SHORT STORIES
Vudya
Kitaban Förlag
CONTENTS
ZAFRAN SAFFRON 7
BUT… 15
CRUEL 21
(IM)
MORAL 29
THIRSTY LIPS 35
SPOOKY 41
WET 47
KHALIFA
SHAFIQ 55
DUST 63
CHAIR 69
MIRAGE 77
HONOUR 85
A PAIR OF BLACK SHOES 87
APPREHENSION 91
REDEMPTION 97
RAINBOW 107
Dedicated
to
the memories of
Saeed Anjum
(1946 –
2000)
and
Bukhsh Lyallpuri
(1931 –
2002)
—
two
torchbearers
who devoted
their lives
to
fight against the darkness of
oppression
and dictatorship
ZAFRAN SAFFRON
It
has been a nice summer. No, not just nice, but a wonderful summer. Actually it
had arrived late by almost three weeks; still, once it came it had stayed on.
The sun shone brilliantly, the wind had been easy-going, and with an increment
of rain at almost regular intervals the vegetation lavishly flaunted about a
dozen nuances of the green in the nature. And now September had come. The days
no longer dwarfed the nights the way they had done during the June to August
stretch, but the sun still showed its muscles to the encroaching darkness that
lay in waiting for the arrival of October to start its yearly assault.
Had Mrs. Aina Petterson looked out of her
window she would have seen at least three gangs of children engaged in play in
the abundant greenery that hid behind the Yellow Houses at Smedjevägen and
Häggviksvägen junction. Three gangs because they were formed after their ages.
The youngest children in the sandbox were accompanied by their parents; the
under-ten group had occupied the swings and slides, while the over-ten gang
played their own version of hide and seek.
But Mrs. Petterson seldom looked out of her window, nor had she
observed the late arrival and now the slow departure of the summer. In her flat
on the fifth floor the curtain were always drawn because the light hurt the
eyes of Mr. Lars Petterson who was confined to his
bed for the last eight years. Although she and her husband were about the same
age, Mr. Petterson’s body, as a result of the load
that he had carried at the railway shed, had given in long before her and now
she had to bear the burden of both of their lives. She was a frail lady, who
had just crossed the eighty-border. Mr. Petterson had
arrived in this world two years earlier. Neither of them was certain who would
be the first to abandon the other, but odds were slightly against Mr. Petterson that he would be the one to suffer loneliness.
…………
BUT…
Hakim
Sahib’s radiant face reflected more of the rays of the setting sun than his
inner feelings. He cast his look around in his usual arrogant manner and
bestowed a smile to all those who might be watching him; then his fingers,
quite subconsciously, started running his rosary back-wards. The growing
darkness on the wall across the road had warned him about the departing day and
the encroaching night.
During
the blink of his eyes he looked at the old man whose arrival had shaken his
whole world up and down.
Some thirty-six years ago,
despite his dark complexion, short height and pitch black hair, Hakim Fazal Ullah Khan, after he had
taken his degree in Greco-Indo medicine and at the occasion of his move from a
city to that small town, had ascribed his ancestry to those horse riding
robbers from the north who used to descend from the mountains and had raped his
home-land and great grand-mothers over centuries. It was remarkable that the
more he talked with his patients about the atrocities of his assumed ancestors
the more fame he got as being the pole bearer of those men who never leave
anyone untouched. Were his name’s banner raised only on the erected pole of
fame outside his house it would have waved so impressively, but the state of
affairs inside his home was rather floppy – though, according to Hakim Sahib,
Allah had given him everything, he was dealt a bad hand by Eros. There could
have not been any doubts about his masculinity as far as his mental aptitude
was concerned; but only he, Roshan Begum and his
other wives knew that after some pitched battles in the early years of his
marital life his body has opted for an attitude where it no longer arose to the
occasion as demanded by his mind. It is obvious that in the case of a clash
between the body and the mind of an able person the mind would always prevail …
which means that his fame might not reach the heights he wished for inside his
house, but it had to stand high for the people in the street out there!
Furthermore, what a disgrace it was to his medical competence that all those of
his prescriptions which had helped many others to raise their heads proudly
were, one after the other, completely useless against his own collapse.
………….
