Translating Manto

Black Shalwar

Before coming to Delhi she lived at Ambala Cantt where several white men offered her their custom. Because of her interaction with them, she had picked up about ten to fifteen sentences of English. She did not use them in ordinary conversation. But when she arrived in Delhi and her business began to fail, one day, she said to her neighbour, Tamancha Jan: “This life…very bad - I mean it’s a bad life if you can’t find anything to eat,” she explained.
At Ambala Cantt her business had done very well. The white men at the Cantt would come to her drunk and within three to four hours she would manage eight to ten of them and earn about twenty to thirty rupees. These white men were a lot better than her countrymen. Though there is no doubt that they spoke a language the meaning of which Sultana could not comprehend; yet, this ignorance of their language was actually quite beneficial for her. If they would demand a concession from her, she would simply shake her head and say: "Sahib, I cannot understand what you are saying.” And if they would ever torment her beyond that which was strictly necessary, she would begin cursing them in her own tongue. And then if they looked bewildered, she would say, “Sahib, you are the disciple of an owl, and a bastard – do you understand!”
Of course, whenever she said such things, she would not do so harshly, rather she would intone softly, with great affection – and the white men would laugh, and whenever they laughed they appeared to Sultana to be without doubt the disciples of an owl.
But ever since she had come to Delhi, not a single white man had come to her. She had spent three months in this great city of Hindustan about which she had heard so much; about the many Lord Sahibs who resided here and who went to Shimla in the summer. Only six men had come to her; only six, which meant two per month. And of these six customers – may God prevent a lie – she had only charged eighteen and a half rupees. Nobody was willing to pay more than three rupees. Sultana had told five out of these men that her rate was ten rupees, and yet, oddly enough, each one of them had said the same thing: “Bhayi, we will pay not a korri over three rupees.” It was a wonder why all of them had placed her worth at just three rupees. But so it was that when the sixth man arrived she told him at the very outset, “Look, I shall charge three rupees for each time. If you ask for even an iota less, there’ll be no deal. So it’s up to you if you wish to stay, otherwise, go.
The sixth man, after listening to this, did not argue, but stopped a while at her place. When after shutting the door to the other room he started taking his coat off, Sultana said: “Here, now give me a rupee for the milk!”
She didn’t get a rupee, but he did take out of his pocket, a shiny athhanni of the new king and gave it to her; Sultana quietly accepted it - thinking something, after all, was better than nothing.
Eighteen and a half rupees in three months – Twenty rupees a month was just the rent of the room, which the landlord referred to in the English tongue as a flat. This flat had a commode in which, by pulling at a chain, all the filth got washed away by a great surge of water, and it would all disappear down the drain with a lot noise. In the beginning she was terrified of the noise. The first time she had gone to relieve herself in the toilet she had had a great pain in her back. After having purged, when she tried to get up, she grabbed at the chain for support. Initially, while looking at the chain she had thought that since the building had been designed to accommodate very important personages, this must be what the chain was for: so that there would be no difficulty in getting up and one could hold onto it for support. But the moment she grabbed the chain and tried to pull herself up she heard a sharp khhat khhat and water appeared as if out of nowhere with such force and in such a large volume that she started screaming out of fear.
Khudabuksh, in the other room, was arranging his photographic paraphernalia and pouring hydroquinone into a clean bottle. When he heard Sultana’s scream, he ran out and asked Sultana: “What happened – did you scream?”
Sultana’s heart was beating hard. She said, “Is this a wretched commode or what? Why is there a chain hanging in the middle like on a train? I had a pain in my back; I thought I would use it for support. And I but touched the wretched chain when there was an explosion – and what more should I say!”
Khudabaksh laughed a lot at this and then told Sultana all about the newfangled commode system in which pulling the chain let all the filth get sucked deep down underground.
How Khudabuksh and Sultana entered into a relationship, is a long and old story. Khudabuksh was from Rawalpindi. After passing his Matriculation exams he learned to drive a lorry. Thus, for four years, he worked driving a lorry between Rawalpindi and Kashmir. And there in Kashmir he became friends with a woman. They eloped and he brought her along with him. Because he couldn’t find a job in Lahore he got the woman into prostitution. This went on for two or three years, and then that woman ran away with someone else. Khudabuksh found out that she was in Ambala. He came out here looking for her and found Sultana instead. Sultana liked him, and so they ended up in a relationship.
After Khudabuksh’s arrival, Sultana’s business suddenly picked up. Because the woman was superstitious, she assumed Khudabuksh was a source of good fortune, since his arrival had brought such prosperity to her. This sign of good luck then increased Khudabuksh’s worth in her eyes even more.
Khudabuksh was a hardworking man. He did not enjoy sitting idle all day. Therefore he struck up a friendship with a photographer who worked at the railway station taking photos with a one-minute camera. He learned the art of photography from him. He got sixty rupees from Sultana and bought a camera. Slowly but steadily he had a curtain made, and bought two chairs, and then acquired implements with which he could treat his pictures, and consequently he started his own independent enterprise.
Work went well, and so, in but a short span of time, he set up his own establishment at the Cantt. Here he took pictures of white men. Within a month he got to know most of the white men who lived in the Cantt area. As a result, he took Sultana there with him. Here in the Cantt, through the machinations of Khudabuksh, several white men became Sultana’s permanent customers.
Sultana bought earrings, gold bangles– worth five-and-a-half tolas – and ten to fifteen expensive saaris for herself; soon, the house was suitably furnished and, all in all, she was quite happy at Ambala Cantt. But all of a sudden, Khudabuksh got it into his heart to move to Delhi. And how could Sultana refuse when she thought him to be a source of such good luck? She gladly acquiesced. In fact she thought that in such a vast city of great Lord Sahibs her business was bound to flourish even more. She had already heard Delhi’s praises from her friends. And then there was also the shrine of Nizam-ud-din Auliah, in the blessings of which she had great faith. And so after selling all the heavier household items she accompanied Khudabuksh to Delhi. After reaching the city, Khudabuksh rented this flat at twenty rupees a month, and both of them began living there.
There is a long line of identical houses that runs down the street. The municipal committee has designated this area especially for workers so they would not erect their shops and stalls all over the city. The allotted buildings had shops downstairs and two-storey residential flats upstairs. Because all the buildings were identical, Sultana used to have a hard time looking for her own flat. But once the launderer downstairs put up his board squarely on the forehead of the building, she gained a permanent marker in the sign that said: “Dirty clothes are washed here.” She would find her apartment whenever she read this sign. Similarly, she had memorized many other convenient markers as well; for instance, the place where in large letters it said, “Coal shop” there her friend Heera Baayi lived who sometimes used to go to the radio station to sing. Where it said, “Arrangement of excellent food for gentlefolk available here,” there lived her other friend, Mukhtar. Above the bed-maker’s shop lived Anwari, who worked for the Seth – the shop’s owner. Because the Seth sahib had to keep an eye on the shop at night, he used to stay with Anwari.

