. Athar Tahir

The Pakistan Academy of Letters

Published by

The Pakistan Academy of Letters Sector H-8/1, Islamabad, Pakistan

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

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Content Vol.15

2012

Foreword Editorial

No.01 7 9

(3).

Ejaz Rahim I. Daily Basis II. Science and Self III. Home or House Alamgir Hashimi At Eighty-six

(5)

14 15 17

Waqas Khawaja I. Piya Toray Nain II. After Math. III. Poor Day Poor Night

20 23 24

Reginald Massey I. Taj Mahal II. Words to a Women III. The After Noon Amidst the Oleanders

25 26 27

(4)

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(2)

M. Salim-ur-Rehman Departures

(1)

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Poetry

(6)

Natasha Iqbal I. Infinity II. Lie

28 29

(2)

(3)

Raja Tridev Roy I. Star of Splendour II. The Misogamist

36 53

Saeed-ur-Rehman The Permanence of Things Novel Javed Ahmad Malik Loss

(1)

Non Fiction

(4)

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(1)

Short Story Mohammad Haneef Shahzadi

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Fiction

RasheedAkhtar Briefs I. Poetic License II. Literary Figures III. Our Literary Witch Doctor IV. A Parable Of Our Times

99 100 101 102

(3)

(4)

(5)

Reginald Massey Pakistani Poetry in English

103

Irfan Ahmed Urfi The Tragedy Of Our Drama And Nation

112

Irfan Javed The Chocolate Box

121

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(2)

Abdul Hameed Mithraismâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s Contributions To Christianity

126

(2)

He Wrote What He Saw, And Took No Sides

135

Farooq Khalid MARTYRS

141

Short Stories

(Translated by Prof. Sajjad Sheikh)

(3)

Dr. Ayesha Jalal

(1)

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Saadat Hasan Manto

I. II. III. IV.

Toba Tek Singh. Shareefan. Conspiracy of Flowers Open Up

142 151 155 158

(Translated by Saeed Ur Rehman)

Blood and Spit

162

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Foreword

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It is sheer grace of Almighty Allah that this publication is seeing light of the day after a long interval. Pakistan is extremely rich in talent, potential, tradition, culture and literature. It is the right kind of effort and application of mind that can meet all challenges. I joined as Chairman, Pakistan Academy of Letters (PAL) in March this year and found that all its publications are missing from the literary scene since long. In my meeting with writers, it was almost an unanimous demand to bring out all regular publications of PAL. Now with this publication in your hand, praise be to Allah, all regular publications of PAL are back.

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I would request our readers and well wishers to come forward, contribute and advise to make this publication a prized publication on the literary scene.

I acknowledge and thank my colleagues for their unflinching commitment to the cause of this premier organization and hope for a better and quality publications.

(ABDUL HAMEED) Chairman

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Editorial

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Pakistani Literature is finally back on the literary scene, once again with all its diversity and exotic flavour of unique descriptions and regional writings, after a long absence of three years. This absence made its want more intense and prompt among the literary circles. The readers missed its varied presentations and creative matter collected from all over the country. The creative mixture tinged with the fragrance and air of Pakistani soil and culture. The desserts and scorching lands the snow capped mountain tops and flowing streams are all reflected in the descriptions of this collection. Because this issue is appearing after a long interval due to unavoidable reasons, this volume could not be considered a complete collection of modern writers, some prominent names could be missing, during the preparation of this volume, the idea for its being already delayed kept things moving and summing up more rapidly, I tried to balance the wait and want equation for this blend of work, and tried to put things in this issue which could be an answer for the long interval. We have been inspite of our humble capacity successful in creating awareness and registering significance to the translated works of regional languages in English, shaping up the matter as Pakistani Literature, universalizing the aspects of language and force of expression. The present issue contains writings of young as well as veteran writers. Some new names have been included in this volume as Natasha Iqbal and Rasheed Akhter. Therefore, some names are old in the creative world but new for the readers of Pakistani Literature. A considerable collection of poetry is given space in this issue. The poems by Khwaja Waqas Ahmed and Reginald Massey makes this volume more exceptional and readable, offering the 9

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reader a rich as well personal meditative inspiration and a journey to far fetched fancy and imagination taking flight. The fiction section contains descriptions of Mohammad Haneef , Saeed-Ur-Rehman and Raja Tridev Roy. The nonfiction contains accounts of distinguished writers like Regionald Massey, Irfan Ahmed Urfi, Irfan Javed and Abdul Hameed, along with the new voice Rasheed Akhter. Keeping in view the completion of Saadat Hasan Manto‘s hundred year of birth a special section of Manto‘s stories translated by Professor Sajjad Sheikh is included in this volume, along with an insight onto writer‘s work by Dr. Ayesha Jalal. I thank Mr. Asim Butt for his necessary support and the Chairman, Pakistan Academy of Letters Mr. Abdul Hameed for all the possible assistance and resources in the making and completion of this volume. I thank all the contributors who stood by me, believed in me, and supported me in time for this effort, I specially thank Mr. Ejaz Rahim without whose help and guidance I would not have been able to complete this issue. I hope readers will find this volume enjoyable and worthwhile. I wish ―Pakistani Literature‖ all the success and favourable reception.

(SUMAIRA BAQER) Editor English

Poetry

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M Salim-ur-Rehman

DEPARTURES

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We left in the morning, the sun coming up, leaving behind us a sparkle of dew and a scatter of shadows. The wind blew in cold, from the north, ageless, bringing nothing with it save indifferent whispers. A long way to go, the wind and the travelers. There were too many of us or too few. Or perhaps one man trudging forward traversing a private wilderness, the sun behind him etching out the horizon. The world is too much for us to bear; or we to small in a world at large, adrift, out of our depth. Each morning a presage of endless departures, ripening slowly, speechless, into a grim disappearance.

Ejaz Rahim

The sky that lies Studded with stars At night Is scrubbed by day Written upon and rubbed On a daily basis. The skyâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s mysterious scroll Is decked with cuneiform One strains to comprehend.

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The script disappears When meaning is born.

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Daily Basis

Ejaz Rahim

If science had answers To all my quandaries Of hopes and fears I would shed tears Of joy and sing Hymns to it Loud and long.

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But science barely scrapes The surface of the secular Leaving life‘s secrets Unexposed, hidden A smile sits stoically Upon nature‘s countenance While dark invisible forces Play havoc with One‘s form and substance.

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SCINENCE AND SELF

My particles find union In bodies I do not own. And I am driven To a state of brazen Non-communion. A question haunts me Like a knife Stuck in the bosomAm I truly self-cognisant, Resilient Or merely subservient To another‘s will? 15

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Why should shards Of my existence Shreds and pieces of my self Turn into stocks and stonesI who dare to dream Of sunshine and light Defying everyday suns And quotidian stars. Shall I then extricate My sentient self From slush and slime Hook, sinker and all Or begin another saga Of unremitting Unrest?

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There is a quest still flaming In my eye and burning In my heart But what is it consuming The cold mind of science?

Ejaz Rahim

HOME OR HOUSE?

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I It took some time To unfasten But having mastered the skill One could come and go at will. Once within Loveâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s gentle hand Took me from room to room And place to place.

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I sang in happiness And the whole house Echoed my joy.

II Arriving at a loveless place Is a different call. You can fiddle All night and day But nothing will budge Your way.

III A locksmith helped To break into the house To a designer scene. Exquisite tables, sofas And beds lay in place Perfumeries, plasmas and laptops Were waiting to be touched 17

I wanted to scream But the larynx had frozen In its box. Totally nonplussed I asked myselfHas the world changed Or have I Become a louse!

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The realtor turned back suddenly And said - are you looking for A home or a house?

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But missing altogether Was any welcome Worth the name. The silence was metallic. The only hands that moved Were digital on the clock.

Alamgir Hashmi

At Eighty-six

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he died, they said, the oldest elm in the park brought up here by my mother from down south, where she saw a lone young sapling in the wild. Garden care was not for him, but got used to the attitude: the leaves tinkled every summer and beckoned us children to play or rest, timely embrace the comfort given when no else came along. A week now, the dirt and the remaining dried up roots are cleared to make room for whatever else is possible. Ground's level, ever.

Waqas Khwaja

piya torey nain Raag Saakh For Ustads Amanat Ali Khan and Fateh Ali Khan

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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 20

afflicted I afflicted I touch your feet preserve my shame my honor maintain

be lov ed your eyes eyes aeyes aa aa aa eees aaa aaa aaa eees

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belovedyoureyes belovedyoureyes belovedyoureyes

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gamapa gamapa gamapadasa gamapadasa mapadanida da mapadanida da danida danida

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 21

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tannanaderderdeen tana derey naan tananaderderdeen tananadereynaan tananaderderdeen tananadereynaan tananaderderdeen tananadereynaan ta

Waqas Khwaja

After Math

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It is as if again I am getting ready to go with you for another murder trial in a district far away putting together all that may be needed for the journey daylight sweeping in as I hear your bright voice in another room asking is it all done are we ready to go

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And next night I am at a table making sandwiches and packing buttered naans when you enter the room suddenly but I just as suddenly, inexplicably find the sandwiches dwindled the naans gone entirely and, embarrassed, I look around in confusion

They were for you, yes more than you would need for the journey but it would be contemptible to put up a poor meal for you and there are only two perhaps three pieces left Both dreams, one night after anotherâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;a month since you passed onâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; meaningless, probably

Waqas Khwaja

Poor Day, Poor Night

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The day, after all, has its own darknesses, the night its own sleepless glimmers of silver. Where would I be were I not here? Where indeed if not among strangers and outsiders as I am here?

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And so she is dead that deep-tinted flame so eager to burn itself out in poetry? And so she is dead while part-time scribblers live and slap each otherâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s hands and laugh their commonplace laughter over worn-out jokes?

Poor day, poor night and poorer still, we who cannot laugh or weep without recourse for what we cannot change nor ever brought about.

Reginald Massey

Taj Mahal

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The Mughals were wiser men. They knew too well the value of contrast; The iron core of love's unrest and the Dark desires of a courtesan's lust. Life is death, Beauty midst dust. And thus The Royal Love expounded his thesis in stone. But was this exquisite epitaph a genuine lament? To his own desired image? Or was it a prince's jest To mock forever The loves of little men? Cold marble mitigates many sins.

Reginald Massey

Words to a Women

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A women ought to be Like a piece of poetry. She should have a sense Of the dramatic And yet a head for reality. She must, of course, have a convincing conclusion. A women should be as sweet as a sonnet. But she must possess an elegy in the heart.

Reginald Massey

That After Noon Amidst the Oleanders

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

Natasha Iqbal Jozi

INFINITY

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The November sky seemed dull and blue I stood under the mountain hue I greased myself out of motherhood And lay naked on the sand dune I cried out loud with fear and pain I felt I was lost again In mist of life, before hand I babbled out some words of wisdom And verified my reason of creation I am a child of this present world I live beyond its present curve I am a child with destiny I will prove them, my infinity Yes I am the one, the chosen one To show the world, that here I come

Natasha Iqbal Jozi

LIE

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I learnt a new lesson How to cheat and lie It seems I have to practice To get good at it with time Mama says, it‘s needed To live a happy life To go on smooth twenty And make immense, defy I‘m forgetting my nursery rhymes I have forgotten some already Coz‘ the lies fill up my mind Is this what adults do? And get good at it soon Coz‘ I cannot filter The lies they tell and truths Please freeze my age Please freeze the time I want to remember My fairy tales and nursery rhymes

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Fiction

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Mohammad Haneef

Shahzadi

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As the first snow of the season fell in Lalazar, a lush green valley in Northern Pakistan, the zoo keepers began to starve their only inmate, Shehzadi, a three year old snow leopard.

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A team of half a dozen men walked up a narrow mountain trail, carrying on their shoulders a small cage, attached to long poles. They put a few dead chicken in the small cage , put the small cage next to a hatch door in the large cage and opened the door. The famished Shehzadi followed the smell of food and walked into the small cage. The hatch door behind her clanged shut. The men lifted the cage on their shoulders and started walking down to the main road where a truck waited. This truck would take her to a zoo in Abottababad, a town in the plains, about one hundred kilometers away. It doesn‘t snow in Abbotabad and this would be Shehzadi‘s home for the winter months.

The snow leopard would be taken away from Lalazar for exactly the period of time that it snows there.

We, journalists, faced with such situations tend to shout out the word irony. I didn‘t see any irony here; only confinement, torture and plain, old fashioned brutality. I had caught a glimpse of Shehhzadi one day as she took a siesta towards the end of summer last year. She was cajoled out of her little bunker by a bunch of noisy children. She was as beautiful as the snow peaked mountains in the distance. I am not much of an animal lover; the only opinion that I hold about them is that they be allowed to live, well, like animals. Shehzadi was housed in a cage no more than one hundred fifty feet long and seventy feet wide. Shehzadi stretched her body lazily, ripples went through its 33

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black spotted fur; its immense tail looked like a separate creature. Then this wild beast, known for being shy and elusive started to behave like a domestic pet. It put its back to the iron bars and children, encouraged by the zookeeper started to tickle it. The children ran along the cage and Shehzadi ran with them like a dog playing catch in a park. The zookeeper told me that a snow leopard can run at a speed of one hundred kilometer per hour and here she was just indulging the children. Shehzadi also probably knew that whatever speed she ran at she will hit the cage wall after one hundred and fifty feet. Then, bored with this child play, she started to leap at the cage walls, rattling them with her huge paws. For a few moments it wasn‘t just the cage but also the surrounding mountains that seemed to tremble with her wild rage. Scared, the children backed away and started taking pictures with their mobile phones. Sometimes she can be very playful, the zoo keeper showed me scratches on his forearms. After a few minutes she skulked back into her bunker.

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The word Shehzadi means princess and it‘s a common name for girls all over Pakistan. This particular Shehzadi was imported by the son of a powerful politician and was meant for his private zoo. The customs impounded it, the news was leaked to the media and in a rare case of law-abiding, the father refused to defend his son‘s illegal hobby. The snow leopard was handed over to the Wild Life Department, they named it Shehzadi, and decided to house it in the middle of a beautiful valley called Lalazar. A large cage was constructed, a nominal ticket price was decided, a canteen sprung up, another cage was built for future expansion of the zoo. Anti littering signs were put up and slowly a small tourist economy was in place. These days Lalazar is under ten feet of snow. In Abbotabad where Shehzadi is spending her winter, the temperature is 20 C. Why must a snow leopard be kept away from snow? Because in Lalazar it would be almost impossible to feed her. The trail leading up to her cage is narrow and difficult, the wildlife department doesn‘t have the resources to take care of her in the winter. So the 34

simple answer is Shehzadi has to be taken away from snow for her own good. For a moment I wondered if this is a metaphor for Pakistan‘s current troubles. That we must be bombarded from the skies by American drones, and attacked by our own militants in our own streets, all for our own good.

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But we are not snow leopards and Shehzadi‘s fate is no metaphor. If someone was to open the door of that cage what would happen? If Shehzadi can really run as fast as they say she can, within a couple of hours she‘ll be up on those mountains where snow never melts. Animal lovers might worry that after a long time in captivity, she would find it difficult to survive in the wild. I don‘t have the answer but we are not the snow leopards in this story. Shehzadi is. She would know how to live in snow.

Raja Tridev Roy

STAR OF SPLENDOUR

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The Chedi stood high, a spherical thrust into the unending blue, the gold spire a spindle of fire in the afternoon sun. This is ancient Nakhorn Pathom by the sea, where the monk Uttara, one of the first of Asoka's missionaries, had landed with the message of love and compassion. The sea had receded but the commemorative temple stood tall and straight.

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After the Chinese lunch Dara's mother preferred to rest in the car, so Dara and I wended our way among the fruit stalls straddling the pavement and entered the temple courtyard. The immensity of the edifice was a trifle awe-inspiring and the feeling heightened as we jostled amidst the Sunday crowd at the base of serried stone steps. At the end of the climb I chose some pale green lotus lily buds for the imposing Buddha in Abhayamudra. Was the other one the Bodhisattva Avalokitesvara? I asked for some joss sticks and forestalled Dara who had unzipped her purse.

"You are my guest," she had said at the hotel lounge in the morning. And with a little smile and a nod, "Please remember."

She wore a black lace frock that caressed her slender frame and without being obvious showed off her figure to advantage. Yet, it was those shy, now smiling, now sombre - sad eyes that compelled attention. I had gone out to greet her mother who welcomed me with a pleasant smile and a "How are you, today? Dara primly got into the back seat of their Mercedes and with her eyes signaled me to the front. They were taking me to see the famed Rose Gardens, and Nakornpaton. Dara held out her incense sticks. "Please light," she whispered. Then she held mine. Amidst other devotees we knelt 36

and bowed. We offered flowers to the Buddha and inserted the incense sticks in the sandfilled bowls. We prayed in silence, then wandered along the terrace to our left. Viewed at from close the structure turned out to be even larger than I had supposed. "So many people, yet in temples I feel like a child again, carefree and innocent," she said as we sat down on a stone bench in the shade of a Bo tree.

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"Do you?" It was three days earlier. We were on the bridge that spanned a bit of waterway connecting the house with her front yard. Her small, fine boned nervous hands opened and closed. "I am ugly. My mother said so. And everybody." With averted face she continued, "I am black. I am thin. My nose bridge should be like this." And she made tweezers of her fingers and pinched the ridge of her nose up near the forehead.

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"An aquiline nose," I said, interrupting her. "But it wouldn't suit the rest of the face."

I looked at her in the fading light and was reminded of a long forgotten conversation, when I was told that twilight was the time to have the first glimpse of a prospective bride, for it was then that one's skin colour looked two shades lighter. "We Asians are too colour conscious," I told her. "We are never white but we place too much value on shades of paleness." Dara was darker than Chinese yellow, a nicely tanned ivory. "I've seen some beautiful black girls," I said, stating an obvious fact. "In the States? But black? And truly beautiful? How can it

be?"

"It is so," I said, controlling an impulse to touch her shoulder. "I have no confidence," she said, signalling me to take more grapes from the plate on the wooden bench. 37

A slice of moon appeared from behind a screen of clouds and a breeze wafted to us the scent of jasmines. We sat on armchairs, Dara insisting on sitting up while I lay supine in the recesses with my legs stretched out comfortably. "Noi, Noi" she called out. And when the maidservant appeared, Dara asked her for something. When, a few minutes later, Noi offered a plate in her customary half crouch, it turned out to be another set of fruits.

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"My younger sister is a Thai Beauty. The millionaire married her, you see, when I said no." "But why did you refuse him?"

Dara laughed in two keys sounding like a duet of dissimilar morning birds.

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"He told me I am not beautiful, but he wanted a good wife, and I'd make a good wife." She lit my cigarette with a tiny frown of censure. "You smoke too much, much too much." Resuming, she added, "His mother wanted it. So I said thank you, but no."

She got up, leaned against the railing and with a note of earnestness asked.

"Should I give back the ruby bracelet? The one you saw the other day? Some say I should, because - she smiled -"because I didn't marry him." She looked thoughtful. "And it's expensive. Shouldn't I?"

I recalled the day she came to my hotel in pomegranate pink, with a three- tiered pair of ruby earrings and the bracelet. And a fine thin scarf, a shade darker,round her slender throat. "No," I answered shortly. "No?" Her voice rose an octave. "But why?"

"Hell, it's not an engagement ring. And since the man is your brother-in- law, it's all in the family in any case." But she still had her doubts.

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"If you are ugly why were all those men chasing you in Paris and Venice and Germany?" I asked, not wanting her mind to linger on finer points of ethics for she could brood on, further damaging her nerves and her none too strong self confidence. "May be for a change - eastern women being scarce."

She was indoctrinated into the belief that she was ugly and anyone who demurred was "fibbing," or "just being kind." "My lips are too big," Dara explained. "Thai beauty means very thin lips." Her lips were full and her mouth generous.

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Dara was one of the most exquisitely fashioned oriental women I've ever seen --graceful, feminine and fragile, evoking buried images of orchids swaying in a tropical breeze. There was an elusive quality in her, as though she was present only on a certain dimension, a part of her somewhere else, in some unfathomable land of stardust and moonbeams. Yet, at times she gave the impression of a spirit that suffered in silence, uncomprehending, utterly baffled - like the dying gaze of a wounded deer, i was sitting at the other end of the lounge on another afternoon and Dara had not seen me as she passed through the glass door. She walked to the reception counter and after a few words with one of the girls chose a less crowded area and sat down on the yellow brown sofa. "Hullo Dara." She started, turned, then on seeing me behind her smiled shyly.

"How are you today?" She said tightly clutching the brown folder on her lap. "Fine," I said taking in her nervous hands and the tremulous mouth. "Did you go to the clinic?" She nodded.

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"Everything okay?" "I've got a cyst - is that how you say it - c-y-s-t? in the breast." i liked the way she said "breast" matter-of-factly; but I didn't like the cyst one bit. Her eyes widened. "Is that bad?"

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"No," l said reassuringly. "I remember Princess Anne had a cyst and she had an operation recently, A cyst is nothing to get cold feet over." "May be it's cancer," Dara said, with another sigh she thought I did not notice.

"I read somewhere that a woman with cancer had an operation and she was alive at 70. In fact she wrote the article, I think."

"You're not kidding?"

I am not kidding. If one gets cancer in the lung it's not so good. But in the breast -in women - it's quite common. And they don't die of it, I tell you, especially if it's discovered early. It's a fact, Dara." She tried to smile. "I believe you, I have to go again to a specialist and may be take some X Rays." ............

Over a beer and dinner at her favourite Chinese restaurant that evening, She asked me to write some words on the flyleaf of a paperback l had bought for her. There was no pencil, so she offered her lipstick. "You don't mind?" "But I might break it."

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"Never mind that," she said.

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Then as she read the smudges, she paused with a finger on a set of squiggles. â&#x20AC;&#x201C; "This?" I deciphered it. in hesitant stages she began unfolding a part of her past. She spoke of the man who had broken her heart - a romantic European who had passed her up for meditation. And when I asked if he had been sincere Dara retorted with a sharp affirmative. He wrote her a letter saying that he had achieved enlightenment and that she was an impediment. This was in reply to her plea to come back to her as she could not go on living without him. He was 38 then, no babe in-the wood.

