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
Poetry by Atta Shad, translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch
Had we known the fate of tomorrow, Today would’ve not slipped So carelessly from our hands.
Alas! On the gallows of follies, Desire stands condemned.
True — it is the heart alone That bears witness to God’s existence, Not the eye, For each reflection is a slave to sight. But what the heart feels — That alone is the truth: The rest is illusion.
Some walk with reason, Some, in a dreamlike haze, Yet all are bound together, Step by step, Carrying the weight of longing In the folds of a thirsty soul.
In the vast realm of my imagination, Stands the idol sculpted by my own hands. I bow before it— This endless expanse but remains devoid of the Divine.
From being, nothingness emerges, And from nothingness, The being is born, over and again.
The lament for yesterday, The hopes for tomorrow, The wealth of ages In search of unseen wisdom, Wander upon the shores of today. Either the flood shall wash them away, Or the shore shall stand unshaken Before the surging tides.
Where lies the end Of this unquenchable thirst?
From Public Domain
Atta Shad(1939-1997) is the most revered and cherished modern Balochi poet. He instilled a new spirit in the moribund body of modern Balochi poetry in the early 1950s when the latter was drastically paralysed by the influence of Persian and Urdu poetry. Atta Shad gave a new orientation to modern Balochi poetry by giving a formidable ground to the free verse, which also brought in its wake a chain of new themes and mode of expression hitherto untouched by Balochi poets. Apart from the popular motifs of love and romance, subjugation and suffering, freedom and liberty, life and its absurdities are a few recurrent themes which appear in Shad’s poetry. What sets Shad apart from the rest of Balochi poets is his subtle, metaphoric and symbolic approach while versifying socio-political themes. He seemed more concerned about the aesthetic sense of art than anything else.
Shad’s poetry anthologies include Roch Ger and Shap Sahaar Andem, which were later collected in a single anthology under the title Gulzameen, posthumously published by the Balochi Academy Quetta in 2015.
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 Atta Shad from the publisher.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Art by Sophia P, CypressArt by Hugo A, Quezon CityFrom Public Domain
In 1985, famous artistes, many of whom are no longer with us, collaborated on the song, We are the World, to raise funds to feed children during the Ethiopian famine (1983-85). The song was performed together by Michael Jackson, Willie Nelson, Bob Dylan, Ray Charles, Diana Ross, Stevie Wonder, Smokey Robinson, Paul Simon, Tina Turner, Dionne Warwick, Lionel Richie, Billy Joel and Bruce Springsteen. The producer, Julia Nottingham, said: “It’s a celebration of the power of creativity and the power of collective humanity.” The famine was attributed to ‘war and drought’.
Over the last few years, we have multiple wars creating hunger and drought caused by disruptions. Yet, the world watches and the atrocities continue to hurt common people, the majority who just want to live and let live, accept and act believing in the stories created by centuries of civilisation. As Yuval Noah Harari points out in a book written long before the current maladies set in, Homo Deus (2015), “…the stories are just tools. They should not become our goals or our yardsticks. When we forget that they are mere fiction, we lose touch with reality. Then we begin entire wars ‘to make a lot of money for the corporation’ or ‘to protect the national interest’. Corporations, money and nations exist only in our imagination. We invented them to serve us; why do we find ourselves sacrificing our lives in their service?”
What Harari says had been said almost ninety years ago by a voice from another region, by a man who suffered but wrote beautiful poetry, Jibanananda Das… and here are his verses —
“The stories stored in my soul will eventually fade. New ones— New festivals—will replace the old — in life’s honey-tinged slight.”
We carry the poem in this issue translated by Professor Fakrul Alam, lines that makes one dream of a better future. These ideas resonate in modern Balochi poet Ali Jan Dad’s ‘Roll Up Not the Mat’ brought to us in English by Fazal Baloch. Korean poet Ihlwha Choi’s translation takes us to longing filled with nostalgic hope while Tagore’s ‘Probhat’ (Dawn) gives a glimpse of a younger multi-faceted visionary dwell on the wonders of a perfect morning imbibing a sense of harmony with nature.
“I feel blessed for this sky, so luminous. I feel blessed to be in love with the world.”
Starting a new year on notes of hope, of finding new dreams seems to be a way forward for humanity does need to evolve out of self-imposed boundaries and darknesses and move towards a new future with narratives and stories that should outlive the present, outlive the devastating impact of climate change and wars by swapping our old narratives for ones that will help us harmonise with the wonders we see around us… wonders created by non-human hands or nature.
We start this year with questions raised on the current world by many of our contributors. Professor Alam in his essay makes us wonder about the present as he cogitates during his morning walks. Niaz Zaman writes to us about a change maker who questioned and altered her part of the world almost a century ago, Begum Roquiah. Can we still make such changes in mindsets as did Roquiah? And yet again, Ratnottama Sengupta pays homage to a great artiste, filmmaker Shyam Benegal, who left us in December 2024 just after he touched 90. Other non-fictions include musings by Nusrat Jan Esa on human nature contextualising it with Milton’s Paradise Lost (1667); Farouk Gulsara’s account of a fire in Sri Lanka where he was visiting and Suzanne Kamata’s column from Japan on the latest Japanese Literary Festival in the Fukushimaya prefecture, the place where there was a nuclear blast in 2011. What is amazing is the way they have restored the prefecture in such a short time. Their capacity to bounce back is exemplary! Devraj Singh Kalsi shares a tongue-in-cheek musing about the compatibility of banks and writers.
Exploring more of life around us are stories by Sohana Manzoor set in an expat gathering; by Priyatham Swamy about a migrant woman from Nepal and by Naramsetti Umamaheswararao set against rural Andhra Pradesh. While Ahmad Rayees gives a poignant, touching story set in a Kashmiri orphanage, Paul Mirabile reflects on the resilience of a child in a distant Greek island. Mirabile’s stories are often a throwback to earlier times.
In this issue, our book excerpts explore a writer of yore too, one that lived almost a hundred years ago, S. Eardley-Wilmot (1852-1929), a conservationist and one who captures the majesty of nature, the awe and the wonder like Tagore or Jibanananda with his book, The Life of an Elephant. The other book takes us to contemporary Urdu writers but in Kolkata —Contemporary Urdu Stories from Kolkata, translated by Shams Afif Siddiqi and edited by Shams Afif Siddiqi and Fuzail Asar Siddiqi. A set of translated stories of the well-known Bengali writer, Bibhutibhushan Bandopadhyay by Hiranmoy Lahiri, brought out in a book called Kaleidoscope of Life: Select Short Stories has been reviewed by Somdatta Mandal. Malashri Lal has discussed Basudhara Roy’s A Blur of a Woman. Roy herself has explored Afsar Mohammad’s Fasting Hymns. Bhaskar Parichha has taken us to Sri Lanka with a discussion on a book on Sri Lanka, Return to Sri Lanka: Travels in a Paradoxical Islandby an academic located in Singapore, Razeen Sally.
Bringing together varied voices from across the world and ages, one notices recurring themes raising concerns for human welfare and for the need to conserve our planet. To gain agency, it is necessary to have many voices rise in a paean to humanity and the natural world as they have in this start of the year issue.
I would like to thank all those who made this issue possible, our team and the contributors. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart. I cannot stop feeling grateful to Sohana Manzoor for her fabulous artwork too, art that blends in hope into the pages of Borderless Journal. As all our content has not been mentioned here, I invite you to pause by our content’s page to explore more of our exciting fare. Huge thanks to all readers for you make our journey worthwhile.
I would hope we can look forward to this year as being one that will have changes for the better for all humanity and the Earth… so that we still have our home a hundred years from now, even if it looks different.
Translated by Shams Afif Siddiqi, edited by Shams Afif Siddiqi and Fuzail Asar Siddiqi
Publisher: Niyogi Books
The Stopped Clock
By Siddique Alam
The hands of the clock had stopped permanently at 13 past two and two seconds. Sitting on the bench under the shed, I am trying to understand the oval dial of the clock, the Roman letters of which had become dimmed and its edges covered with spider webs. I wonder when the clock might have stopped. I am 35 years old. Is there apparently any difference between us? Just like the clock, I have also stopped for a while because there was no announcement about the arrival of my train, its departure time being four hours ago.
I am trying to survey the place with wide open eyes. It is a usual day and an ordinary station that we are accustomed to see.
