A Balochi short story by Nasir Rahim Sohrabi translated by Fazal Baloch
The bus had stopped in front of the roadside hotel, but the dust from the road still hung around it. The passengers, before getting off completely, were busy brushing the dust off the from their travel. The fatigue caused by the delipidated road was visible on their faces and in the creases of their clothes. I had been following the bus and was now sitting under the thatched shelter, drinking tea from a small boy’s cup. The sun was at its peak, glaring down like an angry man. The grime from the boy’s hands on the hot teacup had not yet dried when a red ambulance pulled up in front of the hotel. The dirt and dust stuck to it showed clearly that it had travelled a long way. Two men got out, dusted their clothes, and walked straight toward the water to wash their faces and hands.
The hotel waiter watched them closely. Then the back door of the ambulance opened and their third companion stepped out. His shoulders seemed burdened with many years, and he walked forward with heavy steps until he reached the shade of the shelter. He greeted everyone, and sat down leaning against a wooden pillar. A glass of water was placed before him, but he didn’t touch it. His eyes remained fixed on the ambulance, from which dust continued to rise as though it were still on the road.
After a while, the other two men joined him. Their faces were clean now, but the dust still clung to their ears, eyes, and nostrils. They ordered food. To their third companion they said only, “Come, let’s eat.” But he kept looking at the ambulance fixedly. They didn’t ask him again.
The young boy who had been watching him from a distance placed my tea before me and went toward the man. He touched his shoulder and asked,
“Why aren’t you eating?”
The man was startled as if waking from a deep sleep. His gaze shifted from the ambulance to the boy’s face. He looked at him the way someone, seeing the world for the first time after eye surgery.
“I can never eat alone,” he said. “Food never sits well with me unless someone eats with me. Will you sit here with me?”
The boy nodded.
Offering him the first bite, the man said, “I’ve always fed him the first bite. Until I fed him, he wouldn’t eat at all.”
“Who was he?” the boy asked.
The question seemed to trouble him. His teeth tried to chew the morsel while his eyes stayed fixed on the boy’s face. I saw clouds of dust gather in his eyes, and their darkness spread over his face. Pain began to pour like rain. Lakes of grief rose within him. His breath grew heavy. At last, composing himself, he said: “He was my son. But he had taken my father’s place in my life. When he was a child, I fed him. But over time, I became used to eating the bites he offered me. His mother left him and me long ago. She went away with those who were demanding water and electricity along with the young, the old, and the children. I pleaded with her not to go, but she didn’t listen. She left and never returned. At first, people wrote poems about her. But now, people have too much water in their eyes and too much brightness from electricity in their homes. Now they’re concerned only with their own reflection. She once lived in people’s memories, but the world has forgotten her now.”
After a pause, his eyes drifted again toward the ambulance, though the rain inside him didn’t stop.
“He was in a hurry too, just like his mother. He was always in a rush for everything. He would run to school and never delay returning home. He grew up before my eyes. One day he said to me, ‘Now you sit and rest. It’s my turn to look after you. I’ll feed you now.’ I insisted that my turn wasn’t over yet, but he was in a hurry and won the argument. Then he joined Captian Qasim’s boat as helmsman. But he didn’t stay there long. A year later he became a sailor on Ibrahim’s boat. He never hid anything from me, but after joining Ibrahim, I seldom knew when he left for the sea or when he came home. Whenever I asked, he only said, ‘Whenever the boss orders, we’re ready to go.’
This time too he was in a rush. The moment he came home, he said, ‘We’re leaving for the deep sea. We’ll be back in a few days.’ I wanted to stand up and hug him goodbye, but before I could rise, he had already stepped out the door. Then news came that their boat had caught fire. It didn’t sink, but it was badly burnt. Thanks to the boss, they sent us to Karachi by air. But maybe this time it was the order of the Great Boss. Or maybe the son was in a hurry to go to his mother. He didn’t stay in Karachi even for a day.”
The bus horn blared and the passengers hurried toward it. The boy got up too and began to put on his sandals.
“I haven’t even eaten yet,” the man said. “Where are you going?”
“Look, the bus is leaving. I have to hurry,” the boy replied.
The sun had now slipped behind the western mountains. The shelter had emptied. The red ambulance was gone too. But the old man still sat leaning against the wooden pillar, his eyes fixed on the road. The bus sped off, trailing dust behind it.
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Nasir Rahim Sohrabi lives in Gwadar, Balochistan. He occasionally writes short stories. This story originally appeared in Monthly Balochi, Quetta in year 2000 and translated and published with permission from the author.
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.
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