"So I don't write. That was two years ago. But if he is enlightened how can I hinder him?"

"He has not achieved enlightenment," I said flatly, "though he may have progressed somewhat." "Go on," she said, "I like to hear your explanation."

"When you do, there can be no impediment at all," I continued pontifically. "You are not affected by love or hate, nor can you feel emotions that are prompted by sensory perceptions." "Is it possible?" 41

"Oh, yes, but I don't think our chum is there, wherever it may be." "Enlightenment can't be good," she said thinking aloud. "Because if you can't love, can't feel, what good are you? Life has no meaning then."

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I kept quiet. Intellectually she accepted the possibility of a plane beyond discriminatory love but emotionally it still hurt. "But I told you - if he came to me now I'd merely be a friend, no more." She patted her hair. "It's passed, it's gone " "Perhaps," I agreed. "But then it's possibly pride that'd hold you back from going to his arms. And that's no good reason."

"So?"

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She inclined her head slightly and looked at me sideways. "A Thai boy wanted to marry me. It was all settled. His mother didn't like the idea and we cancelled it."

"So, later he cut the apron strings and came back to me. I said, it's over and we could be friends - that's all." "Pride?" She shook her head gently. "Maybe a little, not entirely." Her eyes dimmed. "Once love is broken it never mends."

A week ago my friend Anukul had invited me to his college reunion fair which was timed to commemorate the King's birthday. It was a dual function and as an alumnus he had to attend. Anukul came to my hotel at nine in the evening and we returned to his place to pick his wife up. By the time we got to the fair it was near ten. Coloured bulbs clung in clusters from trees, and from the edge of the lily ponds. There was a festive air, the usual open air stalls selling bric-a-brac and some with piles of deliciously spiced curries. 42

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A Thai classical dance-play was in progress in the open air - a tableau with a little nimble prince in scintillating gold and silver braid and nubile maids traipsing about prettily. We crossed a little bridge and entered the garden, skirting an array of musicians with their drums and zylophones and cymbals and flutes combining to produce a quait, haunting melody. "I'd like you to meet the Director of this institution," Anukul said introducing me to a slim, distinguished looking man in a dark suit and spectacles. The Director, in turn, introduced me to a colleague of his a -Harvard Master of Architecture - and his wife. "My fourth daughter," he said then, turning toward a shy young lady who was trying to make herself even more self effacing and inconspicuous behind a handfan. "Darapon. She can explain the story in English better than I can."

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I found myself sitting between Darapon, on my left, a fleeting impression of a gauzy pale pink dress, soft dark eyes and a gentle smile, maybe twentyfour years old, and the Harvard Professor's wife in a green lame maxi on my right. As I watched the performance the ladies filled me in on the background.

A prince and a princess fall in love- and at the first glimpse of a picture of the other. They go through the usual trials and tribulations and end up tragically. "Like Romeo and Juliet, somewhat," Dara said with a pensive air. Across the road the best band in Bangkok was in action. People were dancing in the open air. The sky was an awning with only stars for design, and lower down coloured bulbs peeped through the foliage. As we arrived some armchairs appeared, and soft drinks. The Director then excused himself to see that everything was going well in the other parts of the Campus. The Harvard Professor asked if I would like to dance and then being a hospitable and courteous gentleman invited me to dance with his wife. He went up to Anukul's wife but she did not dance, so he and Darapon paired off. 43

"Do you like to dance? Slow? Fast?" asked the Professor's wife. "Either and both," I said, "but not in between." I asked Darapon for the next dance. "I can't dance well," Dara said as she came into my arms. "So don't mind, please "

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"Neither can I. You just relax. There's nothing to it." And there wasn't. The floor -it was the basketball court - was cosily crowded. "It's good that I met you," Dara said, in the pause between dances. "I can practise my poor English." As we conversed, l found in her a refreshing mixture of sensibility and childish wonderment. "I teach Thai to the German Attache," she volunteered.

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She was looking forward to going to England in March, but she preferred the South-West of France, where she had taken a language course, and even more, Southem Italy. That she was a graduate from a Thai University cut no ice in the British educational system and she didn't care for degrees for the sake of degrees, so there was no question of getting a master's in some English varsity. "I like children. And I'd rather teach them than grownups."

"You mean here in Thailand?"

"Anywhere. I'd like to travel around the world, may be in South America. I'm teaching at a School near Vientienne," she said. "At a place called Thabo. It's on the Mekong, but - she stopped. "Yes?" "I don't much wish to go back." "I thought you liked children - to teach too, I mean." 44

"But I've been there almost a year, all alone, and I can't sleep well. I feel afraid after school." "Of ghosts?" "May be -l don't know - just afraid."

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"What are the Italians like?" I asked, tangentially. "Very handsome, but very naughty." She paused 'l mean, sometimes rude.' She laughed. "Where are you staying?"

We returned to our seats and exchanged addresses behind programme cards...................

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Slowly we resumed our walk around the temple. There were no other visitors in this part of the terrace and we both enjoyed the privacy of being with each other alone. "Come and see," she said pausing before an opening in the wall.We took off our shoes and climbed the stairs. There were two other couples with silent intent faces before the Reclining Buddha in the Parinirvana posture. It was like the Daibutsu at Kamakura, only that was sitting, but in amplitude they are both colossi.

On the way down I tumed and cast a last reverential gaze at the magnificent temple, and the spire reflecting dancing beams of gold in the unclouded sunlight. It stood there, solid, strong, sure. Perhaps thousands like me had stood in reverence and bowed down, along the avenue of a thousand years. On the way back I stopped before some almost black round fruits. "You've never tasted them?" 45

"No," I replied. "Are they vegetables?" "Haew. I'll take some for you."

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As we started on the return journey, Dara asked if I'd like to go to her house or rest in my hotel. She knew ofcourse, but she wanted her mother's concurrence. I lowered the sunvisor to shut the glare away. And I kept it lowered because a small looking glass was fixed in the center and in it I could catch every nuance of Dara's facial expressions. She put on her sunglasses and turned toward her mother to answer something. She slept for a few moments, awoke, removed her glasses and looked out of the window. She glanced forward and when her eyes met mine in the glass, they widened. She smiled briefly and quickly looked away.

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When we got to her home, her mother went in and the two of us remained on the wooden bridge. I lounged deep in an armchair and Dara sat upright, knees together, back straight, face three quarters to me, on another. Dara ate a few Haew and grapes but kept forcing more on me. "Do you always spit out the seeds?"

"If I find them," I said, eating grapes that were a rarity in Bangkok until very recent years. She had put on a pair of dark blue slacks, a dark red shirt and red leather slippers. She seemed quite rested though she had excused herself for a mere ten minutes. The pale glow of a tubelight hidden behind a rafter mingled with the fading twilight and cast a sheen on her hair, here and there, like a streak of distant river in moonlight. Dara was at ease and her nervous hands were now quiescent, and her eyes no longer looked pained. The specialist had waved a magic wand and disarmed her fears with regard to the nature of the cyst. She had taken an injection. "It pains," she said, making a face. And she had to swallow half a dozen tiny coloured crystal beads after meals. That is what they seemed like to me. She would have to see the doctor again, but this was only a mild irritant tucked away in the recesses of her mind............ 46

"That chair, like a throne, behind you," Dara said as we rested in the tea- shop verandah on our visit to a temple complex in the city, "is the Chief Monk's Abbot's. He sits there on certain occasions and chants mantras and sutras."

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It was rather ornate, made of ivory and silver and embedded mosaic. She pointed out the monuments of three or four Kings, close to each other, each a towering mass of blue, green or orange-yellow marble. "Look at the elephants." And she took me to the little stall across from the tea shop. They were exclusively elephants, of wood, of many colours and sizes. There was a chubby red-brown tusker that seemed to want to talk to me, so I bought him for five baht.

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Dara led me between hawkers' open air stalls to the temple of the Reclining Buddha. The statue seemed to me about a hundred feet long. "Isn't it too dark?" Dara said as I aimed my 8 mm Bolex.

"I'll chance it."

Earlier, when about to change the film I had discovered a recent loss, of a screw, because the camera back would not remain fast. I asked for a bit of string and Dara ferreted about her deceptively small looking French handbag that seemed in actuality to be a fathomless cavern. "I usually have odds and ends but no string today," she said a little ruefully. "How about a couple of strands off your head?" "Yes, yes" she said promptly and was on the point of plucking out a few when I stopped her.

Please," I said remonstrating, "I was only kidding." I convinced her and she, as usual, came out with just what I needed a rubber band, which served the purpose admirably.

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Outside, it was warm with no clouds to cover the sun. We sauntered along in the shade of tall walls on our left as we approached the Spirit House of Bangkok. I shot some footage of the Kodachrome at the Thai classical dance aiming the camera between a buxom matron and her friend. We paid homage and when we got out Dara, for ever considerate and solicitous, asked if I was famished. I thought she needed food and rest more than I did. "There's a restaurant overlooking the sidewalk. You know, Champs Elyssis style with a projecting verandah under the skies, less the awning. Would you like to go there? It's quite far; sure you can walk?"

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"Anything up to nine thousand miles."

"It's actually ten thousand," she answered. "Can you make it?"

"A thousand miles is nothing but I'd rather be carried. Would you care to have the honour?" She wrinkled her nose and made a face.

"That's the Constitution Monument," she said, when we were seated at one of the terrace tables. There was a constant swirl of passing automobiles around the stone monument, but fortunately they rarely pressed the klaxon. I named it Constitution Square, and of all the restaurants we had frequented I liked the atmosphere here best. "He's almost emptied his third bottle," Dara whispered. "Behind you." Presently I twisted around casually to discover an old man, all alone, and three empty beer bottles. "He's been 48

muttering to himself " Dara whispered again. When we were passing his table on the way out this enjoyer of Singha beer got up, bowed, smiled and said a few obviously complimentary words. But Dara would not tell me. "I didn't hear properly," was her version. "So, tomorrow you are gone by now," she said as our taxi moved into the unending traffic.

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"Yes," I replied, being reminded anew that these carefree days, and above all Dara's presence, would be wrenched away from me, and like a dream at the touch of waking reality they would vanish into the void ......

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In the evening of my last day in Bangkok I took Dara to a small nightclub with the usual decor in red and darkness. Only two couples hugged each other and swayed to the beat of a lazy rhythm. One of the hostesses considerately led us to a table at the darkest back of the room. Dara's nervous hands were at it again, her fingers coiling and uncoiling, and her replies to my efforts at breezy conversation were monosyllabic. "Care to dance?"

"No. Please " she whispered. There was a longish silence. Then with an effort she said, "I have something to say, but I can't." Her shoulders were moving more frequently as she breathed faster. I laid my hand on hers. They were cold. "I must say it, but you'll be angry." She tumed her head away and I realized there were tears in her eyes. "Say it, Dara," I said looking away from her. "Never mind about me." She stared straight down and whispered: "I'm married. Can you forgive me? I tried to tell you once but you took the conversation away. Then I wore this ring but you never asked. Then later I couldn't say it." 49

"But you could, Dara, any time," I said and swallowed my drink. "Later I couldn't," she repeated. She looked up suddenly and stared at me with defiant eyes. "Don't you understand?" I did, but I didn't want her to know so I continued to look blank.

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"But I couldn't have you go away without knowing the truth," she continued, when I would not speak. "Even if it's worse for me. And it is, because now you' ll hate me." "Come," I said, "you are going to dance."

"I can't. I feel so terrible. I'm trembling all over. And I look awful."

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I pulled her up. "They can't see our faces well enough. Besides; they couldn't care less."

She was cold up to her arms and shivering a little. I held her close to me and we danced to the soft sleepy music. "You're a brave girl," I said. "Your name suits you, Star of Splendour " "You're not angry?"

"No," I answered, "not angry." We returned to our end of the room. "When did you first decide to tell me you were married?" "When you told me you were. And that was when I asked if you enjoyed your bachelor's life. We were having tea in your hotel dining room. Remember?" I remembered all right. And now she opened her heart. Dara had been married for over a year when her Teutonic husband had the call for the monastery. He had packed a few things in a 50

suitcase and was waiting in the living room when Dara returned from teaching school at Thabo, one rainy afternoon. He was going back in quest of enlightenment, to some little known monastery of recluses in Bavaria. He left her what money he had. "You're a Buddhist, so you should know that that is the real life, and to put obstacles in one's quest for the Truth is a sin." And he had left.

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"Now it's nearly two years," Dara concluded. "You see, the family was against my marriage. They said it wouldn't last. They've been proved right and that hurts my pride too, especially since I'm now living with them." Her head was against my shoulder and she was more relaxed than I had ever seen her before. "Is it a sin," she said, then hesitantly added, "for me to love again?"

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"Love is never a sin," I said. "What one does or does not do when in love is what matters, in any event there is no sin in Buddhism - except the four cardinal sins I told you about." "I found only one thing true of love. Pain. That's the only certainty of love.

Why is it like that?" Her face in the darkness looked even more defenceless. Structually it was an unusual face, beautiful, with character and strength, yet strangely vulnerable, childlike. On an impulse I drew her close and kissed her, gently and tenderly. She made a slight movement and then went inert, limp in surrender. And we kissed again. "Why is love so painful?" she asked drowsily after a while.

"Because love is an extension of self. Because it's attachment. And attachment is pain." "I can't understand why such a beautiful thing should be so painful. But even the pain is beautiful. Why can't it last for ever?" 51

"Can a rainbow last for ever? If it did, it wouldn't be one. Love, like life, burns itself out, Dara. It's ridiculous to want anything forever. Live in the present. Don't ask or expect anything from life and you'll find it much more rewarding. Take what comes in good grace and learn to give. What you get is merely what you give. Giving, of course, is not necessarily anything tangible, it's a way of life, of thought, of feeling."

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"Why can't two people love and remain in love? Why? Why for ever, the eternal separation? Why is love so cruel?" "Because people are evolving entities, processes. They whirl on in the void, never at rest, always changing. In love there should be no hankering for permanence. Let it flow through you, permeate you; bask in it, savour it. When it's spent, it's gone. Laugh when you want, cry when you must. When you are floating down a river why worry if you'll enter the sea?"

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In reply she shed more quiet tears.

When I reached her home, it was late. The row of little bells dangling from the rafter over the bridge jingled musically in the breeze. She leaned against the bench and looked down at the reflection of the moon on the tiny ripples below. A cock crowed somewhere in the distance.

Raja Tridev Rai

THE MISOGAMIST

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After a late show at the "Naz" they dropped in at the CafĂŠ Aram for coffee. Now, at two in the moming, even the trickie of traffic had petered out. Weaving about the Dhanmandi maze Akbar took a comer rather exuberantly and almost climbed over a Deluxe Cortina. It was positioned as though the driver had begun to make a right turn but had abruptly given up the idea. Akbar's reflexes were good, his brakes even better. Nevertheless momentum could not be entirely neutralized and there was a half hearted collision. Relieved at finding that the cacophonous schreeching of the females in the back seat was merely a manifestation of jarred nerves - and nothing worse - Akbar got out of his car.

By an incredible feat of balance the lone occupant sat slumped forward on the steering wheel. He was evidently asleep, if alive. When shaken he promptly slid on to the seat and lay at a grotesque angle. Akbar was overjoyed at finding that he did not have a corpse on his hands, merely a drunk.

"Come and give me a hand," he called out. "We're landed with Dimple Haig in person." An assiduous search revealed only a wallet stuffed with money and an oblique reference to his sartorial tastes in that his jacket bore the label of a Savile Row outfitter. They found nothing more, neither a calling card nor even a driving license. "Ruby, wallop him about a bit, will you?" Akbar said, switching off the Cortina's headlights and cutting the engine. "To wake him?"

"No," replied Akbar, tuming on the parking lights. "To give yourself some exercise." "If that's your sense of humour- " "While I check the leads," he sand to Shahana, "see if you can penetrate the fog."

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"Let him fix it," Ruby said to her husband. "He's responsible." In reply Akbar opened the bonnet of his car. He had got used to his wife's genius for completely missing the obvious. "Tickle his nose," Ruby said excitedly. "Here, take my hanky."

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After tinkering around with the wires Akbar returned to the women. "Something's wrong " he said dolefully. "The dashed thing won't start." "Shall l sjt on his head?" Ruby suggested helpfully.

"Suppose he woke up and saw you?" Shahana whispered, wide-eyed. "It'd be too funny for words."

Akbar lit a cigarette. "Yes, and if he died of suffocation it'd be even funnier." He glared at the man. His face was vaguely familiar, as though he had met him casually at a party somewhere. "It's no use. He won't wake for hours " Ruby spoke unctuously to Shahana. "He's talking from experience," she said. Akbar smiled in the darkness, recollecting his halcyon bachelor days.

"What do we do?" Ruby enquired helplessly. "I'm certainly not going to walk ten miles." Akbar corrected her. "It's only about a mile to Shahana's," he said, sounding like a cheerleader. "Let's start. Quick march." "Why don't we use his car?" Shahana said suddenly, breaking her thoughtful silence.

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"Why ever not?" Akbar locked his car, then getting into the Cortina heaved the man's legs out of the way. He fiddled around with a few gadgets to familiarize himself then switched on the ignition. They dropped Shahana at her mother's house in the northern end of Dhanmandi and returned home without further misadventures.

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Very few people knew his full and cumbrous name. Being born in the Georgian era and what is more relevant of Victorian parentage, he was saddled with a name that ran into miles. And length without meaning was merely sound and fury. It had to have connotations, each with its attendant shades. As a consequence he was known by the less dignified if more manageable "Khoka." As everyone knows it means "baby" but it is not common (genderwise, that is).

Khoka was secretly pleased at having read "Prester John" or some other book of Buchan's because he had found therein a name even longer than his. As near as he could recall it was BLAUWILDEEBEESTEEFONTEIN. Khoka did not know whether it was fictitious or saturated with wildebeests and fountains nor did he get ulcers trying to find out. A name, after all, was a proper noun even if its possessor was not animate. Khoka belonged to that strata of society which is fondly (or enviously) labelled Idle Rich. Whether the rich are idle or industrious is a debatable point. That Khoka was rich beyond redemption was an incontrovertible fact. If he dared compete with a camel in a hypothetical obstacle race to heaven he would 55

undoubtedly be left at the starting point. The camel would effortlessly dive through the needle's eye, execute a jubilant somersault and look back at Khoka with disdain. And correctly evaluating his rival's progress as no better than a tortoise's the camel would curl up for a siesta.

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Impartial observers considered Khoka not only idle but lazy. When he toned it down to "ease loving" they said that it was "euphemism per se."

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In born even as a boy he had shown a predilection to selfindulgence and an ingrown (or inbom) disinclination for work. He had matriculated at the age of twenty and in the third division. How he got through University, with a first class Master's degree at that, was a mystery neither his professors nor he could divine. A stern father with imagination enough to provide checks and balances (bank accountwise as well) with a seasoning of disincentives thrown in here and there no doubt contributed toward his later academic distinctions.

When his father died Khoka found himself in clover. And contrary to expectations he displayed business acumen to the extent of doubling his not inconsiderable inheritance in less than five years. When an amazed friend asked how a congenital lazybones like him managed such a feat Khoka's explanatory reply was embellished with a militay simile.

"A general plans battles," he said profoundly. doesn't muck around trenches."

"He

He had found his mĂŠtier in life in what he termed "the joys of existence" And he had a flair for writing. Two one-act plays and three novels still fetched a tidy sum in royalties every now and again. A friend described the phenomenon with a colourful analogy. He said it was like carrying sackfuls of sand to the Sahara. Another illustrated it, unoriginally if aptly, with "teley mathay tei," which transliterated means "Oli on an oiled head." 56

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In the early stages his style was a trifle stilted and the most natural situation seemed contrived. His characters too showed an unhealthy propensity to immerse themselves in too many (and often absurd) complications. Extricating them from one sorry predicament merely led them into another. When he tired of their antics he took the shortest way out for them (and for himself) by killing them off, left, right and centre. And with the unceremonious exit of the characters the stories were left with no option save suicide. In time, however, his writings matured and he even developed a distinctive style of his own. And judging by the sale figures he seemed to go down well with the reading public. Though formally he belonged to one of the organized religions, professedly he was an agnostic. In crises, however, he promptly turned deist.

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He cherished his (single) man's estate and now, at fortysix some dubbed him a misogamyst. Thus far he had managed to short circuit the machinations of an elderly aunt (who mercifully did not descend on Dhaka too often). The aged relative wanted him to 'settle down' and 'carry on the line'. In reply Khoka cited statistics on food and population imbalance and tried to sound pious in refraining from aggravating it. She, however, dismissed such arguments as irrelevant and frivolous. Providence (perhaps) did not intend him to adorn (or clutter) his life with a wife (which he equated with strife). Nevertheless he was (reputedly) not averse to feminine society in general and intelligent and vivacious women (between eighteen and forty) in particular. His only stipulation was that any given relationship should not become intractable. As a result of experience, (lucky escapes in his mind) Khoka had augmented his defence oriented arsenal with another weapon. In non-technical parlance it simply meant minimizing (social) intercourse with (personable) young women bachelors. If, however, any of them did not consider bachelordom as merely a transitory phase of life he welcomed her as a comrade-in-arms and would offer to share even a blanket off his bed. In the form of a baffle wall he made it a point to let it be known, overtly or 57

covertly, that he was a married man. And that his wife lived at home in a non-existent village in Dinajpur district, if specifics were asked for. He had no special favourites among districts, so according to the dictates of strategy he rotated them. It was Sunday morning. Shahana started the record player and settled down with a novel, when the phone rang.

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"He's still out like a light," cousin Ruby said without preliminaries. "Isn't it crazy, bringing home a drunk like that? He might be a crook for all you know." "Don't be so unkind, Shahana. Somebody may have doctored his drink."

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"Still the Allce in Wonderland!"

"it'll be fun puzzling out the jigsaw together. Why don't you come?"

"All right, because Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;m curious too." Ruby laughed. "And he's handsome too, isn't he?"

"Is he?"

"Stop acting. I caught you looking at him more than once." "Simple curiosity. He's old, isn't he?" "Come and find out," Ruby said. "Has aunty taken the car

out?" "No, it's here. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;m coming, then. Bye."

