Story by Abdul Qayum Sarbazi: translated from Balochi Fazal Baloch
AbdulQayum Sarbazi (d. 2022) was a Karachi-based fiction writer who began his literary career in the mid-1980s. Deeply influenced by the tradition of social realism, his stories illuminate the struggles, inequalities, and everyday realities of ordinary people. The story translated here first appeared in Monthly Balochi (a magazine in the public domain) in May 1988 under its original title, Bey Maarag.
The doctor checked the unconscious child’s pulse and said, “You have almost killed the child before bringing him to the hospital.”
He lifted the child’s eyelids and examined his mouth and throat. Then he placed a thermometer in his mouth and rolled up his shirt slightly. Looking at the child’s hollow stomach and protruding ribs, the doctor began critiquing the parents in a stern tone. “He is suffering more from starvation than illness. If you cannot take care of your children, why do you bring them into the world?”
The doctor removed the thermometer from the child’s mouth and blinked arrogantly before continuing to scold the father. “May God guide you. Such a high fever. He is standing at the edge of death. Why didn’t you bring him here earlier? Though I know people like you are not entirely to blame. This is what happens when people have too many children and assume they will somehow grow up on their own. Such children do not become responsible human beings; they become a burden on society. But what do you care? For the sake of ‘momentary pleasure’, you bring children into the world only for others to carry their burden.”
The boy’s father lowered his pale face and listened silently to the doctor’s taunts. It was nothing new to him. He had long grown used to harsh words from the police, the coast guard, and the dealer. Rubbing one palm against the other, he let out a weary sigh and looked helplessly at the doctor. His eyes drifted toward the swollen veins in his hands and feet before he sank into a dark cloud of worry.
The doctor cleared his throat, washed his hands with soap, dried them on the hanging towel, and resumed his sermon. “The way you treated this child… not even do we treat our worst enemy so harshly. Anyhow, I will give him two vitamin injections. He also needs glucose. There is barely any sign of life left in him, but I will do whatever I can within my capacity. The rest depends on the boy’s fate.”
The boy’s father lowered his head even further as darkness clouded his already blurred vision. In that moment, a terrible wish rose in his heart: that the earth would split open, the four-storey hospital building would collapse, and everything would be buried beneath the rubble.
After wallowing in helplessness and grief for a short while, he slowly regained control of his breathing and looked again toward the doctor. His eyes faced the merciless man like those of a beggar pleading for mercy. The doctor ran his tongue across his lips as though sharpening a blade on stone and continued coldly: “This is not how a child should be raised. Children require care, sacrifice, and hardship. For breakfast, they should be given half-fried eggs, milk, butter, and bread. At lunch, boiled beans and minced meat. In the evening, fresh fruits and salad. For dinner, meat, chicken soup, and rice. And before going to bed, a glass of milk.”
The boy’s father’s already pale face darkened with despair. He shifted slightly, crushed beneath hardship and helplessness. The doctor glanced at his wristwatch and continued his barrage of words. “At this moment, the child is still not out of danger. Deposit five hundred rupees at the counter in advance for emergency medicines and treatment. The final bill can be settled later.”
The father felt as though he had been stung by a scorpion. His senses were already numb, and whatever strength remained in him now seemed to disappear completely.
For the first time, he spoke. Looking at the doctor with helpless eyes, he said softly, “I do not have five hundred rupees.”
The doctor struck him again with his words. “This hospital is not for the poor and needy. You see all these people working here? They have to be paid. Medicines come from companies, and they demand payment immediately. Do whatever you think is best, but let me make one thing clear: your child will not survive without medicine. If he dies, his blood will be on your hands.”
Then, lowering his voice slightly, the doctor added, “I took pity on your condition and asked for only five hundred rupees. Otherwise, we charge one thousand.”
The father’s dry lips trembled beneath tears that came too early and too painfully. Even the violent tides of the sea seemed less cruel than the doctor’s words. To him, the doctor appeared like a disciple of the Angel of Death, hardened by the complete loss of compassion. Closing his eyes, the father fell at the doctor’s feet and pleaded in a voice heavy with pain: “All I have is two hundred rupees. I do not know whether such a small amount means anything to you, but it is the cry of a helpless father’s soul.”
The doctor’s face darkened with anger. His arrogance swelled again as he replied coldly: “If your money is so dear to you, then take the boy’s dead body home. Perhaps you do not believe my words, but do whatever suits you.”
The boy’s mother stood silently in a corner, numb like a statue. Ever since they arrived at the hospital, she had not uttered a single word. Life had shown her only one face: hunger, poverty, humiliation, and endless helplessness. So she remained quiet.
The boy’s father was not very old, yet he looked far older than his years. He had spent his entire life in patience and endurance. And it was all the poor could afford. But sometimes humiliation becomes heavier than patience itself. Once again, he saw the bitter truth before him. A doctor, whose hands were meant to heal like those blessed by God, had turned his noble profession into a business. To the poor, such men seemed no different from heartless merchants or cruel officials.
Yet the father felt it wiser, perhaps easier, to fall at the feet of this “angel of death” if it might save his child’s life. Swallowing the anger rising inside him, he spoke softly:
“My helplessness lies before you as clearly as an open road. I listened carefully to all your words and hold them with respect. You said that people like us bring children into the world for ‘momentary pleasure’. I have only two children. One lies before you, struggling at the mercy of death, while the other plays in the dirt back at home. Luxury and comfort are sweet words, doctor, but I have never truly known them. The land has nothing to offer us. It is the sea that feeds our children. The old days were much better for people like us, but as time passed, the chains of circumstance tightened around our lives”.
He continued, “I returned home today after spending twelve days at sea battling rough tides. We managed to catch some fish, but the coast guard took their share as if it were their right. Some were taken by the police and customs officers, and whatever remained was bought by the dealers at miserable prices. In the end, my share came to only two hundred rupees. When I reached home, everything was in chaos. My wife was almost unconscious. One child lay unconscious with fever while the other cried from hunger. My wife told me the boy had been burning with fever for a week, but she could not take him to a doctor because she had no money.”
After revealing the bitter truth of his life, he placed the crumpled two hundred-rupee notes on the doctor’s table and said: “I leave both the money and the boy with you. If he survives, he will find his way home. And if he dies, bury him with a handful of dust, because I do not even have enough money for his funeral.”