I have bid farewell to the city of my birth. I am leaving the city like a failure. But it seems after relinquishing me, the city, with a feeling of guilt, now wants to take me back. Its first step in this direction is to delay my train for an indefinite amount of time.
Despite being in the midst of a city, a station is free from its clutches. I am enjoying that freedom with a one-way ticket in my pocket. A bit of patience, I tell myself, and I would be far away. Nobody can stop me, neither by erecting obstacles in the way of the railway tracks nor by stopping the hands of the clock. Maybe I am a loser, but the journey of my life is yet to end. I am only 35 years old. I have to go far away from this place. The most important thing is that I am satisfied that the address I am carrying in my pocket is not my last destination.
It is a temporary waiting place that can help me make a new beginning. After all man is born free. The sun does not select a particular spot to shine, nor is every wave that dashes against the shore the last one, losing which the boatman would have to wait all his life for another wave.
An old coolie, wringing khaini[1] in the palms of his hands, passes by me. He is clad in a white banian and dhoti, his red flannel shirt thrown on his left shoulder.
‘Since when has the clock stopped?’ My question stops him in his stride. He turns around, his tired, thoughtful eyes staring at me. A sense of shame overpowers me. He may be an illiterate coolie, not a station employee who is answerable for such a question. ‘I am sorry,’ I quickly add, ‘I should not have put the question to you. I take back my words.’
‘Why sir?’ he stands by the side of the bench, and looks at me with a sense of intimacy. ‘People will be asking questions about a stopped clock, isn’t it? They cannot to be blamed. The story of the stopped clock is well known but only the signal man Gocharan Ray has the right to tell its tale. He had spent all his life showing green and red flags to trains and has retired today.’
‘Who has replaced him?’ my question betrays my foolishness. My imprudence had always entangled me in thoughtless acts.
‘Why don’t you ask the station master?’ The coolie moves away. ‘It’s a question that requires an answer; otherwise, you will regret it all your life.’
I was not ready for such an unexpected turn of events. I thought that my relationship with the city had been cut off forever. What do I make of a station that has ignored me, as if the ticket in my pocket is of no worth? Once again, I look at the dial of the clock hanging from the shed. It had stopped at 13 past two and two seconds. What might have happened when it stopped? Did an accident take place at the station? Had any incident of murder taken place? Was it at the time of the departure or arrival of an important leader? An attack by Naxalites? Or was the place the site of a communal incident?
The coolie returned again. This time he was wearing his shirt. ‘Unless you hear the story,’ he says, ‘your train will not arrive. This is the rule here. It may take weeks, months, or even years and you have to move from one platform to another with your suitcase. Once, a passenger alighted here to board another train. He faced a similar dilemma. He asked the same question about the clock but I do not know what happened and why he refused to listen to the story. Do you know what happened to him?’
‘How can I?’ I replied impatiently. ‘The city hardly gave me any time so that I could listen to stories.’
‘You are becoming irritated unnecessarily, Sir,’ he said. ‘I want to tell you about the man. The fact is nobody knows much about him. Some say he went to the city and did not return. Others say he took another train that never reached its destination. Some may even tell you that a prostitute took him to her house by the railway tracks where he developed leprosy and is slowly dying there. There is also no dearth of people who say he is still moving, suitcase in hand, amidst platforms, difficult to spot in the teeming crowd of passengers.’
‘You mean to say he can be anyone, even me?’
‘Did I say that, sir?’ He was on the verge of leaving. ‘It seems you have tasted bitter gourd.’
I was staring at the departing coolie’s back. The constant use of the flannel shirt had not only exposed its fibres, it had also thinned the material exposing the bones of the man’s neck. I have no hesitation in saying that I did not believe him. Since the time when suitcases developed wheels, the number of coolies has dwindled in stations. The last nail was the introduction of the backpack. Either passengers drag their suitcases on wheels, or carry luggage in their backpacks, leaving the coolies with little work. So, this may be their way of passing time.
About the Book
Dealing with love and loss, dreams and reality, as well as history and violence, this is a collection of best 19 short stories that encompasses the whole gamut of human experience, seen through the eyes of current Urdu writers from Kolkata.
Stories from Kolkata are often assumed to be about bhadralok culture and the Bengali way of life. But Kolkata is a city with amultiplicity of stories to share. Contemporary Urdu Short Stories from Kolkata highlights the diversity of recent Urdu short stories fromthe city. In one of these stories, a writer trying to escape the city wants to find the reason why the railway clock has stopped working, in another, a new friendship sours as soon as it blossoms, while some other stories show how the complexity of human relationships is explored. There is an experiment in abstraction, and legend and reality are brought together when three sleepers of an earlier civilization wake up in the modern world.
About the Editor and Translator
Shams Afif Siddiqi, former Associate Professor of English (WBES), author, short story writer, and literary critic, was born in 1955 in Kolkata. He taught in government colleges of West Bengal for 35 years and was a faculty member at MDI, Murshidabad. Khushwant Singh selected his short story for publication in The Telegraph in the 1980s. His publications include The Language of Love and other Stories (2001), a critical look at Graham Greene’s novels, Graham Greene: The Serious Entertainer (2008), and an annotated edition of G.B. Shaw’s Arms and the Man (2009).
Fuzail Asar Siddiqi is currently a PhD candidate at CES, JNU, New Delhi, researching on the modernist Urdu short story, in general, and short stories of Naiyer Masud in particular. The founder/editor-in-chief of an academic editorial services company, he has been an Assistant Professor of English at Gargi College, New Delhi.
I sit down to remember myself Who and what I could’ve been Had I not fought countless wars in my head An arrow here and a canon there
I sit down to remember myself A master raconteur I could have been Seeking stories and spinning tales An anecdote here and a narrative there
I sit down to remember myself A gifted painter I could’ve been Colouring memories and sketching days An impasto here and a splattering there
I sit down to remember myself A talented musician I could have been Composing melodies and singing ballads An anthem here and a medley there
I sit down to remember myself The butcher I became Slaughtering thoughts, identity and experiences Into a stagnant river of nothing To be lost in a labyrinth of mayhem
Farah Sheikh is a freelance editor based in Bangkok, Thailand. After studying at Lady Shri Ram College and Jamia Millia Islamia, she worked with Dorling Kindersley Publishing and the Rekhta Foundation. She thrives on Urdu poetry and world cinema.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Story by Veena Verma, translated from Punjabi by C. Christine Fair
In the darkest of night, a black car was winding its way along the black, wide, and desolate roads of Germany like a snake. Only the sound of the wind broke the all-pervasive silence. The wind and the car seemed to be competing to outpace each other. Far away in the distance, a glimmer of light briefly appeared and then vanished like a firefly. The silence and darkness returned once more. The electricity poles on the side of the road appeared to be standing with their heads bowed in exhaustion, yawning forth a light so dim that Manjit couldn’t even make out the time on her watch.
But Manjit didn’t even bother looking at her watch. She didn’t know the date, the day, much less the time. She didn’t know whether this country’s time zone was ahead of or behind that of India. She only knew that she had left her home on the 25th of October. She didn’t even have a calendar to look at the dates. But nature had given women one way to know the passing of a month. But that clock gifted from nature had become broken along the way. Manjit seemed to bleed every third day.
Sitting in the car, with eyes half open, she looked at her fellow travelers. There was the Gujarati driver and a white man in the passenger seat. Manjit was in the back with her son, Dipu, who rested his head in her lap. Dipu was the only one she knew. Manjit didn’t know who the others were, where they were taking her, or which routes they were driving. She only knew that she would soon meet her husband, Harjit.
Harjit, to whom she had been married six years ago. After spending only two weeks together, Harjit returned to Germany after promising to take her to Germany soon. The two weeks spent with Harjit felt like two minutes. It was like a beautiful dream which disappeared once she opened her eyes. Harjit promised her that within two months at the most, she would be with him in Germany. But years had passed, and Harjit still hadn’t sent the paperwork to call Manjit to Germany. He only wrote once to say that up to now, he had not yet divorced his German wife. Manjit and her family remained silent.
The Bride by Amrita Shergil (1913-1941). From Public Domain.
In this silence, there was also regret. Why did they marry this tall, slender, beautiful Manjit at the tender age of 20 to Harjit, who was already married? Manjit was faultless. No one ever said anything bad about her character. After finishing the tenth grade in the village, her father arranged for her to do her BA in a hostel in Ludhiana. Pragat Singh lived for his daughter whose mother died while she was a child. She was only five years old and her brother was only one year old when their mother passed away from pneumonia. Pragat Singh brought his young children, wailing like birds, under his wing and accepted God’s will. His relatives tried very hard to get him a second wife, but Pragat Singh was not ready to hear this.