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Khoka was floating back to consciousness. About midway he stopped the process and called out for the bearer. When the familiar sound of a lowered tea cup and the tinkle tinkle of a stirring spoon did not eventuate, even in the languor of half sleep he sensed that something was decidedly odd. With his habitual reluctance he opened a lazy eye. It did not register in a flash but a time did arrive when objects ceased to blur. After frantic communications between his brain and nervous system a semblance of reality dawned on his mind. He looked around the room with a furrowed brow. Neat, he thought, even tastefully restful. But where the dickens am I? He stretched out a limb or two and discovered that he was still in his lounge suit though someone had considerately removed his shoes and loosened his tie.

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Khoka tied his laces and opened the door at the farther end of the room. In silence he surveyed the terrain. At one end of the drawing room he saw a man, his face hidden behind a book. In the antipodes he noticed a woman knitting away like a De Farge. The third, another female, was in the midst of a yawn. Her hand still covered her mouth but the expression in her eyes changed as she cut the yawn off half way.

"Hello," Khoka said advancing, "Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;m the man who slept in the next room."As a maiden speech it was not exactly brilliant, so it evoked no plaudits. Three pairs of curious eyes remained on him. No one spoke.

"Well, thanks awfully, I mean for fishing me out of the ditch or something. Most grateful, really." With a little nod he quickly headed for the sunshine. "That's all right," Akbar said, climbing out of his deep armchair. He held out a hand. "The name's Akbar. Please sit down." "My wife, and cousin Shahana." Then Akbar sketched a summary of the events relating to Khoka's becoming a guest. He glossed over a detail here and diluted another there. The guest, he 59

said, had been sleeping in his car. "You must have been tired," he ended politely. At this Ruby gave way to an unlady-like splutter.

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"Sorry to have caused all this bother " Khoka said contritely, curbing his own impulse to laugh. "I really am. Must have been absolutely sozzled." He repressed an impulse to attenuate the damning admission, to explain that it was not to be construed as his normal bed-time practice, but he thought it would sound lame - or as so much bravado. He declined breakfast but stayed for a cup of tea. As a token of gratitude he invited them to dinner at his house. Tuesday was agreed upon. IV "So you are a professor." "No, only a lecturer at a private college,â&#x20AC;&#x2013; Shahana said with a little smile.

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"I thought you were a student. And what's your subject?" "History."

"My wife used to teach history too. But of course she only taught high school." She looked at her host. "Doesn't she teach now?"

Khoka smiled. Lowering his voice an octave he said, "Got kicked out." "You're pulling my leg."

"No fears. It's a fact." Khoke lit a cigarette and dug himself deeper into his chair. "Threw a duster at a girl. And she didn't miss." He shrugged. "Her aim was good - through constant practice at home."

"You don't mean ...?" Shahana's voice faded away. She gave him a quick, sharp glance but his expression was reflective, even sombre. "You must have deserved it " she said politely.

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"Perhaps " agreed Khoka and sighed. "Well, I suppose one shouldn't speak ill of the absent, but she's my own wife, after all. Anyhow it's all in the past. Now she's an angel with sprouting wings." He excused himself, chatted with another guest or two and came back. "As I was saying, she literally developed her wings. Too fond of potatoes - and sugar!" "I should like to meet her " Shahana said wondering what she was like to look at. "Doesn't she come to Dhaka?"

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"She does, not very often though. This place gives her the creeps, she says. But I wouldn't recommend your meeting her." "Why not?" Shahana looked at him sharply.

â&#x20AC;&#x2022;If she knows I'm friendly with you - even as an acquaintance - she'll straight away think the worst."

"But why?"

"She feels that married men can't have women friends as friends only. I mean bachelor women. According to her anything could happen - sort of on unplatonic lines." Shahana took a sip of coffee and remained silent. "If you do meet her with me just freeze into a complete stranger."

â&#x20AC;&#x2022;Certainly not. Why should I?" She sounded indignant at his veiled offer of complicity. "To save me from dusters. And explanations. I'd have to confess I was blotto and you carried me indoors."

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She could not help smiling. "The way you say it one would think only I was there and I literally carried you into bed or something." She paused, then recollecting, said, "But then you said she's an angel now." "In all respects save women and me." "Women and you?"

"Yes, friends who are friends first and women second, if you get me, and also the other way around."

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Shahana accepted more coffee and Khoka, cognac. "Tell me, Shahana," he said cutting a cigar, "how is it that you're not married?"

She gave him a sidelong glance. "Isn't that a personal question?"

"Our discussion so far hasn't been entirely weather oriented, you know." She could not dismiss the force of logic. "Because I didn't choose to," she said and clammed up. "A most revealing answer, indeed. Thank you." The Grundig ceaselessly poured out music at a low pitch. Guests conversed in twos and threes. 62

Shahana realized she had sounded snooty, perhaps even haughty, so she elucidated. "Well, I haven't met anyone I could love yet." "That's faulty reasoning," Khoka said quickly. "Never marry for love." "Then what, for money?"

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"Among other things." "Such as?"

"He must be totally incapable of intelligent and stimulating conversation." "Why are these negative-qualities - so important?"

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Khoka looked at her quizzically. "To keep him on the straight and narrow." "I must say, Mr. ............"

"Khoka is more than adequate," he interposed quickly.

"What I was saying is your views are peculiar." Shahana stood up. "Excuse my saying so, and so are you. Good night. And thank you." She walked away briskly and merged into a threesome near the door. Khoka smiled inwardy and sipped his cognac before resuming rotation among his guests. From early childhood Shahana knew her mind. She seldom prevaricated. And when she wanted something she usually got it. 63

She was positive. If the road to her objective was paved with obstacles she did not go around them. She bulldozed through.

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She was serious, sober and sensitive. Though her sense of humour was a trifle cramped she enjoyed a joke like anybody else. Though highly intelligent her mind tended to run in set grooves. She was extremely pleasing to look at and impolite people did stare at her lingeringly with or without the flimsiest excuse. Many a man had tried to woo her but thus far none had succeeded in making an inroad into her heart.

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Now, for the first time in twenty four years she experienced doubts and misgivings. She had been in Khoka's company a number of times-in the last three months. At times she thought she positively hated him, at the Intercontinental Hotel, on the Saturday previous, for an example. Khoka was in the Chambeeli room with a busty woman who looked at him with liquid eyes, as though he were the last male left on earth. On the dance floor he had said, "Hello, Shahana" and she had helloed back. The exchange was as fleeting as passing ships in mid ocean. Never once had he come over to her table nor asked her to dance.

Was she in love or was she not? Something deep within said she was. And with the admission she blushed like a cloud at sunset. She asked herself if it was right and proper. The answer was a vehement negative ..................

A libertine and a cynic and well on the wrong side of forty. It's a hopeless case. But then, am I going to languish like a lovelorn ninny? Am I a defeatist? Certainly not. But then what is the solution? Marriage? One should certainly not bust up a marriage. That's playing dirty. But then all is fair in - even mentally she skipped the word - and war. No, it's not fair but he's the one I want and I'm ............ The telephone jangled her out of her reverie. "Hello." "Hello, Deepwater Fish." 64

"Whatever do you mean, Ruby?" Shahana said listlessly. "You know, you sound like a duck in travail." "I've got a head." "Yes, but you've lost your heart."

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"Look, Ruby ............" "Reserve the denials for ostriches like yourself. Listen, I've been scouting around and found out something." "What are you talking about?' "Khoka. He's not married."

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"What!"

With her typical sense of the dramatic Ruby put down the telephone receiver.

In the midst of preparing for the morrow's lecture Shahana found her thoughts straying to Khoka. Wait, she thought, clenching her teeth. Wait! Dusters! I'll show you dusters!

Always one to translate feeling into action with promptitude, she picked up the telephone. On the third attempt she got Khoka. "Hello, is that you?" "Not if you're a creditor." "What are you doing?" "Listening to you." 65

"I have something to say to you," she said grimly. "So it appears." "What are you doing this evening?" "Any number of things contingent upon ............

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"I must see you. Can you come over? "With pleasure. Midnight suit you?"

"Seven. And seven means exactly sixty minutes after six." He knew better than to argue ..................

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After some general conversation Shahana's mother went upstairs. "So you lied to me," Shahana said without preamble.

"Very likely. Polite society expects one to tell so many lies that it's difficult to know when to speak the truth, if at all.â&#x20AC;&#x2013; "Now, you speak the truth."

'Naturally, now I'm not in polite society.â&#x20AC;&#x2013; She chose to ignore the remark. "Why did you lie?" "Which particular white lie are you referring to?" "White! It's jet black. About being married and dusters."

Khoka was seized with a paroxysm of laughter. When it was spent he said, "When I told you that, it was not a lie. You see, I convinced myself I had a wife with a propinquity for dusters. Just 66

a question of projecting myself into a future I wished to avoid and still do." "Will you cut out the tomfoolery and talk plain? And if you're not careful you'll really have dusters or better still, flying saucers at you." She glared at Khoka and then at the pile of quarter plates and tea cups. She was not thinking metaphorically at all, Khoka discovered in alarm.

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"So you were trifling with my affections, were you? And laughing at me all the time?" "Certainly not. You said you hated me, so I said I loved you. I was trying to find a balance in our relationship." "Then you didn't mean it?"

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"Of course I meant it." He lit another cigarette. "But love, by its very nature is catholic, esoteric, never exclusive. Love, after all, is an expandable commodity and expendable too." "You're not a man, not a real one. You are completely heartless "

"I thought a heart that produced a lot of love, was soaked in it in fact, would meet the approbation of mankind, women inclusive."

"You are not only heartless, you're callous. And you're an insulting boor. Don't speak to me, ever again. Good night." She stood up. "I don't want any politeness from you." Khoka had risen with the intention of leaving but at her words he quickly sat down again. "What are you waiting for?" Shahana said ............ Vll 67

The following evening Khoka decided to stay in. He settled down in bed with a Harold Robbins and a bottle of Scotch. He had got through the second drink when the door bell rang. After sunset, as a matter of principle, he made it a point to answer the door himself. So he put on a dressing gown and shambled off in his slippers. It was Ruby.

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"Aren't too busy by the looks of it." "That's right. Coke?"

"7 Up will be fine, thank you."

Khoka gave her the drink and fished out a fresh bottle of whisky from the cabinet.

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"When's Akbar returning?" he asked, raising his glass in a silent toast.

"He's expected back tmorrow." She patted her hair and with a pensive look she said, "Shahana's in love with you. What're you going to do?"

Khoka drank some whisky and said nothing. "She will make an excellent wife. It's got nothing to do with her being my cousin or anything. And many a man would give his eyeteeth for her." "I'm sure," Khoka said lighting a cigarette. "But can you imagine me as a husband? She'd wilt in three weeks and hate my guts in the process." She tried to talk him out of his views but did not succeed. Then they changed the subject............

"Hello, turtle doves," Shahana said materializing with the abruptness of a genie. "Billing and cooing, I see. Subdued lights, hushed voices - almost like a movie." "Don't be silly," Ruby said severely. "Come and sit down." "What‘ll you have?" Khoka asked automatically.

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"Your head," Shahana replied. "On a silver charger." "Done," Khoka said cheerfully. "But you've got the sequence wrong. Begin the dance first." Shahana sat down. "Ruby, I'd never have believed it of you. Disgusting."

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Ruby flushed and her bright humourous eyes darkened. "That's enough Shabana!" Is it? That‘ll be for Akbar to judge." Turning to Khoka she hissed, "Slimy snake." mean about telling

"You're not serious," Khoka said. "I Akbar a pack of lies." "I will tell him exactly what I............"

"Khoka, Akbar's bound to believe her." Ruby began to cry, Still snuffling she got up and went out of the door and into her car. Khoka saw her off and returned. "Shahana, this farce must stop." He poured himself a stiff shot of the bacchic nectar. "You and I can never get married, so why ruin Akbar and Ruby?" "Marry you!‖ Shabana snorted. "Even if I get marooned on an island with no one but you, I wouldn't marry you." 69

â&#x20AC;&#x2022;That's natural he said equably."There'd be no one to marry us." He drank some whisky. "Incidentally, you may recall that no one married Adam and Eve. Yet that didn't stop their carrying on like nobody's business ............ and with a clear conscience too." "So you want to live like Adam, do you?"

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"No," he said perfunctorily. "Digging and delving's too strenuous a pursuit And he only had Eve." With a wistful air he added, "But I wish women didn't cultivate this marriage fad so much."

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"While on the subject I might as well tell you that I have thought things over." She dimpled prettily. "I've come to tell you that you are forgiven and that I shall marry you." Khoka finished his drink and switched on the music.."Since you are talking like an adult," he said slowly, "I may as well tell you that you shall not." "We will see."

She sounded perfectly self assured, even complacent. Khoka looked at her and thought she looked like the cat that had swallowed a canary, And he identified himself with the late canary. Drastic measures are called for, he thought, searching for a way out f om under the sword of Damocles. She gave him a long, appraisive, look and departed through the front door. Her car was parked on the road outside the compound wall. He saw her into the car and returned with a creased brow. He started thinking ........... The idea struck him in the midst of dessert and he wondered why he had not thought of such a simple and obvious solution earlier. He pushed back his chair and strode to the 70

telephone. He dialled information............

PIA

and

jotted

down

flight

"I'll send you instructions later," Khoka said to his servant. "I'm going on a business trip." "Where to, Sahib?"

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"Initially to Blauweeldeebeesteefontain," he said. "Now, pack a couple of suitcases quickly and wake me up at 6 sharp." When Shahana rang the house the next day the servant told her that the master had gone to "Bloody Big Fanta." For a while she felt numbed. Then she picked up the telephone. "Ruby, he's gone - the coward. And I feel all carved up inside."

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Ruby gripped the phone and could not speak for a moment. "He'll come back," she said finally. "He must."

Shahana sighed and put the telephone down. She did not know that Ruby was not speaking to her - merely voicing a solace to ease her own deep hurt.

Saeed-Ur-Rehman

The Permanence of Things

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The smell of shit was everywhere around me. The pipes of the toilet next to the master bedroom had been blocked and the commode was throwing a thick slush of shit and water back on to the floor. I could have ignored the whole mess and closed the door. Forgotten. No problem. There were two other toilets in the house. But the acrid smell of what my body had expelled and what had now been rejected by the toilet was difficult to ignore.

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There was no way I could have fixed the toilet on my own. I possessed no deep insights about drain pipes. For me, the complexities of plumbing were as great as those of the human genome project. I needed professional help.

I left the house, looking for someone who knew plumbing. Squinting and trying to adjust my eyes against the intensity of the midday Lahori sun, I started walking towards the shops where I usually bought bread and eggs. Near the shops, I spotted a group of young boys. They were always there, just like the footpath. They were loud and harmless, hanging between unhappy homes and Toyota Camry daydreams. I ignored them and walked up to the shopkeeper. ―Salam. I just wanted to ask if you knew where I can get a good plumber? My toilet is spewing out a huge mess.‖ ―Forget about the plumbers, sahib. Try to find a bhangi.‖ ―Bhangi?‖ 72

―Oho, the sewer cleaner, bhai sahib. The municipal committee-wala. The bhangi is the person who can really unblock your pipes.‖ ―Oh, ok. Where can I find a bhangi?‖

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―Just look around the khokhas over there. The bhangis usually spend their afternoons there.‖ I walked over to the khokhas where lots of men were sitting around on rickety wooden benches, drinking chai.

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I asked the chai-wala if he knew any bhangi. He pointed towards a man sitting on his haunches under a tree. I walked over to the man. A sweaty, sunburnt, moustached face with knife-sharp slits as eyes. A loosened turban on the head. On the ground to his right, a thick broom and a long bamboo pole with twine wrapped on the joints. In his long gnarled fingers were a cup of chai and a sweat-soaked filterless cigarette.

―Can you help me? My toilet is blocked.‖ ―Yes, of course. That‘s what I do.‖

―Okay. How much do you charge?‖ ―I‘ll have to have a look. Depends on the job.‖ ―Ok. Are you free now?‖ ―Yes. After I finish this chai.‖

I waited for a while, looking at the crows perched on the branches of an acacia tree. He finished his chai, rubbed out his cigarette and stood up. 73

We walked back to the house without saying another word. I showed him the toilet. He looked around the commode and gave a royal, sardonic smile. He was on his familiar territory. I felt I was his helpless slave. This is a real mess. Five hundred rupees.‖

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―That‘s a bit steep. How about four?‖ Afraid of being swindled, I tried to negotiate. After we had agreed at four hundred and fifty, he told me that he would need to go and fetch another man because the task was too big for him. It was fine by me as long as the fee would not change. It wouldn‘t, he assured me. Okay. He left his broom and bamboo in a corner of the bathroom.

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While waiting for Bhola, I spread some old sheets over the carpets in the lounge and the bedroom. After half an hour, the door bell rang.

I went to see the door. He and his helpmate were already in the driveway. The helper was a willowy man, with a high-bridged nose, sunken cheeks, and drooping shoulders. The tubercular hawk was called Sitar.

They both walked over to the toilet. I watched them as they took off their worn-out sandals, waded through the fetid water and looked at the commode from all sides. Sitar pressed the flush button. The bowl gargled out more muddy slush. Bhola looked at the helpmate who looked back and nodded. I guessed it was serious stuff. ―Sitar will have to go and look at the pipes in the other toilets.‖ ―Why?‖ 74

―We need to look at how the pipes connect and where the trouble may be. He‘ll have a look at the drain pipes outside of the house as well.

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And I‘ll try to push the blockage from here with my bamboo.‖ I got worried. Their working at two different spots in the house meant I couldn‘t watch over them at the same time. Either could steal anything. The house was full of expensive decorative art pieces I had brought from my visits to different countries. At that moment, I decided that I would never again allow more than one worker in the house. It was already looking like a plot to me. If Bhola could clear the pipes with his bamboo, why did he ask Sitar to come along? Of course, one of them would try to pinch things while I watched the other. It seemed obvious.

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I didn‘t know what to do. I showed Sitar the other toilets. This was not my idea of getting help. How would I know what Bhola was doing while I was escorting Sitar around? This was worse than a shit filled toilet. Two unknown men were moving around at different places in a house which I had never wanted to share with anyone.

Sitar finished checking at all the taps, shower heads, joints, knobs, buttons, and pipes in the toilets and went to the front yard as I was trying to decide if I should follow him or go and see what Bhola was up to. I walked back to the master toilet. Bhola was bent over the commode with his bamboo inside the drain pipe of the floor. Somewhere underneath the floor and deep into the pipes something needed to be pushed aside, moved, or broken into pieces and flushed away. After a while, I came out on the drive way. Sitar had lifted the iron mesh off a big sewer pipe near the main gate and was bent over the hole, peering in the darkness and trying to listen to the sounds of the refuse and water. I stood there and just watched the concentrated look on his face.

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Watching Sitar meditating the open sewer and listening to the faint sloshing sound of Bholaâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s attempts to clear the pipes, I suddenly felt something like an insight breaking out and an immense calm filling my mind.. Nothing in the life of these two men would change even if they stole all the art pieces in the lounge or the blankets and sheets in the bedroom? I could replace everything I owned several times over and they would sell all the booty to have a week of drunken and well-fed leisure and would go back to cleaning shit again.

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Nothing major in the world of these men would change for a very long time. I almost wanted to laugh at my earlier panic. I gave up watching Sitar, stopped thinking of Bhola and came inside. With a relaxed buoyancy in my step,I walked to the kitchen and started preparing my afternoon cup of coffee.

Javed Ahmed Malik

â&#x20AC;&#x153; Lossâ&#x20AC;?

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Wars are not neutral. They leave you with deep scars. In his deep intense eyes still lived those frozen moments of his friends getting wounded, bleeding and dying. For a man like Abdullah those memories were not easy to forget. Even his very independent spirit could not get rid of his past demons. The most important among all of his thoughts was a sense of loss, of so many years he had to spend away from his village in alien lands and places he never intended to be with his own free will.

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All he liked was his own people and his own community, his fields and neighbouring small and big villages. There was a story with each stone, each tree and each twist of the village lanes. He could never leave them behind.

Some times he would receive letters from Sattar, the only literate man in the village, his close friend and now his son in law, too. He could never find a better match than him for his sixteen years old daughter for this man of his age, his friend.

It was still strange that he was able to befriend a completely opposite man, Sattar. He never considered him to be in the company of able men of letters, patiently discussing their differences. He was a restless, independent type. Deciding in spur of moments and going into matters of life and death in no time. May be his that spirit kept him alive and sane in the World War no less, fought against the enemy he could never understand fully. For many of them, Hitler remained a single man they must defeat. It was in times like this when one of his fellow villagers remarked: 77

―Hitler is mad but Abdullah is mad too. Cannot predict who will win‖.

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Abdullah only knew later that even between wars there can be normal calm periods. On good days, especially during weeks of slow preparation for next move, he would not hesitate to steal left over drinks, sprits, beer anything. All Abdullah knew was that after having them he would feel extreme calm, would eat better and have a longer sleeps some times even resulting in discipline breach and as a punishment he had to do the night guards duty twice more than others.

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Though after being punished for few times, Abdullah was able to swap his time with the other forced sentry asking him to sleep first for three hours and then give him the time. They both were able to lie for each other if the rare inspecting officers come to check them that the other one has gone out to release himself on the call of nature. It was the first time Abdullah actually lived by the sea. Despite his consistent urge to go back home, there were days when he was completely charmed by the coast and its beautiful Kibte fort, Alexandria‘s main charm, where he was stationed to guard his officers and on other times he was simply stunned by the beauty of nurses and other support staff of the close by camp of Queen Alexandra's Royal Army Nursing Corps and always felt a contempt seeing them with his officers, all of them British.

There was always danger of air strikes at night when they all were asked to observe complete black out. All of this was way outside the reality of his days in village which he would always remember with open eyes but again would feel haunted by the presence of large number of women inside the areas he was guarding. Maather Choad. Mother fuckers. He knew he would not be able to fuck even one of them. They were always ready for white officers on Saturdays. But who 78

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had stopped him dreaming to get one, one day. Like back in village despite his married life with Sughraan, he was able to still retain his elderly but still passionate love Cheelo. On hot summer deserted afternoons, when he would see her from a distance with her hoard in vast fields almost deserted and yellowish after wheat harvesting, he would still feel aroused and automatically, very naturally he would start moving his hoard close to her. It was already a gesture for her. Abdullah never found her uncooperative. And for them the available wheat chaff rounds give a good shelter. They could never understand that despite their very infrequent sex in complete wilderness, why still it was known to almost all men and women at his village.