With these words, he walked away.
The doctor stood silent, staring at his own reflection in the mirror.
.
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.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Balochi Story by Younus Hussain; Translated by Fazal Baloch
Younus Hussain
The moment the story ended, I closed the book and tucked it beneath the pillow. It was one of the most fascinating stories I had ever encountered. Perhaps that is because the eyes of my mind are fixed on one place while yours are drawn to another. In the end, it is the eyes that measure the worth of what they behold. Just as my imagination began to shape the tale of those eyes, I felt as though the story, once finished, was beginning again from the very beginning. Soon, the tale seemed to whisper through the blazing winds that swept across the towering sand dunes of the Arabian desert. Most of the people in that hamlet belonged to the Al-Baj tribe, whose ancestors had migrated from Baghdad.
Among them was a young man renowned for the extraordinary power of his eyes. He could see far beyond the reach of ordinary sight, and even in the darkness of night, he saw as clearly as one does in broad daylight. The entire hamlet placed unwavering trust in his vision. More than once, he had warned the villagers of approaching storms and heavy rains before they arrived. The young man, barely twenty-years-old, was held in great esteem by the villagers, who respectfully called him Mullah. Yet despite their admiration, his faith remained humble and deeply devoted to God. While the rest of the village slept, he often stayed awake through the long nights.
Days and nights passed in this manner until, one day, as he lay in deep sleep, a dreadful plague swept through the hamlet.
“Mullah, wake up…”
“Mullah, while you sleep, calamity has fallen upon the village. Three people have suddenly gone mad. Even Abu Abbas has lost his mind!”
At the mention of Abu Abbas’s name, Mullah was stunned. He quickly slipped on his shoes and rushed outside. Abu Abbas lay upon his father’s cot, his eyes fixed lifelessly on the ceiling. Mullah stood frozen in shock as he gazed into those vacant, numbed eyes. A dark spirit had taken possession of him, and Mullah realised that he could hear the spirit’s voice.
Quietly, under his breath, Mullah began to recite prayers and sacred incantations. The spirit writhed in agony, and as it departed from Abu Abbas’s body, it spoke to Mullah: “I am leaving, but tomorrow evening this man will leave you all.”
Turning to the people around, Mullah said, “Only God knows His divine will, but by tomorrow evening, Abu Abbas will no longer be among us.”
His words proved true. By the following evening, the villagers were already digging Abu Abbas’s grave. The other two afflicted men also died within the very time Mullah had foretold.
Stories of Mullah’s extraordinary eyes spread far beyond the village. People from distant lands began bringing their insane relatives to him, hoping for healing and relief. With each passing day, the number of his followers and devotees continued to grow. Yet deep within, Mullah was troubled. Every few days, more people in the hamlet seemed to fall victim to evil spirits. Though he could foresee their fate and drive the spirits away, he felt powerless to stop the suffering itself. Each time one of his prophecies came true, he would spend the night in anguish and self-reproach, praying before God: “I am worthless. Among all these people, You granted this power to me, yet in doing so I have become an intruder upon Your divine will. Never once have You proven me wrong. You are greater and more powerful than these evil spirits. I am only Your sinful servant, while You alone are the Almighty. Protect our land from these evil forces.”
One day, there came a knock at his door.
“Is this the house of Saeed bin Hashim?”
Hearing his name, Mullah turned to his disciples and said, “This man seems to be in great haste. I will see him myself.”
Outside stood a man holding the reins of a camel.
“Sardar Aqrash of Al-Sawabi sends his greetings,” the man said. “He requests that you come at once. There is a patient in need of your help.”
Mullah asked, “Are their eyes fixed upon something?”
The man replied, “I do not know, for I have not seen them myself.”
The people of Al-Sawabi were of a different persuasion, yet Mullah, being a healer who understood the duty of his calling, agreed to go with them.
After traveling for half a day, they arrived at Aqrash’s settlement. Aqrash welcomed him warmly, then drew him aside and spoke in a low voice: “If the patient is possessed by an evil spirit, do not speak of it before others. Inform me privately. And if anyone asks, tell them nothing is wrong. I swear upon you by the holy prophets.”
The door to the room was locked from the outside. An elderly woman stepped forward, unlocked it, and silently withdrew into a corner. The moment Mullah entered, the heavy scent of burning incense and herbs told him that the patient had not yet received proper treatment. Upon the bed sat a young woman with disheveled hair falling across her face. Her head rested against the wall as she stared into silence, lost in distant thoughts. At once, Mullah understood that she was not yet possessed.
Something within him whispered, Your work here is done, you may leave now. Yet, he did not know what it was he found in the woman that had nailed his feet to the ground. Just as he turned to leave, a soft and melodious voice called out to him: “O man, come closer… Let me see those eyes of yours, the ones spoken of with such wonder.”
With his back turned to her, he stood deep in thought, struggling with his decision. Somewhere within, he sensed the coming of a storm. Then, in the stillness, he heard the soft chime of anklets halt just behind him.
“Saeed bin Hashim… is that your name?”
He turned.
Before him stood a vision of beauty and grace.
“Answer me,” she said softly. “Are you Saeed bin Hashim?”
“Yes,” he replied.
“Then tell me… what illness do I suffer from?”
“You suffer from none.”
“I swear to you, I am mad.”
She looked into his eyes as though searching for something hidden within them. Yet, she seemed to find nothing.
“You swear without reason,” he said quietly. “You are perfectly well.”
“If only you knew,” she whispered, “that I am mad for your eyes.”
“You have seen them now,” he replied. “Did they bring you any peace?”
“I count myself fortunate,” she said, “for only a few days ago, I wished to see them.”
Then, gently taking his hand, she said, “Sit with me. I wish to ask your eyes something.”
Her delicate touch sent a strange calm through his entire being. In that moment, forgetting his role and purpose, he found himself unwilling to leave her presence.
“My name is Rabia,” she said softly. “I am Sardar Aqrash’s third wife. He adores me because I am still young. Tell me… what do your much-praised eyes say about my beauty?”