You can’t expect customers the very first day you open a shop; so, when a month passed and left her idle and useless, Sultana mollified her heart by thinking along the same lines. But when two months passed and not a man showed up at her door, she became curious. She said to Khudabuksh: “What could the matter be, Khudabuksh! It’s been two months since we came here. No one has even turned this way. I know business is slow in the market these days, but it’s not so slow that months should fly with not a face in sight.” Khudabuksh had been struck by this incongruity as well but he had remained quiet. But now that Sultana herself had broached the subject, he said: “I’ve been thinking about this for quite some time now. I have come up with some possibilities. Perhaps, because of the war, people have occupied themselves with other things and have forgotten the way here – or…maybe…”
He was about to say more when the noise of somebody climbing up the stairs reached them. Khudabuksh and Sultana were both drawn towards the noise. After a while there was a knock. Khudabuksh leapt to open the door. A man entered. This was the first man with whom a deal was made for three rupees, and after him five more came; that is to say six in three months from whom Sultana acquired only eighteen-and-a-half rupees.
Twenty rupees a month were spent on rent; the tax on water and the electricity bill were separate. Apart from this there were other household expenditures including food, drink, clothes, medicine and so forth. There were no savings at all. Eighteen-and-a-half rupees in three months hardly constitutes saving. Sultana was worried. All eight of the five-and-a-half tola bangles that she had bought at Ambala were gradually sold off. When it was time to sell the last one, she said to Khudabuksh: “Listen to me, let’s go back to Ambala. What is there here – and even if there is, then so be it, but this city does not suit us in the least. Your business went so well there. Come, let’s go back. Whatever loss we have incurred, consider it charity off your head. Go sell this bangle; I’ll pack our things and wait for you. We’ll leave by train tonight!”
Khudabuksh took the bangle from Sultana’s hand and said: “No, my dear, we won’t go back to Ambala. Here, in Delhi we’ll earn a living. These, your bangles, they will all return. Have faith in Allah. He can make things work. He’ll find a way for us even here.”
Sultana remained quiet. And so, the last bangle was also cast off. Seeing her arms left thus bared she was greatly distressed. But what could she do? The stomach has to be filled by any means after all. When the fifth month passed and the earning was reduced to a quarter of the spending, Sultana’s distress suffered a significant increment. Khudabuksh too was spending more and more time away from home. Sultana was grieved by this as well. There is no doubt that there were several acquaintances in the neighbourhood with whom she could spend her time, but to go every day and spend hours just sitting there was not to her taste at all. Gradually, she stopped meeting her friends altogether. She would sit in her silent house the whole day long, sometimes cutting spices, or mending her old, worn-out clothes, or sometimes she would come out to the balcony and just stand there leaning against the barrier, looking out meaninglessly towards the railway-shed at the motionless as well as the moving train engines.
On the other side of the road there was a goods godown spread out from that corner to this. At the right hand side, beneath an iron roof, there always lay large bundles and piles of all sorts of goods and material. To the left there was a vast open ground covered in lots of train tracks. When these tracks shone in the sunlight, Sultana would look at her hands, at the network of raised blue veins that bore a great resemblance to the tracks. In this great and lengthy open ground, engines and cars were always moving about here and there. The chhuk chhuk-phhuk phhuk of the engines and the cars was always resonating. Early in the morning, whenever she would go out to the balcony, she would behold such a strange sight: In the fog, the thick steam that issued from the mouths of engines appeared to rise like fat, bulky men headed towards the murky sky. Giant clouds of steam, accompanied by much noise, would rise from the tracks, and then within the blink of an eye dissolve in the air. But sometimes, when she would see a car moving about that had been pushed into motion by an engine and then abandoned, she would think of herself. She felt that she too had been pushed into motion on the tracks of life and then abandoned – and now she was moving involuntarily; other people were switching tracks and she was moving on and on and who knows when the day would come when the force with which she had been pushed would all be consumed and she would come to rest somewhere. At an unfamiliar place that she would never have seen before. And though seemingly she spent hours staring purposelessly at the zigzagging train tracks and the engines and cars in motion or at rest, but really her mind was filled with all sorts of thoughts. When she used to live at Ambala Cantt her house had been quite close to the train station. But there she had never seen these things in this way. Now, here, it had even occurred to her that this vast web of train tracks with all the steam and smoke rising all over the place was in fact a huge brothel in which there were many cars being pushed around by a few fat engines. Sultana sometimes fancied these engines to be Seth sahibs like the ones who used to come to her at Ambala. And then sometimes when she would watch an engine slowly move past a long line of cars, she would imagine it to be a man, looking up, strolling through a bazar beneath a brothel. Sultana felt that thinking such thoughts was symptomatic of an ailing mind; thus, when such ideas started occurring to her, she stopped going out to the balcony.
She pleaded repeatedly with Khudabuksh: “Look here, have mercy on me. Stay at home sometimes. I lie around here all day like a sick person.” But he would counter her every time by saying, “Darling, I go out only in search of a livelihood. If Allah so wills, our boat shall reach a shore in but a few days.”
Five months had gone by and so far neither Sultana’s boat had struck a shore nor Khudabuksh’s. The month of Moharram was nearly upon them and Sultana did not even have the means to have a black suit made for herself. Mukhtar had gotten for herself a Lady Hamilton suit of a new design which had sleeves of black Georgette. To match this, she had a satin shalwar that shone like kajal. Anwari had bought a very elegant saari of silken Georgette. She told Sultana that she would wear underneath it a white boski petticoat – in accordance with the fashion of the times. To wear with her saari, Anwari had brought a pair of delicate black velvet shoes. When Sultana saw all these things, the realization that she could not afford to get anything of the sort to commemorate Moharram pained her immensely.
When she returned home after having seen Anwari and Mukhtar’s clothes, her heart was full of woe. She felt as if an abscess had taken root inside her. The house was completely empty. Khudabuksh was away as usual. For a long time she just lay on a rug with a gao-takiya under her head. As her neck started to stiffen from the height, she went out into the balcony to exorcise all the sorrowful thoughts from her mind.
In front, there, on the train tracks, stood several cars, but there were no engines around. It was evening and the earth had been sprinkled with water – the air was clear of dirt and pollution. Such men had started strolling in the bazar as only look to pry and stare and then quietly head back homewards. One such man lifted his head and looked at Sultana. Sultana smiled but then quickly forgot him, for there, in front of her, an engine had appeared upon the tracks. Sultana looked intently at it and fancied that even the engine was wearing black. When she tried to expunge this strange thought from her head by looking elsewhere, she found the same man who had looked at her with licentious eyes standing next to a bullock-cart. Sultana gestured to him with her hand. The man looked here and there and then discreetly inquired in signs how to get to her. Sultana gave him directions. The man hesitated for a moment but then quickly came up stairs. Sultana seated him on a rug. When he had sat down, for the purpose of initiating a conversation, she said: “Why were you afraid to come up?”
The man smiled at this: “How did you figure this – what is there to be afraid of?”
At this Sultana rejoined: “I say so because you stood there for such a long time and then came here only after some thought.”
The man smiled again: “You misunderstood. I was just looking at the flat above yours. Some woman was standing there showing her thumb to a man. I quite liked the scene. And then a green bulb lit up in the balcony and I lingered for a while longer. I like green light. It pleases the eyes.”
Speaking thus, he began inspecting the room. And then he got up. Sultana asked him: “Are you leaving?” The man replied: “No, I just want to look around your house. Come, show me all the rooms!”
Sultana showed him all three rooms one by one. The man inspected the rooms in silence. When they reached the room from where they had begun, he said: “My name is Shankar.”
Sultana looked at Shankar properly for the first time. He was of average height with an average sort of face but his eyes were unusually clear. At times they even generated a peculiar gleam. He had a muscular, athletic physique. The hair at his temples were turning white. He wore Khaki pants. His shirt was white and the collar was raised up at the neck.
Shankar sat on the rug in such a way that it appeared as if Sultana, rather than Shankar, were the customer. This attitude disconcerted Sultana. And so she said to Shankar: “Say something.”
Shankar had been sitting; when he heard this he lay down: “What should I say; you say something; you’re the one who called me!”
When Sultana said nothing in response, he sat up: “I get it. Now then, listen to me; whatever you have understood, it is wrong. I am not like one of these people who give something before they leave. Like doctors, I too have a fee. Now that you have called me, you’ll have to pay me my fee.”
Hearing this, Sultana reeled, but in spite of that she broke out laughing. “And what is it that you do?”
Shankar replied: “The same as your lot.”
“What? I…I…I don’t do anything.”
“I don’t do anything as well.”
Sultana was annoyed: “This is not right – you must do something.”
