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

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

Copyright 2012, by the Pakistan Academy of Letters

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2
 Content
Vol.15 2012 No.01

Foreword 7
Editorial 9

Poetry

(1) M. Salim-ur-Rehman
Departures 13

(2) Ejaz Rahim

I. Daily Basis 14
II. Science and Self 15
III. Home or House 17

(3). Alamgir Hashimi

At Eighty-six 19

(4) Waqas Khawaja

I. Piya Toray Nain 20
II. After Math. 23
III. Poor Day Poor Night 24

(5) Reginald Massey

I. Taj Mahal 25
II. Words to a Women 26
III. The After Noon Amidst the Oleanders 27

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(6) Natasha Iqbal
I. Infinity 28
II. Lie 29

Fiction

Short Story
(1) Mohammad Haneef
Shahzadi 33

(2) Raja Tridev Roy

I. Star of Splendour 36
II. The Misogamist 53

(3) Saeed-ur-Rehman
The Permanence of Things 72

Novel
(4) Javed Ahmad Malik
Loss 77

Non Fiction

(1) RasheedAkhtar
Briefs
I. Poetic License 99
II. Literary Figures 100
III. Our Literary Witch Doctor 101
IV. A Parable Of Our Times 102

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(2) Reginald Massey
Pakistani Poetry in English 103

(3) Irfan Ahmed Urfi

The Tragedy Of Our Drama And Nation 112

(4) Irfan Javed

The Chocolate Box 121

(5) Abdul Hameed

Mithraism‘s Contributions To Christianity 126

Saadat Hasan Manto

(1) Dr. Ayesha Jalal

He Wrote What He Saw, And Took No Sides 135

(2) Farooq Khalid

MARTYRS 141

(3) Short Stories

(Translated by Prof. Sajjad Sheikh)
I. Toba Tek Singh. 142
II. Shareefan. 151
III. Conspiracy of Flowers 155
IV. Open Up 158
(Translated by Saeed Ur Rehman)
V. Blood and Spit 162

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6
 Foreword
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.

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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8
 Editorial
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
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

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 Poetry
11
12
M Salim-ur-Rehman

DEPARTURES
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.

13
Ejaz Rahim

Daily Basis
The sky that lies
Studded with stars
At night
Is scrubbed by day
Written upon and rubbed
On a daily basis.

The sky‘s mysterious scroll

Is decked with cuneiform
One strains to comprehend.

The script disappears

When meaning is born.

14
Ejaz Rahim

SCINENCE AND SELF

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.

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.

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 bosom-
Am I truly self-cognisant,
Resilient
Or merely subservient
To another‘s will?
15
Why should shards
Of my existence
Shreds and pieces of my self
Turn into stocks and stones-
I 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?

There is a quest still flaming

In my eye and burning
In my heart
But what is it consuming
The cold mind of science?

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Ejaz Rahim

HOME OR HOUSE?
I
It took some time
To unfasten
But having mastered the skill
One could come and go at will.

Once within
Love‘s gentle hand
Took me from room to room
And place to place.

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

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

The realtor turned back suddenly

And said - are you looking for
A home or a house?

18
Alamgir Hashmi

At Eighty-six

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.

19
Waqas Khwaja

piya torey nain

Raag Saakh
For Ustads Amanat Ali Khan and Fateh Ali Khan

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

belovedyoureyes
belovedyoureyes
belovedyoureyes

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

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
tannanaderderdeen tana derey naan
tananaderderdeen tananadereynaan
tananaderderdeen tananadereynaan
tananaderderdeen tananadereynaan
ta

22
Waqas Khwaja

After Math
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

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 another—a month
since you passed on—
meaningless, probably

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Waqas Khwaja

Poor Day, Poor Night

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?

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 other‘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.

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Reginald Massey

Taj Mahal
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.

25
Reginald Massey

Words to a Women
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.

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Reginald Massey

That After Noon Amidst the Oleanders

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 oleanders……

27
Natasha Iqbal Jozi

INFINITY
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

28
Natasha Iqbal Jozi

LIE
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

29
30
 Fiction
31
32
Mohammad Haneef

Shahzadi
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.

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
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.

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.

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.

35
Raja Tridev Roy

STAR OF SPLENDOUR
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.

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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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?"

38
 "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.

"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.

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.

39
 "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.

"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?"

"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." ............

40
 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."