“I will not allow a stepmother to come into this home…My children will not be neglected. What happened has happened. If I had had any luck at all, why did my first wife die? My God will take care of me. My children will grow up. Manjit will leave my home. When Kulbir turns 16, I will get him married. Happiness will return to the house. I’ve lived my life. All of you should pray for my children’s well-being.” Whenever Pragit Singh spoke with sorrow in his voice, the entire family wept.
Manjit remembered everything. Even though she was only five years old at the time, she remembered her mother’s passing very well. Throughout her childhood, she carried this loss in her gut. Without a mother, Manjit had to grow up early. She had to care for her little brother. She had to cook food for her father. All of the household responsibilities fell on her. Even though she ostensibly had a large family, they did nothing to help her other than expressing their sympathies.
Passing the tenth grade was a major milestone for Manjit. She had passed with distinction. Pragat Singh was very excited.
“Who says that daughters are less than sons? My daughter is my son. I will make her a lawyer…” Pragat Singh said with pride.
“Excessive education spoils girls…Moreover, because of her education, finding a suitable boy for her will be difficult. It’s hard to marry off well-educated girls. If the girl becomes a lawyer, you’ll have to find a judge,” the relatives caviled.
“So according to your logic, I should dump my daughter on some run-of-the-mill boy? I am going to send her to America or Canada. There, my daughter will enjoy her life. What is there for her here? Here, she’ll just toil away her life.” Pragat Singh had such lofty dreams for his daughter. He wanted to do everything he could to make up for the fact that the children had no mother. He wanted to give them all manner of comforts.
He enrolled Manjit in a girls’ college in Ludhiana where she stayed in a hostel. Sorrow tempered her father’s nature. With Kulbir, her relationship was more like that of a friend. Both siblings shared their secrets freely with each other. Kulbir paid less attention to his studies. She advised him to focus more on his studies, but he would just shrug his shoulders in response.
One day Manjit grabbed his ear and asked, “What do you mean to say by this shoulder shrugging?”
“Sister…If you leave after completing your studies and if I become a government officer, then Father will be left alone. If we both leave, then people will steal our land.” Manjit was incredulous hearing such a profound thing from Kulbir’s tiny mouth.
“I don’t understand, Biri…” She called her brother Biri from childhood.
“Father is alone, sister…All night he is exhausted…He needs someone to help him…Even though he doesn’t say anything, how long can this go on? Moreover, sons are supposed to take over the responsibilities of the family. Daughters become the assets of another family. You have studied a lot. You’ve studied enough for both of us. I am going to stay with Father. I have no plans for further study.” Manjit sighed upon hearing her brother speak as if he were an old man. It seemed to her as if neither she nor her brother ever got to be children. Both had to become responsible as soon as they were born. Both siblings sat there for some time, sharing their sorrows.
From that point onwards, Manjit didn’t pressure Kulbir to study. Moreover, she was very happy when she got called home right before the holidays to go meet a girl for Kulbir.
Kulbir was married even though he hadn’t even passed the tenth grade. The sadness was lifted. Happiness returned to Pragat Singh’s house. The family had a new member and liveliness returned. Relatives visited the house more often. The empty place of a woman had been filled.
Manjit had completed her BA and preparations were underway to marry her off. But no boy met Pragat Singh’s expectations. The prospective grooms came and went, but each time he found some fault with them. The search stretched out. Finally, Pragat Singh’s brother-in-law, Baldev Singh, said that a boy had come to Ludhiana from Germany. He’s an engineer there. To live in Germany permanently, he married a white woman in a “paper marriage” but they lived separately, and they would get divorced. The boy came from so far to marry a special Punjabi girl. He’s a boy from a very good family. He’s an educated, good-looking, strapping young man. He had no shortage of prospects. But because Baldev was Manjit’s uncle he could persuade them not to see these other girls right away. If they were to take out a matrimonial advertisement in the newspaper, there would be a huge line of girls, and it wouldn’t take long for there to be a bidding war.
Pragat Singh began to think about the boy’s second marriage.
Pragat Singh asked, “My daughter is not lacking anything. Why would I marry her off to a boy who is already married?”
Baldev Singh explained, “Look, it’s different in other countries…No one is virtuous there. People get married to settle there permanently. These white women do not find our sons suitable nor do they suit our sons. My friend’s son did exactly this. He went to England and married a white woman. Then after paying her off, he left her. White women agree easily. They never stay with one man for long. Now that boy is very wealthy, and he has taken a bride from Kapurthala back with him. The girl did a double BA!”
“But what will people say?” Pragat Singh was not convinced.
“How can you convince them? You don’t need to tell anyone…The boy knows and you know…Do what suits you. Don’t make a big deal about it. Fulfil your responsibility while you are still alive. In the future, we don’t know what your son and daughter-in-law will do.” Baldev Singh instilled in him the fear of an unknown future.
“No! My son would never betray his sister…” Pragat Singh was hurt by his suggestion.
“You married off your boy. He’s no longer yours to control. For now, you are the boss of your household. Whether you spend five rupees or fifty. It’s your call. No one would dare question you. Moreover, finding a boy from this kind of family is very difficult. The boy is a gem. A total gem. He is beyond reproach. He even takes care to iron his underwear. For the sake of my dead sister, I don’t want my niece to get caught up in the ruses of a mother-in-law or a sister-in-law. In a foreign country, there won’t be such family fights. Both the husband and wife are educated. They can enjoy life. Here, even the best government employee doesn’t make in a month what this boy makes in a week. And this is not temporary work. He has houses and cars. What difference does it make if he married a white woman to live there permanently? If a jatt [1]has land and vigour, then he can marry twice in one year, during the March and July harvests. These days, no one is a saint like you.” Baldev Singh’s flattery brought a smile to Pragat Singh’s sad face which flickered for a moment then disappeared much like a lightning bolt flashing ever so briefly in a dark cloud.
“Okay. I’ll consider your suggestion. You should do as you like. You are family. My daughter is your daughter…But I am asking Manjit’s preference.” Pragat Singh laid down this condition.
“You talk to Manjit. And also get Kulbir’s views. Even though he’s younger, his opinion still matters. By the grace of God, Kulbir is happily married.” Baldev Singh said his peace and got up.
Even though Manjit never argued with her father, Pragat Singh still wanted to have her consent before taking such a big step. When he raised the issue of Harjit with her, she became very bashful.
“If your mother were still alive, I wouldn’t have to ask you about this or discuss this with you. She would have done this herself.” Today he remembered his wife for the first time in years and his eyes welled up in front of his children.
Bride’s Toilette, Painting by Amrita Shergil. From Public Domain
“Do whatever you want father.” Manjit, crying, hugged her father tightly.
They cried for a long time in each other’s embrace.
The next week, he brought Manjit to a friend of Baldev Singh’s to meet Harjit. Manjit kept her eyes lowered and didn’t look at Harjit. Harjit took a liking to the fair-complected, serious, and shy girl. Five days later, she was married to Harjit. Harjit, lacking vacation time, returned to Germany two weeks later. It didn’t seem like two weeks had passed. Manjit dropped Harjit off at the Delhi airport. She felt as if she had seen off her own soul. Only her body was returning. Harjit’s loving touch awoke her virginal body and aroused a thirst in her. Like the hot earth which, upon experiencing a sudden momentary burst of rain, becomes ever thirstier.
Manjit no longer felt at home in her village. What game is Mother Nature playing that she feels like a stranger in her own home?
“It’s a matter of a little time. Harjit will send the papers…Then this separation will be over.” She was trying to console herself and care for the keepsakes of Harjit’s love. But Harjit had left her a hidden gift that she would realise much later – Harjits’s child. This was the real token of his love. Upon learning of this, a wave of happiness swept over the entire family. Manjit went to Ludhiana for the sole purpose of informing Harjit of the good news via phone. Harjit was very happy to hear this news.
Manjit forthrightly told him “Call me soon as I don’t want to remain alone.”
“I also want this…but I am helpless…That bitch is obstinate. She says that she will leave me and have me deported. She isn’t divorcing me. Just be patient for a while. I will do something,” Harjit assured her.
It was like this every time. She would stay up until the middle of the night writing him letters. She told him about her anxieties, she wrote about their love, and their child. She asked him about a name for the child, told him about the village gossip questioning why she hadn’t gone to her in-law’s family, and the growing burden on her father. But every question got the same response, “I am helpless…The issues are still being sorted….”