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Perhaps nothing can remain hidden for long time inside a village. Every one knew about everyone and anything even remotely related to them. He could never know that village life essentially is fed on day to day updates good or bad of every one, each men and women.

But it was not just Cheelo which made him to think of abandoning the army and return. He was just fed up. Post war Army did not object much to his wish. It wanted to look at its soldiers mildly and just one application from him on health ground granted him early retirement on medical grounds which meant he would have a pension and free medical from any army hospital. Abdullah now was formally back. But surprisingly enough he found his village quieter than before or may be his ears started picking its silence now more after his prolonged stay in relatively urban Alexandria. There were also less people with whom he could share exactly what he has seen. Many just did not know the reality of the sea, its coastal life, the ships and their movements in blue deep waters. For the first time Abdullah realized how much shared experience matter for a steady talk. He also understood their can be lot of things which his fellow villagers cannot know. It was during these times, when he really appreciated Sattar in real terms. He was far different than him and yet interesting enough to be hanged along. 79

Same Sattar now was his daughter‘s husband. But still a friend. In the beginning what made Abdullah curious about Sattar was that how can he spend almost his full day in mosque where he could only visit once in a while not even regularly on Jumma prayers.

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But after a while Abdullah liked the rare insight of life inside the mosque which had its own routine and glimpses of interesting course of chores in which these religious people would always involved in. The village life was not dependent on mosque at all but still it had its own social relevance where those who were regular would sit and chat endlessly. Then there were over fifty permanent students living there day and night with their own cooking routines, washing clothes etc during the day.

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Abdullah would sit with Sattar and see him teaching, managing, coaching them. Sattar used to have a long wooden stick to keep his students in horror. Abdullah would dread Sattar‘s rage on given days when he would beat all of them indiscriminately and continuously. Some times even badly hurting them. Strangely enough more Sattar got stricter; more parents would come from far off places and leave their students there. Abdullah heard them often saying:

―Now my son‘s fate is in your hand. You can beat him as much as you want just take care of the bones‖. Malik Abdullah always found himself lucky not to be in Madrasa ever. In fact he was not sure if his own recital of Quran was correct or not. He wondered if Sattar knew that and what could have been his reaction? But either it was their this recent relationship which strangely had made Malik Abdullah his father in law or it was their old friendship, Sattar did not really care to correct Abdullah. In fact he had accepted him as such. 80

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Every body in Bangyal use to believe that the village was very old. Some said it was over one thousand years, others just did not know the counting. It was their village for ever and that was enough for them. One third of the village were Hindus with just two three houses of Sikhs and the rest were Muslim Rajputs and Syeds and low cast Kammies but still Muslims. Syeds had the spiritual authority in the village and Hindus were businessmen closely linked with Dina, a major market dominated by more richer and urbane Hindus. Muslims were more in numbers but were less visible in politics and social life. They were mostly farmers and dominated villages and scattered hamlets. Just twenty miles away from the main city and more socially connected it was always Hindus travelling frequently to the city and coming back by the evening. Whatever were their daily routines, nothing prevented most of them to sit together along with Hukkah sharing their stories all along. They never thought of leaving each other ever. The idea of independence was too distant from here, too unnecessary and may be too remote to disturb their life. It was still unimaginable that any thing undertaken away from their lands by unknown people and unknown institution can have a potential to disrupt their life.

What happened later was very different than what they have been thinking, earlier.

Three years after Sattar and Irshadâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s nikah, Pakistan and India decided their independence. Abdullah had come back form the war front six month ago. He would have known lesser about it but Sattar was in touch with his other friends in Allahbad, Lucknow and Delhi from where he was getting letters and messages from his network of students going and returning from Deoband. Abdullah knew that Hindus in the village were getting anxious, very privately. He also did not anticipate any violence but every day he heard stories from his friends always discussing the details of these crimes without a pain or joy. 81

He could never realize that soon he will find himself embroiled in it. After all his friends already had started going to other villages and sitting with people making schemes against Hindus.

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The panic and fear suddenly increased with the incident of Bagrian, an adjacent bigger hamlet, almost part of Bangyal equally dominated by Hindus and Muslims. Abdullah and his friends used to spend almost half their day there. Almost every day.

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The village had a narrow street with shops all along. It was kind of business centre. Hari Ram and his sons, his brother had a whole sale business in almost all major adjacent villages. When most of other powerful, relatively affluent and educated families started leaving, Hari Ram never thought to go. His business empire and his relationship with locals, many of them his clients for decades just did not make him believe that he should shut every thing down in a day and leave. He was not fond of his Hindu brethren much. Many of them his business rivals. In fact he was friend to many of the Muslims more then Hindus. He never thought religion as a basis to separate each other. He always took it as a different way of living. When a Hindu would die, even Muslim would come to attend the final death ceremony, the keirakurm. They just would not accompany the family during the final rituals but more as a respect and less as a disagreement. And same was the practice of Hindus who would not attend the final burial ceremony in the graveyard but would still remain in families home to show their sympathies. But Harichand was wrong. When the military trucks came and even most ordinary Hindus started going in panic along with many others, Harichand got double minded. His uncle Chahca Rambhrosay already was asking every one to pack. When Hari opened his mouth he was immediately snubbed â&#x20AC;&#x2022; Ran yawaiah..muslaay would take your gaand. Open your eyes.â&#x20AC;&#x2013; 82

That is when his friends Ghulamoo, Lumberdar Yousaf, Baz Khan and Choudry Siparuss came and said ― Hari do not with go with rest of the Gandoos..there is no problem here. We are your brothers.‖

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That is what Harichand was saying and thinking all along. He was raised with these people. His early youth and its early temptations. With Lumberdar Yousaf he even went to brick kiln where rohtaki women were available relatively cheap. They never distinguished the religion of the women of their take. They enjoyed a good fuck for some time before Hari‘s father took note of both of them and beat them both. He still remembered how Yousaf touched his father feet not to disclose that to his father. Lumberdar Noor Khan. An unsmiling well meaning village notable. Any thing like this was bound to challenge his dignity. Yousaf was horrified to think about his father possible onslaught on his ass with the stick he brought back from Army after retirement.

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Harichand had confidence that these people can do no harm to him. He decided to stay. He cannot destroy his whole business just to reach fucking Amritsar or even further Delhi which from Dina alone was several days journey. His father went to Delhi only once in his whole life. There was no one he was particularly sure of going to and reaching in India. For him actually leaving home was far more dangerous than living here. At least he knew these people. He was mistaken. They were not the same people.

It was merely half day after the majority of trucks already left, when he got the message from Barrister Krishen Lal from Jehlum. Barrister Sahib was a congress leader and a local community notable sent some one for those who were left behind to vacate the place at all cost. The danger was extreme and there was bloodshed already in Lahore and few days back a train in nearby Pind Dadan Khan was attacked near causing widespread killings. There was no time to stay. Harichand first time felt the fear. He was aware of Barrister Sahib‘s influence. No city Assistant Commissioner or police chief 83

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would come with out visiting him. His property and influence closely linked to legal fraternity in Rawalpindi where he also some time would go and take some of the cases. Harichand thought if Barrister Sahib is not confident to stay here, then he also should not be. He took his last valuables, money and gold and started digging the cattle yard before asking his two remaining nephews to take his old mother first to Dina where he would meet them next day. He dug quite deep so that if even some one attempts to dig the flour, he does not find that easily. After all sixty tolas of gold was the saving of their family for generations. He even did not trust his Chacha who left earlier to carry that. He knew his Chacha was brave but was careless of another kind. And till then he was not sure he would leave his place, at all. It was only today that he thought to leave for brief period and then come back after a while when things settle down.

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It was still early morning when he left and it took him a while to first cross the narrow streets of his village, the village front fields, village main pond and the mini stream where he spent his childhood and whose sandy banks provided the venues for Kabadi matches. And an open space where field after fields allowed livelihood and basically life for people. He felt a bit sad but got satisfied with the thought he will return back soon. By afternoon he already was able to reach a brief set of shesham trees, a place where two pitchers and a silver glass would always give a relief to travellers. Main road from here was still far but he knew he is also away from village. He decided to stop and stay when from the village side he could see four dots slowly moving towards him. It took him no time to distinguish that they were Ghulamoo, Lumberdar Yousaf, Baz Khan and Choudry Siparuss. The fifth one was Malik Abdullah, his tall straight walk was prominent from miles. He smiled. Friendship of centuries cannot die in weeks. They were coming to say him good bye.

He decided to wait. He was right. He heard Lumberdar Yousaf saying ―Gandooa you cannot leave without telling me. I thought we were friends‖. ― Why are you going? Where are you going? Nothing is wrong. There is just some problem is cities, away from here‖ Gulamoo said.

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― All of my relatives have gone. There are few Hindus left in the village. I though If I could go for some time and then come back‖ Harichand explained dryly. He was not sure on what he was saying. Baza came close to Harichand. ―Come back Hari. You are among your own friends. It is shame you are going. Shame for all of us. Come I swear Peer Khara..you are safe. God willing you are‖ .

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A tear broke out Hari‘s eyes and fell over his cheeks. He came across a paradox. He did not want to go. He never thought of going. He looked towards his friends and started coming back. In the way they talked of their old times and present. The return journey did not take as much time as his lonely departure journey few hours before. For a while Harichand thought he was just following his Chacha‘s allusions. Every thing was good, normal and calm. There was nothing different.

When they reached village, it was already late afternoon. Village was quieter than evenings when every body returns from fields and women go out to bring round of water. Men and children come out on the streets. It was quieter still than usual. Much quieter. May be it sounded so to Hari. They were suddenly standing at the main village entrance. That is when for a brief time, Siparus went to his nearby home. That is when Bazoo, Yousafa and Gulamoo stood around him. Talking. Talking of village. Of people who have gone. 85

And that is when some thing extremely heavy was struck on Hari‘s shoulders. It was Siparus with his axe. His Kuhari.

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Hari looked towards his friends, they were standing quietly. That is when Siparus said ― Attack bhainchoad Hindu..‖ He then saw Ghulamoo striking his head with long heavy wooden rod he had. There was two another from Siparus this time on his head. He felt blood flowing in his eyes, blinding him and his village and his life. He looked towards Baza and said ― Peer Khara‘s swear made me bring here Bazia..You have gone blind‖. In the pain of being brutally killed by his own friends, as he tried to stand on his feet, he looked at Siparus again and said ―I do not have a pain from your axe Siparasa, it is coming from my heart due to your betrayal. You were my friend‖.

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Two more hits on his head from his axe was Siparas‘s answer and Harichand fell down and could could stand up. ―Bhainchaod Hindu‖

Ghulamoo spitted. That night alone four of them along with many more burned eleven homes. Hari‘s shop was looted on the same day. Siparus next day went to Dina. He was eyeing on some of main properties which were expected to be vacated soon. Lumberdar Yousaf and other promised to join them in two three days. Malik Abdullah was the only one deciding to stay back. No one insisted. No one cared. Madness comes without a pattern, without any predictability. No one can explain it nor can it be controlled. The most peaceful place for Abdullah was his Dera, away from village and yet close to it, in the middle of the wheat fields. He would wander in streets, in looted homes and would sit for hours in deserted rooms of those people who lived their life with him. Life lived together and yet so differently. So different 86

that a mere provocation had had a maddening affect over them. Or may be it was normal for countries to go through revolutions, good or bad, loosening their control. It is in these times when it is discovered that man after all has not changed. All the talk of an organized life, rule of law and respecting social informal laws were so fragile in essence that childhood friends can kill each other with the first hint of opportunity.

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For Abdullah it was too big to understand. Too large to manage and yet too easy to become part of it to an extent that he participated in killing one of his child hood friend. Just like that.

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Many hours went by. He was lying on charpoy on his dera. Tall, green brownish jowar and bajra crops was still standing. The cutting season was about to be started and in some near by fields Abdullah could see some farmers already had started cutting their crops. When it comes to self indulgence, no one can compete with farmers. They can work all day and see each other in nearby fields but would always prefer to ignore each other. Even in the evening when they carried their tired bodies along with their own hoards of cows and goats, they would prefer to silently pass each other.

He fell asleep. Sun slowly went down. He woke up when he felt cold. The surroundings had made the place even darker. Moon was to come but slightly late. It was sixth and seventh of the moon. He could remember that because just fifteen days ago there was nothing unusual in the village. There was still calm. Some hope. The whole thing started ten days ago and had transformed his and many other lives. He was now a killer too. It is not that he could not kill people but the idea of killing an innocent childhood friend in the middle of the village did not appeal his mind. He felt empty and dull. So much time passed and he was still lying there under an open sky on his charpoy. 87

He got up when his body started aching. Village was at a distance and looked from there a big black circle surrounded by black large dots. They were trees but darkness had engulfed every thing made them large, suspicious and therefore scary.

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Abdullah did not feel the urge to visit home. Instead he started walking towards the different direction. On muddy foundations separating various pieces of cultivated land. Each one belonging to different family, he knew too well, their histories, ups and downs and their traits. Village was always like an open book for him, always.

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His mind was rattling every where. There was nothing particular he was able to focus on systematically. In one moment he was in his childhood and in other he was in the bright early morning of his village and yet in other he was witnessing Sparuss killing Hari Chand in the main intersection of the village. A human stink stopped him. He moved right. Some thing at a distance was lying on earth. A human body. Stinking.

Abdullah stopped for a moment and then turned left and started walking again.

Madness all around. He thought and went on. It was then when he heard a human voice.

A whisper or may be it was just a brisk August breeze. He stopped again and saw all around. Abdullah was sure there was no one around and yet some thing was stopping him. He returned back towards those human remains which perhaps a week ago were a promise for a family and a community. 88

And then he saw a clear human movement in near by bushes. As he turned and moved towards that some one got up, moved back and ran. Malik Abdullah did not think much. He just followed fast, faster. In less than twenty yards he was able to reach the object. He could see now. It was a woman.

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When he caught her hand. It was wet and cold. Trembling. His second hand pushed her face towards him. ― Gulabaan‖. He whispered.

The woman, tall and wide eyed restlessly looked at him. Fear was written all over her face.

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She was Gullaban, daughter of village‘s confectionary maker. Her home was among the first to be looted during last two weeks. All he knew until then was that they had left the village immediately after that in a hurriedly arranged truck right after the event. Several people were killed in the first round of looting. Gulaaban‘s brother was among them. In that single moment, Malik Abdullah could see all of Gulabaan‘s life in front of her.

They had known each other very well. Several times they had exchanged looks on corners, or ignored each other or teased on weddings when village boys typically used to become far bolder in chasing girls. Among such encounters was the one when on the occasions of her brother‘s wedding, Abdullah was able to grab her and she let herself being touched by his thirsty hands in the darkness of their grain store. His hand could still remember her healthy bosom which he rubbed while kissing her neck area. He could sense her hot breath on his face, her quite moaning. And then suddenly some 89

body came in the store briefly and left. She woke up as though it was a dream and left him there and ran out leaving him in the warm aroma of stored wheat. Several years ago. Malik Abdullah in one moment travelled to that moment and then came back.

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She was standing there, looking at him. In her back ground was darkness thickened by bair and sheesham trees. They could smell each other‘s perspiration and wild stink of the crop waste. It seemed humid. ― Do not worry Gullaban. I am with you‖. Malik Abdullah heard him saying.

Silence.

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In an unsure, tired way Gullaban nodded.

What they both were not able to comprehend was the extraordinary circumstances, they both found themselves in.

A lone Hindu girl was left in an area which had seen their mass exodus weeks ago. Or perhaps they were aware of this and were failing to explain this in words. They needed a new language and loads of words to explain this. ― You are not among them‖. She asked.

― No‖. Abdullah said but did not look in her eyes but then was quick to say. ―Did you eat anything?‖ 90

―Not really. Some leftovers. I had gone back to my own home yesterday, late late night and brought some Gurr and maize.‖ A tear fell from her eyes over her cheeks. Some thing in Abdullah melted. His eyes got wet too. ―Come with me. There is no one at my dera. I will take you out from here to your parents‖.

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She kept staying there firmly. They looked at each other. And then as if she decided to believe. ― Chalo..lets go. You promise you will keep me safe‖. ―I will‖.

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They both walked back, feeling less lonely. A man and a woman in lonely dark fields amidst a mindless bloodshed. It was too much to believe.

They crossed one field after another in complete quietness. Abdullah realized that he had wandered off too much, too thoughtlessly or may be there was a reason for that. He had to find Gullaban, after all.

A functioning dera is always a modest resourceful facility, a mini farm house. It is always maintained to provide residence and food for two three persons, if needed. Since Abdullah was living there, he had even brought a pitcher of milk this morning with some bread and curry. Enough for her and him for two times to come. In dim laltain light he saw her eating. She has not been eating surely for a while. Abdullah warmed the milk and poured out milk in two silver glasses. She took the glass from him and in a moment of relative peace realized yet again the severity of the situation. 91

She had lost her home, her parents, her brothers all of them suddenly. She knew surely that the elder brother was killed on the shop first day and the rest had left home leaving her behind. Her father had asked her to hide somewhere for the fear of loosing her. The news was all around that daughters and women of the Hindus were being picked.

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His father hid her in Uncle Hari Chandâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s dera close to village but she kept moving that night as she could see flames from a distance and also properties of Hindus any way were being searched again and again. She did not want to be an easy prey.

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Fifteen days. She spent in abandoned homes and deras. Spending her most days inside and coming out at night, drinking nearby wellâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s water, maize beans and even some stolen food she would keep on bringing from so many abandoned homes where on one occasions she even was able to boil large amount of rice with salt and that save her from starvation.

In long hours after meal when the necessary peace was achieved, Malik Abdullah felt her presence first time as women. Perhaps she was aware of him too, more as a man and less as a human. Whatever had happened in her village in front of her eyes in mere space of two weeks was unthinkable and enough to take away every thing she trusted. What she never had imagined or thought had happened in front of her own eyes in just two weeks time by people she thought were totally harmless, their own community slightly different but their own. Muslims.

Muslims, whose life and rituals had become part of her life in an unknown, unnoticed way. The arrival of Eids would touch her too. She would join her friend Naseem Bano in her home to apply hena together on their hands, share sweets and even was offered Edi by Naseemâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s father. She would accompany Naseem to meet other friends and in the way both would pretend to ignore 92

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village young men dressed in white, trying to grab their attention in streets. In long winter nights afterwards, she remembered thinking about all these men one by one as their partner in life. The thought of marrying possible heart throbs of the village would make her restless in her bed and a sweet pain in her bottom prevail over her whole body. Some times, she even wished one of them to completely annihilate her every part. There was no distinction of Muslim or Hindus in her dreams. All she wanted was to find the lover of her life. Any one. By morning when her mother would come to get her up, she would forget about her wild thoughts and would become again part of this very respectable extended notable local family of hindu community.

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That was her life and now here she was sitting alone almost at the mercy of Malik Abdullah, a good long tall wild man she gossiped with her friends always but never imagined to confront him in an open dera away from the safe confinement of her home and loving parents. A tear silently slipped out of her eyes and went down in the dark. No one was there to notice. Just in two weeks time, every thing had changed upside down. Everything.

Abdullah was not happy either. He literally had struck a jewel, after all. Killing and looting never inspired him. Women did.

Gullaban was not just another woman. She was some one Malik Abdullah always kept an eye on. He cared less of his own wife and an extended responsibility of raising a grown up daughter which was now married to Sattar. He was carefree from day one. He did not even remember properly the actual days when he was married to Reshman. All he remembered was that he left primary school finishing his fifth grade and never went for middle school in adjacent village. After four years of leaving his primary school, one day after a small gathering he found Reshma living with them. His memory of 93

confronting her first time as a wife was blurred. Did not remember exactly when they started behaving as husband and wife. Even after ten years in British army he was still young. Carefree as ever.

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Villages do not have a middle class morality of confinement to a single woman who you have to almost worship every day after coming back from office, taking her almost daily to market and offer her free dinners as a duty almost daily before watching a family drama at eight o clock. The relationships and expectations are on a much more real level and therefore their manifestations are very mundane and in a way ugly from an urban perspective.

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Abdullah could afford to meet her wife in dark when he urged to have sex. In the morning, her wife was happy to be part of household chores with humans and cattle and in participating in villageâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s very demanding community life. She had no problem with Abdullah spending almost all his day on his dera even chasing women whenever possible or spending time with Moulana Sattar who did not know of his private sex life.

To day finding Gulaban at her dera was slightly over whelming for him. However, something was not right in him tonight, making him a bit unsure.

He was surely a player in village games. Village life, its isolation, its naked power, its intimacy and its ability to hide the known facts behind the veil of customs, family traditions and historical feuds, for young brave men like Abdullah there was plenty of sex. Men, women and animals. There was no one to stop him. Not even his muslim God. And now in the name of same God, he was part of those who had killed many, one in front of him. Quietness. 94

It was his last refuge whenever he confronted confusion, an incomprehensible situation.It was her last refuge, too. There was nothing to talk. A grand dark void in the open of the fields strangely was comforting enough to burry her temporary fears and shame. But not really.

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Abdullah got tired. Every thing was known. He got out of the room. Cool midnight breeze of late August gave him a temporary relief. It was after a while when she said:

"I will".

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" I want to leave this village. You take me to Dina. There is a place where I could go. Barrister sahib must be still there".

There agreement established in them a momentary faith.

Agreements always have more power, a synergy. "I will take you there. There is a bus at the main road at dawn. We will have leave two hours before."

She stayed quiet.

" You are tired. Get some sleep".

She went in to lay on the only charpoy of the room. He stayed out but after a while when a bit of tiredness and a bit of anxiety urged him to go in. At least to drink the water from the pitcher inside. There was a deep down consciousness in him that she could take note of his presence. 95

What he could not have known that the feeling of total loss and helplessness had almost numbed her, making her actually very afraid of herself and surroundings. She was awake.