Shankar answered her calmly: “You must do something as well.”
“I waste time!”
“I waste time too.”
“Well then, come let’s waste time together!”
“At your service – but I do not pay to have my time wasted.”
“Come to your senses – this is not a house of charity.”
“And I am no volunteer.”
Sultana stopped at this. She asked him: “Who are volunteers?”
Shankar replied: “Disciples of owls!”
“I’m not the disciple of an owl.”
“But that man, Khudabuksh, who lives with you, is most definitely the disciple of an owl.”
“Why?”
“Because, for many days now, he has, for the sake of improving his luck, been consulting a God-fearing Fakir, whose own luck is shut tight like a rusted lock.”
Saying so, Shankar laughed.
At this Sultana said: “You are a Hindu. That is why you make fun of our elders.
Shankar smiled: “The question of Hindu or Muslim does not arise at such places. Even great Pandits and Mawlanas, were they to come here, would become honest men.”
“Who knows what gibberish you speak – now then, will you stay?”
“At the condition I have already mentioned.”
Sultana got up: “Then go; find your way out!”
Shankar got up steadily, stuck both his hands in his pockets and while leaving said: “I pass through this bazar sometimes; if you ever need me, call me; I’m a very useful man.”
Shankar left. And Sultana forgot about the black dress and instead thought much about him. This man’s speech had lightened her heart. Had he come to her in Ambala, where she had been prosperous, she would have seen him in an altogether different light and would have, quite possibly, had him forcibly removed. But here, because she lived so alone, she had enjoyed Shankar’s conversation.
In the evening when Khudabuksh returned, Sultana asked him: “Where have you been gone all day today?”
Khudabuksh was very tired, and said: “I’ve come from close by the old fort. A pious elderly personage has stopped there for a few days. I’ve been going to him every day so that our days might turn.”
“Did he say something to you?”
“No, he hasn’t condescended yet – but, Sultana, the way I’ve been serving him, it won’t go to waste. If Allah’s blessings mix up with these present circumstances, things will look up indeed.”
Sultana’s mind was suffused with thoughts of commemorating Moharram; she whimpered to Khudabuksh: “You disappear out there for days – and I am here imprisoned in this cage. I can’t go anywhere. Moharram is almost upon us, have you considered that; I need black clothes. There is no money in the house. There were baongles once, but they’ve all been sold now, one after the other. So now, tell me what will happen – till when will you go ruining yourself after these fakirs. It seems to me that here in Delhi, God has turned His face away from us. Listen to me, start your work, it will provide us with some support.”
Khudabuksh lay down on the rug and said: “But to start this work requires some investment – for God’s sake don’t say such miserable things, I can’t bear them anymore. I really have made a bitter mistake in leaving Ambala. But whatever happens, happens according to Allah’s will, and for our own benefit; who knows, by bearing hardships for a little longer, we…”
Sultana cut him short: “For God’s sake, do something; steal something, become a dacoit, but get me enough cloth for a shalwar. I have a white boski shirt, I’ll get it dyed. I have a new white dupatta as well, the same one you got for me on Divali. That shall be dyed along with the shirt. Only just the shalwar is missing. So arrange for that however you wish. Look! upon my life, use any means necessary, but get it for me. Feast on my funeral if you don’t!”
Khudabuksh sat up: “Now, you’re stressing this for no reason at all. Wherefrom shall I bring it– I don’t even have enough money for opium!”
“Do whatever you like but get me four-and-half yards of black satin!”
“Pray then, that God sends to or three men tonight.”
“But you will do nothing – if you wanted to you could probably arrange for enough money. Before the war, satin was selling at twelve to fourteen annas a yard, now it would cost a rupee-and-a-quarter a yard. How much money will it take for four-and-a-half yards then?”
“For you, I suppose, I’ll figure out a way.”
Saying so, Khudabuksh got up. “Now then, forget these things. I’ll get some food from the hotel.”
Food came from the hotel. Both ate together and then went to sleep. In the morning, Khudabuksh went to the fakir at the old fort and Sultana was left alone. For a while she lay awake and for a while she slept. Then she went around strolling in the rooms. After lunch at noon she took out her white dupatta and boski shirt and sent them down to the launderer’s to get them dyed. Apart from washing clothes, they also dyed clothes there. After this task she returned and read film-books, which were printed books that contained all the stories and songs from the films she had seen. She fell asleep reading these books; when she awoke it was four o’clock – because the sunlight had moved towards the hole in the terrace. When she had washed and bathed, she put on a warm shawl and went out to the balcony. For about an hour, Sultana stood in the balcony. Now, it was evening. Lights were getting brighter. Down below, in the streets, signs of gaiety were becoming apparent. The cold intensified a little – but Sultana did not find it unpleasant. She had been gazing for a long time at the horse-carriages and motorcars that were coming and going in the street. All of a sudden she saw Shankar. When he had reached near her house, he turned his neck up to look at Sultana and then smiled at her. Sultana involuntarily gestured to him to come up.
When Shankar arrived, Sultana started worrying about what she would say to him. In fact she had merely gestured to him thoughtlessly. Shankar was quite at ease though, as if it were his own home; therefore, without any formality, just like the last time, he lay down with the gao-takiya under his head. When Sultana did not say anything to him for a while, he said: “You may ask me to come up a hundred times and a hundred times you may ask me to leave – I don’t mind such things.”
Sultana fell prey to a bout of indecisiveness. She said: “Not at all. Sit. Who has asked you to leave?”
Shankar smiled at this: “So then you have accepted my conditions?”
“What conditions,” said Sultana laughing, “do you wish to marry me?”
“What marriage? – Neither you nor I shall ever marry. These rituals are not for people like us – forget these irrelevant things, and speak instead of important matters.”
“Tell me then, what shall I speak of?”
“You are a woman – say something that would ease the heart for a while. There is more to this world than just salesmanship you know.”
By now Sultana had mentally accepted Shankar. She said: “Speak clearly, what do you want from me?”
“The same as other people.”
Shankar sat up.
“Then what difference would there be between you and other people!”
“There is no difference between you and me. But between them and me, there is the difference of the earth and the sky. There are many such things that you shouldn’t ask; just understand them instinctively, on your own.”
Sultana tried to figure out what Shankar had said. And then said: “I understand.”
“So tell me, what have you decided?”
“You win; I lose. But I don’t think anyone has ever admitted such a thing.”
“You’re wrong – you’ll find many simple women in this neighbourhood who would never believe that a woman could accept such dishonor as you have been accepting unabashedly for so long. But in spite of their disbelief, you exist in the thousands – your name is Sultana, is it not?”
“It is Sultana.”
Shankar got up and started laughing: “My name is Shankar – names are such peculiar things. Come, let’s go inside!”
When Shankar and Sultana returned to the room with the rug they were both laughing at who knows what. But when Shankar made to leave, Sultana said: “Shankar, will you agree to what I have to say?”
Shankar replied: “Tell me first what you wish to say.”
Sultana was a bit embarrassed: “You’d think I’m just trying to get money out of you. But…”
“Go on, speak; why did you stop?”
Sultana mustered up her nerve and said: “The thing is, Moharram is coming closer and I don’t have enough money to get a black shalwar made – you’ve already heard all my troubles. I had a shirt and a dupatta, which I have left at the dyers today.”
After listening to this, Shankar said: “You want me to give you some rupees so you could get this black shalwar made.”
Sultana immediately replied: “No, I meant that, if it were possible, if you could, get for me a black shalwar.”
Shankar smiled: “It is always an unlikely chance for me to have anything in my pocket, but I shall do what I can. By the first of Moharram you will get this shalwar. Now then, are you pleased!”
He looked at Sultana’s earrings and asked her: “Can you give me these?”
Sultana laughed and said: “What will you do with them; they’re ordinary silver; not worth more than five rupees.”
At this, Shankar said: “I have asked you for your earrings. I haven’t asked you for their price. Will you give them to me?”
“Take them!” and saying so, Sultana took off her earrings and gave them to Shankar. She regretted it afterwards, but Shankar had already left.
Sultana had absolutely no confidence that Shankar would keep his word. But, eight days later, at nine in the morning of the first of Moharram there was a knock on the door. When Sultana opened the door, Shankar stood outside. He gave her a package wrapped in a newspaper and said: “It’s a black satin shalwar – have a look at it, might be a little long – but now I must go.”
Shankar gave the shalwar to Sultana and left without saying anything else. His pants had been wrinkled. His hair was unkempt and ruffled. It appeared as if he had just woken up and come straight here. Sultana opened the package. It was a black satin shalwar, very similar to the one she had seen at Mukhtar’s. Sultana was very pleased. The grief she had harboured over the earrings and the deal had now been remedied by the acquisition of the shalwar and Shankar having kept his promise.
In the afternoon she retrieved her dyed shirt and dupatta from the laundry. When she had put on all three articles of clothing there was a knock on the door. When she opened the door, Mukhtar entered. She glanced at Sultana’s clothes and said: “The shirt and the dupatta are evidently dyed, but the shalwar seems new – when did you get it made?”
Sultana answered: “The tailor just brought it in today.”
As she said this, her gaze fell upon Mukhtar’s ears: “Where did you get these earrings from?”
“I just got them today,” answered Mukhtar.
After this, the two of them had to remain quiet for a while.