He looked at her from head to toe, as though seeing her beneath an entirely new light. A quiet fear stirred within him, for he sensed that his eyes might reveal more than his words ever could. As his gaze lingered upon her, Rabia seemed unable to endure its intensity. She drew her knees close to her chest and lowered her eyes.
“My delicate body cannot bear the heat of your gaze,” she whispered. “Do not look at me in this way. It feels as though I am melting from within.”
Without replying, he turned to leave.
“You may go today,” she said behind him, “but I will send for you again. I have faith in my beauty. One day, you will wait for my messenger with longing.”
A faint smile crossed his lips as he opened the door.
Outside, every eye turned toward him. “The patient is perfectly well,” he announced. “There is no cause for concern.”
Standing apart from the others, Aqrash waited anxiously for the truth. Mullah quietly shook his head, and relief immediately spread across Aqrash’s face. He stepped forward, embraced Mullah, and thanked him repeatedly. Moments earlier, his lips had trembled with fear, but Mullah’s words arrived like a cool wind, drying the beads of sweat upon his forehead.
Mullah departed for his hamlet. Though he returned home, his thoughts remained at Rabia’s doorstep. Her enchanting presence lingered within him. Her delicate nose, her dark cascading hair, her graceful fingers, and her heavy, drowsy eyes haunted his mind so much that he found himself waiting for the arrival of Rabia’s messenger.
.
On one side, Mullah remained occupied with driving out evil spirits; on the other, he was consumed by a restless longing to see Rabia again. The spirits feared his gaze, for he alone could truly see them. Whenever they fled the village, they would glance back at him with hesitation, and Mullah knew they were disciples of the Devil destined to return again and again.
One day, Rabia’s messenger came for him. From that time onward, he visited her every week, and with each meeting their bond grew deeper. Then suddenly, an entire month passed without a single message from her. Mullah became deeply troubled. During the day, his eyes remained fixed upon the road leading to her village. At night, when he lay awake in longing, the people mistook his sleeplessness for devotion and worship. Then, one day, Aqrash himself arrived.
“I came personally because we have already troubled you more than once,” he said. “After you left, she recovered completely and lived happily with her family for more than a month. But last night, her condition worsened again. Even the old healer of our village spoke your name. If you would come once more, I would remain forever grateful to you.”
But Mullah needed no persuasion. For days, he had already been waiting anxiously for even the smallest word from Rabia. That night, Rabia adorned herself like a bride, as though she had just been led into the wedding chamber.
“You were right,” he whispered. “Without you, I am incomplete.”
“Did you wait for my messenger every day?”
“The road to your village bears witness,” he replied.
“And I waited for you each day as well,” she said softly. “Ask the mirror.”
They drew so close to one another that no distance remained between them.
“Do you love me?” she asked.
“Do you wish to test me?”
Rabia’s lips trembled faintly. The beads of sweat upon her cheeks only deepened the radiance of her beauty. In a quivering voice, she said:
“If I ask something of you, will you grant it?”
“Ask it. And if my tongue refuses, I shall cut it out and lay it before you.”
“I cannot bring myself to say it.”
“Swear upon my life and tell me.”
“I will ask for something without which you yourself will remain incomplete.”
“Only do not ask me to live apart from you,” he said. “Without you, I would be nothing.”
Rabia lowered her gaze before whispering:
“Can you give me your eyes?”
“My life is dearer to me than even my eyes,” he replied, “yet if you asked for my life as well, I would place it before you. As for these eyes, I have long since laid them upon the path of your messenger.”
“I feel,” she said softly, “as though my beauty is incomplete without your eyes.”
Mullah slowly raised his hands toward the sky, “O my Almighty God…”
Yet in that moment, a strange feeling overcame him. It seemed as though his tongue no longer wished to bow in humility before any power greater than itself. The moonlit beauty of Rabia’s face stirred something within him, and his tongue began to speak like that of a plaintiff before destiny.
“O my Lord! Whatever You will, comes to pass. Life and death rest in Your hands alone. Nothing can happen without Your permission. Even the longing that arose within my heart was placed there by You. It is said in Alborz that a single bowl of water is worth a hundred years of loyalty. I, too, have pledged my loyalty. Do not look upon me as of different faiths. Look instead upon our love. O my Creator, grant us honor. Let the tale of our bond become known throughout the world, so that lovers may one day swear oaths in our names. O God, fulfill her innocent wish. Do not let me be humiliated before my Rabia.”
Then he fell silent. Tears of defeat slipped from his eyes, and in the depths of his sorrow, he whispered: “O God… if You refuse me this, then I shall go to Egypt and seek out magicians to fulfill my beloved’s wish…”
He continued mumbling in broken desperation until, suddenly, he felt his vision begin to fade. Darkness slowly gathered before his eyes, and just before the last trace of light vanished, he saw Rabia overcome with joy.
The moment he saw his eyes upon Rabia’s flower-like face, he fell into prostration and wept.
Rabia’s laughter rang through the room. Delighted by the new world before her, she gazed at her fingers in wonder, then gathered her hair into her palms and admired it. She lifted the edge of her scarf before her eyes, marveling at the beauty of her clothes. Everything around her seemed transformed, as though creation itself had been born anew.
“Go,” Mullah said proudly, “look at yourself in the mirror. If you were amazed merely by these eyes, then any desire to reverse this decision would only dishonor our love.”
She stood before him and looked into the empty sockets that had once held the eyes now belonging to her.
“Tell me, my beloved,” he asked softly, “what do you see within your eyes?”
“From what I can understand,” she replied, “they are filled with fear.”
“Good,” he said quietly. “What else do you see?”
“I see that your heart is trembling.”
“And why do you think that is?”
“My heart… afraid?”
“Perhaps it is.”
“Perhaps,” she whispered, “it regrets the choice it has made.”
“My heart would never commit such disloyalty,” he replied.
“And if it did?”
“Then I would tear it from my chest and lay it at your feet this very moment. My poor heart rejoices only because your wish has been fulfilled. It is these eyes that are afraid… afraid that, in your delight with this new vision, you may forget them and cast them out from the world of beauty.”
“Tell them they are a gift from you, a token of your love. They should take pride in belonging to someone as brave as you.”