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He could sense that while delaying his sip from his muddy glass. The water was cold and had a nice earthy taste, a familiar flavor. He delayed his gestures, hoping privately that some thing, any thing will happen which will allow him to stay close, closer to her. He got up and stood still. In any other situation he would have never waited for any formal invitation. He was experienced enough to know that the men have to initiate first in these things.

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Not today. Her circumstances were different. If not total, he still had some mild understanding of this. And yet by now he had developed a longing for her. To have her in his arms.

Several moments passed in a familiar darkness in slight warm humidity of the room.

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Non Fiction

Rasheed Akhtar

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Poetic License

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In the situation we are in, self reliance is next to Godliness. In practice it means generating money from untapped sources. For example there are millions of men and women in the country who are compulsive poets. If we make a law requiring all poets to obtain a license at the payment of a modest sum before starting their practice, it will yield a great deal of revenue. The tax to be known as poetic license will also serve to sift the real from the fake in this field. Another rich source of revenue could be levies on yawning. We make interminable speeches in closed committee meetings as well as open air public gatherings. The number of would-be yawners is large enough to gladden the heart of any hard-pressed government. Besides, it will improve national manners. All agree that yawning is in bad taste. There are a number of other taxable practices which spread across class, race, and gender. Telling off-colour jokes and repeating anecdotes are so common that fines on' these' offences will fetch a lot of money. In fact, the offenders feel so guilty that the fines will relieve the pangs of their conscience.

Rasheed Akhtar

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Literary Figures

Today's literary figures are members of the respectable middle class, with a steady job, a cosy home, and a happy family life. Many of them are sleek and well-groomed, dressed in a threepiece suit, as bent on making their pile as the shopkeeper round the corner. But that has not always been the case.

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Before the Partition, when professional writers had just begun to emerge as a class, regular jobs were extremely scarce, literators were forced to live by their pen and at times by their wits ( in an innocent, harmless sort of way). Income from various type of hack-work was quite low and uncertain at the best of times. Though most of them possessed a first rate literary talent, they were forced to live a life of extreme penury, dwelling in mean, dingy tenements in seedy, congested neighbourhoods, wearing shabby clothes, looking at times like an unmade bed, at times like one of the seven sleepers of the fabled den. In fact these noble souls made virtue of necessity by consciously sporting a bohemian life style. They demanded and were gladly given the right of an artist to be an eccentric in his exterior as well as in his behaviour. Quite a few details of their private lives have been making the rounds of literary haunts for generations some sordid, some noble, some bizarre, but never a dull moment where these writers played out their time on earth. As the world treated them harshly, bruising their souls of porcelain, they tended to stick together in the evenings to share their sorrows over a cup of tea or drown them 100

with more fiery brews when nights were long, spirits were low, and the heart was heavy.

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Rasheed Akhtar

Our Literary Witch Doctor

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Munir Niazi may aptly be described as the literary witch doctor of Pakistan. The title, though slick, captures some basic truths about him. More important is his rejection of the sanitized day-time world of conventional poetry with its rose garden, bird song, soft breezes and languid lovers. Instead he delves into the twilit subconscious of the race- its dreams, longings, fears and obsessions. For that reason his images have a haunting quality. They startle you with their primeval splendour. One feels a sort of spell-binding and sinister fascination for them.

For the first time in our literature, he tried to see things as a whole-beauty and terror, love and death, the fatal and the irresistible achieve poetic fusion in his works. His serpents live' where flowers are, where music is, and around gold in the bow. els of the earth; 'suggesting that all things desirable and good are tainted with evil.' Munir's woman are not all sweetness and light; they are brimming with power to create, to attract and to. There is violence in his beauty. Jungles of Bengal are vividly described as having 'red foliage, green and undulating cobras, and a timeless terror that clings to the blue silence of Bengal waters. A peacock in brass in a deserted well, surrounded by a scary city, held in eerie hush. 'is another vintage Munir image.,A trip into Munir s surreal world is always a vovage of discovery into the dark side of our personal moon. 101

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Rasheed Akhtar

A Parable Of Our Times

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One day as a wolf was having his usual noon-time drink at a stream, he noticed bits of half-munched grass moving in circles about his lips. He noticed at a distance a lamb slurping his water: In a quiet commanding tone, he told it to go away at once. The lamb, instead of slinking away, started bleating about jungle rights, and equal drinking opportunities. The wolf was provoked so he attacked and killed the offender straight away. The Wolfland felt very uneasy, for in several ways the wolf had over- stepped the mark. To begin with, the denizens of the Wolfland were not in the habit of going it alone, they hunted in packs, and several days before starting on their mission, would carefully prepare moral grounds for it. The stories in 'Wild life Chronicle' told about internal dissensions among lambs, wanton waste of flora and funa, and population explosion, which threatened the health of entire jungle community. The wolves were regaded as crusaders who were on a mission of surgical killing. The United Animals Organisation decided that lambs should develop a synthetic subtitute for water; to avoid provocation. Wolves lived happily and: lambs insecurely ever after.

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Reginald Massey

Pakistani Poetry in English

An historical and analytical study by Reginald Massey

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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.

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, 103

Making the green one red.

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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 Ibne-Insha brilliantly emulated the poetic diction of Amir Khusro. To emulate 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 HobsonJobson 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.

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 104

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.

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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, 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.

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 105

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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 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. 106

Perhaps his best known poem was I Had Reached Your Doorstep. It tells of a sufi‘s search for the ultimate truth.

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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 ‗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. 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:

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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.

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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. Husainâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s two laments on the death of Benazir Bhutto are first class. Ejaz Rahimâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;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 attain gian We must learn to bend Perpendicular truth To serpentine illusions.

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.

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. 108

The Lahore born Imtiaz Dharker has a high reputation in Britain. Her work is included in the syllabus of the British General Certificate of Secondary Education (GCSE). Her collections are Purdah, Postcards from God, I Speak to the Devil, The Terrorist at my Table and Leaving Fingerprints. She is also a gifted artist, illustrator and film maker.

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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.

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. 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).

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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.

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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. Two of her poems Presents from my aunts in Pakistan and An Unknown Girl have been on the GCSE syllabus. 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. 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 110

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‘

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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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Irfan Ahmed Urfi

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The Tragedy of our Drama and Nation You have no idea, how the mass media and internet exposure has influenced and intervened the psychological upbringing of our young children.

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Ten years ago, my Bhabhi discretely shared a very delicate comment of her eight year old daughter with me. Sitting in her lounge in Ottawa Canada on a cold winter day she opted some desi gossip with me. I joined in because we had nothing else to do secondly I knew most of our women immigrants really miss their homes and that acute sense of humor found in our Pakistani families. We laughed our heads off. I knew my Bhabi was thoroughly enjoying it. She usually cannot hold such conversations with her husband (My brother) who is relatively a serious man and has always discouraged his wife for gossiping. In his eyes Gossip is all about bitching and back biting. While we laughed the children felt neglected. The next hour when my brother returned from his daily shifts my eight year old niece shocked us: My Niece (to her mother): Now I came to know mum! that you actually wanted to marry chachoo ( Uncle ) and not baba………and knowing this ,it is Haram , you laugh so loudly while sitting with chachoo..in living room ……. ‖ What….?? (we all murmured…) where is that coming from…..?? 112

Mother: What are you talking about baita, your chachoo is like my brother, my Daiwar (brother in law). I love ―your dad‖ ,what made you think I don‘t ….? And by the way this is not Haram

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Kid: You are lying, you don‘t love baba ….I never found you laughing with baba like this,.. again chachoo is not mehram/real brother of yours…how can you say this is not haram Right here the three of us realized that my niece, due to her brought up as Canadian immigrant, had observed parents of her other western school fellows holding hands, hugging, and displaying their physical intimacy very openly in front of their children. Whereas our kids are mostly used to seeing their parents either quarreling or arguing with each other.

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This particular observation of my niece, triggered me to develop a screenplay for a Television Drama Serial. Based on a story line that could address issues like: adulthood, physical and mental health of children in this age of multicultural globalization Misinterpretation and misconceptions related to sexuality in family relationships.

Emotional exploitation and miscommunication among loved ones. Psychological growth of teen aged youth.

Myths related to chronological/mental and physical age of marriageable young girls etc. Usually such themes are incorporated in media campaigns under the projects of BCC (Behavior Change Communication) and are funded by international donors ,with certain terms of reference initiated by the project heads. When I made up my mind to fully develop this screen play and that even in the backdrop of Karachi/Pakistan , the scenario was quite different and complicated than that of the actually 113

conceived idea years ago. My first concern was how would our audience react to it who‘s mental growth is dead slow, and to top it all they are compelled to face the challenges of war like situation against terrorism in their country. I raised these questions to myself: Did we ever achieve the maturity to hold our political freedom as a nation……..?

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And now that we have found our independence have we ever come at power with the challenges and realities of it…? Sorry to say, as a nation, we have only achieved a constant denial to our reality and originality. We have even disowned our cultural history and archeological roots.

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I feel now is the time for us to understand and realize our responsibilities as a responsible nation and encounter the challenges of this modern age with definite logic and sensibility. We must identify our existing cultural myths and belief systems intellectually so that we could flourish as a culturally strong nation. Superstitions must be identified and should be kept away in miles while we make important decisions in our lives.

Unless we don‘t learn to laugh at ourselves, we will never evolve as a healthy and competitive nation globally. And that is the reason why an average Pakistani suffers from a low self esteem these days.

I wonder what happened to our ―deep rooted foundation‖ upon which our Qaumi Tashakhus was to be built ………? All these concerns and questions pushed me to write ―Bhinak‖………. Afroz (Maria Wasti), the main protagonist of this Serial, a simple young girl from an educated middle class family, whose intellectual growth is slow by default or genetically due to the close Parental blood ties. She lives in a world of her own fantasy 114

and firmly believes that only Marriage can save her from the crude and stagnant reality of existence. She thinks by achieving the status of a married woman might eventually get her a respectable social identity. She has always been in a self created platonic competition with her elder sister Rabia (Lubna Aslam) , who now lives abroad.

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Their mother (Zaheen Tahira ) is emotionally black mailed by Afroze who is entering fastly in a marriageable and emotionally charged age .The story revolves around the phobias of this ailing woman/mother. How would she deal with her mentally challenged child (Afroze), who is so deceptive at times that the mother really thinks she is gaining intelligence and awareness of a normal person. But each time she is proven wrong by Afroze. Her life has become a roller coaster ride of fears, anxieties, depression and now cancer.

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Traditionally the middle class mothers, are usually under an immense social pressure to get their young daughters married at the right age. So is this mother, also she is harassed by the vulnerability invoked with the uncertain situation of her mentally disturbed daughter too.

The story of â&#x20AC;&#x2022;Bhinakâ&#x20AC;&#x2013; comments on how an old mother being a chronic diabetic and cancer patient, will cope with her inner conflicts messed up with psychological and emotional insecurities, without any moral support from her husband and other children. She at the same time, has to save her social grace too . It is a question of honor for her. Safaid Poshi and middle class values have their own stresses over mothers like Shireen Sukhan. The fear of her own death and leaving behind Afroze alone without any emotional and social shelter has turned her into an irritating and hyper-tensive woman, who keeps on cursing Afroze day and night. While exploring the depths of MID (Mild Intellectual Disability) as a social theme, I came to know so many other so called abnormalities in our day to day lives for example: OCD 115

(Obsessive Compulsive Disorder), ADD (Attention Deficit Disorder) Kleptomania Gender Disillusion (Queer syndrome) have also been addressed as vital social issues , just to make the viewers immune to difference.

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How parenthood and schooling can be sensitized to deal with the delicate issue like Sexual Harassment, is again a thought process initiated by this plot .Keeping in view the expected intellect level of an ordinary TV viewer, the story is treated as a black comedy.

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The character of Safdar (Rashid Farooqui) touches the social stigma involved with rumors of impotency of men, has been touched in a very subtle manner keeping in mind the comfort level of an average television viewer deliberately refraining from any controversy and boldness.

With due respect, let me mention here that unfortunately , TV drama is becoming a khawateen Digest qist war kahani for the last one decade( after 9/11) .The current affairs and news channels have attracted serious male audience to itself.. Entertainment channels airing cooking shows, religious interactive (Istikhara on line shows), horoscope shows are assumed to be meant for semi literate and lower IQ level housewives. Again this segmentation/bifurcation of TV viewers has appeared after 9/11. Commercially, the most popular slot is still the prime time for soap-operas delivering Saas Bahoo Sayasat aur sazish .The content of Tele drama has also been taken over by majority of those women writers who have no serious background in Urdu /regional literature. The most expensive screenplay writers are those female writers, whose best seller novels are found on the front shelves of Urdu books stores these days .That is why, for the last ten years we donâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;t see names like Amjad Islam ,Noor-ul-Huda 116

Shah , Dr Anwar Sajjad, Imran Aslam, Sarmad Sehbai, Munnu Bhai, Bano Qudsya Anwar Maqsood ,or Asghar Nadeem Syed on screen anymore.

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Most of these women writers have a good number of fiction books on their credit which are highly sellable and have their contribution in spreading readership at a very grass root level among Pakistani women. In short, drama today has lost its viewer ship from a mature audience.

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It has also being assumed by the authorities of peopleâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s meter-devices and rating of sponsors now that the majority of TV drama viewers actually consists of housewives from the middle and lower middle income group, who are not well versed and well exposed to modern arts and knowledge. These loyal women viewers are only entertained when they see a glamorous but sad woman shedding tears. The ratings go higher. The morbidity of oppressed women seems to be the only saleable point these days on our mini screen. Sometimes I feel that the writers of these plays and novels might oppressed themselves to write such plots. When is it going to endâ&#x20AC;Ś?

No doubt, that the television drama now has become a commercial entity and the financier and network owners only run it to earn more and more revenue each day. Gone are the days when TV drama was targeted to spread awareness and knowledge of certain issues. Today, marketing executives have taken over the control of almost all main stream television networks. The final decision is mostly taken by them ,even about creative and artistic part of the project. They are actually playing the role of a ring master of tamed/untamed animals in the cage of the whole circus of aesthetics. They are the one who show hunter in their hands and dictate the trends to those who have pens in their hands. Even producers/directors are helpless before them,noe they are the authorities and critiques of art and creativity. Drama is an art form and it will be an art form, till last day . Although, late Kanwar Aftab a senior PTV drama producer, was of 117

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the view that television drama is not supposed to be developed on pseudo intellectualism. He resisted against the intervention of those screenplay writers whose basic inspiration was Urdu/Russian literature. There was a group of producers in Lahore television station, who was in direct contact with literary figures of the city. In those days ,musicians, painters, actors, poets, short story writers, dancers used to have an intellectual and physical interaction with each other in Lahore. In Karachi ,literary figures like Iftikhar Arif , Ubaidullah Baig etc associated with PTV ,used to give their input to drama writers. Literary figures like Noor-Ul-Huda Shah , Shaukat Siddiquee, Asad Muhammad Khan were associated with television drama in Karachi. To join as drama producer in Pakistan Television one had to be an academic background of literature in those days. Unfortunately, today majority of the drama producers/directors in the market, have no even the basic intellectual clue of literature at all.

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That is why next generation of drama writers have not been discovered/explored from literary scene of Urdu fiction by drama industry. Contemporary creative writers from serious Urdu literature could be trained as commercial screenplay writers by directors/producers of todayâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s entertainment industry. Only than future of drama industry would be saved from the nightmare of collapsing it like our film industry.

This intellectual deterioration is again a pilot-less attack of drone as an after effect of 9/11, on our nation. Buying power class has taken over the power corridors. Drama is an art form and will always remain as an art form, It is a writerâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s medium , but again not for his/her personal communication. The screen play writer has to consider existing trends of market and viewers keeping in view contemporary cultural acceptability. A writer can not dictate or use the project as a platform to project his /her own artistic abilities , unless project is being financed and marketed by her/himself. Here comes the role of Director ,who has to have the sensibility to work on the script as a team player with his/her writer and producer. This sensibility 118

actually demands an exposure of classical and contemporary world literature and performing/visual arts. That lack majority of directors/producers of Pakistani drama industry.

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Although, late Kanwar Aftab (a senior PTV drama producer) was of the view that television drama is not supposed to be developed with pseudo intellectualism. He resisted against the intervention of those screenplay writers whose basic inspiration was Urdu/Russian literature. There was a group of producers in Lahore television station, who was in direct contact with literary figures of the city. In those days ,musicians, painters, actors, poets, short story writers, dancers used to hold an intellectual and face to face interaction with each other in Lahore.

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In Karachi ,literary figures like Iftikhar Arif , Ubaidullah Baig etc associated with PTV ,used to give their input to drama writers. Literary figures like Noor-Ul-Huda Shah , Shaukat Siddiqui, Asad Muhammad Khan ,Bajia were associated with television drama writing in Karachi. To join as drama producer in Pakistan Television one had to be from an academic background of literature during those days. Unfortunately, today majority of the drama producers/directors in the market, have no intellectual clue of literature and arts at all.

That is why the next generation of drama writers are still not discovered from literary societies of Urdu fiction these days by the television industry. If Creative writers from serious Urdu literature, instead digest soap writers, could be trained as commercial screenplay writers by directors/producers then the future of drama industry has a revival unlike our decayed film industry. Shaqielle Khan is one fine example of a well read and well learned director of our TV industry these days who believes in researching and reading a lot about his subject before he gets into the actual production. He also suggests a lot of reading/research material to his writer, before the actual scripting would even begin. At times, he shares very valuable visual material from classics 119

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cinema gems with his Writer, Producer, Director of Photography and the Makeup artist. He himself is a curious soul and clicks the search on his lap top to probe in the depth of his content that he will later execute and translate visually. If you are working with him as a writer he will fill your email box with heavy files containing academic and behavioral research on the subject. He is equally excited to contribute his input, during your creative process at a very primary stage and would share a good amount of findings the topic/characterization and visual articulation of the project.

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Luckily , Adeel Farhan ,( M. Content ) is again a producer who believes in research oriented content in script of his production. He believes in inspirations derived from real life events and characters. By working with both of them, I came to know TV drama is actually a process of exploring a certain study of human behavior and can never be put on pre-conceived idea. The creative team involved has to be curious to discover the genre of their project till the last shot taken. Unless this kind of creativity and exploration are not the major motivation for a team, drama will never be progressed. I am afraid, if we lose this curiosity and innocence from our work we the drama industry professionals would be cursed as intellectually corrupt by our next generation. Bhinak face book page is Bhinak TV show.

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Irfan Javed

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The Chocolate Box

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It was my first rendezvous with literature. I vividly remember the raw smell of wooden furniture in my classroom, dust particles dancing in the sharp beam of the morning sun peeping in from the ventilator, soft murmur of the teacher, awe-inspired faces of my class fellows, Mr. Heathcliff of that wonderful novel Wuthering heights and Emily Bronte. It was the first time I realized that how a master piece of literature can trigger a readers imagination.

It was then I realized that a work of literature is superior to its adapted reflection on celluloid. Literature gives its reader full freedom to fantasize whereas a movie restricts its viewerâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s imagination. It also transpired that how western academicians have used works of fiction as tools to expand the horizon of young minds and have encouraged them to venture into new avenues of possibility simply by activating their imagination and setting in motion their fantasies. They did not take the study of fiction as temporary escape from reality, rather they used it as an instrument to groom human mind to tread into the unknown and come up with innovative ideas which mature into scientific discovery and lead to advancement of civilization. Although the cultural backdrop of English novels was foreign, still the interplay of social relations and depiction of human emotions was such universal that it created a natural affinity. Contrary to this, the Urdu lessons taught at school were poorly crafted and monotonous sermons hammered in the closed 121

minds of students, and so most young people distanced themselves from Urdu literature. It was much later, that I hit a treasure trove of Urdu fiction by accident. It started with the discovery of Qurat-ulAin Hyder‘s ―Aag Ka Darya‖ and hasn‘t ended yet.

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Primarily, the urdu literature, mostly short fiction, being taught to students during their formative years is outdated and colorless, creating as aversion against it. It is taught as a subject for scoring grades, with an utter disregard for its role as a carrier of cultural ethos. To top it all, advancement in telecommunication has introduced use of roman urdu via text messages and e-mail, restricting the role of traditional style of Urdu. This has also encouraged multinational organizations to use roman urdu to promote their products.

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Furthermore, vanishing of great reservoirs of Persian and Arabic from which urdu literature extracted new phrases and words has left it with no choice but to rely on English. Also, the diminishing role of urdu in employment has proportionately restricted its scope, hence discouraging its study. Urdu has also remained an obstacle in the way of social climbing.

It is in vogue now a days to argue that advent of the electronic media has cast a negative influence on the growth of literature. Interestingly, the growth of the publishing industry in megacities around the globe present a strong counter-argument. The misconception that quality Urdu writings are seldom being produced nowadays has gained quite a following. However good work is certainly being produced presently which deserves praise. Certain works of exceptional merit written during the last decade include work by the late Ahmad Bashir, Mustansar Hussain Tarar, Hassan Manzar, Mirza Athar Baig and Muhammad Asim Butt.

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Penned by the legendary journalist late Ahmed Bashir ‗Dil Bhatkey ga‘ is certainly a masterpiece of fiction. It is an autobiographical magnum opus which spans several decades and covers myriad of real life characters. Depiction of people and places is amazing. Prominent people such as Qudratullah Shahab, Hafeez Jallandhari, Maulana Chiragh Hassan Hasrat and many more are scattered on the pages of book like sea shells on a beach. Interesting anecdotes of these literary giants dot the pages of this fictionized autobiography. High literary quality is maintained throughout the book without compromising on readability. It is a must read for anyone anywhere, which rivals any of the great works produced globally during last few decades.