Translated: July 10, 2011
Umer Khan





Martyr-maker


I live in Kathiawar, Gujarat. I’m a Bania by cast. Last year, at the tanta over the partition of Hindustan, I was completely redundant. I beg your pardon. I used the word ‘tanta’. But there’s no harm in it, because other words should always be allowed to add to the Urdu language – even if they’re Gujarati.
Yes, indeed; I was completely redundant. Except for a little cocaine side-business – that made just enough room for a bit of earning. When the partition occurred and people from there started moving here, and from here there, in the thousands, I thought, “Come, let’s move to Pakistan.” If not cocaine, then I’d start some other business. Consequently, I started from there and performing various odd jobs along the way reached Pakistan.
I had headed out, principally, with the solemn intent of starting up some fat business. Therefore, the moment I reached Pakistan, I started evaluating the state of affairs here and began the process of allotment. I was well versed, of course, in the art of flattery; I dealt out a few buttery statements – tied the knot of friendship with a couple of people, and got a small house allotted. This was quite profitable, so I went to several cities and made a business out of getting shops and houses allotted.
No matter what his line of work, a man has to work hard. I too, therefore, had to run around a lot for the sake of allotments. Sometimes I’d have to sweet-talk someone, or warm up someone’s palm, or invite someone else to dinner or a bit of song and dance. Suffice to say that there were a myriad inconveniences. All day I’d sift through dirt, as it were; go around after sizeable mansions, and search all over the city for a house whose allotment would be more profitable.
A man’s hard work never goes to waste. Thus, within just a year I had amassed lakhs of rupees. Now, I had everything God provides: the best house to live in, an inestimable maal paani in the bank…I beg your pardon. I slipped into the vernacular of Kathiawar, Gujarat. But there’s no harm in it; other words should always be added to the Urdu language – yes indeed, I had everything Allah provides: the best house to live in, lots of servants, a Piccard motorcar, two and a half lakhs in the bank, many factories and shops besides – all this and yet, who knows where my heart’s contentment had flown off to. Admittedly, even the cocaine business had at times weighed heavy on my heart, but now it felt as if I didn’t even have a heart anymore. Or rather, think of it this way: there was so much weight on it that my heart had been crushed underneath. But what was this weight all about?
I’m an intelligent man; if a question arises in my mind, I do eventually manage to find an answer. With a cool heart (even though nothing was known of my heart’s whereabouts) I started contemplating over this: what could conceivably be the cause of this impossible conundrum?
A woman? – It is quite possible. I didn’t have one of my own; the one I did had died in Kathiawar, Gujarat. But the women of other men were present; for instance, my own gardener’s. It’s a matter of taste. To be honest, a woman should be young, and it’s not important if she is literate or knows how to dance. Apun ko to saari jawan auratein chalti hain.
(It’s a proverb in Kathiawar, Gujarat that has no equivalent in Urdu)
I’m an intelligent man. When faced with a problem, I try to get to the bottom of it. The factories were doing fine. The shops were doing fine. Money was turning up as if on its own. I isolated myself to think, and after a long time came to the conclusion that my heart was troubled simply because I had done no good deeds.
In Kathiawar, Gujarat, I had done many good deeds; for instance, when my friend Baandu Rang died, I let his widow live in my house. And for two years I kept her from turning to prostitution. When Vanayek’s wooden leg broke, I bought him a new one. It cost me about forty rupees. Jamna Baayi suffered a heatstroke; saali (I beg your pardon) didn’t know anything. I took her to the doctor. For six months I got her treated regularly. But after coming to Pakistan, I hadn’t done anything decent, and that was the reason why my heart was troubled; otherwise, everything was fine.
I thought, “What should I do?” I considered giving charity. But one day when I went about the city, I noticed that near about everybody was a beggar – some were hungry and some naked. How many stomachs must I fill and how many bodies must I clothe? I thought about opening a charity restaurant for the destitute. But what would one such restaurant achieve, and where would I get the grain from? When I considered buying it off of the black market, the question arose as to whether it made any sense to commit a sin and act virtuously simultaneously.
For hours I sat and listened to people’s tales of sorrow and suffering. To be honest, everyone was sad; those who slept outside in front of shops as well as those who lived in lofty mansions. The pedestrian was sad because he didn’t have a decent shoe. The car driver was sad that he didn’t have a newer model of the car. Everyone’s complaint was justified in its own right. Everyone’s desire was reasonable in its own context.
I had heard a ghazal of Ghalib’s from Sholapur’s Ameena Baayi – God rest her soul – at a brothel. I’ve retained just a couplet: ‘Whose desire, who will fulfill.’
I beg your pardon, I believe this is the second verse, or perhaps it could even be the first one.
Yes, indeed; and how many desires could I have fulfilled when a hundred out of a hundred were desirous? And then I started thinking that perhaps giving charity wasn’t such a good thing after all. You may, quite possibly, disagree with me. But when I went to the immigrant camps I realized that charity had rendered all the immigrants wholly worthless and dull. Day in and day out they just sat idly with one hand upon the other, playing cards, indulging in jugaar (I beg your pardon, jugaar means gambling, or playing for money), barking foul language at each other and breaking bread for free – what could such people possibly contribute to help strengthen Pakistan? Therefore, I came to the conclusion that giving alms was most definitely not a good thing. But then what other avenue is there that leads to good deeds?
In the camps, people were dying on a regular basis. Sometimes there would be a diarrhea epidemic or sometimes an outbreak of the plague. The hospitals no longer had enough space to store even a sesame seed. I was overcome with pity. I came very close to getting a hospital built, but then I scrapped the idea. I had the plans all chalked out. I could’ve gotten a tender for the building. I could’ve gathered money for the admission fees. I could’ve started my own company and gotten a tender on its name. I thought I’d pledge one lakh rupees on the building. Of course, I would’ve had the building constructed for seventy thousand rupees and saved a full thirty thousand rupees. But this scheme of mine remained just that: a scheme. Perhaps because when I thought about it I started wondering how – if we were to rescue all the dying people – would the problem of overpopulation be solved and the numbers reduced.
If you consider the matter deeply, the entire lafrra is actually just because of the extra population. A lafrra means a quarrel; a quarrel which involves invectives; but I see I haven’t been able to clarify the full meaning of the word abundantly. Yes, indeed; if you consider the matter deeply, the entire lafrra is actually just because of the unnecessary, extra population. Now, if the number of people keeps increasing, it doesn’t mean that land too will increase side by side, or that the sky will start expanding, or the rains would fall more frequently, or that crops would grow in greater abundance. Therefore, I arrived at the conclusion……that to build a hospital was most definitely not a good deed.
Then I thought of having a mosque built but – may Allah bless Ameena Baayi of Sholapur who sang this couplet which I have just recalled: “If fame is asheptable to you, then make ways to binifit.”
She used to mispronounce acceptable and benefit.
“If fame is acceptable to you, then make ways to benefit.
Build a bridge, sink a well; build a mosque and a pool.”
What wretch would desire fame or recognition? Those who build bridges to propagate their names, what virtue really do they perform? Dirt! I declared the idea of building a mosque wholly in the wrong. Too many separate mosques could not be favourable for a nation, because they divide the people.
Tired, and at a loss, I was preparing to go on a pilgrimage to Mecca when Allah Himself showed me the way. There was a rally in the city. When it ended, disorder spread among the people. There was such a furor that thirty men died. When news of this incident was published in the papers the next day it was learned that they hadn’t died, they had been martyred.
I started thinking. Apart from thinking, I met a few Muslim clerics. And I discovered that those who lose their lives suddenly in accidents are given the status of martyrs, which is a status that has no better. I thought that if people, instead of dying, were martyred, how fortunate that would be. Those who die ordinary deaths, obviously their deaths go to waste. If they were to be martyred then that would really mean something.
I started brooding over this delicate matter.
In all four directions, wherever I’d look, I would see enfeebled humanity. Pallid faces crushed under the collective weight of anxiety, suffering, and the sorrows of paid labour. They, with sunken eyes, a lifeless bearing, and clothes in shreds, lie around, like the worn-out parts of a train in a shed. Or like animals without a master, they roam around aimlessly in markets. Why are they living? Who are they living for? And how are they living? Nobody knows. An epidemic breaks out. Thousands die. And if nothing else then hunger and thirst is sufficient to erode their lives away. They are frozen stiff in the winter, and desiccated in the summer. Someone sheds two tears at somebody’s death. But most deaths remain dry.
Couldn’t figure out life, that’s fine. Didn’t capitalize on it, that’s fine too…whose couplet is it, the one that – Allah bless her – Sholapur’s Ameena Baayi, from the brothel, she used to sing it in a voice with such pathos: “Where will we go if we won’t find peace after death?
I mean if life doesn’t improve even after death then damn the bloody thing I say.
I thought why shouldn’t these wretched, out of luck, socially rejected humans who are deprived of every good thing here acquire such a status in the next life that those who don’t even deign to look at them in this life would stare at them and envy them in the next life.
There was only way for this to happen: they mustn’t die ordinary deaths, rather they must be martyred.
Now the question was whether people would agree to being martyred. I thought, “Why not?” What Muslim doesn’t have a penchant for martyrdom? Why, even Hindus and Sikhs have embraced the concept, copying it from the Muslims for themselves. But I was greatly disappointed when I asked a withered sort of man, “Would you like to be martyred?” and he answered: “No.”
I couldn’t comprehend what that man planned to achieve with life. I tried to explain to him: “Old man, at the very most you’ll live for maybe another two and a half months. You don’t have the strength to walk; when you cough, you cough so much that you look like a diver, and it appears as if you’re about give up the ghost at any moment. You don’t have anything of value. You’ve never had a moment’s comfort in all your life. There’s no question about a future. Then what will you do with a little more life? You can’t join the army. So any fantasies about going to the front and fighting for your country are absurd. Therefore, isn’t it better if you could, here in the bazar or wherever it is that you sleep, arrange for your martyrdom?”
“How is that possible?” he asked.
I answered him: “Up ahead, there’s a banana peel. Let’s assume that you slip on it – obviously you’ll die and earn the rank of a martyr.” But he was unable to understand this concept; he said: “Why would I step on a banana peel that I’ve already seen with my eyes – don’t I value my life?”......Allah, Allah, what life? A skeleton of bones! A bundle of wrinkles!
I was much aggrieved, and even more so when I found out that that wretch, who could’ve very easily attained martyrdom, died coughing on some iron charpoy in a charity hospital.
There was an old woman, neither a tooth in her mouth, nor an intestine in her stomach. She was on her last breaths, as it were. I was overcome by pity. The poor woman’s entire life had passed in poverty and sorrow. So I picked her up and brought her to the train paatay (I beg your pardon, but around here a track is called paata). But Sir, the moment she heard the train coming she came to, sprang onto her feet like a wind-up toy and ran off.
My heart broke; however, I didn’t give up. A Bania’s son is faithful to his tune. The vision of a clear, straight path to virtue that I had beheld, I refused to let it vanish before my eyes.
Since the time of the Mughals there was a large empty plot of land. There were one hundred and fifty one little rooms there, in a very rundown condition; my experienced eyes surmised that with the first great rain all their roofs would cave in. consequently, I bought this land for ten thousand five hundred rupees and inhabited it with a thousand of the most impoverished people. I charged two months’ rent at the rate of one rupee per month. By the third month, just as I had guessed, with the first great rain the roofs of all the rooms caved in and seven hundred people, in which from the elderly to the children all were included, were martyred.
Simultaneously, the weight that had been on my heart was considerably lessened. The population was relieved of seven hundred people and all of them became martyrs. The scales on this side remained heavier.
Ever since then, I’ve been doing this work. Every day - subject to opportunity – I serve, as it were, two to three people the cup of martyrdom. As I’ve already mentioned, no matter what his line of work, a man has to work hard. For instance, in order to serve the cup of martyrdom to a man whose existence was as meaningless and useless as the fifth wheel on a jalopy, I had to spend ten days tossing banana peels at strategic locations. But I believe, as is with death, the day of martyrdom is also predetermined. On the tenth day he slipped on the banana peel on a stone floor and died.
Nowadays I’m having a huge building constructed. My own company has the contract. It’s for two lakh rupees. Out of this I’m going to pocket seventy five thousand straight up. I’ve got it all insured as well. My guess is that when the third floor will be erected the entire building will collapse all in a bang because of the mixture I’ve used. At the time there will be about three hundred labourers at work there. I have full faith in the house of God that all these men will become martyrs. But if somebody survives, it could only mean that he was a sinner of the most degenerate sort, such that Allah the Blesser refused to accept his martyrdom.