CRUEL
I do not know if he had a
colourful personality as well, but he was definitely dressed up colourfully –
his dark blue suit was accompanied by a green necktie, red shirt and white
moccasins; a bright yellow handkerchief glared at me from his suit’s breast
pocket. Smoked glasses in his spectacles, thick dark blond eyebrows and golden
hair along with his pink complexion added two hues to the seven of a rainbow.
I wanted to
address him as Mr. Rainbow, but then I took measure of his size and let silence
prevail over my curiosity. Apparently he was a cheerful being – whenever the
lady on the stage, under the pressure of good etiquette, used a softie instead of an appropriate word he
would explain its real meaning by a thunderous laugh. In those days Star Hotel
in Sollentuna was hosting a large gathering of bird-lovers who had come to
discuss Parrots and Humans. That
particular day we participated in The
Sexual life of Parrots in
At the
completion of the session we sat down for coffee. I had been so mesmerised by
his personality that my mind had failed to register the precious words of knowledge
catered to us from the stage at the end of the lecture. That is why when he
suddenly addressed me I was taken short.
“The lady was
mixing up Brazilian Aras with other species of Macaws!”
“How could that
be possible?” without knowing the number or type of those possibilities I
showed my doubt.
“An Ara’s ‘mouth-to-mouth’ play with his lady-bird is so gentle
and loving; the kind of neck-breaking our lecturer mentioned is more in the
character of parrots from Ecuador,” adding a strong element of complain to his
tone he answered.
I was in deep
trouble, because my knowledge of the members of psittaci was confined to some
simple facts that given a free choice they would rather be flying in the open
sky than be confined to a cage as a victim of human love, that they learn to
speak quicker if Spanish pepper is given to them immediately before a linguistic
crash course session, and those human beings who reach the seats of power
quickly learn to change their eyes in the manner of parrots.
..............
(IM) MORAL
Rohi wanted to step
right in front of the mirror and slap her face twice — how many time had she
promised herself to not to put her spectacles on the wash basin?
She dried her
face with the towel and then bent down to pick up her glasses. One of the arms
of the glasses and the broken right lens stayed on the floor. Rohi closed her eyes and after taking a deep breath tried
to convince herself that somehow she would manage without her glasses till
Saturday. Although her eyes were not wet any longer she saw everything hazy,
and she knew that this haze would persist with her until she gets new glasses.
And that meant
more expense, new cash and its acquisition.
The
Rohi took a couple
of steps and peeked through the window. Through the leaves of the pipal tree
she saw a faint contour of the horse and the carriage. Rehmet
was punctual as usual. Hurriedly she poured herself a glass of cool water from
the bottle in the fridge, and then thought of that week’s expenditure while she
brushed her hair – apartment’s rent, college fee, payment for the new glasses, Rehmet’s commission and cash for the fuel for her body’s
engine. After brushing her hair she put on the burqa[3], which further reduced her
depth of vision. However, she was not worried — in her profession affairs were
conducted at very close range, and often it felt better to receive the hard
facts in the dark than openly face the naked reality in daylight!
Rehmet cleansed his
throat when he saw her coming down, and tipped the horse to get ready for the
occasion. The horse knew that special cough; thus, it also neighed to show its
alertness, raised its head and stood ready.
Rohi mounted the
The
………..
THIRSTY
LIPS
Mr.
Adam was getting exhausted – physically and spiritually.
He had now been kneeling for some time, but words would not come to his
lips. He knew they were there – they must be there in his mind as abstract
ideas – still the ideas refused to take specific form and transform into
identifiable, meaningful words.
He was not out to formulate something extraordinary – he just wanted to
pray.
He had read in the newspapers and also seen on the television how the
Allied Forces had conducted eight thousand sorties in the first seven days of
the war, and thrown their explosive load on the city where the dictator had his
headquarters and refuge.
He had never considered himself to be a wizard with numbers, but he was
not slow either. A simple calculation with the help of a pencil and paper, and
without the use of a calculator, had told him that the combined operation of
about two thousand war-planes, over a period of one week and several raids a
day simply meant a hell of a lot of bombs on the damned city which was the
target of the wrath of the united nations of the world.
He would not call himself a non-believer. On the other hand he was not
exactly a believer either. It just happened that in the half century that he
had spent on the planet earth he never seemed to have seen a shade of the grace
and magnanimity of the great Shepherd about whom he had heard in his youth, nor
had he witnessed any trustworthy protection for His flock whenever misery
struck them. Still, he could recall many distinguished sources who so
vehemently talked about His eminence.