"Never mind that," she said.

Then as she read the smudges, she paused with a finger on

a set of squiggles. –
"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."

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."

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?"

"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
 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."

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 "

"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.

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."

"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...................

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."

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.

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."

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.

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.

47
 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.

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?"

"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.

"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 ......

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.

"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."

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.

"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?"

"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."

"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?"

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.

52
Raja Tridev Rai

THE MISOGAMIST
After a late show at the "Naz" they dropped in at the Café
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?"

53
 "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."

"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."

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.

54
 "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.

"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.

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 (gender-
wise, 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.

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."

In born even as a boy he had shown a predilection to self-

indulgence 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 lazy-
bones like him managed such a feat Khoka's explanatory reply was
embellished with a militay simile.

"A general plans battles," he said profoundly. "He

doesn't muck around trenches."

He had found his métier 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
 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.

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.

"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."

"Still the Allce in Wonderland!"

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

"All right, because I‘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. I‘m coming, then. Bye."

58
 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.

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, "I‘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.

"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,‖ Shahana said

with a little smile.

"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."

60
 "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.

"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?"

"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.

―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."

61
 ―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."

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."

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?"

"Among other things."

"Such as?"

"He must be totally incapable of intelligent and stimulating

conversation."

"Why are these negative-qualities - so important?"

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.

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.

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."

"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."

"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 ............

"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 ..................

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.‖

"Now, you speak the truth."

'Naturally, now I'm not in polite society.‖

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.

"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?"

"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.

"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.

"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............

68
 "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.

"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."

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."

"You're not serious," Khoka said. "I mean about telling

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
 ―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?"

"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."

"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 PIA and jotted down flight
information............

"I'll send you instructions later," Khoka said to his servant.

"I'm going on a business trip."

"Where to, Sahib?"

"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."

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.

71
Saeed-Ur-Rehman

The Permanence of Things

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.

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?‖

―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.

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.‖

―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.

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.

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.

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.

75
 Watching Sitar meditating the open sewer and listening to
the faint sloshing sound of Bhola‘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.

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.

76
Javed Ahmed Malik

“ Loss”
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.

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‖.

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.

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
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.

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.

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.

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
 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 Irshad‘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.

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.

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

― Ran yawaiah..muslaay would take your gaand. Open your

eyes.‖

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.‖

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.

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
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.

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.

84
 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.

― 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‖ .

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.

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‖.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

In an unsure, tired way Gullaban nodded.

Silence.

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‖.

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‖.

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.

His father hid her in Uncle Hari Chand‘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.

Fifteen days. She spent in abandoned homes and deras.

Spending her most days inside and coming out at night, drinking
nearby well‘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 Naseem‘s father. She would accompany Naseem to
meet other friends and in the way both would pretend to ignore
92
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.

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.

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.

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
village‘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.

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 want to leave this village. You take me to Dina. There is

a place where I could go. Barrister sahib must be still there".

"I will".

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.

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.

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.

96
97
Non Fiction

98
Rasheed Akhtar

Poetic License
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.

99
Rasheed Akhtar

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 three-
piece suit, as bent on making their pile as the shopkeeper round the
corner. But that has not always been the case.

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.

Rasheed Akhtar

Our Literary Witch Doctor

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
Rasheed Akhtar

A Parable Of Our Times

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

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 mixed-
breed 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,

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 Making the green one red.

In similar manner Hazrat Amir Khusro, who described

himself as a Hindu Turk, wrote in a language compounded of
Persian and local Indian languages such as Braj and Avadhi. It
became known as Hindvi. In modern times the Pakistani poet Ibn-
e-Insha brilliantly emulated the poetic diction of Amir Khusro. To
emulate is not to imitate. An example of his poetry is the beautiful
and sensitive Kal Chaudhvin ki Raat Thi.

The English language is a vast empire with inputs from

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

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
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shelf of a good European library was worth the whole native
literature of India and Arabia‖. Nevertheless, English proved a
blessing. Let me be frank: Jinnah won the case for Pakistan
because of his brilliant advocacy and command of the English
language. The Urdu-daans on their own could never have won the
case.

Let me digress a little but here it is perhaps permissible. At

the midnight hour of India‘s independence Nehru‘s celebrated
‗Tryst with Destiny‘ broadcast was delivered in English. But days
before, 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
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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.