Translated: July 15, 2011



The Miracle Worker


Chaudhry Mauju, with great contentment, sat beneath the thick foliage of the old Banyan, smoking his chamoorra on a charpoy. Nebulous balls of smoke emerged from his mouth, and in the still, midday air, slowly vanished.
He had been plowing his small field since morning and was now tired. The sun’s heat was so intense that even an eagle would have left its egg, but he sat content, enjoying his chamoorra, which could dispel his fatigue in just a snap of a finger.
His sweat had dried out. So the still air could not provide him with any cooling, but the cool, delightful smoke from the chamoorra engendered within his heart and mind inexpressible waves of tranquility.
It was time now for his only daughter, Jeena’n, to arrive with roti and lassi from home. She always arrived at the right time. Even though there was nobody at home to lend her a hand. She had a mother whom he had divorced two years ago in extreme fury, after a much protracted quarrel.
His young Jeena’n, his only daughter, was very obedient. She took great care of her father for there weren’t many household chores to do. She acted quickly so that, in whatever free time she would find, she could work at the spinning wheel to make spindles. Or so that she could chat it away merrily with her girlfriends – of whom she had but a countable few.
Chaudhry Mauju’s land was meager but it was sufficient for him. The village was very small. It was in a remote area through which the train did not pass. There was an unpaved track which connected it with a larger, distant village. Chaudhry Mauju would ride his mare to this village twice a month. There were two or three shops there from where he would come back with supplies.
He used to be very happy. He had no sorrows. Although, for two or three years, he had been irked by the thought that he had no male progeny; but then, he became grateful, thinking that whatever was, was because Allah had willed it thus. But now, ever since the day he had divorced his wife and sent her to her maiden home, his life had become like desiccated earth. As if his wife had taken all moisture along with her.
Chaudhry Mauju was a religious man. Even though he knew only three or four things about his religion; things like there is just the one God, Whose worship is obligatory. Mohammad (peace be upon him) is His prophet. Obeying his commandments is mandatory; and the Quran is the word of God which was revealed to Mohammad (peace be upon him), and that was all.
He was beyond prayers and fasting. The village was too small and did not have a mosque. There were ten to fifteen houses. Those too were far apart from each other. The people remembered Allah frequently. Their hearts did harbor a fear of this Pure Being, but beyond that there was nothing there. Near about every house had a copy of the Quran, but nobody knew how to read. Everybody had wrapped it reverentially in a cloth-cover and placed it upon an elevated shelf. It was only put to use at times when confessions of truth were required of someone, or when an oath had to be taken for some purpose.
A Mawlvi’s face could only be seen in the village when a boy or a girl got married. Funeral rites, and other such things at a death, were pronounced independently in their own tongue.
Chaudhry Mauju was very useful at such occasions; his oratory had effect. The way he could expound upon the virtues of the departed, and then lead the prayer for his salvation, was his part alone.
Last year, when his friend Dinu’s young son died, after lowering him in his grave, he spoke with great effect:
“Alas! What a strapping young lad he was. When he used to spit, it would fall twenty yards away. His urinary stream had not a rival in any of the village communities around here, and he had no answer in wrist clenching. He would raise the cry of “Haye Ghassni” and free his wrist with just two fingers, the way one opens buttons on a kurta. Dinu, yaar, today the day of suffering is upon you…you won’t be able to survive this shock – yaaro, this man should’ve died – such a strapping young lad – such a handsome, robust youth. Even a ravishing but stubborn beauty like Neeti Sunyaari kept trying to enthrall him by means of amulets and strings. But marhaba Dinu! Your boy was staunch-of-underwear. May Allah make it so that he gets the most gorgeous houri in all heaven and even there may he remain staunch-of-underwear. Allah will be so pleased that He shall bless him even more. Amen.”
After listening to this small speech, ten to twenty men, which included Dinu, started wailing passionately. Chaudhry Mauju himself had tears streaming from his eyes.
When Mauju decided to divorce his wife, P’hataa’n, he had not felt it necessary to call upon a Mawlvi. He had heard from his elders that to pronounce talaak, talaak, talaak, thus three times, was sufficient to end the story. Therefore, he ended the story thus. But the very next day he had experienced great distress. He felt a deep regret and sensed that he had made a mistake. Husbands and wives are often fighting. But it doesn’t get around to divorce. He should have disregarded the matter.
He had liked P’hataa’n. Though she wasn’t young anymore, but still, he liked her body, he liked the things she said. And then, after all, she was his Jeena’n’s mother.
But now the arrow had left the bow and it couldn’t come back. Whenever Chaudhry Mauju thought about this, the smoke from his precious chamoorra would turn bitter and sting his throat.
Jeena’n was beautiful, like her mother. In these two years she had suddenly grown into a young woman whose youthfulness bloomed, as it were, in all aspects of her being. Chaudhry Mauju was now worried about getting her hands yellowed as well. This was when he recalled P’hataa’n. How easily she could’ve managed it all.
Chaudhry Mauju adjusted his sitting position on the charpoy along with his clothes, and after having inhaled unusually deeply from his chamoorra, he started coughing. In the midst of his coughing, somebody’s voice was heard: “Peace be upon you, and may Allah have mercy on you and bless you!”
When Chaudhry Mauju turned around, he saw an old man, clad all in white, with a long beard. He returned the greeting and wondered where this man could have come from. The elderly man with the long beard had large, commanding eyes, which were adorned with kohl. He had long hair. The hair on his head and his beard were speckled: more white than black. He wore a white turban on his head. On his shoulder, there hung a bright, yellow, embroidered, silk scarf. In his hands he had a silver mounted staff with a ball-handle. He wore soft, red leather shoes.
When Chaudhry Mauju looked this gentleman over from head to toe, he found his heart begin to fill with veneration for him. He got up from the charpoy with great rapidity and addressed him: “Where have you come from? When?”
In the Shariah approved, closely cropped lips of the elderly man, a smile was born: “Where would a fakir come from? They have no homes. There is no fixed time for their coming. There is no fixed time for their going. To wherever Allah commands, they move. Wherever they are ordered to stop, there they stop.”
Chaudhry Mauju was deeply affected by these words. He came forward and with great reverence took the elderly man’s hand in his own, kissed it, and then touched it to his eyes: “Chaudhry Mauju’s house is your house.”
The elderly gentleman sat smiling upon the charpoy and grabbing his silver mounted staff in both his hands, bowed his head over it: “Who knows which of yours acts has pleased Allah the Glorious one, such that He has sent this, His most trivial and sinful servant to you.”
Chaudhry Mauju asked delightedly, “So, Mawlvi sahib, have you come here under His directive?”
Mawlvi sahib lifted his bowed head and in a tone marked with a degree of anger remarked: “And do you suppose we have come here at your bidding? Are we your men or His in whose worship we have spent forty years to earn what little status we have?”
Chaudhry Mauju trembled. In his own uniquely rustic, but nevertheless reverential manner, he requested the Mawlvi sahib to forgive his error and said, “Mawlvi sahib, men like us, who don’t even know how to say our prayers, often make such mistakes. We are sinners. To get us forgiven and to forgive us is your task.”
Mawlvi sahib closed his large, kohl adorned eyes and said, “That is precisely why we have come.”
Chaudhry Mauju sat down on the ground and started pressing Mawlvi sahib’s feet. Meawhile, his daughter Jeena’n arrived. When she saw Mawlvi sahib, she let her veil drop before her face. Mawlvi sahib, with his eyes closed, asked, “Who is it, Chaudhry Mauju?”
“My daughter, Mawlvi sahib…Jeena’n!”
Mawlvi sahib looked at Jeena’n with half-open eyes and said to Mauju, “What purdah is there from fakirs – ask her.”
“There is no purdah, Mawlvi sahib – what purdah could there be?”
And then Mauju addressed Jeena’n: “This is Mawlvi sahib, Jeena’n. He is a special man of Allah. Why observe purdah from him? Lift your veil!”
Jeena’n lifted her veil. Mawlvi sahib turned his Kohl adorned sights to regard her fully, and then said to Mauju, “Your daughter is beautiful, Chaudhry Mauju!”
Jeena’n blushed.
“She takes after her mother, Mawlvi sahib!”
“Where is her mother?” once again, Mawlvi sahib gazed intently at Jeena’n’s adolescent form.
Chaudhry Mauju was at a loss as to how he should respond.
Mawlvi sahib asked again, “Where is her mother, Chaudhry Mauju?”
Mauju hastily replied, “She has died, ji!”
Mawlvi sahib’s sights were set on Jeena’n. Guessing from her reaction, he said to Mauju, sternly, “You lie!”
Mauju fell at Mawlvi sahib’s feet and in regretful tones uttered, “Yes…yes…I told a lie. Please forgive me. I am a big liar. I divorced her, Mawlvi sahib!”
Mawlvi sahib uttered a long ‘hmmm’ and then shifted his gaze away from Jeena’n’s wrap and addressed Mauju: “You are an inordinate sinner. What was the poor creature’s offense?”
Mauju was perishing with guilt: “Don’t know, Mawlvi sahib. It was but a trifling matter that went on and on until divorce occured. I really am a sinner. The very next day, after having divorced her, I thought to myself, ‘Mauju, what folly have you done?’ but what could be done then? The birds had already ruined the crop. What would regret have achieved, Mawlvi sahib?”
Mawlvi sahib placed the silver mounted staff on Mauju’s shoulder: “The agency of Allah, the Blesser, is vast. He is very merciful, very benevolent. If He wills, He can set aright any wrong. If He ordains it, then even this meager fakir will find a way for your salvation.”
Grateful and much obliged, Chaudhry Mauju threw himself around Mawlvi sahib’s legs and started crying. Mawlvi sahib looked at Jeena’n. Her eyes too were streaming tears. “Come here, girl!”
Mawlvi sahib had such a commanding voice that it was impossible for Jeena’n to deny him. Setting the roti and lassi aside, she moved up to the charpoy. Mawlvi sahib took her by the arm and said, “Sit down.”
When Jeena’n proceeded to sit on the ground, Mawlvi sahib tugged at her arm: “Here, sit close to me.”
Jeena’n gathered herself close and then sat near Mawlvi sahib. Mawlvi sahib put his hand on her back, pulled her nearer, and after pressing her closer into himself he asked, “What have you brought for us to eat?”
Jeena’n wanted to move away, but the grip was strong. She had to respond: “Ji…ji roti. Saag and lassi.”
Mawlvi sahib squeezed Jeena’n’s slender but strong back with his hand once again: “Go on, set the food and feed us.”
When Jeena’n moved away, Mawlvi sahib removed his silver mounted staff from Mauju’s shoulder with a light tap: “Up, Mauju, and get our hands washed.”
Mauju got up instantly. There was a well close by. He brought water and got Mawlvi sahib’s hands washed in a very disciple-like manner. Jeena’n placed the food on the charpoy. Mawlvi sahib ate it all and then ordered Jeena’n to wash his hands. Jeena’n could not disobey his orders for Mawlvi sahib’s getup, his tone, and his mannerisms were all rather compelling. Mawlvi sahib belched aloud and said, “All praise be to Allah,” with considerable intensity. He passed a wet hand over his beard, belched once more and then lay down on the charpoy with one eye closed and with his other eye he kept watching Jeena’n’s slipping wrap. She hastily gathered all the dishes and left. Mawlvi sahib closed his eye and said to Mauju, “Chaudhry, we shall sleep now.”
Chaudhry pressed his feet for a while. When he saw that he was asleep, he went aside, lit up some cowpats and after filling the bowl with tobacco started smoking his chamoorra on an empty stomach. But he was happy. He felt as if a great weight of his life had been dispelled. In his own uniquely rustic, but nevertheless reverential manner, he thanked Allah in his heart, Who had sent from His store, in the guise of the Mawlvi sahib, an angel of mercy.
At first he considered sitting close to Mawlvi sahib in case he needed his service, but when it started to grow late and the latter kept on sleeping, he got up and went into his field and busied himself with his work. He had not a thought for the fact that he was hungry. Rather, he was greatly pleased that his food had been eaten by Mawlvi sahib and had thus afforded him such delight.
Before evening, when he returned from the field, he was really upset to find that Mawlvi sahib wasn’t there. He cursed himself for having left. He should’ve sat in his presence. Perhaps he had left angrily, and had uttered a prayer for ill as he left. When Chaudhry Mauju considered this, his simple soul shuddered. His eyes watered with tears.
He looked here and there for Mawlvi sahib, but he was not to be found. The evening deepened and yet there was not a sign of him. Tired, he kept cursing and blighting himself in his heart. And so, with his neck hanging, he was headed towards home when he saw two, young, worried looking boys. When at first Chaudhry Mauju asked them the reason for their worry, they hesitated, but then came out with the true story that they had dug up an earthen pot full of alcohol from a hole in the ground and had been about to partake when a personage with an illumined countenance had suddenly appeared there, who then, staring at them with wrathful eyes, asked them what sinful acts they were engaged in. By drinking of that which Allah, the Blesser, had declared haram they were committing a sin that had no absolution! They couldn’t work up the courage to respond. They had simply run away and had not stopped to breathe till they had reached where they were.
Chaudhry Mauju told the two of them that the personage with the illumined countenance really was a man who had reached Allah. And then he expressed his fears, wondering what calamity would befall the village. First he had made the grievous error of leaving him alone and now they had made the mistake of taking out and drinking something haram.
“Now, Allah alone could save us. Now, Allah alone could save us my children,” muttering thus, Chaudhry Mauju headed home. Jeena’n was there, but he didn’t say anything to her, and sat down on his charpoy, smoking his hookah in silence. There was a storm razing his heart and mind. He was certain that the village was bound to suffer a divine calamity.
Supper was ready. Jeena’n had even cooked for Mawlvi sahib. When she asked her father where Mawlvi sahib was, he answered her in tones of sorrow: “Gone…! What business could he have among us sinners!”