Some time had passed. Manjit’s son Dipu, began to crawl. But the paperwork from Harjit still had not come. The hopes and aspirations with which Pragat Singh had married off his daughter failed to materialise. After four years of having his daughter sitting at his home, he began to feel fits of panic. On several occasions, he wrote to Harjit to say that even though there was no shortage of wealth in the house, it still didn’t look good to have his daughter at her parent’s home. But Harjit repeated the same story that he wanted to do something but couldn’t.
In the meantime, Kulbir had two daughters. His wife, who had been an adolescent girl, grew into a woman and she began to rule the house indirectly. That very sister-in-law who out-danced everyone in the village at her wedding now did not speak with her politely. Leave aside not having conversations, she found a way to taunt her even in basic matters. She wasn’t half as smart or attractive as Manjit. But a woman whose husband loves her is the queen. The world will bow down to a woman—howsoever ugly or moronic she may be–if her husband values her. But even the most useless man will consider a woman who is beautiful and intelligent to be irrelevant if her husband is not with her. In our society, a man is like a woman’s identity card without which she cannot be identified.
Manjit was an intelligent girl. She very well understood her husband’s compulsions and her father’s responsibilities. So, she made a compromise with time and quietly waited for the papers to be sent from Harjit. She could tolerate all of this. But she couldn’t tolerate Kulbir’s avoidance and silence. Kulbir’s nature had completely changed in the last two years. Her little brother had been a friend. They spent their childhood laughing and playing together. They supported each other in times of sorrow. Now, he didn’t speak to her. He never spoke to her son Dipu nicely– as if he were some illegitimate child. And he didn’t speak that much with Father either. He usually spent his time away and the rest of the time with his wife.
Harjit occasionally sent a bit of money. But Pragit Singh forbade her from spending that money on expenses and told her to save it. Harjit sent clothes for Dipu a few times but Kulbir’s wife burned with jealousy. When her eldest daughter insisted upon wearing new clothes, she would drag her and punch her.
“Your father did not go to Germany…We are villagers…We have to make do with the little we have. I am not going to pamper my girls. I won’t let them become lawyers….” The sister-in-law let out her frustration that had been festering for several days.
“Sister-in-law, why do you beat your daughter? It makes no difference to me whether she or Dipu wear the clothes. Both are the same.” Manjit took her sister-in-law’s hand.
“How can they be the same? He has a rich father…His father seems to be some bigshot and her father toils all day in the soil. This will spoil the girls. There’s no question of me pampering my girls. I’m going to keep them on the straight and narrow otherwise they’ll make my life hell. We are already screwed because we haven’t sorted out the previous problem and we can’t bear more difficulties. My husband can’t sleep at all at night…” The sister-in-law, having made a mountain out of a molehill, went inside.
It seemed to Manjit that her sister-in-law wasn’t taunting her but simply speaking the truth. She hadn’t realised that Kulbir wasn’t her little brother anymore; rather, he was now the father of two daughters. The burden of Manjit wasn’t just born by her father or Kuldip but by the entire family. And not just by the family, but the entire village. And maybe by the entire country, whose culture views women as a burden or the wealth of another family. Perhaps, Harjit had forgotten his culture having settled in Germany. This was perhaps why he had become irresponsible.
Several such incidents made Manjit feel uneasy. Silence spread across the house. It was as if everyone was sulking at each other. Dipu began going to school. He went along with Kulbir’s daughters. Manjit never dropped him off at school. She had stopped leaving the house because people would pepper her with questions.
One asked, “Girl! Do you have any clue about your husband?”
Another said, “We know about those who live abroad…They do what suits them. We heard that he keeps a white woman. What was the need for your father to make this mess by marrying you off to someone so far away? Were there no boys in the Punjab?”
Because Manjit didn’t have the courage to leave the house, she remained inside. She kept her face hidden like a thief. Pragat Singh began to fall ill. His body was not robust to begin with. But the sorrow of his daughter devastated him. He was bedridden. Manjit’s heart sank when she saw him.
One day, Pragat Singh and Kulbir were engrossed in an argument about something. Just two days before, Manjit had gone to her friend’s home in Ludhiana to call Harjit. Upon her return, no one spoke to her.
“Have you done anything for Manjit or not, father?” This was perhaps the first time that Kulbir spoke to their father in a loud voice.
“What should I do, son? The boy turned out to be a duffer. We took a risk with this second marriage…” Pragat Singh took a deep sigh.
“The boy turned out to be a good-for-nothing. Are there no other boys in the world? Marry her off somewhere…” Kulbir’s patience had run out.
“How can we marry her off? What will people say?” Pragat Singh understood his son’s predicament.
“What are people already saying? You are always inside the house. I’m the one who has to interact with them. It’s going to be six years of her living here. In the future, I’ll have to marry off my daughters.” Kulbir was worried about his daughters’ futures.
“It’s not a big deal. Six years have passed by. So will another four. If he doesn’t call her, then he’ll return. Where will a woman with a child get a second husband?” Pragat Singh began coughing.
“So, you keep her for four more years. I can’t care for her. She frequently goes to Ludhiana. People are talking shit about us. So how long can you keep her here? Until her hair goes grey? Then you’ll marry her off? Right now, you should find someone who has been married twice or even thrice. But you won’t like any of them. You said, ‘My daughter will be a magistrate.’ Has the women’s revolution come? Yet, you gave her more education. Even though our relatives objected to more education, you did what you wanted. Even now if I say something, you are unwilling to listen. You, like mom, are going to die. But I’m the one who has to deal with the problems. If in the future she does something that disgraces us, who will we blame?” Kulbir seemed to be trying to find a solution.
Pragat Singh sat there thinking quietly.
“I am going to call your uncle. You don’t worry. First, we’ll hear what advice he has. He was the middleman.” Pragat Singh wanted to calm the situation.
“Forget this useless uncle. This is his mess. This son-of-a-bitch has never even visited. After getting us wrapped up in this bad marriage, he has stepped aside.” Kulbir abused his uncle profusely.
“It’s not a big deal. Don’t worry. Tomorrow, I am going to send someone to Tutian Ali village to call Baldev Singh,” Pragat Singh said calmly.
“Why will you send someone? I am going to Tutian Ali myself to get that bastard.” Kulbir got up.
And the next day, at the break of dawn, he brought Baldev Singh on his motorcycle.
The three men went on arguing for some time. After considerable discussion, Baldev promised to do something quickly and then left.
Even though Manjit didn’t hear everything, she sensed that something important would happen. She was like a bird in the forest who seeing the direction of the wind can predict a storm.
A few days later, Baldev returned and explained that an agent who lived in Jalandhar would illegally deliver Manjit to Germany for Rs 5 lakhs. Once she reached Germany, she could apply for political asylum just as others did. She could live there till Harjit got his divorce and they could live together.
At first, Pragat Singh was not amenable to this. But, seeing no other way, he relented. When Kulbir and his wife learned about the amount of 5 lakhs, they made it clear that they were not going to pay for it. From that point onward, neither spoke to the father or the uncle. Upon hearing this, Manjit felt as if finally, there was a glimmer of hope in her dark world.
When they discussed this with Harjit, he refused.
Harjit explained, “Coming here through an agent is very dangerous. Women are raped by them. How can a woman come like this? Moreover, she has a child with her.”
“The legendary lovers of the Punjab, Sassi and Sohni, took even greater risk to cross rivers to meet their lovers. I will be coming by plane. Don’t worry. It’s become very difficult for me to live here now. I can’t explain everything on the phone. With great difficulty, God has given us this opportunity.” Manjit choked up as she made her appeal. Harjit relented.
“It’s fine. Do as you wish. I won’t stop you.” Harjit gave the green signal.
Pragat Singh immediately agreed without seeking the advice of the pandit. After speaking with his brother-in-law, Baldev, Pragat Singh sold some land and arranged the 5 Lakhs to give to the agent. He didn’t ask Kulbir. However, he did inform him that by selling Manjit’s share of the land, he had fulfilled his obligation. Hearing Kulbir use such hurtful words for his sister, Pragat Singh felt aggrieved, and he wanted to do anything to bring back happiness to his depressed and hapless daughter.