“I swear,” he replied, “fear shall never find a place within your eyes. But as for waiting… I can promise nothing. Do not make me suffer any longer.”
“I will send my messenger soon,” she said softly. “And if he delays, then curse both him and me.”
“This tongue prays only for your well-being,” he answered. “How could it ever curse you?”
“I am fortunate that you love me.”
“And now, let me go. I will return to you.”
“Do not leave me.”
“I must travel far away. My world… grant me permission.”
As he departed, he said: “My prayer is that your beauty, along with your eyes, becomes renowned throughout the world. May the praise of your eyes travel as far as China.”
He left. In a sorrowful voice, Rabia called after him: “Rest assured, the moment you reach home, my messenger will arrive.”
But days passed.
A few days later, people found Mullah wandering in delirium and brought him back home. His followers said he had neither eaten nor drunk anything for an entire month. Now he sat against a wall, his sightless face turned endlessly toward the threshold, waiting for the messenger who would bring word from Rabia.
The endless waiting had robbed him of sleep. His followers and the villagers grieved for him, believing that his eyes had fallen beneath some terrible curse. The evil spirits, meanwhile, rejoiced. Physicians were summoned from distant places, yet none could heal him. His suffering became a source of anguish for the entire village.
One day, someone said: “I have heard of an old woman whose eyes can see deep into the soul of the afflicted.”
Preparations were immediately made to bring her. When the old woman finally arrived, she looked upon Mullah and spoke in a trembling voice: “The Lord is greatest… but your Mullah has only one day left to live.”
Tears filled the eyes of everyone present. A few doubted her words, but Mullah himself became convinced that it was his own eyes that had dared to pronounce such a fate.
“May God protect them,” he thought.
Nearby, two men whispered quietly: “She speaks the truth.”
“She is an experienced woman. It is said she once deceived Sardar Aqrash’s wife and stole her eyes.”
At those words, Mullah became certain that the old woman’s prophecy could not be false. For one brief moment, he longed to see his own eyes again. Yet he feared looking into the prison where they now lived. And in the silence of his heart, he whispered: “Rabia, do not blame me. It is your own innocence and foolishness that allowed fear to enter your eyes.”
After the old woman departed, Mullah stretched out his legs and slowly forgot the threshold he had watched for so long. Gradually, his eyes began to close.
Far away, he could hear the soft voice of a shepherd singing a lonely raga while guiding his flock.
Younus Hussain is widely regarded as one of the foremost contemporary short story writers in Balochi language. He is known for enriching the landscape of Balochi fiction with compelling narratives and literary depth. His stories are often cited in most discussions of Balochi literature on account of their artistic merit and narrative power. A hallmark of Younus’ writing is his exploration of individuals grappling with the tension between cultural expectations and the personal inner conflict. Most of his stories capture these recurring themes with clarity and emotional resonance, offering a vivid portrait of the human condition shaped by tradition and transformation.The translated story is taken from his first anthology “Be Dasten Sareechk” (The Armless Scarecrow) published by Balochistan Academy Turbat in 2025. Fazal Baloch has the translation rights to this story.
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.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
As I watched -- She wrapped the rainbow round her finger, and drifted away -- slowly, ever so slowly. Yet The Heavens saw nothing.
EVENING
The wind wanders, seeking the fragrance of your musk: My heart and a fading leaf are carried along.
SPRING
The poor larks that returned this year peck at the scent of your bosom, still drifting through the footprints along the path of yesteryear.
JUNGLE
Such terror stirs within, none dare to face themselves. The road runs deep with fear— no one walks it alone.
THE WAIT
Shall I open a window? Will you come—or the moon?
Munir Momin is a contemporary Balochi poet widely cherished for his sublime art of poetry. Meticulously crafted images, linguistic finesse and profound aesthetic sense have earned him a distinguished place in Balochi literature. His poetry speaks through images, more than words. Momin’s poetry flows far beyond the reach of any ideology or socio-political movement. Nevertheless, he is not ignorant of the stark realities of life. The immenseness of his imagination and his mastery over the language rescues his poetry from becoming the part of any mundane narrative. So far Munir has published seven collections of his poetry and an anthology of short stories. His poetry has been translated into Urdu, English and Persian. He also edits a literary journal called Gidár.
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.Fazal Baloch has the translation rights to Munir Momin’s works.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Story by Sharaf Shad, translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch
From Public Domain
One afternoon, I had just returned home from the hospital and was waiting for my wife to bring me lunch when I heard the sound of a motorbike stopping outside. Then echoed the sound of hurried footsteps on the porch, followed by someone asking my wife, “Is the doctor home?”
It was Ali’s voice. I recognised it instantly. A moment later, the door swung open, and Ali, short and heavyset, entered the room.
“Doctor, come with me, please. My wife isn’t feeling well; she needs to be examined.”
“I was just about to eat…”
“You can eat there,” he interrupted, grabbing my doctor’s bag and heading out to his motorbike. Since he was my friend, I didn’t argue and silently followed him.
On the way, Ali explained that his wife was in labour. As we arrived, I examined her and, after consulting with the midwife, gave her an injection. I waited in the guest room. A short while later, his wife gave birth. Just then, the door opened, and Ali came in, his face glowing with joy.
“Sir, I’ve been blessed with a son.”
“Congratulations!”
“Thank you.” His voice was sweet with happiness. I wrote a prescription for the patient and sent Ali to the medical store to get the medicines. He dropped me off at home afterward. As we arrived, Ali reached into his pocket, but I stopped his hand with a smile.
“No, doctor, that won’t do,” he insisted.
“Come on, let it go. Just take us on a picnic sometime,” I said.
“Don’t worry about picnics. You will have plenty of them,” Ali said with a laugh, heading out of the room, still beaming with joy.
*
A few years later, one night, Ali was in intense pain and I was woken up in the middle of the night. When I arrived, he was groaning in agony. His son stood by his bedside, looking at him with wide, worried eyes. I comforted him and treated Ali. After a while, he drifted off to sleep. As I stood to leave, Ali’s son asked me with curiosity:
“Doctor, will my father be okay?”
“Yes, don’t worry. He’ll be just fine,” I reassured him, gently patting his cheek before heading out.