Jeena’n was agrieved because Mawlvi sahib had said that he could find a way by which her mother could return – but he was gone – now who would find a way? Jeena’n silently sat on a stool. The food kept getting colder. After a while a sound was heard in the entrance. Father and daughter both were startled. Mauju got up and went outside, and in a few moments Mawlvi sahib was inside the courtyard. In the dim glow of an oil lamp she noticed that Mawlvi sahib was stumbling. In his hands was a small earthen pot. Mauju helped him sit on the charpoy. He gave the pot to Mauju and slurred: “Today, God has subjected us to a very harsh test. Two boys from your village had dug up a pot full of alcohol and were about to drink from it when we showed up. The moment they beheld us they ran off. We were deeply dismayed: such a big sin at such a young age! But then we thought that it is precisely at this age that man falters from the path. Therefore, we wept and pleaded and prayed in the court of Allah, the Blesser, that their sins be pardoned. The Answer came! Do you know what the Answer was?”
Trembling, Mauju spoke, “No!”
“The answer came: Will you take their sins on your own head…?
I said, yes O’ Blesser…
The Voice came: Then go drink the entire pot yourself; We have pardoned the boys!”
Mauju was transported to a world that was a product of his own imagination. His hair at end, he was covered with goose-bumps: “So you drank?”
Mawlvi sahib’s slurring grew much worse: “Yes, drank! drank! To take their sins upon my head I drank! To prove my worth in the sight of God I drank! There is still some in the pot. This too shall be drunk by us. Keep it safe, and look here, make sure not a drop of it goes anywhere.”
Mauju took the pot, put it inside the house and covered its mouth with a cloth. When he returned he saw that Mawlvi sahib was getting his head pressed by Jeena’n and was saying to her, “When a man does something for others, Allah the Glorious is really happy with him. He is really happy with you right now. We too are really happy with you.”
And in this state of happiness Mawlvi sahib sat Jeena’n close to him and kissed her on the forehead. She tried to get up. But his grip was too strong. Mawlvi sahib embraced her tightly and said to Mauju, “Chaudhry your daughter’s fortune has woken up!”
Chaudhry was all gratitude from head to foot: “This is all from your good wishes – your generosity.”
Mawlvi sahib squeezed Jeena’n against his chest once again: “When God is generous, then all is generous. Jeena’n, we shall teach you a few prayers; recite them regularly, and Allah will always be generous.”
The next day, Mawlvi sahib awoke very late. Out of fear, Mauju did not go to the fields. He sat next to his charpoy in the courtyard. When the personage awoke, he helped him brush his teeth with a misvaak, bathed and washed him, and in accordance with his bidding, brought the pot of alcohol out and placed it next to him. Mawlvi sahib recited something, opened the mouth of the pot, blew his breath three times into it, and then chugged two or three cups. He looked up at the sky. Recited something, and in a loud voice said, “We shall not fail to measure up in all your tests, O’ Lord!”
Then he addressed Chaudhry: “Mauju, go – it has been commanded that you go at once and bring back your wife – we have found a way.”
Mauju was very pleased. Quickly, he saddled his mare and said that by early morning the next day he would be back. Then he told Jeena’n to care for all of Mawlvi sahib’s comforts and not fall short of serving him in anyway.
Jeena’n busied herself with washing dishes. Mawlvi sahib sat on the charpoy staring at her and drinking cup after cup of alcohol. After this, he took out from his pocket a fat-beaded rosary and started counting his prayers. When Jeena’n was done with her work, he said to her, “Jeena’n, look – go perform ablution.”
Jeena’n replied with considerable innocence, “I don’t know how to Mawlvi ji.”
Mawlvi sahib reprimanded her – with great affection, “Don’t know how to perform ablution! And what answer will you give to Allah?”
After saying this, he got up and helped her wash, and simultaneously advised her in a manner which best allowed him a view of every measure of her body.
After the washing, Mawlvi sahib asked for a praying rug. When there were none to be had, he scolded her again, but in the same manner. He asked for some bedding, then spread them in the courtyard and asked Jeena’n to latch the door which opened to the outside. When the door was latched, he asked her to bring the pot and the cup inside. She brought them. Mawlvi sahib drank half a cup and placed the rest in front of himself as he started counting his prayers on the rosary while Jeena’n sat next to him in silence. For a long time Mawlvi sahib sat thus, praying with his eyes closed, and then he opened his eyes. He blew his breath three times in the half-filled cup and moved it towards Jeena’n: “Drink this.”
Jeena’n took the cup, but her hands started shaking. Mawlvi sahib set an intensely imperious gaze upon her: “Drink it we say! All your troubles will vanish!”
Jeena’n drank it. Mawlvi sahib’s thin lips curled in a smile and then spoke to her, “We will begin our prayers again – when we signal with the finger of shahada, take out half a cup from the pot and drink it immediately. Understand?”
Mawlvi sahib did not give her an opportunity to reply, and closing his eyes, entered into a spiritual trance. The taste in Jeena’n’s mouth was awful. It felt as if there were a fire in her chest. She wanted to get up and drink cold water. But how could she get up? Keeping the burning in her throat and in her chest, she kept sitting for a long time. And then suddenly, Mawlvi sahib’s finger of shahada rose with great force. Jeena’n appeared as if she had been hypnotized. Immediately, she filled half a cup and drank it. She wanted to spit it out but couldn’t get up.
Mawlvi sahib kept passing his hand quickly over the beads of the rosary, just the same, with his eyes closed. Jeena’n became dizzy and then felt as if sleep was overcoming her. And then, in her half-asleep state, she felt as if she was on the lap of a beardless and mustache-less young man who was taking her to see heaven.
When Jeena’n opened her eyes, she was lying on the bedding. She looked around with her half-open, intoxicated eyes. And then, when she started thinking about why she was lying there and when did she come to lie there, everything seemed enveloped in a fog. She started to fall asleep again. But then suddenly she sat up. Where was Mawlvi sahib? And that heaven?
There was nobody there. When she went out into the courtyard, she saw that the day was declining and that Mawlvi sahib was sitting close to the washing area, performing ablution. When he heard her, he turned towards her and smiled. Jeena’n went back inside the house and sat on the bedding, thinking about her mother, whom her father had gone to get. There was still a whole night left before their return.
And she was famished. She hadn’t cooked or prepared anything. Her tiny, anxious mind was filling up with many thoughts. After a while, Mawlvi sahib appeared and then left saying this, “I have to pray for your father – I will have to spend the night at a grave – will return in the morning – I will pray for you as well.”
Mawlvi sahib reappeared early in the morning. His large eyes, which were devoid of kohl, were extremely red. His speech was slurred and his steps were marked with stumbling. The moment he entered the courtyard, he smiled at Jeena’n, went forward and embraced her. He kissed her and sat on the charpoy. Jeena’n sat aside on a stool and started thinking about the hazy events of the recent past. She awaited her father as well. He should’ve reached by now – and she had been separated from her mother for two years now…and heaven…that heaven…what was that heaven!! – was he Mawlvi sahib? But she had a foggy impression that he had not been a bearded man. It had been someone young.
Mawlvi sahib, after a while, addressed her, “Jeena’n, Mauju hasn’t come back yet.”
Jeena’n remained silent.
Mawlvi sahib addressed her again, “And I spent the entire soundless night over a broken, old grave with my head bowed praying for him. When will he return? Will he bring your mother back?”
Jeena’n only said this: “Ji, I don’t know. Perhaps they’ve almost reached. They’ll come. Amma will come too – but I don’t know for sure.”
And then there was a noise. Jeena’n got up. Her mother appeared. The moment she saw her, she hugged her and started weeping. When Mauju came, he greeted Mawlvi sahib with great reverence. And then he said to his wife, “P’hataa’n – greet Mawlvi sahib.”
P’hataa’n separated herself from her daughter, wiping her tears; she moved towards Mawlvi sahib and greeted him. Mawlvi sahib stared at her with his bloodshot eyes and then said to Mauju, “I spent the entire night at a grave, praying for you. I’ve only just returned – Allah has listened to me – all will be well.”
Chaudhry Mauju sat down on the floor and started pressing Mawlvi sahib’s feet. He was so grateful, he couldn’t say anything. Instead, he addressed his wife in tearful tones, “Come here P’hataa’n, you’ll have to thank Mawlvi sahib yourself. I don’t know how to.”
P’hataa’n sat next to her husband. But this was all she could say: “How could we poor people possibly repay?”
Mawlvi sahib gazed intently at P’hataa’n: “Mauju Chaudhry, you were right. Your wife is beautiful. She looks young even at this age – like a second Jeena’n. Even better! We will set it all right, P’hataa’n. Allah has given His blessing and mercy.”
Husband and wife, both remained silent. Mauju kept pressing Mawlvi sahib’s feet. Jeena’n busied herself with lighting the stove.
After a while, Mawlvi sahib got up. He put his hand on P’hataa’n’s head affectionately and addressed Mauju, “Allah has ordained that if a man divorces his wife, but then desires to have her back in his house again, then his punishment is that the woman must first marry some other man, and get divorced from him. Then she is legal.”
Mauju intoned quietly, “I have heard of this Mawlvi sahib.”
Mawlvi sahib raised Mauju up and put a hand on his shoulder: “But we have pleaded in the court of Allah that such a harsh punishment may not be exacted from such a poor man for he has made an unwitting mistake.
The Voice came: For how long must We listen to your advocacies. Ask for yourself what you will and We shall willingly provide.
I requested: My Emperor, master of land and sea, I ask nothing for myself. I have much of what You have provided me with. Mauju Chaudhry loves his wife.
It was Spoken: Then We desire to test his love and your faith. Marry her for one day. Divorce her the next, and give her up to Mauju. We can do this much for your sake, for you have spent forty years worshipping Us with your heart.”
Mauju was delighted. “I accept, Mawlvi sahib! I accept!” And then he looked at P’hataa’n with reddened eyes, “Well P’hataa’n?” But he did not wait for her to answer, “We both accept!”
Mawlvi sahib closed his eyes and recited something. And then after blowing his breath on both of them he raised his sights to the sky. “May Allah, the Blesser, help us succeed in this test!”
Then he addressed Mauju, “Well then Mauju – I must leave now – you and Jeena’n go somewhere else tonight. Come back tomorrow, early morning,” saying this, Mawlvi sahib left.
Jeena’n and Mauju were ready. When Mawlvi sahib returned in the evening he spoke but a few words to them. He was reciting something. In the end he gestured. Jeena’n and Mauju left immediately.
Mawlvi sahib latched the door and said to P’hataa’n, “Tonight you are my wife. Go bring the bedding from inside and spread it on the charpoy. We shall sleep.”
P’hataa’n brought the bedding from within the house and spread it neatly on the charpoy. Mawlvi sahib said, “Bibi, you sit here. We shall return.”
Saying so, he went inside the room. An oil lamp was burning inside. In a corner next to the tower of dishes was his pot. He moved it about to see. There was still some left. Putting the pot to his mouth he drank in several big gulps. He took his bright, yellow, flower-patterned, silken scarf from his shoulder, wiped his moustache and his lips and then shut the door.
P’hataa’n was sitting on the charpoy. After a long time, Mawlvi sahib emerged. In his hands he had a cup. He blew his breath three times on it and then offered it to P’hataa’n. “Go ahead, drink it.”
P’hataa’n drank it. When she retched, Mawlvi sahib patted her back and said, “Be well, immediately.”
P’hataa’n tried, and to an extent managed, to be well. Mawlvi sahib lay down.
Early next morning when Jeena’n and Mauju returned, they saw P’hataa’n asleep in the courtyard but Mawlvi sahib was nowhere to be found. Mauju thought about it. He must’ve gone out to the fields. He awoke P’hataa’n. P’hataa’n slowly opened her eyes, moaning. Then she mumbled, “Heaven…heaven!” but when she saw Mauju, she opened her eyes fully and sat up in bed.
Mauju asked her, “Where is Mawlvi sahib?”
P’hataa’n wasn’t entirely in her senses yet: “Mawlvi sahib…what Mawlvi sahib; he was…I don’t know where he went…isn’t he here?”
“No,” rejoined Mauju, “I’ll look for him outside.”
He was just leaving when he heard P’hataa’n emit a short scream. When he turned around he saw she was pulling out something dark from under the pillow. When she had pulled it all out she said, “What is this?”
“Hair,” replied Mauju.
P’hataa’n let the bundle of hair drop to the floor. Mauju picked it up and looked at it closely: “Beard and head hair.”
Jeena’n was standing close by; she said, “Mawlvi sahib’s beard and head hair?”
P’hataa’n, from where she was sitting on the charpoy, said, “Yes – Mawlvi sahib’s beard and head hair.
Mauju was immersed in a strange conundrum, “And where is Mawlvi sahib?”
But then immediately a thought occurred in his simple, sincere mind: “Jeena’n – P’hataa’n, you haven’t understood – he was a man of miracles – he has fixed our problems and left this sign!”
He kissed the hair, touched them to his eyes and then giving them to Jeena’n said, “Go wrap these in some clean cloth and put them in the big trunk. By Allah’s command, the house will be filled with blessings.”
When Jeen’an went inside, he sat down next to P’hataa’n and with great affection said, “I will learn to pray and I shall pray for that elderly gentleman who has reunited us two.”
P’hataa’n remained silent.