It wasn't so that he had not been searching. He did search, although he
never was quite sure what he had searched for. He had read quite a number of
books on the origin and the nature of the Absolute Being, who was said to be
behind all happenings. And he had not been limited in his pursuit. He had read
widely – scriptures from the East and West, even the sacred books of the savage Indians of the
And now when he had felt like praying, he felt awkward.
…………
SPOOKY
The
storm always started in Anjum’s stomach; thereafter,
it would make a brief stay in her chest after inducing convolutions in her
whole body, a big smile blossomed on her face and eventually came the wind
gushing out of her mouth in the form of a loud chuckle. That was her victory
cry!
That day too she
was to defeat Swifty in the last ten meters of the
race.
At the start of
the competition Swifty always led the race. Swifty was obviously swift; and then Anjum
was one of those competitors who, instead of leading a race in the beginning,
prefer to be the first at the finish. That is why whenever the starter’s gun
was fired she positioned herself in the second place, about three meters behind
Swifty. As they reached the midpoint she would bend
down a bit and adjust her balance on the skis, and began cutting the distance
between Swifty and herself. Just after the midpoint
lay the most difficult part of the slope – first came a slight bump and then a
sharp curve towards the right. That was her favourite spot! She knew that
because of Swifty’s lightweight she always had it
difficult to regain her speed on the snow when they passed the bump. After the
curve, whenever Swifty glanced at her right she saw
the ghostlike Anjum encroaching upon her. There Swifty tried to accelerate by the use of her sticks, and
that was her big slip. To strike the ground she had to straighten up a bit and
expose herself to more air resistance, and that did not do her any good.
Thereafter Swifty could do whatever she liked, but
she always lost.
Actually, Anjum had got these instructions from her teacher in
After
the race Swifty and Anjum
always shook hands, and looked into each other eyes. Both pairs conveyed the
same message – see you next time!
Dr. Millner
read the laboratory report of the old lady, shrugged his shoulders and said to Shahid, “Can’t grasp anything. All is the way it ought to
be; yet your mother complains of persistent fatigue.”
…………..
WET
She looked at the remaining
wine in her glass, and also realised she was wet.
“Another
bastard!” she had thought. “How could he ... how could he do this to me?”
Cautiously she took a few steps to the rear of the room. Away from his
sight; hopefully, out of his range. “Through the translucent wall of the
cigarette smoke he would not be able to cast his net of charm over me,” she
told herself. Some kind soul offered her freshly poured chilled wine. Oblivious
of the philanthrope’s identity she took hold of the glass with the effervescent
water from grapes. Condensation had thrown an opaque screen between her eyes
and the sparkling drink. Before she put her lips to the glass she slowly
protruded her tongue and felt its thin rim. Her nostrils caught the aroma of
the bubbling
“You always this happy?”
She
bid the smile to disappear from her face, pulled on a protective mask of
instant intellectualism on it, narrowed her eyes a bit, and slanting her head a
little, she almost growled, “What if I am?”
He
studied her stance for a short while and observed, “No, you are not. You were.”
“What
am I not, and what was I?” she asked.
“Happy!”
She
closed her eyes to meditate upon his cryptic assertion.
“Listen mister!” without opening her eyes she addressed him, mellowing
the growl to a softer tone, “What I feel is...”
“Are you feeling alright?” She heard a feminine voice ask her.
She opened her eyes. He wasn’t there any longer. Instead, a somewhat
amused Barbara was watching her intensely.
“Where did he go?”
“Who?”
“The character who was talking to me.”
“There wasn’t anyone talking to you. You were talking to someone who
wasn’t here.” Barbara corrected her.
“Is it true?” she threw out a string of giggles, raised her shoulders
and added, “Well! I better find out where he is then.” With that she moved away
from Barbara.
“Real bastards!” She cursed them all. “Never there when it is time to be
there.”
…………
KHALIFA SHAFIQ
Thirty years was a long
period, yet I was certain that despite a lot of change Khalifa[4] Shafiq
would look the same as he always did — how could he change! Ever since I had
opened my eyes and started recognising people, one face that had left a
permanent impression in my memory was that of Khalifa.