The next day, Ali came to see me on his motorbike and paid my consultation fee. His son was with him. I took some of the money and slipped it into the boy’s pocket.
“Are you doing well?” I asked him.
He didn’t reply, but Ali spoke up. “After seeing you treat me last night, he says he wants to be a doctor when he grows up.”
I burst out laughing and looked at the boy, who blushed and hid behind his father. “May God fulfill all his wishes!”
“Ameen,” Ali said, and they both bid me farewell.
*
A few years later, Ali brought his son, Sabzal, to the hospital. The boy wasn’t feeling well; he had fever. Ali looked worried. After examining the boy and before writing down the medicines, I asked him:
“What grade are you in now?”
“Third,” he replied.
“If I write your name here, can you read it?”
“Yes!” he said proudly, puffing out his chest.
I wrote on the prescription: “Dr. Sabzal Baloch” and then added the list of medicines.
Happiness lit up both the father’s and son’s faces. They left, smiling.
One morning, as I was getting ready to head to the hospital, Ali arrived in a hurry.
“Doctor, please come quickly! My son is having trouble breathing.” When I got there, I gave him some medicines, but when his condition didn’t improve, I told Ali: “There aren’t the right facilities here. You need to take your son to the city hospital.”
Ali booked a vehicle and rushed his son to the city. A day or two later, the news came that Ali’s son had passed away in the hospital. Ali returned home empty-handed, and I was deeply saddened. The sudden death of young Sabzal cast a shadow of grief over our small hamlet for a few days. But eventually, the routines of daily life washed away that sorrow, and life moved on as usual.
One day, I saw Ali riding his motorbike somewhere. As soon as he saw me, he stopped. After greeting him, I pointed to an object wrapped in old newspapers resting in his lap.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a headstone, sir,” Ali replied. His once cheerful face turned somber. “It’s for Sabzal’s grave.”
With a sad expression, Ali began unwrapping the newspapers. He turned the headstone towards me, and I read:
Name: Dr. Sabzal Baloch Age: 7 years and 6 months
I looked at Ali. Two silent teardrops rolled down his cheeks and rested on his face.
Sharaf Shad is simultaneously a short story writer, poet, translator, and critic. The richness of narrative is one of the defining features of his short stories. Death and identity crises are recurring themes in his works. A collection of his short stories, titled “Safara Dambortagen Rahan” (Journeying Down the Weary Roads), was published by the Institute of Balochistan, Gwadar, in 2020.
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.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Anwar Sahib Khan (1944–2018) was a notable poet, drama artist and film actor. His poetry explores a wide range of themes, from love and romance to social and political issues. He published two anthologies, Chaotaar (A Riot of Colours) and Sareechk (The Scarecrow). The translated poem is taken from his second anthology, Sareechk.
Like a scarecrow, I stand— Rooted in fields of green, Until time strips away The truth of my being: A breath of nothingness.
I am the emblem of eternal stillness, My outside, My inside — Two different tales.
When the truth dawns, The beasts — once fled From the fear I’d fashioned — Will return. My walls will scatter Like tufts of cotton Cast to the wind.
Birds will nest in me, Jubilant creatures will roam Unafraid, Dancing in my shadow.
And the tale of my stillness Will drift through the air — I’m a lifeless scarecrow standing here.
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.Fazal Baloch has the translation rights to Anwar Sahib Khan’s works.
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This is first chapter of the first Balochi novel that was published in 1976. It has been translated into Urdu and Persian. The narrative depicts everyday life and experiences of the people living around the coastal area of Makkuran especially Gwadar and its surroundings.
The cover of Nazuk. provided by Fazal Baloch.
For about a week, the weather had been pleasant, with a cool wind blowing across the sea—a true blessing for the fishermen. A calm sea meant loss for them, while a rough sea spelled devastation. Over the past few days, the fleet of fishing boats had been returning to the shore with plenty of catch.
The sun had completed three-quarters of its journey, racing through the sky like a messenger in haste in the final quarter. Its burning rays were yielding to the soothing coolness of the approaching evening. The long, serene shadows stretching behind the houses provided an ideal setting for a public gathering.
Away from the shore, an old voyager boat, anchored in the red sands, stood tall like a pyramid—a symbol of the unshakable bond between the boundless sea and its people. Who could say how many joyful and sad years the sea’s companions had spent navigating across its waters on that very boat? Though the sea often rocked their boat like a cradle, not once had these brave sons of the ocean furrowed their brows in fear or discontent.
The fleeting morning shadows soon vanished to the unknown but the evening shadows lingered longer, creeping towards the damp sands of the shore and eventually reaching the water, as if embodying the spirit of the giant old boat longing for the sea’s embrace to soothe its heart.
The shadow it cast offered an ideal venue for one of the biggest public gatherings in the evening. At times, it seemed as if people sitting on its plank were aboard the boat chatting to pass their time on a deep-sea trip. The cool breeze blew across reflected the pleasant weather at sea.
The wind had cooled the sands of the shore, making them so comfortable that those who lay on them forgot the comfort of even the most luxurious mattresses and cushions. Men, women, and children all came to enjoy themselves, especially today, which was more crowded than usual as it was Friday and no one had ventured into the sea for fishing the night before, giving the fishermen a day off.
For those who lived around the sea, there were only two vocations: fishing or navigating across the sea on a boat. And everyone acknowledged that sea navigation was one of the most cherished vocations in the world. Thanks to these navigations and explorations, humans had even set foot on the moon.
Navigation in the sea made fishermen exceptionally skilled and resourceful. They sailed from one country to another, learning about different lands and their people. Some sailors, despite being illiterate, exhibited such remarkable knowledge that even the learned were left in awe.
On the right, in front of a small roadside hotel, people sat on benches, sipping tea and chatting with each other. Some distance away, a group had gathered around a tall and smart man, listening intently to him. Let’s draw closer. Oh! He is Captain Naguman, moving his lips and hands alike. With his hands, he fidgets with a rope, perhaps knitting a net, while with his lips, he narrates the story of the First World War so enthusiastically as if he were a part of it himself. At that moment, someone called out from behind: “Captain! Hey Captain Naguman!”
Naguman turned around, shaking his head annoyingly, and said, “This jinxed fellow never lets me speak properly.”
“Captain! Hey Captain Naguman!”