“Why should this poor girl be punished for our mistakes? I feel like I have had two daughters. I spent five lakhs for the marriage of my second daughter. Parents will do anything to settle a daughter in her own home.” God knows how Pragat Singh managed to summon such confidence despite being ill and frail.
Manjit knew that her brother and sister-in-law would be angry when they heard about selling the land. But there were no other options available. She hesitated to speak to her brother. But a woman could understand a woman’s pain. So, she tried to explain everything clearly to her sister-in-law.
“Sister-in-law, I don’t know why I am so unfortunate that my father had to sell ancestral land to reunite me with my husband. But all of these things are on my mind. This is a loan to me and to Harjit. When I reach, I will return every cent.” Manjit felt like a criminal.
“Sister-in-law, go to your in-laws even if you have to take the earrings off my ears to do it. It’s not a loan. Educated girls take their equal share. Had Harjit intended to send money, he would have done it a long time before. Why does he need to do this? Harjit has artfully extracted his share of the land. Fine. It’s finished. We’ll make do. Father must also be very happy that he gave his daughter her share. But he never even spoke with us politely about this.” Manjit lost her courage to discuss things further when her sister-in-law spoke rudely, nostrils flaring.
She didn’t want there to be a conflict in the house because of her. Whatever relationship that she still had with her brother would also be lost. With a heavy heart, she swallowed her tears so that her father wouldn’t know what she was suffering.
Kesar Singh, the agent, was given Rs 4 lakhs. The remaining one lakh was promised to be handed over once Manjit reached Germany. Dipu, who from childhood had picked up on the idea of flying, would see a plane flying in the sky and say “Daddy’s plane has come! I am going to see Daddy!” With her child in her lap, Manjit said her final goodbyes to her village. In the middle of the night, she left her beloved village, like a thief.
“Father, we will come back soon.” She placed her head upon her father’s chest as he lay upon the bed.
Pragat Singh began to wail. He took $500 and some jaggery from underneath his pillow and gave it to his daughter and grandson as a blessing.
“Child, if your mother were alive…” His pillow was soaked with tears.
“Father, my sister-in-law and mother are the same. Don’t you worry about me. Both Kulbir and my sister-in-law have taken very good care of me.” Manjit paid her respects to her brother and sister-in-law who were standing nearby.
Pragat Singh took a deep sigh. Manjit picked up Dipu and left the house.
She had no idea when she left her house how long her journey would be or even how she would know when she reached her destination. The agent, Kesar Singh, had her passport delivered with a visa for Moscow. Kesar Singh’s man would take her from here. At the Moscow airport, she hid herself among the other passengers and came outside. Standing outside the airport she was looking everywhere frantically. For some 15 minutes or so, she stood there waiting for the agent’s man but no one came. She didn’t have a lot of luggage. She had only three suits for herself and three for Dipu in a handbag. The agent explained that she shouldn’t take a lot of luggage because she would have to walk along the way.
Just as she was thoroughly exhausted and thinking about sitting upon the ground, a South Asian man passed by her.
“You are Manjit, right?,” the man asked discretely.
Upon hearing her name, Manjit was startled. But she quickly got a hold of herself and nodded her head affirmatively.
He instructed, “Follow behind me slowly. Don’t arouse suspicion.” He then slipped in front of her.
Manjit put Dipu down to walk, and they began to slowly follow the man. Outside the airport, a white car was waiting, driven by a white man. When the South Asian man went and sat in the car, she picked up Dipu and walked briskly to the car. She climbed inside and sat Dipu on her lap. The car started with a jerk and took off slowly like a bullock cart.
Manjit looked outside the window. people with strange faces and clothes roamed about. Store sign boards were written in Russian, which she didn’t understand. She prayed to God and sat quietly with her son in her lap.
They arrived at some desolate place and stopped in front of a building. When the old, rusty door opened, a foul odor filled the air. Manjit was seated in a room on the second floor. In the room, there was only one bed, a desk, and a chair. Manjit laid the sleeping Dipu on the bed and began looking for water to wash her hands and face.
The South Asian man explained, “There’s a shared kitchen here, Madam…Boys in your situation are staying in the adjoining rooms. I mean those with illegal papers.”
Confused, Manjit responded, “Illegal? But Uncle Kesar arranged my papers…These are genuine…”
“In our profession, no one has an uncle. Agents and goldsmiths don’t even spare their own fathers…. How did you get this wrong impression?” The man gave a lecherous laugh, his black, filthy teeth glimmered like watermelon seeds.
Manjit was in disbelief. “This is fraud,” she said in English.
“Don’t speak English. You will get caught…And if you get caught, four other men will suffer along with you…Sit here quietly. The kitchen and the bathroom are below. You go and wash your face and hands, and I will bring you something to eat.” And as he was leaving, Manjit handed him Dipu’s empty milk bottle.
“Oh. I forgot to tell you my name…People call me Tony…But this is my fake name, just like your passport.” As soon as Tony said this, Manjit’s whole body began to tremble.
After Tony left, she locked the door to the room. Not only did she not go downstairs to wash her hands and face, but she didn’t even as much as turn on the lights in her room. She shivered as she sat in the darkness.
About an hour later, Tony returned with things to eat and drink.
He was worried. “Something terrible has happened.”
“What happened…?” She also became concerned.
“Because your visa is fake your name is not showing up in the computer at the embassy here. The embassy people told me to bring the woman because they are starting a case.” Tony sat down with his head in his hands.
Fearfully, she stood up from the bed. “Now what will happen?”
“Who knows what will happen…We have a man working in the embassy. I have just returned from meeting him. He is on his way here. Look, maybe this will get sorted out…The man is very useful…If he uploads your name in the computer somehow…Otherwise….” Concerned, Tony shook his head.
“Otherwise, what will happen?” Manjit went and stood next to him.
Tony laid out the possible punishments. “The police will capture you. Jail is also possible. They may send you back to India…and you may spend seven years in jail here. They’ll send your kid to an orphanage…”
“No…No…This cannot happen.” Manjit let out a shriek.
“Shut up, you crazy bitch! You’re going to get caught and you’re going to get me caught.” Tony got up and put his hand over her mouth to muffle her sounds and he put the other hand on her back.
“This can’t happen.” Manjit shook her head in disbelief.
“Why can’t it happen? Everything is possible. In the underworld, everything is possible.” Tony removed his hand from her mouth but not from her back.
An idea came to Manjit’s mind. “Can I call my husband or the uncle in India?”
“I thought you’re an intelligent and educated women. But you seem like a complete moron. Where are you going to find a phone here? What if the police record your voice on the phone? You will bring this trouble upon yourself.” Tony expressed sympathy.
Manjit, out of options, asked him, “So…what should I do?”
“Look. I’m not nuts. I am worried about you. This guy is coming, Peter. He can do a lot of things. If he manages to understand the problem, then he will sort it out. Guaranteed.” Tony grabbed her and sat her down on the bed.
Manjit asked, “How should he understand?”
“Bas[2]. Just watch what is going on…” As Tony elaborated, there was a knock on the door.
“Look, he’s here.” Tony ran to open the door.
A short, obese man entered. It was hard to tell from his colour whether he was white or South Asian. He sat down as he blew smoke from his cigar. He stared at Manjit and then at Dipu, who suddenly got up from his sleep. Seeing the situation, Tony picked up Dipu and carried him outside.
Manjit was stunned. Peter got up from the chair and sat her on the bed. Manjit was terrified and tried to get up, but he had pinned down her arms.
“Sit up. Don’t worry.” When Peter spoke Punjabi, Manjit sighed relief.
“I…I…I…am very tired…I want to relax.” She began to sense some looming danger.
“Don’t make such a fuss. There is no shortage of women in Russia. I have come here only to help you because you are an Indian girl. I have an obligation to help out my own people because no one over here is going to look after us.” When Peter spoke, Manjit could smell the alcohol on his breath.
“I don’t need any help.” Manjit pushed him and she ran towards the door.
“Don’t be so stupid, girl. You entered this country illegally. It’s very rare to come across Indian girls here. If anyone gets suspicious, you’ll get caught. You need a visa for Germany, and you need papers.” Peter pulled back her dupatta.
“I don’t need anything…” Manjit tried to open the door, but it was locked from the outside.
Manjit threatened, “I am going to scream and call the others for help.”
“Screaming happens every day here. No one will bother. Everyone here is a thief. Illegal immigrants like you. They value their lives.” Rather than kowtowing to her threat, he scared the shit out of her.
Manjit felt as if she were imprisoned. She banged her head on the door with all her might then she began to wail.