Translated: July 17, 2011.



True Love


Regarding the broad theme of love, Ikhlaq held the same notions that lovers generally do. He was a devotee of Saint Ranjha. To die in love was for him the greatest and most honourable of deaths.
Although Ikhlaq had reached the age of thirty; yet, in spite of all efforts, he had been unable to fall in love with anyone. That was until one day, whilst watching a matinee screening of Ingrid Bergman’s ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls’ he felt his heart become partial to the burka-clad girl in the next seat, the one who kept swinging her legs the entire time.
When the screen lit up and the darkness receded, Ikhlaq glanced quickly at the girl. There were tiny beads of sweat on her forehead, and the tip of her nose bore several droplets. When Ikhlaq looked at her, her legs stopped swinging. And with great artifice she swiftly covered her face with the gossamer veil of her black burka. The nature of this act was such that it pleased Ikhlaq and got him laughing.
The girl whispered something in her friend’s ear and both giggled softly. After this the girl drew aside her veil, uncovered her face, subjected Ikhlaq to a quick, penetrating stare and then lost herself in the leg-swinging enjoyment of the film.
Ikhlaq was smoking. He felt Ingrid Bergman was an astounding actress. She wore her hair short in ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls’ and when he saw her on screen when the movie began she seemed so very pretty. But after having beheld the girl in the next seat he forgot all about Ingrid Bergman. And although the entire film played out in front of his eyes, he saw very little of it indeed.
The girl was perpetually in his heart and on his mind.
Ikhlaq smoked cigarette after cigarette – once, as he tried to ash his cigarette, it slipped from his fingers and dropped onto the girl’s lap – but she was much too absorbed in the film to notice. Ikhlaq panicked. And in his panic he stretched out his arm, grabbed the cigarette from her burka, and threw it on the floor. The girl rose from her seat in a flurry. Ikhlaq explained at once: “I beg your pardon; the cigarette fell on you.” The girl stared at Ikhlaq and then sat down. She whispered to her friend; they giggled again, and then occupied themselves with watching the film.
At the end of the screening, as the Quaid-e-Azam’s picture appeared, Ikhlaq got up. God knows how but his foot bumped into the girl’s foot. And once again Ikhlaq became, as it were, an apology from head to toe. “I’m very sorry. I don’t know what has come over me today.”
The two friends laughed quietly. When they left amidst the crowd, Ikhlaq followed them. The girl with whom he had fallen in love at first sight kept turning to look at him over her shoulder. Ikhlaq paid no heed to her and instead kept following. He had decided he would find out where the girl lived.
Walking down the footpath on the Mall Road, near the Y M C A, the girl turned around again to look at Ikhlaq, after which she took her friend by the hand and stopped. When Ikhlaq tried to walk on and leave them behind, she spoke to him: “Why have you been following us?”
Ikhlaq thought for a moment and then rejoined: “Why have you been walking in front of me?” At this the girl laughed merrily, said something to her friend and then the two continued on their way. When she turned around again at the bus station, Ikhlaq said to her: “Perhaps you should stay back, and then I shall move on.”
The girl silently turned her face away from him.
At the turning towards Anarkali, the two friends stopped. Ikhlaq was about to pass them by when the girl said, “Please don’t follow us. It’s rather bad behavior.” Her manner was very grave. “Very well,” said Ikhlaq and turned around. He did not so much as look back at her after this. But in his heart he grieved for not having followed her till the end. He had felt this intensity of love after such a long time, and now he had let the opportunity escape from right within his hands. God alone knew if he would ever see the girl again or not.
Upon reaching the Y M C A, he turned around to look at the corner that led to Anarkali. But to what purpose! She had already walked into Anarkali the instant they had parted.
The girl had delicate features: a thin nose, a small chin, lips like the petals of a flower. When the screen had lit up and the darkness receded, he had seen on her upper lip a beauty mark that he had found extremely pleasing to behold. He had fancied that without it, the girl would have been incomplete. It was essential!
The way she walked, taking tiny steps, proclaimed her to be unmarried. And because she knew a man was following her, her gait had acquired an endearing awkwardness. And the way she looked over her shoulder was cataclysmic; all of a sudden, she would set her eyes upon Ikhlaq and then just as sharply turn away from him.
The following day he went to watch the Ingrid Bergman film again. The show had already begun. A Walt Disney cartoon was playing when he entered the hall. It was too dark inside; it would have been impossible for even a hand to recognize its counterpart in that darkness. Allowing the insubstantial light from the gate keeper’s cigarette to guide him, he groped his way into an empty seat.
Disney’s cartoon was very funny. Here and there several people in the audience were laughing. Suddenly, from somewhere nearby, Ikhlaq heard a laugh he could identify. When he turned around to see, he found the girl sitting there. Ikhlaq’s heartbeat quickened. There was, however, a young man sitting next to the girl. He appeared to be her brother. How could he possibly turn around now to look at her with him sitting there!
There was an interval. Despite his best efforts, Ikhlaq couldn’t quite follow the film. When the lights were turned on, he got up. The girl was wearing a veil. But behind that beautiful obstruction Ikhlaq could make out a pair of eyes that shone with mirth. Her brother lit up a cigarette. Ikhlaq stuck his hand in his own pocket and addressed the brother: “May I please have a light?” The girl’s brother let him have his matchbox. Ikhlaq lit his cigarette and returned the matchbox: “Thanks!”
The girl was swinging her legs. Ikhlaq sat in his chair. The remainder of the film began. Once or twice, he turned around to look at the girl, but, under the circumstances, couldn’t do any more than this.
The film ended. The crowd began to leave. The girl and her brother kept close together. At a distance, Ikhlaq followed them. Close to the parking stand, the brother spoke to his sister, and called up a horse-carriage. The girl got in but the boy moved into the stand. The girl looked through the veil at Ikhlaq and his heart began to pound. The horse-carriage headed out. Outside the stand there stood three or four of his friends. He grabbed a bicycle from one of them and hastened forth in pursuit of the horse-carriage.
This quest was quite interesting. A strong wind was blowing. The girl’s veil would often be lifted. The jet-black screen of georgette would flutter in the wind and reveal in glimpses her fair face. She wore large gold earrings, and her slender lips were coloured like red ink. And the beauty mark on the upper lip – and that essential, all important beauty mark!
A sudden and wild gust of wind blew Ikhlaq’s hat off of his head and left it rolling behind along the street till a truck appeared and beneath the heavy weight of its tire it encountered immediate defeat. The girl laughed and Ikhlaq smiled. He turned his head and saw the distant corpse of his hat and spoke to the girl: “It has acquired the status of a martyr!”
The girl turned her face away from him.
After a while, Ikhlaq addressed her again: “If you mind, I shall turn back.” The girl looked at him but offered no verbal response.
The horse-carriage came to a halt in an alley inside Anarkali and let the girl off, who continued casting unveiled glances at Ikhlaq before she went into a house. Ikhlaq, with one foot resting on a pedal and the other placed on the curb, stood waiting for a while. He was just about to leave when a window, on the first floor of the house, opened. The girl bent down to look at Ikhlaq, but then, embarrassed, she disappeared back into the house. Ikhlaq stood there for about half an hour but she did not materialize at the window again.
The next day, early morning, he showed up again at the same spot in Anarkali. He kept wandering about for fifteen to twenty minutes. The window remained shut. Despairing, he was about to leave when a fruit-seller approached - crying his wares; the window snapped open, and the girl, her head uncovered, appeared at the sill. She called out to the frui- seller:
“Fruit seller! Wait there a moment!”
And then her gaze fell upon Ikhlaq. Shocked, she withdrew. The fruit-seller took his basket down from his head and sat at the side of the road. After a while, the girl, with her head covered, appeared there. She glanced sideways at Ikhlaq, blushed, and without having bought any fruit, returned to her house.
Ikhlaq found this very charming and yet pitiful as well. So, when the fruit-seller glared at him, he decided to leave. “I suppose this should be enough for today.”