The call came from inside the hotel’s kitchen, and from his voice, the Captain recognised him.
“Abdul is really a cursed man! Look how he disturbed the Captain in the middle of his speech,” someone said with rage.
“Exactly. He always jumps in during my speech,” Naguman turned somewhat dismayed.
“Hey Captain! Would you like tea? A cup of tea?” Abdul’s voice reached their ears again.
“If you’re going to give him a cup of tea, then bring it, you the cursed scoundrel,” someone whispered, and the Captain replied loudly, “Yes, bring it.”
Abdul immediately came and placed the cup before the Captain. He too sat down to listen. A few people from the audience cast side-glances at Abdul. The Captain smiled, sipped his tea, and resumed his speech, “Listen, you blind fishermen! Just in a single day, over a hundred planes swarmed in like locusts…”
A little farther away, a few women and children were sitting. Children were playing with the sands. The first woman was busy weaving a net, and the second one was keenly observing her. The third one was still pondering about what to do or say. The second woman said with great lament: “Mamma Papi didn’t help me weave a net. At least I could have moved my otherwise idle hands,” lamented the first woman.
“Move your hands or make some money?” replied the third woman, as if she had been waiting for the perfect moment to speak.
Papi raised her experienced eyes slightly, smiled gently, and stopped weaving the net and glanced around. When she was sure that nobody was looking at them, she retorted in a hushed tone, “The ‘Young Man’ wouldn’t let you bother yourself with work, dear Mahbalok!”
“Waiy waiy! Mamma Papi, don’t defame me,” Mahbalok said slowly, taken by surprise.
“Mamma Papi! Mamma Papi! Look there. He’s coming right here,” the third woman hastily whispered. No sooner had she uttered these words, Mahbalok became so edgy that she almost broke into a sprint.
But Mamma Papi let out a hearty laugh, then she threw the spool of thread and half-woven net on the ground. With both her hands, she held Mahbalok’s shoulders and said: “What happened to you, the cursed woman? Where are you going? Look, you’re even getting fooled by this little Hajok. I’ve had enough with you. You’re almost out of your mind,” exclaimed one of the women.
“Hajok! May the lord of the sea curse you! I’ve never seen such a jinxed woman in my entire life. Mamma Papi, by God, my heart almost sank,” Mahbok tried to maintain her unsteady breath.
“Waiy Mahbok! Hajok is your neighbor and best friend,” remarked Mamma Papi.
“By God, Mahbok, don’t tease me again. I wouldn’t like it,” Mahbok was yet to come to herself.
“It’s alright. Don’t open your basket-like mouth. Men are looking at us,” Papi warned them.
Rows of boats lined up along the arched shore, resembling horses ready for a race. It seemed as if riders had tightly held the reins and were waiting for the whistle to be blown. A few boys were playing tag behind those boats and yawls. On the left, some nets were placed on a plank.
“Come! They taste like halwa. Come! They’re fresh and hot,” Zalya shouted as if warning those who couldn’t get any that they’d only have to blame themselves. And it did the trick. In a moment, people swarmed around her cauldron. A while later, a young man and his friend called out to her:
“O, Mamma Zalya! Send us half a rupee worth of Mat, please.”
“Pindi, my son! I don’t have that much left. They’re barely worth twenty-five paisa.”
“It’s alright. Leave it.” Then he turned to his friend and said, “We’ll go to the bazaar and have tea with biscuits.”
Pindi and his friend Guli got up and made their way towards the bazaar. Two young men were playing Liddi. The game seemed to absorb to the duo as if it were the greatest challenge of their lives.
“Jalu! Jalu! Come on, boy. Pass this net to your uncle. Every day these blind fishermen return it damaged. They’ve spent their entire lives at sea, yet they can’t keep the net away from the rocks,” an old man, while weaving a net, turned to a boy sitting next to him.
“Jalu, my son! Go and get me your uncle Shahdost’s net.”
“Uncle, let me finish my peanuts first,” the boy replied indifferently.
“I’ll keep your peanuts. Get me the net first, then you can eat your peanuts.”
The boy slipped the peanuts into his pocket and scurried off. He returned almost panting and threw the net with a thud before his uncle.
He closely examined the net to determine the nature of the damage. Startled, he suddenly blurted out, “Such a new net! They have damaged it terribly,” he mumbled in anger. “They’re blind in both eyes. Neither do they know how to properly cast the net nor do they know how to untangle it.”
The sea was crowded. A few boys were playing tip-cat, and some other people were watching and enjoying the game. It’s played differently in different areas, but the version played in the coastal area is distinct. Some other boys were playing hopscotch. Two young boys were drawing sketches of fish, boats, and yawls in the sand with knife-like-sharp fish bones. A little farther away, a few young men were playing bazari. Two young men looked at them and tempted them, “You blind men! Is this the time to play this game? You’re flaunting your skills. We’ll challenge you to a match. Come tonight at the sands of Kala Teembok. We’ll show you how it’s played and won.”
A few girls were playing with beads, and some others were collecting salps[1]. It is believed that when you bury them in the ground, after seven days they will turn into beads provided no boy sees you burying them. On the seventh day, when they fail to unearth any beads, they wouldn’t turn dismayed. But at that moment, one of the girls would claim, “You know, Mami is a… he had been following us. He secretly watched us behind the wall. Thus, we couldn’t get beads.”
“Today I will complain to her mother,” the second girl replied.
“Anok! Anok! It’s better not to visit his mother.”
“Why, Jani?”
“Yesterday his father severely thrashed his mother… “
“Ah! But why?”
“You know Sayaki, the carpenter? She had visited his house.”
“May God keep us away from…”
Far in the distance, a woman called out, “Sharok! Come on, dear, look after the baby. I’ll be back from the bazaar just in a while.” Sharok, who was playing with beads, strode towards her mother. The youngest of them took all the beads from the girls, dismantled the holes, and chanted, “The game is over. Yes, it is all over.”
Two younger girls cried out, “Give us back our beads!” But by the time their sobbing subsided, she had already gone home. Determined, the two girls began digging through the holes again, hoping to find a bead hidden somewhere. However, there was nothing. Disappointed, they stood up and walked to the sea to wash their hands. Spotting other girls collecting salps nearby, they joined in, clinging to the hope that by the next Friday, the salps might somehow transform into beads.