“Don’t be foolish. In life, nothing happens exactly as a person wants. You have to give something to get something. I am with you…I’m going to help you cross over…” Peter forcefully took her into his embrace and turned off the light in the room.
Helpless and in tears, Manjit sat on the floor with her head in her knees. Peter did not force her onto the bed. He satisfied his lust on the foul-smelling carpet on the floor. Leaving Manjit lying on the floor, he took a key from his pocket and opened the door then put on his coat and went outside.
Injured, Manjit stood up and began looking everywhere for something with which she could take her life. Amidst the things on the table, she glimpsed a long knife. She had just picked up the knife when the door opened, and Dipu came in alone.
“Mommy…” Dipu yelled. The knife fell from Manjit’s hand.
“Mommy. Uncle has given me so many toys…” Dipu showed her a large packet which he held in his small hands.
“My son…If you hadn’t been born, I would have killed myself. How can I go to your father being disgraced like this?” Manjit hugged her son and began to sob.
“Mother, who beat you?” It was very difficult for little Dipu to understand his mother’s suffering.
“No one, son.” Manjit collected her wits.
While feeding Dipu, she thought that some way or another, she would hand over Dipu to Harjit to whom he belonged. After this, nothing else would matter. What had she done with her life? She was living only for Dipu. Otherwise, given all that happened after her marriage, she would have killed herself somehow to remove the burden from her father’s mind. She tried to move on from the rape that had happened. Then she wiped her eyes and began to put Dipu to sleep.
That night, Tony did not return. She spent the entire night awake. The next morning, Tony returned with fresh milk and bread. Manjit wanted to smash Tony’s head with a brick. Tony understanding her mental condition went downstairs with eyes glancing downward to make tea. After some time, he came upstairs. He had a smile on his face.
“Your situation will be sorted out, Madam.” Tony said in a conciliatory tone of voice.
But Manjit did not respond. She looked in Tony’s direction with fury in her eyes. With that same, old lustful smirk, he began to pour the tea into the cups.
“Whatever was meant to happen, has happened…Take this tea. Wash your face and hands and change your clothes…Take a look at how ugly you look.
“Your man lives in a country of white women… Where women stand beneath streetlights and call men with a gesture of their hand. How did your husband pick you, such low-grade stuff?” When Tony exceeded all limits of indecency, Manjit could no longer control herself.
“What do you know about my husband, you bastard? When I tell him of your misdeeds, he will eat you alive.” Abuses shot from Manjit’s mouth like bullets.
“You are going to tell your husband? About my misdeeds? From where has this brave man come who will eat me alive? If he had any feelings for you, why didn’t he come and get you himself? Why are you going through an agent?” Tony laughed sarcastically.
“He had to…” Manjit began to say something but quickly stopped herself.
“Compulsion is just an excuse. Here, men sleep around with dozens of women. What do you know about your husband? What will you get by telling him? Your honour is in your hands. Moreover, no man in this world would keep a woman in his house who has slept with strange men. You’ll just create problems for yourself. You’ll pay the price.” Tony’s words silenced Manjit.
For some time, she went on thinking in silence.
“You don’t worry. You are a married woman. Here, we don’t abandon unmarried girls. What will come of you? So, has anyone compromised your virginity? After all, you have a kid…Who will ever know? Your sacrifice will not go wasted. Take a look. I bought your papers from Peter. You’ll be allowed to travel onwards.” Tony withdrew the paperwork from his pocket.
A sparkle returned to Manjit’s sad eyes. Having forgotten all of her pain and sorrow, she began to eat a biscuit with her tea.
“What else is going to happen to me?” Manjit made herself get up to go to the bathroom to wash her face and hands.
Looking at herself in the mirror, she saw that what Tony said was true. Her face looked haggard. Looking at herself carefully after so many months, she sobbed. Her face was gaunt. Her eyes were sunken with dark circles appearing all around them.
Her face had become skeletal. The veins in her long neck were clearly visible. Her body was emaciated. The darkness of her sorrows snatched her rosy glow and left her face sallow. Her one-expressive face had become a portrait of despair. Her youth had faded.
“Sorrow and anguish consume a person…,” she said to her reflection in the mirror then she washed her hands and face.
Deep inside a person, no matter how despondent and defeated by life they may feel, there is still some glimmer of life that illuminates a path out of this darkness. This is where Manjit was. Somehow, her heart told her that there would be an end to her misery. She, like an ordinary woman, would reach her husband’s house and forget all of her hardships. Holding this thought, she spent the whole day playing with Dipu. Just like a person, who after sustaining an injury is weak but healed by nature and rebounds twice as strong to face down challenges, Manjit too resolved to ford this difficult path.
“What was to happen, has happened. What was my fault?” Holding this thought, she began trying to forget the incident of that night.
She was asleep at midnight when she felt something moving on her chest. Fear seized her breath. When she opened her eyes and looked, she saw Tony stretched out next to her, his right hand exploring her body.
“Bastard.” Manjit grabbed his hand and twisted it.
“Don’t speak loudly, Madam. People outside will hear,” Tony whispered.
“Let them hear, you prick. Get out of my room.” Manjit, with all of her strength, kicked him in the legs.
“Stop it…Stop it. It’s not good to get so angry. Am I any worse than Peter? If Peter could enjoy himself, what’s your problem with me taking a turn?” Tony didn’t mind her kicks of rage and smiled, revealing those black teeth.
“That happened once,” Manjit clarified.
“If it happened once, then what’s the problem with it happening again and again?” Tony now began to show his manliness. He tore Manjit’s clothes. Manjit was helpless and looking all around. Tony spread a blanket out on the floor and put Dipu to sleep. Manjit was grateful that at least her child was not watching him violate her.
But Manjit’s wish would not remain fulfilled for long. On the third day, Tony came with two other men, Pala and Narman.
“These are our men, and they will take you across the border with Russia…” Tony introduced them to her.
Upon seeing these men, Manjit didn’t like them. One could see the debauchery in their eyes. Then Manjit began to shake with some unknown fear. A woman, no matter how simple she may be, is an expert in reading the eyes of men. And Manjit set out on that path where there was no dignity or honour. She put Dipu to sleep then she took a blanket and tried to sleep. The loud drunken laughter coming from the other room kept her awake.
A while later, Pala came into her room and dragged her out from underneath the blanket. He was the rape champion. He didn’t let Manjit put up the slightest resistance and, like Peter, gave evidence of manliness on the floor of the room. When Pala had exhausted himself, Narman came. He couldn’t speak a word of Punjabi, but every torturer understands the language of cruelty and how to use it. Narman was not unfamiliar with this language. This happened repeatedly throughout the night. As if both men had decided their turns. Inside, Manjit had lost her will to say anything. She was not prepared for these sudden assaults.
The next day, Tony stayed with her the entire day. Because of the incident the night before, whatever hesitation he had was now gone. Now he violated Manjit in front of Dipu. If Dipu cried, he threatened to turn him over to the police. Several days passed like this. So, when Tony finally handed over the paperwork to travel onwards, Manjit could not believe it. Tony took four hundred dollars from her, claiming that it was for purchasing things and bribing onward agents.
“Take these jeans and top and put it on. You’ll get caught in Indian clothes.” And then he told her to change her clothes.
The next day, Pala and Narman put her on the train going to Budapest. The long trip took two days and nights and was exhausting. But at all times, on the train, there were checkers and other passengers. Because of this, she was not afraid of those two sadists. At the border with Hungary, the railway employees gathered the passports which, upon reaching Budapest, were returned.
Once they reached Budapest, Pala and Narman dropped her off at a flat and returned.
“So be it. I escaped that hell,” Manjit consoled herself.
According to what Paul said, two men going by the names of Ali and Makhan would facilitate her border crossing into Austria that evening. Manjit stretched out on the sofa and began waiting for these two strange men.
It was now quite dark but the two men had not come. Manjit felt restless. She didn’t know where she was, their ages or even what they looked like. But it turns out that she didn’t have to wait much longer. Around nine o’clock at night, the door to the flat opened and the two young men came in together. One was dark complexioned and the other was wheatish.
Manjit sat up on the sofa.
“It’s okay. Be comfortable. You can stay where you were,” the dark-complexioned man said.
The two men looked at each other and made secretive gestures. Manjit saw everything and ignored it. She had become used to tolerating such filthy gazes and rapacious behavior. The two of them went into the kitchen and began warming something. Then they took out a bottle of booze and put it on the table. The dark one, Ali, filled two glasses with alcohol and offered some to Manjit.
