By Haneef Sharif, translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch
He had only two dreams in his life: first, to plant a yellow flower in the courtyard, and second, to die before the flower could bloom.
He wandered aimlessly through the streets. Just as he was about to turn the corner near the supermarket, he spotted a short-statured man with a bald head, wearing mismatched shoes, and carrying a briefcase. Memories of Mr. Hunchback flooded his mind, and he was nearly hit by a bus as he stood in the road absentmindedly. The driver slammed on the brakes abruptly, jolting all the passengers from their seats. Thus, he was saved. For weeks, he avoided going back, overwhelmed by fear. He dreaded the thought of venturing to the corner of the supermarket, fearing that he might meet with an accident and eventually die, unable to fulfill his desire of planting a yellow flower in the courtyard.
One day, however, he found himself wandering through those streets again. Whether it was a stroke of fate or a design of God, he spotted the same short-statured man who resembled Mr. Hunchback. The man was carrying the same briefcase he would take to the classroom. All the curious children wished that someone would open the briefcase so they could see its contents, but the fear of Mr. Hunchback kept them from getting close to him. Thus, nobody could ever discovered the secret hidden within the briefcase.
Out of the blue, he was startled by a loud honking horn. He faltered and almost fell down. A bus had stopped just before him. It seemed like divine intervention that he wasn’t run over. The driver looked at him with what appeared to be pity. He wondered why he wanted to die; what made him attempt suicide because the moment the bus took a turn he leapt in its path. If it was not for the bend in the road, causing the bus to slow down, he would have not narrowly escaped a second brush with death.
He moved away from the path of the bus, concealing his fear of death, holding his heartbeat, and resumed walking. As he distanced himself, his gaze fell upon a young girl standing on the balcony of her apartment. Her head was bowed, engrossed in something on her mobile screen. She wore blue jeans and a grey shirt, standing with one foot gracefully placed over the other.
He stood there for a while, captivated by the sight of the girl, who remained oblivious to his presence. Moments later, a young man of her age came in and wrapped his arm around her waist, startling her for a moment. Soon after, she leaned her head on his shoulder and their lips met for a fleeting moment him before they disappeared into the apartment.
He lingered there, waiting for someone to appear, but no one did. He remained fixated on the balcony, indifferent to the passing buses and pedestrians carrying briefcases. His attention was drawn to a vase on the balcony with a yellow flower. Yellow was a colour he associated with death. Whenever he spotted the colour, he would pressume someone must have died or was about to die somewhere. He avoided yellow taxis or buses and refrained from downloading anything of that hue. He was puzzled by those who chose to paint their houses yellow.
On that particular day, the balcony he had been observing was painted entirely in yellow, including the door and the entire building. He couldn’t explain why he hadn’t noticed this before, even the girl had worn yellow earrings. Despite regularly visiting the street after his initial encounter with the girl, she never appeared on the balcony again. He began to suspect that the girl had died, but he couldn’t fathom how it had happened. Then, that day, as he gazed at the balcony, contemplating death, the door suddenly swung open, revealing the very girl he had been musing about for several days. She stood there, surveying the street below.
“Did she see me or not?” He wondered without any reason.
As she glanced downward, a bus sped by, stirring in him a disdain for buses. He quickly redirected his attention to the girl, who then approached the yellow flower, gazing at it with sorrowful eyes. As she began to caress its petals, her eyes welled up with tears. And as she sobbed, her tears fell onto the yellow petals. In that moment, he thought someday, he would plant a yellow flower and before the flower could bloom, he would commit suicide.
(An Excerpt from Hanif Sharif’s recent novel “Afsanah” brought out be Adab Publisher in Balochi, translated by Fazal Baloch)
Dr. Haneef Shareef, a trained medical professional, is one of the most cherished contemporary Balochi fiction writers and film directors. So far, he has published two collections of short stories and one novel. His peculiar mode of narration has rendered him a distinguished place among the Balochi fiction writers. He has also directed four Balochi movies.
Fazal Baloch is a Balochi writer and translator. He has translated many Balochi poems and short stories into English. His translations have been featured in Pakistani Literature published by Pakistan Academy of Letters and in the form of books and anthologies. He has the translation rights to Haneef Shareef’s works.
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