The sun descended lower, casting the shore in hues of orange and gold. By sunset, the beach was nearly deserted, save for the men gathered around, engrossed in Naguman’s tale of the German War.
Sayad Zahoor Shah Hashumi (1926-78) is known as the pioneer of modern Balochi literature. He was simultaneously a poet, fiction writer, critic, linguist and a lexicographer par excellence. Though he left undeniable marks on various genres of Balochi literature, poetry remained his mainstay. With his enormous imagination and profound insight he laid the foundation of a new school of Balochi poetry especially Balochi ghazal which mainly emphasises on the purity of language and simplicity of poetic thoughts. This school of poetry subsequently attracted a wide range of poets to its fold. He also authored the first ever Balochi novel ‘Nazuk’ and compiled the first comprehensive Balochi-to-Balochi dictionary containing over twenty thousand words and hundreds of pictorial illustrations.
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. Baloch has the translation rights of this novel.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
A mythical Simurgh perched on the Tree of Life, to which it has special affinity. Belonging to Persian mythology, the Simurgh is said to have seen the world destroyed thrice. Photo from Public Domain.
Storytellers unfolded their tales, Yet we paid them no heed. Again, they unfurled their tales, It didn’t bother us, indeed.
As tales unfolded, we drifted to sleep, Fairies, demons, djins, and devils Crept into their lore, Yet we remained ignorant, as before.
When the Simurgh swallowed the snake, Nothing we did care. When the princess fled with a shepherd, Curiosity filled the air. When the thieves broke in the warehouse, Clamours spread far and near.
And when war arrived, knocking at our door, We left for the mountains, grasping the swords. At last, we knew: stories are not lies anymore.
Manzur Bismil is a prominent Balochi poet. He emerged on the literary scene in the early 1990s and soon rose to fame, creating a niche for himself in the pantheon of the Balochi poets. He is widely known for his neo-classic style, especially in his verses. So far he has published eight anthologies of his poetry. This poem is taken from the poet’s poetry collection Sahaar (The Fear) published by Demrawi Majlis Muscat in 2017.
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. Fazal Baloch has the translation rights of of this poem from the poet.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Story by Sharaf Shad, translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch
The moment he stepped into his home, he sensed that something was wrong. A strange desolation and silence crept down the walls and doors. His wife, upon seeing him, stood up. Her voice trembled overwhelmed with anxiety. She whispered: “The snow is melting.”
“What?” At the mention of snow, his eyes flared with alarm. He rushed to the room where the snow statue was kept. As usual, it stood there like an impregnable mountain. But now, a tiny teardrop was trickling down its right cheek. The line of the rolling tear seemed to slice the statue into two, like the slash of a sword. He knew that if the melting continued, the statue wouldn’t last much longer. The mere thought of this brought tears to his eyes.
A few years ago, the sea had gifted him that very statue. In those days, he used to visit the sea every evening. He adored the sea and its rising tides, drawn to the depths and the vastness that made him feel immortal. It was that very sense of immortality that pulled him to the shore night after night. Despite the violence of the waves rising and crashing, he continued captivated by them.
One day, as he was lost in watching the rise and fall of tides, he noticed the statue gleaming amidst the water, like a giant pearl. He picked it up, marveling at nature’s artistry. He wondered how such a beautiful statue could exist in the midst of such chaos. Then, a voice echoed from the tides, addressing him: “It’s a gift for you, from me. Every evening you came here and shared my grief. Take this statue home. It will bring you peace, health, and prosperity.”
The wind, tracing lines upon the surface of the ocean, was impressed by the sea’s generosity. It told him that, to help preserve the statue, it would maintain constant climate. When everything becomes kind to someone, time will surely follow suit. Thus, time assured him that it would never bring decay or harm to the statue.
He took the statue and placed it in the finest spot in his home. As the sea and the wind had promised, the statue became a symbol of prosperity and success. Under its shade, his life flourished. But that day, the snow had started to melt!
He knew that this was a sign that his life would soon be stormed with worries and torments. He quickly stepped out of the room. The wind was swirling dust in the courtyard. Like a man who finds comfort in a familiar face during a calamity, he tearfully told the wind that his snow statue was melting.
“Everything perishes in its due time,” the wind replied indifferently.
“But you promised to protect the statue and keep the climate unchanged.”
“I still stand by what I said. It is man who claims the climate is changing. Everything—the sky, the earth, the sea, the wind, the stars, and the moon—remains as it always has. It is only man who changes.”
“I don’t understand what you mean,” he blurted out in frustration. “Just tell me how to escape this curse!”
“Everyone must find their own way forward,” the wind replied.
“All roads seem closed to me,” he lamented.
“When all roads appear closed, that’s where a new one opens,” the wind whispered as it blew away, filling the lanes with dust.
To remind time of its promise, he turned to it for answers. The time listened patiently, as if it already knew the situation. After a brief silence, it gently spoke, “In this world, everything changes its shape sooner or later. Even things that seem unchanged eventually undergo some transformation. Your statue has fulfilled its purpose, and this is the law of nature. Everything new will turn old, and when it does, it changes. Your statue may have taken on a new form—one that may not be as appealing to you as it once was—but it will never truly decay.”
“My life now depends on this statue,” he said desperately. “By its virtue, my family has lived in prosperity. Since it arrived in our home, worries and sorrows of life have forgotten our door. Who knows what curse might fall upon us once it’s gone? Its new shape could bring harm and loss to me.”
“Who knows?” the time replied indifferently.
“If this statue continues to melt, my entire house will be ruined. That’s why I don’t want it to change its form.”
“It cannot be stopped from changing now,” the time said firmly.
Feeling disheartened by the time’s response, he wandered, lost in thought, searching for a way out of his dilemma. While he wandered absent mindedly, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Startled, he turned to find a tall man dressed in white, standing beside him.
“Hey man, I’ve seen you wandering these lanes for a while now. Is everything okay?”
Like a drowning man catching at a straw, he poured out the entire story. After listening, the tall man said, “You’ve pleaded with the wind and the time, and now you’ve told me, a mere wayfarer, your troubles. But you never approached the one who gifted you the snow statue.”