“No.” Manjit answered with hatred.
“Makhna. You take this,” Ali yelled at Makhan who was standing in the kitchen.
“No. I am not drinking,” Makhan answered from the kitchen.
“Drink it, bastard! If you drink, you’ll have the courage to act.” Ali picked up the glass and went to give it to him in the kitchen.
Ali returned and put Manjit’s neck in his right arm and kissed her for a long time. Manjit did not resist. It was as if she had lost the power to fight back. Dipu got up and began to play with the brass statues on the shelf. He had become accustomed to seeing everything.
“You do not have a visa for Austria. The police are very strict here…,” Ali began to strike fear in Manjit’s heart.
“I know. I do not have a visa. I know how strict the police are. However strict they are, compared to animals like you, they will be gentle…” Manjit suddenly boiled with rage.
Ali and Makhan looked in her direction in bewilderment.
“What do you want to say, girl?” Ali asked in an annoyed voice.
“Why are all of you dogs all alike?” Manjit’s voice was also piqued.
“From which jackal and wolf-infested jungle have you come? You should be grateful that they didn’t chew on your bones or your kid’s.” Ali’s eyes had the sparkle of a butcher, and he grabbed Manjit by her braid and yanked it hard. Manjit let out a cry and even Dipu began to cry out of fear. Ali slapped Manjit on the face two or three times and grabbing her braid dragged her into the other room.
Ali said “We have become bored with white meat. These days, we rarely get any Indian women.” He then rendered Manjit helpless and threw her on the bed.
“Makhan’s turn came after Ali’s. Then came Ali’s turn, then Makhan’s. Both of them repeatedly did their duty.
After abusing her like this for some time, Ali demanded one hundred dollars from her so that he could give it to the agent who would take her onward. Manjit withdrew the last one hundred dollars from her bag and handed it to him. In the evening, Ali put her in a car and took her to the snow-covered mountains ahead. Before getting out of the car, he gave some instructions to Manjit.
“The next station after this will be your husband’s house. Once you’ve reached there, you should not talk about us. Even we have a reputation. You also will be disgraced. For this reason, you should forget everything that has happened during your journey.” Then he handed her over to Jack, the driver of the Sky Train, and left.
Jack took her to a guest house. He then said something in an unknown language to the older white woman sitting at the reception and they both laughed. Manjit could neither understand anything nor did she want to.
At night, Jack came to make use of his manliness. Manjit laid quietly on the bed like a corpse.
The next evening, Jack took her on foot along the twisting mountainous route. Ahead there was a dense forest and the darkness of night. But Jack wanted to make her cross the border at midnight, when the soldiers on guard would change shifts at midnight. They spent several hours walking along the uneven path. Both were ready to drop due to the cold and exhaustion. Both took turns carrying Dipu, who was asleep.
“Look! There is Germany…” Jack signaled towards the wire fencing ahead.
Manjit looked ahead with wide eyes as if she were searching for her lost destination in the darkness.
“We must crawl under this wire. There is a current running through it twenty-four hours a day. If it is touched by you ever so slightly, you will be caught.” Jack warned her of the dangers.
She hesitated for a moment.
Jack warned her, “Do it quickly. Otherwise, I will leave you here and go back.” Then she gathered her courage and laid herself out in the crevice that had been excavated beneath the wire. She squeezed herself through to the other side on her back. Jack handed her Dipu in the same way, then ran towards the dark forest.
Manjit, without wasting a single minute, turned towards the left following Jack’s instruction. Around five hundred feet ahead, there was a black car waiting for her in the darkness. Without giving it much thought or consideration, she got into the car. The Gujarati driver started the car without even turning around to look.
As the car sped up, Manjit’s memories came flooding back just as rapidly. She remembered each and every moment of her life like some story. Only she knew what had happened to her, what she had suffered, and what she endured in silence. She could tell no one. She was contemplating the deep extent of a woman’s suffering. She worships like a God the very one who destroys her. She wasn’t even considered worthy of explaining the reality of these so-called gentlemen who have been appointed the caretakers of society. If she were to say the slightest thing in protest of their cruelties, she would be punished. Society would boycott her. She would be exiled from the homes of her father and husband, and the mark of the stigma would always be a target on her forehead. Perhaps fearing this, she would tolerate all of the abuse quietly and would not share her agony.
Up to this point, she had endured in silence. Her heart had already been crushed in her own country, where people and her relatives taunted her and ruined her life. Without any other option, she had to set upon this dangerous path. Otherwise, somehow or the other, she would have remained waiting for Harjit her entire life. She had no objection. But in this way, she was kicked out of her village.
Physically, she had been eviscerated by the monsters of this unknown land. Monsters who roamed around everywhere in the guise of men, whose hunger could only be sated by the flesh of women. They didn’t leave any meat on her body. Ali was correct when he said that if they could, they would chew on her bones. There was no part of her body that did not have the marks of the teeth and nails of those monstrous beasts. Even now, she felt their rough hands probing her body as if they wanted to tear away her flesh. Who knew which hand belonged to whom? There were so many hands, and they all felt the same. It was as if they weren’t fingers on her entire body, but lizards slithering. Filthy lizards, under whose stench, the fragrance of the beautiful moments spent with Harjit were vitiated.
She was thinking about Harjit when she recalled with great intensity all of those incidents that happened to her.
“Should I tell Harjit about this?” she asked herself.
“No. You’ll just cause problems for yourself.” Tony’s words were ringing in her ears.
“How can one keep such an enormous truth away from the man with whom one will spend her entire life?” she asked of the darkness.
“In the entire world, there has never been a man born who will let a woman who has been with another man in his house.” Ali’s eyes glimmered in the dark.
“Then what should I do?” Worried, she clutched her bag.
She found a packet of hard cane sugar, which her father had given her for good luck. She felt as if her hands had frozen.
“When your father comes to know your story, he will kill himself by eating poison. Harjit won’t keep you…How will you go — having left Dipu alone in this cruel world? You have seen the savagery and reality of this world. For this reason, you will remain quiet. Leave the decision in the hand of God…Women tolerate anything to preserve the honour of the family.” The packet grabbed her hand.
“So be it…If this ever gets out, then I will explain to Harjit that I destroyed myself for his son. If it hadn’t been for Dipu, she would have ended her story by leaping into a well in the village. Maybe Harjit will forgive me. He is so educated and gentle. If he cannot understand my pain, then curse this life.” Thinking about this, she began her journey quietly like a train that would stop at several stations, and travelers would get on and off continuing forward towards its final destination.
“In just ten minutes, we will deliver you to your husband.” The Gujarati driver said in Hindi, breaking the silence.
Manjit’s heart began to pound hard and her hands and feet began to tremble. Her mouth was dry. She ran her hands over her hair and fixed her chunni[3].
“Have I really reached my husband’s country? What will be the first words I say to him?” But Harjit wouldn’t let her say anything. He would run to her and bring her into his arms in front of everyone…Maybe he’d even forget Dipu…But she would stop him herself to say, “Take care of your child. With great difficulty, I cared for him these last five years. Now it’s your turn.” All of this seemed to be a dream.
Suddenly the car stopped with a jerk beneath an electricity poll. Manjit looked outside from the window. Some man was standing there with his hands inside the pockets of a leather jacket. Manjit watched with great attention. This was indeed Harjit. He got a little heavier and perhaps this was why she didn’t recognise him.
The driver got out of the car and was talking with Harjit for some time. Manjit began to feel anxious. Why was Harjit taking so long? Why hasn’t he come over to open the door and embrace her? When Manjit could no longer control herself, she slowly opened the door and came outside. Outside there was a frigid wind blowing and her chunni flew off, but Manjit didn’t realise this. Taking soft steps, she approached Harjit and the Gujarati man.
“Who is this,” Harjit asked in surprise.
“This is your wife…,” the Gujarati said happily.
“My wife? Dude, you have brought me the wrong woman. This is not my wife…” Harjit said worriedly.
“Believe me, sir… This is your wife. Look carefully.” The Gujrati was very distressed.
“Do you think that I am looking at my wife for the first time? She is very beautiful. Here. Look at her picture…” Harjit took his wallet from his pocket.
Manjit saw that Harjit was showing the photo of her when she was a maiden with two braids in which she is standing holding a book to her chest…a young girl.
Manjit wanted to say something, but the words would not come out.