That day all the
people were seated in a circle in our veranda. After making me drink a large
glass of a green, sweet-bitter beverage my father sat down on the floor holding
me securely in both arms. Khalifa Shafiq
had an open razor in his right hand; and, at that moment, whatever he held in
his left hand, I am certain, he would be reluctant to hold it today! He looked
at me, a smile broke on his face, the razor flashed, sudden pain exploded between
my loins and all at once everybody was saying, “Congratulations,
congratulations!” And that very instant the face of Khalifa
Shafiq became an everlasting part of my memory.
The instant he
saw me the same smile re-appeared on his face. I stumbled a bit, and then heard
him exclaim, “Is it you Baboo Ji[5]? Have they offered you the
presidency of our country?”
“Presidency of
the country!”
“Why not? You
live abroad, probably drink a little, obviously you speak foreign languages;
then what could be amiss? A letter of recommendation! That you could have
secured somewhere and then just come here and occupy the Chair.”
“A letter of
recommendation does not suffice … to sit on that Chair one requires many other
abilities too.”
“What are you
saying, sir?” an aged man squatting on the wooden platform said to me, “Whoever
issues that letter of recommendation, would also provide you with detailed
instructions for the use of that chair, written in permanent ink. Besides, it
would also be accompanied with a number of capable advisers and guides, along with
a variety of ‘aids’ programmes. Your job would be to merely follow the
instructions that are prescribed on the back of that letter of recommendation.”
Before
I could answer him Khalifa Shafiq
interrupted, “Baba Ji, let Baboo
feel the atmosphere over here, before he decides if he would sit in the sun or
the shadow.”
………….
DUST
It
was about three in the night. In its full might, the magnanimous Sun bestowed
its soothing warmth to the valleys that had opened their wet and verdant bosoms
to receive the comforting rays. Yesterday it had rained the whole day. That is
why we had decided that we would start our journey after the heavens had shed
all of their tears and felt relieved. To tell you the truth in
We were on our
way from
Saeed’s brother Rafiq had thrown
us an invitation only a couple of days earlier that if we, after our nightly
bouts of intellectual wrestling, felt like changing the taste in our mouths
then he would arrange for a breakfast-at-dawn consisting of halva, puri and chickpea curry[6].
I am not sure how serious he was with his invitation but the eagerness we
displayed in accepting it must have made him certain that his words were taken
seriously. Actually Istaqlal ud-Din Yad Sahib had suggested tonight that we ought to tell Rafiq that it would suffice with only halva and puri;
considering there wasn’t much dust in
………….
THE CHAIR
The door opened
a bit when I pressed the bell button for the second time. In the beginning she
had only curiosity in her eyes, but after listening to my words that curiosity
changed first into surprise, then disbelief and finally spontaneous joy in such
a way as if a victimised wife were given the happy news of her husbands death,
with the added information that the deceased had left her not only a
substantial insurance policy but also recommended the personal services of his
young secretary to her.
“Is
it true?”
“Yes,”
was my short reply.
A
little bit of joy trickled out of her eyes, and after imparting pinkish hue to
her cheeks it spread around her lips. Then she opened her rosy petals and
showed me her set of sparkling white pearls.
“You
are Jamila’s…” After recognising me she had just said
that when a masculine voice reached us, “Who is it?”
“He,
he is here,” she said that and went in.
It
took some time before an elderly man, bearing three pens in his shirt's pocket
and four teeth in his mouth, came towards me quite enthusiastically.
“Well,
well, well! We knew that one of these days you should come.”
“I
apologise, in case you had to wait long,” before his enthusiasm on my arrival
would fade by the chill of his waiting I tried to add some warmth to it by
saying appropriate words.
“It
does not matter, son; it does not matter at all. I knew that that day is not
all that far when it should also ring in our house. But why are you standing
out there? Come in!” He opened the gate and invited me in.
I
entered the courtyard. There were still some patched of wet on the newly washed
floor. In one corner stood two Jasmine bushes and imbued fragrance to the
atmosphere. I was about to place my bag on the floor when the old man said,
“It’s better if you go straight in.”
“Daughter!
Lead him to the main hall. I shall come soon.”
Without
uttering a word she pulled me with her smile. I crossed the yard and followed
her to that room.