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Mustansar Hussain Tarrar is undoubtedly the most fertile living writer of Urdu. Best known for his TV shows and Travelogues, he has produced such novels as ―Raakh‖ and ―Bahao‖ which can easily be compared with great novels of twentieth century. Though ―Qurbat-e-Marg‖ is not comparable to the two novels in its scope and craft, still it manages to acquire a distinction in Pakistani novels written during this decade. Freshness and creative energy defines this novel. Primarily set in the geographical terrain of Potohar & Central Punjab many stories run parallel in this novel. Having traveled on foot throughout northern Pakistan, Tarrar is well acquainted with the flora and fauna of this land and he knows the folk culture of various areas of Pakistan. His writings derive a unique flavour from his observations and experiences which have aptly been used in crafting this piece of art. It is a prominent novel by a living literary legend. Unlike most writers who base their novels in familiar environs of Punjab or Khyber Pakhtun khawah, ‗Dhani Bakhsh Kay Betay‘ is set in the back drop of rural sindh. Hassan Manzar is known more for his short fiction on which he has won literary awards. However, he has come up with a novel which has not disappointed his fans. Though it has followed his earlier novel ―AlAsifa‖, but it precedes ―Al-Asifa‖ in quality. The story is interesting. A tale of Protagonist who returns from America and 123

keenly observes the life of common man in Sindh has maturely been tackled in the novel without losing the thread of story.

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Publication of ‗Ghulam Bagh‘ was considered an important event in the literary circles across the country. Its story broke free from the traditional style of story telling. There is a stream of incidents interspersed with long discussions on Linguistics and Philosophy. Kabir the protagonist is a through intellectual who is against the taboos and social controls of the society which retard the growth of an individual. Although he is against the norms of society still he does not bring or attempts to bring any change in the society. He is simply a reactionary. Characters in the novel have been carefully developed which bear their own distinct personalities. Lack of a very strong plot is overcome by attractive style of writing and easy flow of events. It certainly has many qualities to attract a large readership.

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Personality novel ―Dayira‖ is my favourite, second to Ahmed Bashir Magnum Opus. This novel is truly the work of a genius. Its story is mind boggling. Its characterization is flawless. And the craft deployed in this book is unique. It depicts life in a continous stream through different roles at different places. The same spirit flows through all humanity. Only masks change. Fantasy is so masterly interwoven with reality that it elevates this book from the pedestal of an ordinary novel to a modern classic. The novel smoothly transcends the boundary of facts and ventures into fiction on the footprints of mid twentieth century creative masterpieces. Study of contemporary urdu literature is hardly complete without this novel. ‗Bay Watan‘ by Ashraf Shad is one of the most under rated modern urdu novels. It has the visible colour of a work of popular fiction, but the undercurrent carry the dark thick shades of a serious literary work. Spanning three continents and many colourful characters, this novel, if translated in English can easily rival any of the recently celebrated Indian novels such as ‗ The White Tiger‘ or ‗Slumdog Millionaire‘. 124

â&#x20AC;&#x2014;Barfâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;, a novel written by M. Ilyas is also mentionable due to the neatly fictionized values and cultural ethos of Pakistani middle class. This novel carries the flavor of various dialects spoken in modern Pakistan in the familiar familial and tribal environs of the country. It is a reasonable sociological depiction of what life is like in small towns and villages of the country.

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A proper arrangement is required to have prominent works of contemporary Urdu fiction translated in other languages, especially in English, in order to enable Pakistan to acquire a new identity and to let the world know of the great literary treasure we possess. It will help introduce the true face of modern vibrant colourful Pakistan to the world.

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ABDUL HAMEED

Mithraism's Contributions to Christianity

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For over three hundred years the rulers of the Roman Empire worshipped the god Mithras. Known throughout Europe and Asia by the names Mithra, Mitra,Meitros, Mihr, Mehr, and Meher, the veneration of this god began some 4000 years ago in Persia, where it was soon imbedded with Babylonian doctrines. The faith spread east through India to China, and reached west throughout the entire length of the Roman frontier; from Scotland to the Sahara Desert, and from Spain to the Black Sea. Sites of Mithraic worship have been found in Britain, Italy, Romania,Germany, Hungary, Bulgaria, Turkey, Persia, Armenia, Syria, Israel, and North Africa.

Mithraism was quite often noted by many historians for its many astonishing similarities to Christianity. The faithful referred to Mithras (REMEMBER 4000 years ago) as "the Light of the World", symbol of truth, justice, and loyalty. He was mediator between heaven and earth and was a member of a Holy Trinity. According to Persian mythology, Mithras was born of a virgin given the title 'Mother of G-d'. The god remained celibate throughout his life, and valued self-control, renunciation and resistance to sensuality among his worshippers. 126

Purification through a ritualistic baptism was required of the faithful, who also took part in a ceremony in which they drank wine and ate bread to symbolize the body and blood of the god. Sundays were held sacred, and the birth of the god was celebrated annually on December the 25th. After the earthly mission of this god had been accomplished, he took part in a Last Supper with his companions before ascending to heaven, to forever protect the faithful from above.

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However, it would be a vast oversimplification to suggest that Mithraism was the single fore-runner of early Christianity. Aside from Christ and Mithras, there were plenty of other deities (such as Osiris, Tammuz, Adonis, Balder, Attis, and Dionysus) said to have died and resurrected. Many classical heroic figures, such as Hercules, Perseus, and Theseus, were said to have been born through the union of a virgin mother and divine father. Virtually every pagan religious practice and festivity that couldn't be suppressed or driven underground was eventually incorporated into the rites of Gentile Christianity as it spread across Europe and throughout the world.

The Lord's supper was not invented by Paul, but was borrowed by him from Mithraism, Christianity's chief competitor up until the time of Constantine. In Mithraism, the central figure is the mythical Mithras, who died for. the sins of mankind and was resurrected. Believers in Mithras were rewarded with eternal life. Part of the Mithraic communion liturgy included the words, "He who will not eat of my body and drink of my blood, so that he will be made one with me and I with him, the same shall not know salvation." The early Church Fathers Justin Martyr and Tertullian tried to say that Mithraism copied the Lord's Supper from Christianity, but they were forced to say that demons had copied it since only demons could copy an event in advance of its happening! Nice try! 127

They could not say that the followers of Mithras had copied it because it was a known fact that Mithraism had included the ritual a long time before Christ was born.

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During the first three and a half centuries A.D. the increasingly powerful rival of Christianity was the religion known as Mithraism, that is to say, the worship of the solar god Mithra or Mithras which had been introduced into Rome by Cilician seamen about 68B.C., and later on spread throughout the Roman world, until, just before the final triumph of Christianity, it was the most powerful pagan faith in the Empire. What we must not lose sight of is that it predated Christianity and will serve as the foundation of many false teachings attributed to Yeshua and affixed to his life. It was suppressed by the Christians in 376 and 377A.D.; but its collapse seems to have been due rather to the fact that by that time many of its doctrines and ceremonies had been adopted by the Church, so that it was practically absorbed by its rival, Jesus Christ supplanting Mithra in men's worship without the need of any mental somersaults.

Originally Mithra was one of the lesser gods of the ancient Persian pantheon, but he came to be regarded as the spiritual Sun, the heavenly Light, and the chief and also the embodiment of the seven divine spirits of goodness; and already in the time of Christ he had risen to be co-equal with, though created by, Ormuzd (Ahura-Mazda), the Supreme Being [J.M. Robertson, /Pagan Christs/, p. 290.], and Mediator between him and man [Plutarch, /Isis et Osiris/, ch. 46; Julian, /In regem solem/, chs. 9, 10, 21.]. He appears to have lived an incarnate life on earth, and in some unknown manner to have suffered death for the good of mankind, an image symbolizing his resurrection being employed in his ceremonies [Tertullian, /Praescr/., ch. 40.]. Tarsus, the home of St. Paul, was one of the great centers of his worship, being the chief city of the Cilicians; and, as will presently appear, there is a decided tinge of Mithraism in the Epistles and Gospels. Thus the designations of our Lord as the Dayspring from on High [Luke, i. 78.], the Light [2 Cor. iv. 6; Eph. v. 13, 14; I. Thess. v. 5; etc.], the Sun of Righteousness [Malachi iv. 2]; and much used in 128

Christianity, and similar expressions, are borrowed from or related to Mithraic phraseology.

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Mithra was born from a rock [Firmicus, /De errore/, xxi.; etc.], as shown in Mithraic sculptures, being sometimes termed "the god out of the rock", and his worship was always conducted in a cave; and the general belief in the early Church that Yeshua was born in a cave is a direct instance of the taking over of Mithraic ideas. The words of St. Paul, "They drank of that spiritual rock ... and that rock was Christ" [I Corinthians x. 4.] are borrowed from the Mithraic scriptures; for not only was Mithra "the Rock", but one of his mythological acts, which also appears in the acts of Moses, was the striking of the rock and the producing of water from it which his followers eagerly drank. Justin Martyr [Justin Martyr, /Dial. with Trypho/, ch. 70.] complains that the prophetic words in the Book of Daniel [Daniel ji. 34.] regarding a stone which was cut out of the rock without hands were also used in the Mithraic ritual; and it is apparent that the great importance attached by the early Church to the supposed words of Yeshua in regard to Peter --- "Upon this rock l will build my church" [Matthew xvi. 18.] --- was due to their approximation to the Mithraic idea of the /Theos ek Petras/, the "G-d from the Rock". Indeed, it may be that the reason of the Vatican hill at Rome being regarded as sacred to Peter, the Christian "Rock", was that it was already sacred to Mithra, for Mithraic remains have been found there.

The chief incident of Mithra's life was his struggle with a symbolical bull,which he overpowered and sacrificed, and from the blood of the sacrifice came the world's peace and plenty. Thus the paramount Christian idea of the sacrifice of the lamb of G-d was one with which every worshipper of Mithra was familiar; and just as Mithra was an embodiment of the seven spirits of G-d, so the slain Lamb in the Book of Revelation has seven horns and seven eyes "which are the seven spirits of G-d" [Revelation v.6.]. Early writers say that a lamb was consecrated, killed, and eaten as an Easter rite in the Church; but Easter was a Mithraic festival [Macrobius, /Saturnalia/, i. 18.], presumably of 129

the resurrection of their god, and the parallel is thus complete, in which regard it is to be noted that in the Seventh Century the Church endeavored without success to suppress the picturing of Christ as a lamb, owing to the paganism involved in the idea [Bingham, /Christian Antiq./, viii. 8, sec. 11; xv. 2, sec. 3.].

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The ceremonies of purification by the sprinkling or drenching of the novice with the blood of bulls or rams were widespread, and were to be found in the rites of Mithra. By this purification a man was "born again" [Beugnot, /Hist. de la Dest. Du Paganisme/, i. p. 334.], and the Christian expression "washed in the blood of the Lamb" is undoubtedly a reflection of this idea, the reference thus being clear in the words of the Epistle to the Hebrews: "It is not possible that the blood of bulls and of goats should take away sins". In this passage the writer goes on to say: "Having boldness to enter into the holiest by the blood of Jesus, by a new and living way which he hath consecrated for us through the veil, that is to say his flesh ... let us draw near ... having our hearts sprinkled from an evil conscience, and our bodies washed with pure water" [Hebrews x. 19.]. But when we learn that the Mithraic initiation ceremony consisted in entering boldly into a mysterious underground "holy of holies", with the eyes veiled, and there being sprinkled with â&#x20AC;˘blood, and washed with water, it is clear that the author of the Epistle was thinking of those Mithraic rites with which everybody at that time must have been so familiar.

Another ceremony in the religion of Mithra was that of stepping across a channel of water, the hands being entangled in the entrails of a bird, signifying sin, and of being "liberated" on the other side; and this seems to be referred to by St. Paul when he says: "Stand fast in the liberty wherewith Christ has made us free, and be not entangled again with the yoke of bondage" [Galatians v. l.].

Tertullian [Tertullian, /Praescr./, ch. 40.] states that the worshippers of Mithra practiced baptism by water, through which they were thought to be redeemed from sin, and that the priest made a sign upon the forehead of the person baptized; but as this was also a Christian rite, Tertullian declares that the Devil must 130

have effected the coincidence for his wicked ends. "The Devil", he also writes, "imitates even the main parts of our divine mysteries", and "has gone about to apply to the worship of idols those very things of which the administration of Christ's sacraments consists".

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In this rite he must be referring both to the baptismai rite and also to the Mithraic eucharist, of which Justin Martyr [Justin Martyr, /1 Apol./, ch. 66.] had already complained when he declared that it was Satan who had plagiarized the ceremony, causing the worshippers of Mithra to receive the consecrated bread and cup of water. The ceremony of eating an incarnate god's body and drinking his blood is, of course, of very ancient and originally cannibalistic inception, and there are several sources from which the Christian rite may be derived, if, as most critics think, it was not instituted as an actual ceremony by Yeshua; but its connection with the Mithraic rite is the most apparent.

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The worshippers of Mithra were called "Soldiers of Mithra", which is probably the origin of the term "Soldiers of Christ" and of the exhortation to Christians to "put on the armour of light" [Romans xiii. 12. Compare also Ephesians vi. I 1, 13.], Mithra being the god of Light. As in Christianity, they recognized no social distinctions, both rich and poor, freemen and slaves, being admitted into the Army of the Lord. Mithraism had its austerities, typified in the severe initiation rites endured by a "Soldier of Mithra"; and the Epistle to Timothy, similarly, exhorts the Christian to "endure hardness as a good soldier of Jesus Christ" [2 Timothy li. 3.]. It also had its nuns and its male celibates [Tertullian,/Prascr./, ch. 40.]; and one of its main tenets was the control of the flesh and therepudiation of the world, this being symbolized in the initiation ceremony, whereat a crown was offered to the novice, who had to reject it, saying, as did the Christians, that it was to a heavenly crown that he looked. We hear, too, of hymns which could be used with equal propriety by Christians and Mithraists alike [/Rev. Arch./, vol. xvii. (1911), p. 397.]. The Mithraic worship always took place in caves, these being either natural or artificial. Now the early Christians, openly and for no reasons of secrecy or security, employed those subterranean rock chambers known as catacombs 131

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both for their burials and for public worship. Like the Mithraic caves, these catacombs were decorated with paintings, amongst which the subject of Moses striking the rock, which, as I have said above, has a Mithraic parallel, is often represented. The most frequent theme is that of Christ as the Good Shepherd; and although it is generally agreed that the figure of Yeshua carrying a lamb is taken from the statues of Hermes Kriophoros [Pausanias, iv. 33.], the kid-carrying god,Mithra is sometimes shown carrying a bull across his shoulders, and Apollo, who, in his solar aspect and as the patron of the rocks [/Hymn to the Delian Apollo./], is to be identified with Mithra, is often called "The Good Shepherd". At the birth of Mithra the child was adored by shepherds, who brought gifts to him [/Encyc. Brit./,11th ed., vol. xvii., p. 623.].

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The Hebrew Sabbath having been abolished by Christians, the Church made a sacred day of Sunday, partly because it was the day of the resurrection, but largely because it was the weekly festival of the sun; for it was a definite Christian policy to take over the pagan festivals endeared to the people by tradition, and to give them a Christian significance. But, as a solar festival, Sunday was the sacred day of Mithra; and it is interesting to notice that since Mithra was addressed as /Dominus/, "Lord", Sunday must have been "the Lord's Day" long before Christian times. About the origin of our Christmas. December 25th was the birthday of the sungod, and particularly of Mithra, and was only taken over in the Fourth Century as the date, actually unknown, of the birth of Yeshua (Jesus). The head of the Mithraic faith was called /Pater Patrum/, "Father of the Fathers", and was seated at Rome; and similarly the head of the Church was the /Papa/, or "Father", now known as the Pope, who was also seated at Rome. The Pope's crown is called a tiara, but a tiara is a Persian, and hence perhaps a Mithraic, headdress. The ancient chair preserved in the Vatican and supposed to have been the pontifical throne used by St. Peter, is in reality of pagan origin, and may possibly be Mithraic also, for it has upon it certain pagan carvings which are thought to be connected with Mithra [J.M. Robertson, /Pagan Christs/, p. 336.] 132

133

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135

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Ayesha Jalal

He Wrote What He Saw – And Took No Sides

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Any attempt to fathom the murderous hatred that erupted with such devastating effect at the time of the British retreat from the subcontinent, Saadat Hasan Manto remarked, had to begin with an exploration of human nature itself. For the master of the Urdu short story this was not a value judgement. It was a statement of what he had come to believe after keen observation and extended introspection. Shaken by the repercussions of the political decision to break up the unity of the subcontinent, Manto wondered if people who only recently were friends, neighbours and compatriots had lost all sense of their humanity. He too was a human being, ―the same human being who raped mankind, who indulged in killing‖ and had ―all those weaknesses and qualities that other human beings have.‖ Yet human depravity, however pervasive and deplorable, could not kill all sense of humanity. With faith in that kind of humanity, Manto wrote riveting short stories about the human tragedy of 1947 that are internationally acknowledged for representing the plight of displaced and terrorised humanity with exemplary impartiality and empathy.

Manto‘s Partition stories are a must read for anyone interested in the personal dimensions of India‘s division and the creation of Pakistan. Pieced together from close observations of the experiences of ordinary people at the moment of a traumatic rupture, his stories are not only unsurpassable in literary quality but records of rare historical significance. Unlike journalistic and partisan accounts of those unsettled times, Manto transcended the limitations of the communitarian narratives underpinning the nationalist self-projections of both Pakistan and India. There is more to Manto than his Partition stories to be sure, but there is no 136

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denying his remarkable feat in plumbing the psychological depths of an epic dislocation with telling insight, sensitivity and evenhandedness. He did not create demons out of other communities to try and absolve himself of responsibility for the moral crisis posed by the violence of Partition. A cosmopolitan humanist, he rejected narrow-minded bigotry and refused to let distinctions of religion or culture interfere with his choice of friends. During a brief life that fell short of 43 years he lived in Amritsar, Bombay, Delhi and Lahore, forging friendships that survived the arbitrary frontiers of 1947. The constellation of friends he left behind in India included the trendsetters of progressive Urdu and Hindi literature, Rajinder Singh Bedi, Krishan Chander, Ismat Chughtai, and Ali Sardar Jafri as well as icons of the Bombay film industry like Ashok Kumar and Shyam.

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Faced with a dramatic disruption in social relations along ostensibly religious lines, Manto rejected the communitarian modes of interpretation privileging religion over all other factors that have dominated explanations of Partition and its cataclysmic aftermath. ―Knives, daggers, and bullets cannot destroy religion,‖ he had proclaimed in his semi-autobiographical story Saha‘e, inspired by an exchange with Shyam after hearing the woeful tales of a Sikh refugee family that had fled the violence in Rawalpindi perpetrated by Muslims. Manto had asked Shyam whether he could kill him for being a Muslim to which Shyam replied: ―Not now, but when I was hearing about the atrocities committed by Muslims … I could have killed you.‖ If a Hindu killed a Muslim, Manto wrote in Saha‘e, he would have killed a human being, not Islam, which would not be affected in the least bit. Muslims who thought killing Hindus could eliminate Hinduism were equally mistaken. To make sense of the blood thirst that engulfed his own home province of Punjab at the dawn of a long awaited freedom, Manto looked into the inner recesses of human nature. What he saw of the violence and turmoil of 1947 and its lingering aftereffects led him to conclude that it was neither religious zeal nor piety, but human greed and man‘s astonishing capacity for bestiality that had brought the subcontinent to such a sorry pass. 137

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While creative writers have written more effectively on the human experience of Partition than professional historians, Manto excelled in this genre with his no-holds barred depictions of everyday life amidst chaos, simplicity of language and fast pace of story telling. He gave as much attention to the perpetrators of violence as their victims, most controversially in Thanda Gosht, the first story he wrote on Pakistani soil and for which he was charged by the newly formed Muslim nation-state under the obscenity laws of the departed colonial masters. The story centers on a homicidal Sikh, who is rendered sexually impotent after discovering that the young girl he had kidnapped with the intention of violating was dead. Manto was inspired to write the story not because of any perversity as his tormentors among the state censors suspected. He wrote passionately about the unconscionable humiliation and brutalisation of women by men of rival communities inPunjab. Which religion sanctioned such abominations? Who was responsible for the killing of hundreds of thousands of innocent people?

These questions have tantalised historians ever since 1947. With his deft blending of reality and imagination, Manto as witness to history blurs the boundaries of fictional and historical narratives, turning his literary corpus into a treasure trove for the historian of Partition. He shares another commonality with the historian — a considered view of Partition as a process rather than an event with neither an end nor a beginning. Not an aberration to be dismissed as a fleeting collective madness, Partition for Manto was part and parcel of an unfolding drama that gave glimpses into the best and the worst in humankind. Through up-close and personalised representations modeled on real people, Manto used his admirable command of the short narrative form to lay bare the hearts and minds of his fictional characters. He is among the best practitioners of Partition storytelling not only because he questioned its wisdom – as in his acclaimed stories Toba Tek Singh, The Last Salute and the like – or wrote without malice towards any community. Manto‘s stories are important sources for historians because they unsettle and disturb the dominant communitarian mode of analysing Partition violence. He knew 138

how to sting and rankle. The success of his stories about the violence unleashed by the British decision to divide and quit can be measured in direct proportion to the discomfort felt by those used to perceiving and seeing things through the distorting prism of religious identities.

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In Tayaqqun, Manto derided the efforts of the two post colonial states to sew together the tattered pieces of women‘s honour by rehabilitating those who were abducted during the communitarian frenzy in Punjab. The heartbreaking story revolves around a disheveled and crazed woman who is desperately looking for her daughter. The liaison officer communicating the story tells the old woman that her daughter had been killed and she should accompany him toPakistan. She refuses to believe that her beautiful daughter could have been killed. One day she spots her daughter walking down the street with a young Sikh, who upon seeing her tells the girl, ―your mother‖. The young woman glances at her mother and walks away. The distraught mother calls after her daughter, only to drop dead when the liaison officer swears on God‘s name that her daughter is indeed dead. Manto leaves it mystifyingly unclear whether the young woman had run away with the Sikh or, if she was kidnapped, had made her peace with him and no longer wanted to be reunited with her hapless and tragic mother.