Startled by the realisation, he sprang to his feet, as if pulled up by ten men, and hurried away without thanking the tall man.
He rushed to the sea and bowed before it, pleading, “My snow statue is melting— please, do something to help me.”
“I cannot do anything,” the sea replied indifferently. “Your statue has run its course. Everything has its lifespan and eventually decays. It is an illness without a cure.”
“The fate of my house depends on this statue. There must be a way to escape this curse!” he cried, his voice filled with frustration and despair.
“The sea doesn’t find a way out for anyone,” the sea responded, its voice now filled with arrogance.
“Then no one should find a way for the sea either,” a voice echoed behind him. He turned and saw the same tall man standing there. The sea seemed embarrassed, lowering its head in shame. After a brief silence, its lips trembled as it muttered: “Go home. The blessing of snow will shower upon everything in your house.”
Overjoyed by these words, he grasped the tall man’s hand gratefully, thanking him. The fire that had been consuming his soul was suddenly soothed by the sea’s promise. He hurried home and rushed straight to the room where the statue stood. The teardrop that had once fallen from the statue had dried. Relieved, he smiled, content that the statue had been spared from decay.
Eager to share the joyful news, he went to find his wife and children. But as he stepped into each room, a strange, eerie air of grief and sorrow greeted him. Everything in his house had turned to snow—the windows, the doors, the curtains, and even his wife and children had transformed into frozen statues of snow. The sea’s words echoed hauntingly in his mind: “Go home. The blessing of snow will shower upon everything in your house.”
His heart shattered. Madness and despair took hold of him as he raced back to the sea. But when he arrived, his worst fears were realised. The sea was gone. In its place stretched a vast, dark desert.
He turned back and wandered through the streets, searching every lane and alley for the man in white. He needed to tell him how the sea had deceived and betrayed him. But after scouring every corner of the city, he found no trace of the man. Overcome with disappointment, he returned to the road leading to the sea, holding on to a faint hope that it might have returned.
When he arrived, there was no sea—only the endless desert stretched out in its place. His body, weak and exhausted, could go no further. He stood there, frozen, like a lifeless piece of wood.
He remained in that spot for years, unmoving. The changing seasons, the winds, and the harsh climates left their marks on him. Over time, his form withered into a blackened log, lying forgotten by the roadside. His body had turned dark — black as a stone, disconnected from the people, the sea, and the snow.
Sharaf Shad
Sharaf Shad is simultaneously a short story writer, poet, translator, and critic. The richness of narrative is one of the defining features of his short stories. Death and identity crises are recurring themes in his works. A collection of his short stories, titled “Safara Dambortagen Rahan” (Journeying Down the Weary Roads), was published by the Institute of Balochistan, Gwadar, in 2020. The story presented here is taken from that collection and is being published with the author’s permission.
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.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
The world has changed, so the people claim. Knowledge and wisdom have reached great heights. Yet my unyielding heart remains ever the same.
Dawns and dusks often ask of me, When will the sun glide upon the sea? When will, like the moon, the rainbow Cast upon the earth its colourful glow? When will stars adorn the earth's lap, Descending from heavenly height?
When will the wind chant like a cooing dove? When will elegies transform into songs of love? When will lizards and moths soar like birds? And mountains soften to cotton flakes?
Your smiles and giggles, unfurl in my songs, When will fire rise from beneath the water? Lightning leap from eyes, the scorching winds Blow across as gentle as gentle breeze? When will fig blooms scatter, a feast for all to see, When will Man regress from the heights of grace? When will he grasp his true essence? When will this world birth a new dawn's light?
When will life witness such glories? With fervent urge, I plead.
The world has changed, or so the people claim. Yet my unyielding heart remains ever the same. I ponder, will change ever find its way?
Mubarak Qazi(1955-2023), is one of the most prolific and popular of modern Balochi poets. He is credited with making poetry a vocation for the masses in a lucid vocabulary. In other words, Qazi is like the conscience of the people — one who addresses them in a language they can easily comprehend and decipher. Instead of maintaining a subtle or vague approach, he conveyed his sentiments in simple and unembellished language. He has published ten anthologies of poetry.
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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A POEM Like a mat, we laid out the night, And birds adorned the jungle around their feet, Heart —- an ocean, and within the ocean, Each tide wore shackles around their feet.
A POEM
Everyday, Time slips through my hands, Like millet grains. Would that you were a bird, You'd be my guest!
A SCENE
Crystalline shards Of shattered smiles, Once they pierce the eyes, The world, like a teardrop, Seeks an escape Towards the lap.
A POEM
Just an evening, From the seasons of your eyes, Let my heart Soar for a moment, With the birds of silence.
STARS If one night, Suddenly, Stars scatter across my eyes, I’ll cast my eyes at your lap, And spread the sky, Upon the earth.
WAITING
With the same pace and rhythm, They sail ahead -- Yet the moon reaches the shore, Long before the boats.
MELODIES AT DAWN
“Is there someone, each night who comes, Sprinkling on the city's somnolent birds, The colourful melodies of her words?”
“What secrets do I hold? What sights I’ve seen? In the ambiance, a beauty sifted through, Casting a strange, enchanting sheen, Painting hues on voices, wings and silence.”
WORLD
In a bottle, Carved from your beauty I’ve preserved for me A lush green moment of spring -- A nest, In the nest, A sweet birdsong. A window, Every morning it opens To a melodious overture of sea-waves And a cold, bright moment of solitude -- Like a tear drop, The size of a tiny pearl, Sustaining you, me and my God.
Munir Momin is a contemporary Balochi poet widely cherished for his sublime art of poetry. Meticulously crafted images, linguistic finesse and profound aesthetic sense have earned him a distinguished place in Balochi literature. His poetry speaks through images, more than words. Momin’s poetry flows far beyond the reach of any ideology or socio-political movement. Nevertheless, he is not ignorant of the stark realities of life. The immenseness of his imagination and his mastery over the language rescues his poetry from becoming the part of any mundane narrative. So far Munir has published seven collections of his poetry and an anthology of short stories. His poetry has been translated into Urdu, English and Persian. He also edits a literary journal called Gidár.
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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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