……………
MIRAGE
During the summer holidays
the park by Norr Mälarstrand
was our favourite place for recreation – we would sit or lie there for hours
staring at the town hall across the lake. From that distance there wasn’t much
worthy of spectacle in that building; but the grey water chest provided a
perfect background for that swarm of bare, warm and breathing breasts on the
green grassy carpet, which were exposed to the soothing sun by hundreds of
local and tourist girls for the gentle message by the wind and a coat of tan by
the solar brushes.
All that
provided such a heavenly ambience that whenever Haji
Sahib visited
Haji himself was
adamant that he did not come to the park for the satisfaction of his eyes, but
to appease his heart – those rounded shivering pairs of breasts reminded him of
the marble doom of Taj Mahal. While we always suspected that he sat there with
eyes closed to fantasise all those beautiful maidens he would cohabit with in
the paradise who were to be allotted to him for his refrain from pleasure on
this earth.
………..
HONOUR*
The old woman was about
fifty; but she was so lean that it appeared as if hunger, stretched over many
decades, had eaten her from inside. Her upper torso was covered with a stained,
once white, sheet; while her lower half carried a rather torn, green
wrap-around short skirt on which smears of dried brown-red blood would still
show every now and then. While drifting she suddenly stood still when she saw a
heap of fruit-skin in front of the office of The State Bank. After hesitating a
few moments she went straight to the heap, bent down and started searching in
it. Her sudden bending down in that manner made her behinds completely bare.
An indignant passer-by said to her, “What’s the matter with you woman,
don’t you feel ashamed? Haven’t you got two rupees to secure needle and thread
to at least repair your skirt?”
“I had them Mister! But to lessen the nation’s burden I donated them to
our government for their ‘Pay the debt, amend our land’ scheme.”
“That’s nice, but you ought to have cared about you honour first.”
“Cared? I haven’t got a care in the world! The whole day long I stroll
through quarters with magnificent villas and feel elated; I have also heard
that our rich have bought splendid palaces abroad for our appreciation. A walk
through Kebab-Square completely lulls my daily need for aromatic aromas. If
only you knew how all those beautiful clothes long to touch my body when I walk
through the Anarkali Bazar!
And half an hour resting outside the verdant
After that, in
order to bring some temporary relief to her rebellious stomach, she bent down
again to search for some left over pulp in the heap of discarded fruit-skins.
………..
A PAIR OF BLACK SHOES
Thursday, 17
November. 1994.
Birger Jarlsgatan X Kungstensgatan.
The flashing blue lights had caught my eyes first. It must be
an ambulance or a police car! I had thought; but then I turned into Rådmansgatan to fetch my passenger at Hotel Birger Jarl. Yet, something continued to bother me – there
were just far too many lights which had left their impression on my retina.
I
found no passenger outside the hotel. I waited there far less than I ought to
have done and then moved on into Kungstensgatan,
towards the flashing lights. I saw three policemen, two police cars and an
ambulance as I came nearer to the spot where a small number of spectators had
gathered and were looking at the two stretchers. As I came closer I looked
again at the policemen and the ambulance attendants. They were not doing
anything; just stood there, staring in the space at nothing, as if they were
not even there. Almost mesmerised by the flood of flashing lights, mummified
official and a dazed crowd I slowly drove into Birger
Jarlsgatan and then stood still behind the SL-bus
which blocked the road.
It was then I saw the bicycle and a small briefcase that stood
unaccompanied on the pavement, the small green car that was parked obliquely,
and the bus standing a few meters farther away. The bus had its hazard lights
on. Between the two police cars, ambulance, bicycle, the green car and the bus
lay the reason why everyone stood there inert. There was not anything they
could do now! On one of the two stretchers I saw nothing; while on the other a
reddish, onion-scale coloured blanket covered someone whose mode of reference
was permanently changed by Death – from "I am" he had become "He
was". I was certain he was dead, although the whole body was covered by
the blanket, except the pair of black shoes, pointing vertically. At the other
end of the stretcher, where the head was, only a stain of red marked the road,
and a few centimetres away there was a mass of white and pink which I first
thought to be vomit, but then realised that it was brains smeared with blood.
…………
APPREHENSION
It were not their eyes that
resembled, but the pupils in their eyes – pupils which in fervour of emotion or
acute fear always reduce almost to a spot.