Combining facts collected from forays into refugee camps with elements of realistic fiction, Manto documented the multifaceted Partition miseries that have eluded professional historians due to the methodological limitations of their craft. Unencumbered by the statist narratives of two rival post-colonial states projecting their clashing national ideologies, he pierced the souls of the perpetrators and victims of violence without compromising his sense of humanity and reasonableness. Was Manto a better historian then, if by that term means someone with the ability to narrate the past in a manner that withstands the test of time? And did he realise that he was playing the role of both witness and maker of history? ―I rebelled against the great upheaval that the Partition of the country caused,‖ Manto 139

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confessed, and ―I still feel the same way‖. But rather than wallow in despair, he came to terms with ―this monstrous reality‖. Falsely accused of being intemperate in his treatment of sensitive social issues, all he did was to plunge himself in the sea of blood to find ―a few pearls of regret at what human beings had done to human beings … to draw the last drop of blood from their brothers‘ veins.‖ He had ―gathered the tears that some men had shed because they had been unable to kill their humanity entirely‖ and strung them together in a book called Siyah Haashiye (Black Margins), published in 1948, which was translated into English by Khalid Hasan and has a wide transnational readership, scholarly and general.

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Would Manto be the rage in the Western academy today without his Partition stories? The answer depends on how quickly his broader literary corpus is translated and disseminated internationally. Manto would still be Manto in the subcontinent if he had not written classics like Toba Tek Singh and Khol Do, such is the weight of his literary output. But it is an open question whether undergraduates in American and European universities would have known his name if not for these stories. While the nonUrdu speaking world has much to learn about Manto‘s life and work, he remains untaught, misunderstood and maligned in his adopted homeland,Pakistan. Despite the lack of state sponsorship, the maverick whose name has been immortalised by his stories about murderers, criminals, prostitutes and pimps, as well as fraudulent men of religion, enjoys a large and dedicated readership in Pakistan. In India where his works are available in English but remain to be translated into regional languages other than Hindi and Bengali, Manto is well known in literary, intellectual and artistic circles. On his 100th birthday, Manto stands taller on the literary horizon than others who wrote about the mass migrations of 1947. Where he needs greater appreciation is in the role he played as a witness to history through his chilling narratives of Partition. In a country where history as a discipline has suffered from calculated neglect in the interests of projecting statist ideology, Manto‘s 140

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Partition stories are an excellent entry point for enquiring minds eager to understand the past that has made their present fraught with such uncertainty and danger. The ever-percipient Manto had anticipated the problems of treating religion as a weapon rather than a matter of personal faith and ethics, which have over the past three decades surfaced with a vengeance in Muslim Pakistan. His words of warning have a resonance that is louder than when he said: â&#x20AC;&#x2022;Our split culture and divided civilization, what has survived of our arts; all that we received from the cut up parts of our own body, and which is buried in the ashes of Western politics, we need to retrieve, dust, clean and restore to freshness in order to recover all that we have lost in the storm.â&#x20AC;&#x2013; If there is a birthday present Pakistanis and Indians can jointly give Manto, it is to admit the reality of the problems he spelt out in his writings on Partition. It may then become possible for them to take the requisite steps towards recovering what has been lost by the myopic refusal of their respective nation-states to understand each otherâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s position, rectify past errors, and strike a mutually beneficial and sustainable historical compromise.

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Farooq Khalid

MARTYRS

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Saadat Hasan Manto was a misfit in the hypocritical and hypochondriac society of his times. In order to make himself meaningful, better to say, just to survive he analytically and ruthlessly dissected the various parts of social structures thus created short stories which truly reflected his efforts.

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To me he was one of the few martyrs of a literary world.

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Saadat Hasan Manto Translated by Sajjad Sheikh

TOBA TEK SINGH

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Two or three years after the partition, governments of Pakistan and India decided to exchange their insane population. Mad Musalmans confined in the Indian lunatic asylums were to be sent to Pakistan in place of insane Hindoos and Sikhs confined over there. Whether this decision itself was san or not, I cannot say but several high level conferences wre held on both sides of the frontiers, before a transfer date was finally agreed upon.

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Except for those whose families had opted for India, all other mad Musalmans, after long investigation, were sent to the borders. Here in Pakistan, the question of retaining any one didn‘t arise, because the families of all non-muslim lunatics had already migrated to India. So, all of them were brought to the borders under police escort.

How the news of such an exchange was received in India, I don‘t know, but in Lahore, it gave rise to some very interesting speculations. A mad Mussalman, who had been a very regular reader of ―The daily Zameendar‖ for more than twelve years, was asked by a colleague: ―Molvi sahib! What is this Pakistan?‖ after some serious consideration, he replied: ―It is a place in Hindustan where razors are manufactured.‖ Evidently this answer satisfied his colleague. Similarly, a sikh asked another mad sikh: ―Sardar Je ! Why they send us to Hindustan ? We do not know the language spoken there.‖ 143

His fellow Sikh smiled and said: ―I know their language alright! The Devils! How they strut about!‖ One day ,in the courage of his bath, a mad mussalman raised the slogan‖ Pakistan Zindabad‖ so forcefully that he staggered, slipped ,fell flat on the floor and swooned.

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Some occupants of the mad house were not insane at all. They were criminals; mostly murderers, who had saved their necks from gallows under the pretext of insanity.

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Their relatives had bribed the officials concerned to admit them there, they did have some vague notions about the creating Pakistan, but they were unaware of what had actually happened. Newspapers did not give enough details. The uneducated guards on duty were equally ignorant and nothing could be ascertained from them .That Pakistan is a separate Muslim State, established by man called Quaid-e-Azam Muhammad Ali Jinnah, they knew but about its geographical boundaries as exact location. They had no idea at all.

The question, whether they were in India or Pakistan, puzzled even those who still preserved a modicum of sanity. If they were in India, where was Pakistan? And if they were in Pakistan, how was it that living at same place, they were deemed to be in India, only some time ago? Pondering about India and Pakistan, and Pakistan and India, a mad man overtaxed his mind so much so that his condition worsened. One day, in the course of routine sweeping, he climbed up a tree, seated himself on a branch and made speech for full two hours about the critical issue of India and Pakistan. He was asked t come down, but he mounted further up. And when the guards threatened him, he said: ―I don‘t want to live in India-no-nor in Pakistan. I ‗ll live here on this very tree.‖ Long later, when his fit was over, he climbed down, embraced his Hindu and Sikh mates 144

and began to weep. The thought of their migration to India had moved him to tears. A Mussalman radio engineer, holding a Masterâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s degree in science was accustomed to roam about all alone in the orchard. He took off all his clothes and gave them to a caretaker and commenced his walks stark naked.

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A fat lunatic from chiniot, a former Muslim League activist, who bathed fifteen or sixteen times a day, suddenly abandoned this habbit. His name was Muhammed Ali so, one day, he declared himself to be the Quaid-e-Azam Muhammad Ali Jinnah. Likewise, a mad sikh turned into Master Tara Singh. Consequently a row ensued between them which might have ended in bloodshed, had they not been separated. Considered as dangerous, both were locked in different cells.

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A young hindu lawyer from Lahore had become mad thanks to an unsuccessful love affair with a girl belonging to Amratsar. He was deeply hurt to hear that Amratsar had been given away to India. Despite his rejection and consequent madness, he still cherished the same damsel. He cursed and abused all leaders responsible for the partition which had made his sweetheart an Indian national while he was still a Pakistani. When preparations for the Exchange were a foot, many mad men tried to console him by saying that he should shed away his sadness because, heâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;d be soon bound for India, the homeland of his beloved mistress! However, apprehending that his legal practice want to leave Lahore. In the European world these were two Anglo Indians .They were deeply shocked to hear that the English had gone back after liberation of India .For hours, they held secret deliberations about their future status in the lunatic asylum. Would their ward be retained or closed? Would they continue to receive their breakfast or no? Would they be forced to swallow the bloody Indian chapatti instead of English bread? 145

Another inmate, a sikh had been living there for the last fifteen years. He was always heard babbling these words: ―Opurr the gur gur the ankes the bay dhayanan the mang the daal of the laltan.‖

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He never slept-neither at night, nor during the day. Guards said, during fifteen years, he never had even a wink of sleep. Nor did he ever lie in the bed. At the most he reclined against the wallbut that was not very often. Due to constant standing, his feet and calf had swollen. Despite the pain he refrained from lying in the bed. Very attentively he listened to his mates when they discussed questions relating to India, Pakistan and the exchange of lunatics. If anyone asked his opinion, he‘d reply in all seriousness:

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―Opurr the gur gur the ankeas the bay dhiyanan the moong the daal of the Pakistan Government.‖ Later on the last words were replaced by ― of the Toba Tek Singh government‖

Presently he began to ask about the fate of Toba Tek Singh, his native place. But nobody knew whether it was in India or Pakistan. Those who tried hard to answer these questions, were soon lost in their own enigmas.

Sialkot formerly in India, was now in Pakistan. And Lahore, presently in Pakistan, may go to India tomorrow. Who knows the whole of India may become Pakistan? And who could say for sure that India and Pakistan may not be wiped out of existence? Over the years, long locks of this sikh had considerably fallen. He hardly ever took a bath thus the hair of his head and beard had got entangled to give him a macabre appearance. Nevertheless he was a very harmless person who never had a row with anyone during all these fifteen years. Old inmates of the asylum know that he was a big landlord of Toba Tek Singh. Living 146

in prosperity, he had suddenly lost his wits. Therefore, his relatives had brought him here, shackled in thick iron chains. For many years, they kept paying regular visits to enquire after him. But thanks to the recent turbulent crisis, their visits had come to an end.

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The real name of this sikh was Bishan singh, but everyone called him Toba Tek Singh. He had lost count of time and didn‘t remember when was, he confined here. However, every month, when his visitors were due, he could foretell the day of their arrival. On such occasions, he took particular care to make himself presentable.

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After a good bath, he oiled and combed his hair and demanded clothes which he wasn‘t normally prove to wear. Clean, tidy and well dressed, he met his visitors, but usually he remained quiet, even when they asked him any question. If at all he did speak, his jargon was the same: ―opurr the gur gur the ankas the bay dhayani the moong the daal of the laltan.‖

Bishan Singh didn‘t recognize his daughter who had grown into a maiden, during these years. As a child she used to cry at the sight of her father. Even now, tears trickled through her eyes as she saw him.

During the partition Bishan Singh began to enquire from his colleagues about the fate of Toba Tek Singh. In the absence of a satisfactory answer, his curiosity increased day by day. His visitors had stopped coming. As such, that strange, mysterious inner voice which always foretold their visit, was heard no more by him. How he longed to receive his well wishers who were accustomed to bring him fruit, sweetmeat and clothes! They could certainly tell him whether Toba Tek Singh was in India or Pakistan, because they hailed from that very place, where he owned his forms. Another inmate asserted himself to be Almighty God! One day, Bishan Singh posed his question to this self styled god: ―where is Toba Tek Singh? In India or Pakistan?‖ the fellow 147

laughed his customary laughter and replied: ―Neither in India nor in Pakistan! We haven‘t ordered yet!‖

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Bishan Singh implored him in the humblest manner, to give his verdict and end the problem, but ―The god‖ was busy in dealing with a thousand other issues. One day, growing impatient, Bishen Singh flew into a rage and burst out: ―Opurr the gur gur the bay dhyani the moong the daal of the hay guru jee da khalsa and wah guru jee ki fatah!‖ jo bolay so nihal, sat sari akaal!‖ Perhaps he wanted to say, that being a god of Mussalmans, he was indifferent to him. Had he been a god of Sikhs as well, he would have listened to his pleas.

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A few days before the exchange took place, a Muslim friend of Toba Tek Singh came to see him. This fellow had never visited earlier, and Bishen Singh recoiled at his sight. The guards stopped him saying: ―He‘s your friend Fazal Din__ has come to see you!‖ glancing at him, Bishen Singh muttered some words. Fazal Din stepped forward, placed his hand on Bishen‘s shoulder and said: ―I wished to see you earlier__ couldn‘t get time__ All your folks safely left for India__ and I gave them utmost help__ your daughter Roop Kaur___‖

Fazal Din stopped in the middle of a sentence. Bishen Singh tried to recall; ―Roop Kaur__ my daughter_!‖ Pausing on every syllable, Fazal Din went on: ―yes _ she _she was also quite well_ and accompanied the family safe and sound.‖ Bishen Singh didn‘t utter a single word. After a long pause Fazal Din resumed:

― They had asked me to keep in touch with you inorder to know your wellbeing. Now I hear that you are also going to India. Convey my salam to Bhai Balbir singh and Bhai Wadhana singh__ And to sister Amrat Kaur. Tell them that Fazal Din is alright. One of the brownish buffaloes, they left here, has delivered a calf, the other also gave birth to a she- calf who died six days later. And tell 148

them that I‘m ready to do any service for them__ at any time. And here are some sweets for you.‖ Bishen singh took the packet of sweets and gave it to the guard standing nearby. Then he put his question to Fazal Din: ―Where is Toba Tek Singh?‖ ―Where is it!‖ exclaimed Fazal Din, a little surprised, ―it is where it always was!‖ Bishen singh again asked: ―in India or Pakistan‖

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―In India ___no ___no it is in Pakistan‖ Fazal Din was quite perplexed. Bishen singh continued to mutter: ―Opurr the gur gur the ankas the bay dhyani the moong the daal of the Pakistan and Hindustan of the dur fittay moonh!‖

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Various formalities pertaining to the exchange were completed. The lists of the lunatics on both sides were received and the final date for the exchange was fixed. By now winter had set in and it was extremely cold when the Lorries full of mad hindues and Sikhs left Lahore Mental Hospital, accompanied by the officials concerned, under police escort.

Superintendents from both sides met on Wagah borders and as soon as the preliminaries were over, the exchange began. It continued throughout the night. To drive the insane from their lorries and deliver them to the respective authorities was quite an arduous job. Some were extremely reluctant to leave, while those who did emerge from the Lorries were difficult to handle because they liked to run about here and there. Many of them refused to wear any clothes, and in case they were forcibly dressed they‘d instantly tear away their clothes and cast them away. some started shouting, cursing, abusing, singing or quarrelling with each other, all the time whining and crying. They made such a mess that nothing could be deciphered from their clamor. Over and above all this was the noise made by mad women. And the cold was so severe that our teeth gnashed. The lunatics were generally opposed to their transfer. They failed 149

to understand why they were being up rooted and supplanted elsewhere. A few of them, who were able to weigh and consider the pros and cons of the transfer, began to raise slogans: ―Pakistan Zindabad‖ or ―Pakistan Murdabad‖

O nl y

Twice or thrice they were on the verge a clash because these slogans had enraged some Sikhs and Mussalmans. On his turn, Bishan Singh was handed over to an officer from across the border. When his name was being recorded in the relevant register, he passed his question to this Indian officer: ―Where is Toba Tek Singh?:―In India or Pakistan?‖

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The Indian officer laughed and said: ―In Pakistan!‖

Hearing this answer, Bishan Singh sprang to his feet and fled back to his remaining companions.

Pakistani soldiers caught hold of him and endeavored to drag him back but he refused to more. ―Toba Tek Singh is here,‖ he screamed and continued his babbling:

―Opurr the gur gur the anlas the bay dhyani the Moong the daal of Toba Tek Singh and Pakistan.‖ Everybody tried to persuade him saying: ―Look here! Toba Tek Singh has gone to India as soon will be dispatched there.‖ But he did not budge an inch. When they tried to move him by force, he stood upright on his swollen legs in such a way that, he deemed , no power on Earth could shake him.

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Since he was considered a harmless man, no more effort was made to physically drag him for the time being .Meanwhile the exchange of mad people continued.

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O nl y

Just before Dawn, a loud shriek escaped from Bishan Singhâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s throat. Several officers of both sides ran up to him and found that the man who had firmly stood on his legs, day and night, for full fifteen years, lay prostrate on the floor. On one side of him, behind the barbed wires, was Hindustan and on the other, behind similar wires, was Pakistan. And in between the borders, on no man, s land, lay the body of Toba Tek Singh.

151

Saadat Hasan Manto Translated by Sajjad Sheikh

SHAREEFAN

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When Qasim opened the door of his house, the only burning pain was caused by a bullet that had pierced into his right calf, but as he went inside and saw the dead body of his wife, blood shot into his eyes. He was about to pick up the woodcutting axe in order to rush out like the mad and perpetrate a massacre, when all at once, his daughter shareefan‘s thought hit his mind.

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―Shareefan! Shareefan!‖ he called aloud. Both doors of courtyard were shut. ―Perhaps she is hiding in scare‖ he surmised and moved forward in that direction placed his face along the door slit and said: ―shareefan! Shareefan!‖ it‘s me, your father. Getting no response, he pushed in the door with full force using both his hands, and fell head down into the courtyard.

Striving to get up, Qasim felt the sensation of touching something. He rose with an instant scream. A yard away from him lay the dead body of a maiden stark naked. Fair complexioned, a proportionate figure, little breasts lifted up ceiling ward. Qasim‘s whole frame quivered. A heaven rending scream emerged from the profoundest depths of his being, but it couldn‘t pass through his securely tightened lips. His eyes closed instinctively. Nevertheless he covered his face with both the hands. A feeble lifeless sound released from his lips: ―Shareefan!‖ His eyes still closed, he groped around in the courtyard, collected afew clothes from here and there, threw towards shareefan‘s corpse and leaped out without noticing that these clothes had fallen short of it. Outside the courtyard, he didn‘t see 152

his wife‘s dead body. It may not have hit his eyesight because his eyes were brimming with shareefan‘s naked, stark naked body. He picked up the woodcutting axe lying in a corner and rushed out.

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O nl y

Qasim had a bullet pierced into his right calf, but it‘s painful presence vanished from his mind and heart the moment he has entered his house. The grief on account of his loyal wife‘s assassination wasn‘t there in any nook or corner of his mind. The only recurring image that haunted his eyes was the picture of shareefan___ the stark naked shareefan. Like the sharp pointed tip of a spearhead, it pierced through his eyes and produced cracks in his soul as well. Brandishing his axe, Qasim passed through several deserted bazaars like fast flowing molten lava. At a crossing, he encountered a sikh who was quite a sturdy youth but the dexterous hand of Qasim gave him such a nasty blow that he dropped down dead as a strong tree felled by a fierce wind storm. Blood became hotter in his veins and began to simmer just as boiling oil simmers if sprinkled with a little splash of water. Some men were seen coming from afar. Qasim rushed towards them like an arrow. Eying him they chanted: ―har har maha dev!‖

Instead of retaliating with his own, (Mussalman‘s), slogan, he hurled at them filthiest abuses involving dishonor of their sisters and mothers, and ran into them with his raised axe. Within a few minutes, three fatally wounded bodies were writhing on the road. Rest of the men fled away. But Qasim continued hitting the air for quite long since his eyes had remained closed. Suddenly he stumbled against a corpse and fell down. He imagined, perhaps he was felled. As such, he started pronouncing filthiest abuses mingled with cries: ―kill me! Kill me!‖ feeling no strangulating hands upon his neck and receiving no assault, he opened his eyes. No one was there on the road beside him and the three dead bodies. For a second, Qasim felt frustrated. Perhaps he longed for death. But, once again, shareefan, suddenly flashed before him and landed into his eyes like molten lead, and transformed his whole 153

body into a burning tape of gunpowder. He rose immediately, clutched his axe, lifted it and again flowed like lava on the road. All the bazaars through which he passed were completely deserted.

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Presently he entered into a lane but it came out to be an entirely Muslim inhabitation. Full of frustration and disgust, he gave his lava a new direction and reached a bazaar. There, he brandished his axe in the air and stated his tirade of filthy abuses concerning the dishonouring of sisters and mothers. Suddenly a painful realization came to him___. By-non his obscene abuses had targeted only sisters and mothers. Thus he shifted his tirade for daughter‘s desecration. He poured out all such abuses he could recall, in one go, at a stretch.

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Still not satisfied, he headed towards a door which bore on inscription in the Hindi language. The door was securely bolted from within. Qasim began to hit the door with powerful strokes of his axe, like the mad. Soon, very soon, both the doors were turned into small bits and pieces. Qasim leaped into the house. It was a small house, he forced his parched throat to utter a tirade of obscene abuses mingled with shouts: ―Come out! Come out!‖ The front door squeaked. Qasim‘s enforced abuses continued to emerge from his dry throat. The door opened, a girl appeared Qasim‘s lips tightened at her sight. He roared: ―who are you?‖

― A Hindu!‖ said the girl roving her tongue on her lips. Qasim straightened himself. Through his fiery flaming eyes, he viewed her. She was about fourteen or fifteen years old. He threw down his axe, scooped on her like a hawk and pushed her into the hall and began to tear away her clothes to undress her, employing both his hands wildly. The torn callus and rags began to fly and scatter around like cotton in the course of ginning. For half an hour, Qasim was absorbed in taking his revenge. The girl offered no resistance at all. In fact she had swooned as soon as she was downed on the floor. 154

Finally, Qasim opened his eyes. Both his hands were dug into her neck. With a jerk he freed them and got up. Drenched in perspiration, he gazed at the dead body of this youthful girl___naked___stark naked___ fair complexioned small breasts lifted up, ceiling ward.

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Qasim‘s eyes closed instinctively and he covered his face with both hands. Hot drops of his perspiration became icy cold. The burning lava of his veins froze as stone. After sometime, a man armed with a sword entered the house. He saw a man whose eyes were shut and who was fumbling around with his trembling hands to cover with a blanket something lying on the floor.

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Roaring, he asked : ―Who are you?‖ Qasim was startled, his eyes opened but could see nothing. The armed man yelled: ―Qasim!‖ this astounded Qasim. He struggled to recognize the fellow standing a little away from him. But his eyes failed to help him. In consternation, the armed man asked: ―What are you doing here!‖ with a trembling hand Qasim signaled towards the blanket and spoke in a hollow voice: ―shareefan___‖

The armed fellow hurried forward and removed the blanket. Eying the naked corpse, he quivered at first, but then he shut his eyes. The sword dropped from his hand. Placing his hands on his eyes, he went out with staggering steps and calling aloud: ―Bimla! Bimla!‖

155

Saadat Hasan Manto Translated by Sajjad Sheikh

CONSPIRACY OF FLOWERS

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All flowers of the garden turned rebels, the fire of rebellion enflamed the rose‘s heart. Each one of his veins began to flutter with the fiery feelings of revolt.