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

After 1947, for nationalistic reasons, the importance given

to Urdu simply meant that English was overshadowed.
Nevertheless verse continued to be written in English. It is
unbelievable that the Sialkot born Taufiq Rafat (1927 – 1998) who
did not imbibe English with his mother‘s milk could write English
verse with such nuanced sensitivity and impeccable cadence. And
yet his poems have a definite Pakistan personality without being
self-consciously ‗Pakistani‘. It is no wonder that he has been hailed
as the Ezra Pound of Pakistan.

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.

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 well-
crafted poem. Husain‘s two laments on the death of Benazir Bhutto
are first class.

Ejaz Rahim‘s large output is certainly ethnic, Pakistani

ethnic, and that gives it character and integrity. His latest book
Dear Maulana Sahib and Other Poems, his fourteenth collection, is
a veritable feast of verse and I quote a particular gem:

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.

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.

M. Athar Tahir, another civil servant poet is much

respected in literary circles. In 1990 he got the Shah Abdul Latif
Bhitai Award and the next year the National Book Council Prize.
In 1998 he was honoured with the Tamgha-e-Imtiaz.

After a short stint in the civil service Omer Tarin decided to

become a fulltime academic. Much influenced by the Sufi and
Bhakti poets of South Asia his verse reflects his deeply held
convictions. His four collections are A Sad Piper, The Anvil of
Dreams, Burnt Offerings, and The Harvest of Love Songs. As an
historian he specializes in the British Raj period.

The Lahore born Moniza Alvi lives in Britain but is

conscious of her roots. Her first collection The Country at My
Shoulder was short listed for the T.S. Eliot Prize and the
Whitbread Poetry Award and thus gained the Poetry Society‘s
New Generation Poets promotion. In 1991 she was joint winner of
the Poetry Business Prize. 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‘

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.

The English language poets of Pakistan are a thriving group

of vibrant and creative men and women. They deserve
wholehearted encouragement.

111
Irfan Ahmed Urfi

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.

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

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.

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……..?

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.

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.

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.

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 ―Bhinak‖ 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.

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.

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 don‘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.

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.

It has also being assumed by the authorities of people‘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 end…?

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
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.

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 today‘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 writer‘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.

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.

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
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.

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.

120
Irfan Javed

The Chocolate Box

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 viewer‘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-ul-
Ain Hyder‘s ―Aag Ka Darya‖ and hasn‘t ended yet.

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.

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.

122
 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.

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 ―Al-
Asifa‖, 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.

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.

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
‗Barf‘, 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.

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.

125
ABDUL HAMEED

Mithraism's Contributions
to Christianity
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.

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.

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.

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.].

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 •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".

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.

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
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.].

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
Saadat Hasan Manto
134
135
Ayesha Jalal

He Wrote What He Saw

– And Took No Sides
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
denying his remarkable feat in plumbing the psychological depths
of an epic dislocation with telling insight, sensitivity and even-
handedness. 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.

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 after-
effects 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
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.

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
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.

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 non-
Urdu 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
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: ―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.‖ 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 other‘s position,
rectify past errors, and strike a mutually beneficial and sustainable
historical compromise.

141
Farooq Khalid

MARTYRS
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.

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

142
Saadat Hasan Manto
Translated by Sajjad Sheikh

TOBA TEK SINGH

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.

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.

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.

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 Master‘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.

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.

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, he‘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.‖

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 wall-
but 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:

―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.

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.

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!‖

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.

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‖

―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!‖

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‖

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?‖

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.

150
 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.

Just before Dawn, a loud shriek escaped from Bishan

Singh‘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
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.

―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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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
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.

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 soul-
bearing 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?‖

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.

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! ‖

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.

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
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.

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: ―Sakina!

Sakina!‖.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.
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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___!‖

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?

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.
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 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!‖

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.

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.
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 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.

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.

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Saadat Hasan Manto
Translated by Saeed Ur Rehman

Blood and Spit

The train was still to arrive.

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.

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.

―Coolies have it worse than the donkeys.‖

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 ―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.‖

―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.

―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
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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?‖

―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.‖

―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?‖

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 ―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.

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.

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.‖

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 ―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?‖

―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.‖

―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
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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.

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.‖

―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!‖

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 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.‖

―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.

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

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.‖

―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.‖

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 ―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.‖

―Leave some room around him. Let him breathe

some air.‖

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.‖

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.

―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.

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.

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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