The first pair
of eyes belonged to the girl who held a flag in one hand and a newspaper in the
other, and in the celebration of the successful atomic test released a cry of
joy for an assumed victory; the other eyes were that of Sewada.
My
first meeting with Sewada took place in a cultural show. Only a few days
earlier she had come to
“How come you understood my English?”
“My karate teacher helped me!”
“What?”
“He used to speak the same kind of English as you do.”
Some
of the smile spilled from her eyes and spread on her face, but she remained
quiet.
“But
after tuition of six months he spoke it clearly, I added.”
“And who was his tutor?
“I!”
The shine in her eyes deepened for a second, but she did not say
anything further.
“Why don’t you ask him for help!” The angelic lady gave words to my
secret wish, and I blessed her silently for a thousand times.
Sewada looked at me again. This time there was also a question along
with that shine in her eyes.
“Quite happily!” I replied to her unsaid question.
…………
The first time I saw Baba Churanji Lal he was seated behind my father on his motor bike. Like
a statue – his eyes containing an ocean of pain, his breathing completely inaudible,
not a flicker in his eyelashes or a tremor on his lips – he kept on sitting
there dead still even after the bike's engine was cut off. My father had held
his hand and helped him across the road to the wooden plank outside Rashid's
shop. Then a short conversation took place between Rashid and my father, and
Baba Churanji Lal became a
resident of
Actually we did not even
know his name. Only as hearsay we had learnt that he had come from
…………….
RAINBOW
Outside it was so pitch dark that even cats must have been longing for
some moonlight.
Lying
there on the bed she brought her both palms near her face and tried to see them
but she saw nothing; until they came so close to her that she could feel their
warmth on her cheeks. Then she gently touched one arm with the fingers of the
other and slowly moved them to and fro. Heat waves went right through her whole
body, and then feeling shy she hid her face with both hands. “Would he touch me
the same way?” Suddenly, quite embarrassed, she looked around in the room to
see if someone was watching her. Then she burst into laughter on her own
embarrassment. She was all by herself in that room, and even if someone else
were there then what that person would see in that total darkness! Once again
those waves enveloped her. And after that the very thought of his nearness
induced an intoxication in her being; every fibre in her body was now aching
tenderly.
In that state of inebriation she saw violets swaying
by the riverside. How, whenever harsh wind would assail them, they laid
themselves on the ground and after the wind had consumed her strength they
lifted their heads, paused for a moment, as if to see if a new assault was on
its way, and then resumed their dance. I would also be like them! She told
herself. If he ever showed temper I would take the character of violets and let
the storm pass over, and when his temper subsides I would, like these flowers,
mellow his heart. Suddenly she had the urge to rush out and lay herself among
the violets, when the lightning struck and she woke up from her dreaming. She
started to count so that she would know the proximity of the lightning clouds
by the sound of thunder. When no thunder came she felt relieved that those
clouds were not that dangerous.
In a short while it will be dawn, she thought. With
that the blackbird's song and images of newly showered blueberries dancing to
the puffs of playful wind arose in her mind. How she loved the indigo! And this
indigo colour flashes only during these rainy months, and what kind of
spectacle accompanies it – blackbird calls from here, while cuckoo replies her
from there; if the pouring rain reminds of Malhar[8],
then water drops falling from the leaves imitate tabla
drums; here one serves a glass of orange squash, there one sits and slowly
sucks juice from a mango! Suddenly she realised that her mouth watered.
Thinking of mangoes she had been sucking her own tongue, or was it his tongue! That very thought almost
choked her. Very slowly she removed the cold sweat from her forehead with her
palm, and then tried to catch her breath.
……………..
[1]
[2] Bibi Ji = A respectful way to address an unfamiliar woman or a woman of higher status.
[3] Burqa = An outer garment worn by Muslim women in many countries, that covers their faces and body.
[4] Khalifa = Arabic word meaning Caliph. It is also used for a
barber in Urdu, because people bow their heads to him as well. Barbers, besides
doing their normal job, also perform circumcisions in
[5] Baboo Ji = a manner of address meant for a person who is dressed in western clothes and/or belong to an upper class.
[6] A much liked breakfast meal in northern
[7] A title given to old men