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On a certain day, the rose lifted up his neck, set aside his long procrastination and addressed his comrades: ―no one has the right to procure luxuries at the cost of our sweat! Spring seasons of our life are ours alone. We can never tolerate anybody sharing them with us.‖ The rose‘s face was red in fury. His petals were shaking. Buds in the jasmine bed were aroused from sleep by his loud uproar and they began to regard each other‘s face in utter amazement.

The rose‘s manly voice rose again ―Each and every soulbearing creature has the right to safeguard his rights. And we, the flowers, are certainly not exempted from it. Our hearts are more sensitive and tender. Just one hot wave of fast wind may burn us to ashes and thus destroy our whole world of color and fragrance. While a single priceless dew drop may completely quench our thirst. Should we suffer the rough hand of this one eyed gardener who is utterly indifferent to all changes of weather?‖ Motia flower instantly shouted in unison: ―No! Never!

Ever! ‖ Blood shot into tulip‘s eyes as he said: ―my heart is scared and stamped with his tyranny. I ‗ll be the first of flowers to brandish the red rebellious flag against this hangman!‖ 156

So saying, the tulip, began to tremble in fury. Jasmine buds were amazed at this clamorous uprising. Unable to fathom its causes, a bud very coyly bent toward the rose and asked: ―You‘ve spoiled my sleep. What makes you cry like this?‖

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Reflecting about the rose‘s leader like speech, khero flower, who stood a little away, said: ―drops plus drops make a river! We are meek flowers, of course, but if we all unite together, nothing can prevent us from grinding to powder, this enemy of our life. If our petals can make fragrance, the can also make poisonous gas. Brothers! Do join the rose and deem it your victory!‖ So saying, he cast a glance, full of fraternal feelings, at all the flowers.

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The rose was going to say something, when the jasmine bud affected a tremor in her marble like body and remarked: ―All these are futile talks___ come and recite some verses for me. I long to sleep in your lap today___ you are a poet ___Come on darling! Let‘s not waste the spring days in such futile talks. Let us go to dreamland___ the land of sleep where nothing else is. Sleep alone resides there! Sweet and comforting sleep! ‖

Something akin to turmoil was created in the rose‘s heart. His palpitation grew faster. He felt like falling into some profound depth. Endeavoring to counter the impact of the jasmine bud‘s tempting discourse, the rose asserted: ―No! I have made a firm commitment to land in the battlefield. Now all such romances are meaningless for me! ― At this the jasmine bud twisted it‘s tender, elastic self and said in a drowsy tone: ―Come on___ my darling rose! Talk not like that for it makes me wild___ just think of moonlit nights___ when I undress myself and bathe under this celestial fountain. How 157

charming will seem the rise and fall of the rosiness on your cheeks! And how madly you‘ll kiss my shining lips! Leave alone such useless talks. How I long to sleep, resting my head upon your shoulder! ‖

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There and then the coy, tender jasmine bud clung to the quivering cheeks of the rose and went to sleep. As a result, the rose got intoxicated. For quite a long-time, voices of all other flowers kept rising from all around him, but the rose didn‘t wake up. All the night long he remained intoxicated.

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Next morning, the one eyed gardener came over there. He found the jasmine bud clinging with the rose‘s branch. He stretched forth his rough hand and plucked both of them.

158

Saadat Hasan Manto Translated by Sajjad Sheik

OPEN UP

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A special train left Amratsar at 2. P.M., and took eight hours before it finally reached Moghalpura. During this journey several passengers got killed or maimed or scampered away and disappeared for ever.

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At ten, next morning, Sirajud-Din opened his eyes to find himself lying on the cold camp floor surrounded by a tempestuous sea of men, women and children. His sense perception and ability to think became all the more dwindled and for a long while, his gaze remained fixed on the sodden sky. Despite the clamor all around him, he sat like the deaf, unable to hear a word. Apparently engrossed in deep thoughts, he was actually in a state of stupor. All his faculties looked completely benumbed and he was like suspended in vacuum. During that unwitting survey of the muddy horizon, as he eyed the sun, a flash of blazing beams suddenly descended into his whole frame and awakened him. In a flash, a junk of images flickered through his mind: arson, loot, murder, fleeing for life, railway station, firing, bullets, night and Sakina. Sirajud-Din sprang up and began his mad pursuit for his daughter through that tempestuous sea of people. For full three hours, he went about shouting: â&#x20AC;&#x2022;Sakina! Sakina!â&#x20AC;&#x2013;.Although he ransacked every nook and corner of the refugee camp, yet he found no clue, no trace of his youthful and the only daughter. In the throes of prevailing chaos, everyone was looking for a missing son, mother, wife or daughter. At the end of a strenuous but futile struggle, Sirajud-Din sit aside in weariness and began to recapitulate how, when and where had he lost contact with Sakina. 159

His recollection stretched back only to the dead body of his wife whose entrails had poured out but, beyond that, he couldn‘t recall a thing. Sakina‘s mother was certainly dead___ she had breathed her last right in front of Siraj. But, where was sakina? The last words of his expiring wife echoed in his mind: ―Leave me alone and save sakina. Hurry up. Waste no time. Take her away___!‖

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To be sure, sakina was with him. Barefooted, they ran together for life, in the course of their flight, her dupata slipped off her head. As he stopped to pick it up, she yelled: ―leave it alone father!‖ however, he had managed to pick it up. With this recollection, his glance turned towards his swelled coat pocket, and instantly he pulled it out__ a rag! Undoubtedly it was the self same dupatta. But where was Sakina herself?

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Serajud-Din overtaxed his already tired brain but failed to reach a conclusion.

Had he brought sakina to the station? Was she with him at the railway station? Had they boarded the train together? And, where the train was forcibly stopped on the way, and the rioters forced into their compartment, had he swooned that she was abducted by them?

Sirajud-Din‘s mind was beset with all such questions. Questions to which he failed to find any answer,. He felt, the dire need of human sympathy___ so did the multitudes scattered all around him. He yearned to cry but his eyes betrayed him. Tears had somehow vanished altogether. After the lapse of six days, sirajud Din partly recovered himself, and came across a group of people who were ready to help him. Eight youths in all___ they were fully armed with a rifle and possessed a lorry as well. 160

Earnestly praying for their success, he gave them sakina‘s description: ―Fair complexioned_ and extremely beautiful_ no she didn‘t take after me_ was more like her mother_ seventeen years old! Eyes big enough and hair black. Has a conspicuous mole on the right cheek! She is my only daughter! O‘ please, do find her for me and God will surely bless you!‖

O nl y

The youthful volunteers gave him spirited assurances that if alive, his daughter‘d be with him in a few days. They did try their level best to find her. They risked their life and went upto amratsar__ rescued several men, women and children and brought them back to the refugee camps and other safe places. Ten days passed. They were still unable to trace out sakina.

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One day, bound for Amratsar for the same purpose they came across a damsel on the road side. At the noise of the approaching lorry, she gave start and took to her heels. The volunteers stopped their lorry, jumped out and after some chase, caught hold of her from a farm. She was extremely beautiful__ and had a big mole on her right cheek.

― Be not scared __are you Sakina‖ asked a volunteer.

The girl turned pale, but kept quiet. Their consoling words of sympathy calmed her fears and nervousness. Presently she affirmed that her name was sakina and she was the only daughter of sirajud din. The volunteers offered her all the help and comfort she needed. She was given food, and milk and was helped to board the lorry and seated her. A fellow took off his coat and gave it to her because, bereft of her dopatta she felt quite awkward and was attempting tin vain to cover her bosom behind her arms. Many more days passed. Sirajud din still got no news of sakina. Every day, he went from office to office and camp to camp, but there was no clue or trace of her. Every night, he prayed for the success of the volunteers whou had promised to bring her back, in case she was alive. 161

One day, he saw them sitting in their lorry, in the camp, and rushed to them. Their lorry was about to start as he arrived there, and asked: ―sorry! Got any trace of my sakina?‖, ―we will get___we will get‖ they replied in unison and drove off the lorry.

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O nl y

Once again, Sirajud din resumed his prayer for their success and felt greatly relieved. That very evening, he saw some commotion in the camp where he sat. On enquiry he learnt that a maiden had been brought there by some people who had found her senseless body deposited along the rail road. Sirajud din followed the crowd and reached the place where she was handed over to the hospital authorities. For a while, he stood there, reclining against the lamp post outside the hospital gate, but when the crowd subsided he quietly crept into the hosoital. Nobody was there. Just a stretcher was there. No one was near the corpse placed on the stretcher. Slowly, he walked upto it. All of a sudden, the room was lighted. As soon as he noticed the mole on the pale face of the corpse, sirajud din screamed: ―sakina!‖ The doctor, who had just switched on the light, turned to him and asked: ―what‘s the matter?‖

Choked with emotion, Sirajud-Din muttered nothing more than: ― Jee__Jee__ I am her father!‖

The doctor observed the body lying on the stretcher, groped for her pulse, and pointing towards the window, said to Siraj: ―open it up‖. Instantly, sakina‘s dead body quivered. Her life less hands untied the string and lowered her shalwar. The old Sirajud Din exclaimed in ecstasy: ―She is alive!_ my daughter is alive!‖ The doctor was drenched in perspiration from top to toe. 162

Saadat Hasan Manto Translated by Saeed Ur Rehman

Blood and Spit The train was still to arrive.

O nl y

Huddles of travellers were milling around on the stony platform. Fruit-vending carts were floating around on their rubbery tyres. Hundreds of unflinching light bulbs were staring at each other. Electric fans were sighing away in the mildewed air. In the distance, a red lamp was observing all the passengers. The platform was choking in the acrid cigarette smoke and the chatter.

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People were busy in their daily pursuits. Three or four friends were sitting around talking of their visit to some place. Oblivious of the commotion around him, one man was sitting under a clock and humming a tune. In the far corner, a newly wed couple was caught up in a mix of sweet nothings and giggles. The husband was offering the wife something to eat and she was shying away from it. On the other end, a young man was dragging his feet behind a group of coolies carrying the coffin of his sister. Near the refreshment room, five or six soldiers were tapping their walking sticks and whistling after having had a few stiff drinks. At a stall, some travellers were whiling away their time leafing through the books. Clad in their red uniforms, many coolies were waiting for the train, with hope sheening through their eyes. In the refreshment room, a man, dressed in an English suit, was trying to smoke away the wait. â&#x20AC;&#x2022;Coolies have it worse than the donkeys.â&#x20AC;&#x2013; 163

―But what can they do? They have to feed themselves too.‖ ―How much does a coolie earn in a day?‖ ―Eight or ten annas a day.‖

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―Just enough to get by. If he has a family, a porter can‘t feed them all. Khalid, I often can‘t stop thinking about their wretched lives – the dark underbelly of our civilization.‖ Two friends were discussing these problems, while strolling on the platform. Khalid smiled as if astonished and replied.

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―Look at you, Mr. Lenin Reincarnated! What is civilization anyway? It‘s just the rust on the cold, steely veneer of humanity. Don‘t even get me started. I‘m already not my normal self.‖

―You‘re right, Khalid. These things can really disturb anyone‘s mind. About two days back, I read a story in the newspaper about a fire in a factory that burnt to ashes fiftseen labourers. The factory was insured so the owner was compensated but fifteen women were widowed and God knows how many children were orphaned. Yesterday, on Platform 3, a sweeper was run over by a train. Nobody even shed a tear. I haven‘t been able to eat anything since watching this incident. I feel so sad. The eyes of the dead sweeper, his body all bloody and mangled, just keep staring at me. I should visit his home. Maybe I can do something for his kids.‖ Khalid smiled and grabbed his friend‘s hand. ―Why don‘t you go and help the fifteen widows? It is a noble cause. However, do not forget the paupers living at the outskirts of the city. They don‘t have even a single piece of old 164

bread. Don‘t forget the many street children who can‘t find any shelter anywhere. There are also hundreds of women whose beauty is tarnished by poverty. Tell me! How many people can you help? How many outstretched hands will you hold in your giving hand? How many thousands of the denuded bodies will you clothe?‖

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―Ah, yes. You‘re right, Khalid. But tell me how we can stop this bleak charade. To see one‘s fellow beings being humiliated, being kicked around in their guts, in their bare chests, is a nightmare.‖ ―Wait and see the implacable unfolding of events. The downtrodden don‘t resist. They have learnt to tolerate because they know they can survive all this.‖

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―It‘s easier to turn a spark into a raging fire. But it is very difficult to create a spark. But you should be hopeful. You may be able to see their misery ending in your lifetime.‖ ―I‘m ready to spend the rest of my life for this cause. Just to see the end of it all.‖

―I wish other people also thought like you – but don‘t forget the train. It‘s already too late. There is still no sign of its arrival anywhere.‖

Khalid‘s friend was lost in his thoughts so he did not pay any attention to the last sentences of his friend. He was still going on about other things. ―Yes. We should think of creating a spark‖ ―Let‘s forget about philosophy for a while.‖ Khalid shook his friend‘s arm. ―Do you know when the train is due?‖ 165

―It‘s twenty-five past nine. The train should be here in ten minutes.‖ ―We‘ll have our friend with us then. Come to think of it – I had totally forgotten about Waheed‘s arrival because of our talk on human misery.‖ Khalid‘s friend took a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it.

O nl y

The crowd on the platform had become denser. The travellers had become more agile. Standing near heaps of luggage, the coolies were eager for the train‘s arrival so that they could earn their one anna. Itinerant vendors had also come from other platforms and were now loudly announcing their wares. The air was thick with the thumping of engines, the calls of the vendors, the loud chatter of travellers and the coarse talk of the coolies. The electric fans toiled on.

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Lounging in the refreshment room, the suited gentleman was puffing at his cigar. He cast a disdainful glance at his wristwatch and, resting his elbow on the marble table, yelled for the waiter. ―Boy!‖

After waiting for a few seconds, he shouted again. ―Boy, boy!‖ Then he murmured to himself ―Lazy buggers.‖

―Yes, sir. Here I come.‖ Someone responded from the other side of the wall. At the same time, a waiter dressed in white livery hurried to stand respectfully near the gentleman. ―Yes, sir.‖ ―I called you twice. You people are always asleep.‖

166

―I didn‘t hear you, sir. How can a servant dare to ignore you, sir?‖ The man calmed down when he heard the word ‗servant.‘ ―Listen, it is not a good thing to ignore the passengers of the First Class. I can even badger your boss. Understand?‖

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―Yes, sir.‖ ―And even the booking agent. He is my friend. Forget about it. Go to the waiting room and ask the coolie to bring my luggage to the platform. The train is due in five minutes.‖ ―At your service, sir.‖

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―Oh, yes. Please have my bill sent to me with a pack of Triple 5 cigarettes. The price of the cigarettes should be in the bill too. Don‘t forget that.‖ ―I‘ll bring the bill and the cigarettes to you in the train. There isn‘t much time left.‖

―Do whatever you like. Get going now and ask my coolie to start moving the luggage.‖

Then the traveller stretched his body languidly, picked up his stiff drink and downed it in a gulp. After wiping his lips with a silken handkerchief, he got up and ambled towards the door. Watching him approach the door, a waiter opened the door and ushered him out. Stiff with pride, the traveller sauntered towards the platform and joined the waiting crowd. In the distance, between the railway tracks, a huge blot of light, rupturing the surrounding darkness, was slowly moving towards the station. After some time, the stain became a long cascade of light and suddenly the 167

blinding headlight of the engine subdued the bulbs lighting the platform. Then it was off. The heavy thuds of the halting engine ran over all the noise on the platform. With a metallic shriek, the train stopped next to the platform.

O nl y

The noise on the platform rose again and spread itself with a new vigour. The commotion of the travellers, the squeals of children, the hullaballoo of the coolies, the hauling of luggage, the trundle of the carts, the hollers of the vendors, the shrieks of the shuttling engines, the hiss of the steam; all these sounds were bumping against each other under the iron overhanging of the platform. ―Khalid, have you seen Waheed in any of the carriages?‖ ―No. Not at all.‖

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―God knows if he was supposed to come on this train or any other.‖ ―The telegram mentioned this train. Look who is in that carriage?‖ ―Waheed!‖

―Yes, it is Waheed.‖

Both of them ran towards Waheed, who was taking his luggage out of the carriage. The traveller who had been drinking in the Refreshment Room hurried towards the First-Class Compartment. After glancing at a piece of paper pasted next to the door, he opened the door and climbed in. Then he held onto a brass rod and stood waiting for his luggage. The coolie, carrying the entire luggage, was running towards the train. The traveller saw the coolie and shouted: ―This way, dimwit!‖ 168

The coolie, recognizing the voice, started looking around for the traveller but failed due to the crowd. He was still puzzled when he heard another call. ―This way, straight ahead!‖ The coolie figured out the direction, carried the luggage towards the traveller and stood waiting. ―Please let me pass. I‘ll place the luggage inside the cabin.‖

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―Yes. Go ahead.‖ The traveller sat on a cushioned seat next to the door. ―What were you doing for so long? Were you sleeping? Didn‘t the waiter tell you to move my luggage when the train arrives?‖ ―I didn‘t know which carriage you‘d be riding,‖ said the coolie, placing a heavy trunk-case on the upper rack.

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―This is my reserved cabin. My name is pasted on the door.‖

―Sir, you should have told me all this before. I wouldn‘t have delayed at all. One... two...three…eight...ten.‖ The coolie counted the items of the luggage. Then he arranged all the items neatly, inspected them carefully and got off the carriage. ―Please make sure all your belongings are in with you, sir.‖ The traveller pulled out an expensive wallet in a disdainful way and almost started to pay the coolie. Out of a sudden, he remembered something, ―Where is my walking stick?‖ ―You walking stick? It wasn‘t part of the luggage. You had it with you.‖ ―Don‘t bullshit me. It wasn‘t with me. You have forgotten to bring it.‖ 169

―It was with you, sir. It doesn‘t become you to shout at me when I haven‘t done anything wrong.‖

O nl y

When he heard the chiding in the tone of the coolie, the traveller was livid. He rose and walked towards the door. ―Why do you think shouting doesn‘t suit me? Are you the son of a nawab or something? You yourself aren‘t worth the price of my walking stick. Go and fetch it, you swindler.‖ The word ‗swindler‘ infuriated the coolie to no end. He wanted to pull the traveller down on the platform and just lay into him but he checked himself and tried to reason with the man. ―Sir, you‘re mistaken. You must have left it somewhere. Tell me and I‘ll go and fetch it for you.‖

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―You‘re saying I‘m stupid. I‘m telling you to fetch it from where you have left it or else I‘ll teach you a lesson.‖ The coolie was about to say something when he saw the waiter coming with a cigarette pack and the walking stick.

―There! The waiter is bringing you your stick and you‘re shouting at me for no reason at all.‖ ―Shut up! Stop barking like a dog.‖

This made the coolie lose his temper and he lunged at the traveller. With all the power of his body, the traveller kicked with the sharp tip of his shoe at the expanded chest of the coolie. The kick made the coolie spin around, stagger, fall on the cold, stony floor and black out. Watching the coolie fall, a throng of people gathered around him. ―He‘s badly hit.‖ 170

―These people are good at malingering.‖ ―Blood is coming out of his mouth.‖ ―Poor soul. He shouldn‘t be dying like this.‖ ―Please someone bring a glass a glass of water.‖

O nl y

―Leave some room around him. Let him breathe some air.‖

ie w

People were saying different things standing around the coolie. After a while, Khalid and his friend also made their way through the crowd and reached the coolie. Khalid lifted the coolie‘s head, rested it in his lap and started fanning his face with a newspaper. Then he instructed his friend: ―Tell Waheed that we‘ll meet him at his house. And find the attacker. Don‘t let him escape. The train is about to leave.‖

When the crowd heard the last bit, they gathered around the traveller's carriage. The attacking man was sitting next to the window trying to read a newspaper with his trembling hands. Masood, after saying farewell to Waheed, approached the traveller and addressed him politely: ―You‘re busy here browsing through a newspaper and there that helpless guy is lying unconscious.‖

―What can I do then?‖ ―You should go and, at least, have a look at him.‖

―The bastard has really ruined my leisure trip.‖ With this he rose from his seat and said, ―Ok, let us go. I had to see this misery too.‖

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Khalid was holding the coolie‘s head and trying to make him sip some water. People were leaning over, staring at the Khalid and the coolie with intense curiosity. ―Khalid, the man is here.‖ Masood asked the traveller to move forward and said, ―Yes this is the victim of your assault. You should have at least called a doctor.‖

O nl y

The traveller looked at the blood-drained face of the coolie and the throng of the people gathered there and realized the gravity of the situation. With a worried look on his face, he started pulling out his wallet. As the traveller was taking out his money, the coolie trembled and came to. He had a vacant, surprised look in his eyes and gaped at the crowd.

ie w

―Please give this money to the coolie. I must leave now. The train is due to depart,‖ said the traveller in English as he gave the money to Masood. Then he saw the coolie coming to and said, ―I have paid for my mistake now.‖

The coolie‘s body thrashed about for a moment and some blood dribbled out of his mouth. With a lot of effort, he was able to push some words out of his wounded ribcage: ―I also know English...ten rupees...the price of a human life...I also have something...which.‖ The rest of the words were lost in the foam and blood filling his mouth. The traveller, having understood the critical condition of the coolie, sat down and said, ―I can give you even more money.‖ The coolie, with an extreme effort, turned towards the traveller and, through the bloody foam in his mouth, said, ―I too…have...something...to give you.‖

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And then the coolie spat on the face of the traveller, convulsed for a bit, looked at the metallic ceiling of the platform and passed away. The traveller‘s face looked bloody with the spit.

O nl y

Khalid and Masood left the dead body to the care of the thronging people, grabbed the traveller and handed him over to the police. The case was tried in the court for two months. The verdict was announced. The honourable judge fined the defendant and acquitted him. The verdict declared that the coolie had died because of a sudden rupture of his spleen.

ie w

When the verdict was being read out, Khalid and Masood were in the courtroom. The defendant smiled at them and left the courtroom.

―The prison house of justice can be opened with golden keys.‖ Khalid and his friend were talking outside in the verandah. ―But the golden keys can also break.‖

(The original story Khooni Thook first appeared in Saqi. It was then anthologized in Aatish Paray (1936), Saadat Hasan Manto‘s first book of original short stories.)

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