Within but a few days Ikhlaq and the girl began communicating in signs and gestures. Every morning at nine, he would reach that same alley in Anarkali. The window would open. He would greet her. She would reply in kind. They would converse a little by signaling with their hands. And then she would leave.
One day, with a twirling flourish of her fingers, she expressed to him that she would be at the cinema at six that evening. Ikhlaq, using sign language, inquired, “Which cinema house?” She replied, but Ikhlaq failed to comprehend her signals. In the end he gestured to her, “Write it on a piece of paper and throw it down!” The girl disappeared from the window. A few moments later she reappeared, and after looking around to make sure nobody was watching her, she threw down a crumpled, twisted bit of paper.
Ikhlaq opened it.
It read: “Plaza – Perveen.”
That evening at the Plaza he met Perveen. Her friend was with her. Ikhlaq sat in the seat next to her. When the film started she took off her veil. Ikhlaq spent the entire time looking at her. His heart kept pounding. Just before the interval he extended his arm slowly and put his hand on hers. She trembled. Immediately, Ikhlaq removed his hand. As a matter of fact he had wanted to give her a ring - or rather to put it on her himself - that he had bought that same day. When the interval ended he put his hand on hers again. Again she trembled. But this time Ikhlaq did not remove his hand. A moment passed, he took out the ring and slid it on one of her fingers. She remained completely silent. Ikhlaq looked at her; tiny little beads of sweat were shimmering on her forehead and her nose.
When the film ended, so did this meeting between Ikhlaq and Perveen. Outside they could not exchange words. Both the friends got in a horse-carriage. Ikhlaq ran into some of his own friends. They stopped him. But he was very happy because Perveen had accepted his gift.
The next day, when, at the appointed hour, Ikhlaq showed up outside Perveen’s house, the window was open. Ikhlaq greeted her. Perveen answered him. On a finger of her right hand, the ring which he had put on her, shone brilliantly.
For a while they spoke in signs, and then cautiously, Perveen threw a package down. Ikhlaq picked it up. He opened it to find a letter within - thanking him for the ring. When he got home, Ikhlaq composed an extensive reply. He wrote his heart out on paper. He sealed the letter in a flowery envelope. He sprayed it with perfume, and then at nine in the morning he showed it to Perveen before droppingit into the letter box for her to retrieve.
Thus, a regular correspondence began; each letter a monument to love. Ikhlaq wrote one in his own blood, swearing that he would remain steadfast and stand by his love forever. In return he too received a composition in blood. Perveen swore as well that she would gladly relinquish her life but never take for a partner anyone other than Ikhlaq.
Months passed. During this time the two would sometimes meet at the cinema. They couldn’t find an opportunity to sit together otherwise. Perveen had too many restrictions from home. She could only leave her house with her brother or her friend Zohra. She was not allowed to leave the house at all with anyone else. Ikhlaq repeatedly wrote to her to bring Zohra along if necessary to meet him at the Bara Dari or Jehangir’s tomb but she refused, scared that she might be seen. Meanwhile, Ikhlaq’s parents started discussing the possibility of getting him married. Ikhlaq tried to delay them. But when they, in their frustration, approached a family without his consent, he lost his temper. It was a fiasco. To the extent that one night Ikhlaq had to sleep in the grounds at Islamia College. At her end, Perveen kept weeping, refusing to eat.
Ikhlaq was not one to give in easily. He was obstinate to the highest degree. Once he had left his house, he would not even consider returning. His father tried to talk to him, to pacify and assuage him, but he would not relent. He got himself a job at an office for a hundred rupees a month and started living in a rented apartment that had neither water nor electricity. And on the other side, Perveen was practically dissolving in tears, worrying about Ikhlaq’s trials. And once talk began in her house about her marriage, it was as if lightning had struck. She wrote to Ikhlaq that she was worried. He wrote back and told her not to fear. Remain steadfast. Love was testing their resolve!
Twelve days passed. Ikhlaq went to see her several times but Perveen was not to be seen in the window. Eventually he lost his patience, his peace, and then his sleep. He stopped going to the office. Once his leaves began to pile up, they terminated his appointment. He was not in his senses at all. The moment he received his letter of termination, he made his way straight to Perveen’s house. After a great lapse of fifteen days, he finally got to see Perveen, that too for but a fleeting moment. She dropped a package and left.
The letter was very long. The reason for Perveen’s absence was that her father had taken her with him to Gujranwala where her elder sister lived. For fifteen days she had shed tears of blood. Her dowry was being assembled, but to her it felt as if they were sewing together colourful shrouds for her. At the very end of the letter it read: The date has been fixed. The date of my death has been decided. I will die. I will surely poison myself and die. I see no other way out of this. No, no there is one other way. But do I have courage enough for that? Do you have courage enough……? I will come to you. I will have to come to you. You have left your house, your family for me. Then why can I not leave this house where they are preparing to celebrate my death. But I wish to live with you as your wife. You must arrange for us to be married. I will come with no more than three changes of clothing. I shall discard all my jewelry here.
Reply with haste. Yours, forever. Perveen.
Ikhlaq did not feel the need to consider. He replied instantly. “My arms suffer intolerably with the desire to enfold you in an embrace. I will not let your honour be compromised in any way. You will live as my rightful partner in life. I will always keep you happy.” A couple more letters were exchanged and it was decided that early morning on Wednesday, Perveen would leave her house. Ikhlaq would await her at the corner of the alley with a horse-carriage. It was still dark when on Wednesday Ikhlaq reached the spot where he would wait for Perveen. Fifteen to twenty minutes passed. Ikhlaq’s restlessness grew. But she came. Taking tiny steps, she appeared in the alley. There was awkwardness in her gait. When she seated herself in the carriage next to Ikhlaq, she was trembling from head to toe. Ikhlaq began to tremble also.
When they reached home, Ikhlaq lifted the veil of her burka with great affection and said, “For how long shall my bride keep herself veiled from me.” Perveen blushed and lowered her eyes. She was very pale and her body still shivered. When Ikhlaq set his sights upon the beauty mark on her upper lip, he felt the stirrings of a kiss in his own lips. Taking her face in his hands, he kissed her at the same spot. Perveen tried to say no. Her lips parted. The flesh between her teeth was putrefied. The gums were dark blue, utterly rotten. The stench of decay arose from within her putrid mouth and forced its way into Ikhlaq’s nose. He felt as if he had been violently pushed back. When another whiff of stench assaulted his senses, he backed away.
Perveen, in a voice filled with modesty and innocence, said, “You don’t have the right to do such things until we are married.” When she said this her rotten gums became apparent. Ikhlaq was in a daze; he had lost his senses; his mind was numb. The two sat together quietly for a long time. Ikhlaq could think of nothing to say. Perveen’s eyes were lowered. When she opened her mouth to bite at a fingernail, again, her rotten gums were displayed. Another whiff of the foul stench escaped. Ikhlaq retched. He was about to vomit when suddenly he got up from the bed, hastily murmured “I’ll be right back,” and went outside. He sat at the side of the road and thought. He thought for a very very long time. When nothing occurred to him, he left for Lyal Pur where a friend of his lived. When Ikhlaq told him his tale, his friend was furious and berated him over what he had done, ordering him to go back: “Return immediately, lest the poor girl commits suicide!”
Ikhlaq returned by nightfall. When he entered his house, Perveen was not there. There was a pillow on the bed. There were two round stains on it, wet!
After this, Ikhlaq never saw Perveen anywhere again.

June 5, 1950
July 9, 2011