“You certainly should be able to recognise your child?” The driver wanted to give more proof.
“When the wife isn’t mine, how can the kid be mine? Go. Go make an idiot of someone else…,” Harjit said in a stern voice and quickly went and sat in his car parked on the other side of the road.
“You…You. Please listen to me.” The driver ran behind him.
But Harjit, with a jolt, turned his car around and disappeared in a plume of smoke.
Just as Harjit’s car turned around, Manjit’s mind began to spin… She felt dizzy, and everything around her seemed to be spinning. It was as if the entire universe was spinning…Manjit lost her footing. Before the driver could do anything, she fell to the ground.
[1] Jat here refers to a person from the farming community. It also could be the caste of the boy
Veena Verma is a Punjabi short story writer based in UK. She has brought out three anthologies of short stories.
C. Christine Fair, the translator, is a professor in Georgetown University’s Security Studies Program. Her books include In Their Own Words: Understanding the Lashkar-e-Tayyaba (OUP 2019); Fighting to the End: The Pakistan Army’s Way of War (OUP, 2014); and Cuisines of the Axis of Evil and Other Irritating States (Globe Pequot, 2008). Her translations of Hindi, Urdu and Punjabi stories have appeared in the Bombay Literary Magazine, Bombay Review, Muse India, Kitaab, The Punch Magazine, and Borderless Journal. She reads, writes and speaks Punjabi, Hindi, and Urdu.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
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
Title: Maya Nagari: Bombay-Mumbai A City in Stories
Editors: Shanta Gokhale, Jerry Pinto
Publisher:Speaking Tiger Books
The very mention of the name Mumbai (or Bombay) brings to our minds a great city in India where the thriving metropolis grows at a rapid speed because people not only flock here from different parts of the country to make quick bucks and survive against all odds, but also because the film industry of Bollywood has also established it as a city of dreams, one that never sleeps and instead creates a mirage-of-sorts — an illusion, rightly labelled by the editors of this anthology as ‘Maya Nagari’. Edited by Shanta Gokhale and Jerry Pinto, this book, comprising twenty-one short stories about Mumbai takes the road less taken to create a non-uniform image of the metropolis. In tune with its multicultural and multilingual nature, we have stories about the city that is a sea of people and speaks at least a dozen languages. There are stories translated from Marathi, Urdu, Gujarati, Tamil, Hindi, Kannada, Malayalam, and stories written originally in English. Among the writers are legends and new voices—Baburao Bagul, Ismat Chughtai, Pu La Deshpande, Ambai,Urmila Pawar, Mohan Rakesh, Saadat Hasan Manto, Ambai, Jayant Kaikini, Bhupen Khakhar,Shripad Narayan Pendse, Manasi, Krishan Chander, Udayan Thakker, Cyrus Mistry, Vilas Sarang, Jayant Pawar, Tejaswini Apte-Rahm and Anuradha Kumar.
As Jerry Pinto clearly states in the introduction, the stories can be read as we like, we can begin with the first story or the last, or any story in between. The observant reader might notice that he and the other editor Shanta Gokhale have deliberately chosen not to organise the material according to chronology, or geography. This is partly because they believe that the city lives in several time zones and spaces at once, as does India, but also because there is something essentially chaotic about its nature. So, he says, “the stories echo and bounce off each other, they do not collide, but there is a Brownian motion to these patterns” and he hopes to let the readers find it. Here, Mumbai is stripped of its twinkle; it is deglamourised to reveal how it’s the quotidian that lends the city its character—warmth and hostility alike and as inhabitants of the city the editors call ‘home,’ they hope a narrative will emerge.
In the twenty-one stories of this collection, there is the city that labours in the mills and streets, and the city that sips and nibbles in five-star lounges, the city of Ganapati, Haji Malang and the Virgin Mary. What binds the stories together is ‘human muscle’ – the desperate attempts of men and women of all classes and castes to survive in this heartless city amid all odds.
The stories are of different lengths and written in different narrative styles. Of the five or six stories translated by Shanta Gokhale herself from Marathi, one is struck by the excessive length of the so called ‘short’ stories. The very first one “Oh! The Joy of Devotion” by Jayant Pawar, forty-five pages in length, narrates in detail about the Ganapati festival and how it is related to the fate of the local people. Pu La Deshpande’s story “A Cultural Moment is Born”, set in the 1940s, tells stories of people living in chawls [slums] and how they spend their cultural days. Another very long story translated by Gokhale called “The Ramsharan Story” tells us about the rise and fall of a bus conductor by the name of Ramsharan who turns out to become a union leader. Baburao Bagul’s “Woman of the Street”, written originally in Marathi and translated by Gokhale again, tells the story of Girija, a sex-worker trying to collect money to cure her son in the village. The story ends on a disturbing note, as it reaffirms the relativity of success.
Once again, Krishan Chander’s story “The Children of Dadar Bridge” translated from Hindustani by Jerry Pinto is so long that it qualifies to be called a sort of novella. In this powerful story God comes to earth to a chawl and offers food to the first-person narrator. Then, impersonating as a small and innocent child, and along with the child narrator, he moves around different places in the city to witness its activities firsthand — we get to know about behind the scene affairs that take place in the film studios, about satta[1] dens, about bribery, local dons who arm-twist every new hawker to carry on their business after receiving their weekly cut money and more. In “Civic Duty and Physics Practicals”, Malayalam writer Manasi reveals the different experiences one comes across living in a society defined by power equations. Issues of hooliganism, superstition, illegal colonies, corruption, intimidation and violence are explored in a single story where the narrator is struggling, for days, with blaring speakers at a wedding nearby, even as her son tries hard to prepare for his upcoming exams. The story soon takes a dark turn where power trumps over consideration for fellow human beings.
A very powerful story written by Ambai in Tamil called “Kala Ghora Chowk” deals with issues of Marxist ideology, trade unions and the fate of a raped woman called Rosa. Anuradha Kumar’s “Neera Joshi’s Unfinished Book” tells us the life story of one woman who “made the city” and the perennial problems of displaced mill workers when the closed mills give way to high-rise buildings. Some of the stories are of course written in a lighter vein, though they also depict different problems related to city life. As the title of Vilas Sarang’s story “An Afternoon Among the Rocks” suggests, it narrates the plight of a couple trying to make love in the deserted seashore and how they get hijacked by a smuggler! In “The Flat on the Fifth Floor”, Mohan Rakesh writes about two sisters who meet the narrator after one failed love affair. A moving picture of the closing down of cinema halls in Mumbai comes out very beautifully in the Kannada story “Opera House” by Jayant Kaikini, especially narrating the plight of one of the sweepers working there when the declaration of permanent closure is pasted everywhere. Tejaswini Apte-Rahm’s “Mili” tells the story of a man who meets his ex-girlfriend after five years.
Though it is not possible to give the details of each and every story included in this anthology in this review, one must mention some of the stories that were originally written in English. Cyrus Mistry’s “Percy” about a young and lonely Parsi boy is so compelling that it was even made into a Gujarati motion-picture. “House Cleaning” by Jerry Pinto tells the story of a woman cleaner and his son, who talks about the reality of street dwellers. Eunice de Souza’s “Rina of Queen’s Diamonds” is not a straightforward narration at all but offers a collage of different vignettes of life in Bombay.
Though most of the stories portray the seamier side of life and in some ways de-glamourise Mumbai, at the same time they also portray how human resilience can combat all sorts of odds, and the city can be revealed only through shared experiences. Thus, each of the twenty-one stories in this collection tells a different tale of Mumbai, Bombay, Momoi, Bambai, Manbai and many others. As the editors have rightly pointed out at the beginning of their introduction, “You cannot catch a city in words. You cannot catch a city at all.” They felt that “it is not meant to be caught…this city resists even more because it was not designed at all; it just happened and it keeps on happening.” Thus, the four-hundred plus pages of this anthology Maya-Nagari remains a book to be treasured and read now at leisure and also at any time in the future.
Tahira Naqvi, the Pakistani American writer, has extensively translated the works of Saadat Hasan Manto, Khadija Mastur, Hajra Masroor, and the majority of works by Ismat Chughtai from Urdu into English. As a teacher/professor of Urdu language and literature at New York University, she has regaled us with several short stories that speak of cross-cultural encounters of immigrant Pakistanis in America, especially about how women experience acculturation in the New World. The History Teacher of Lahore is her first novel where she recollects the sights, sounds, and ambience of growing up in Lahore in intimate details. The setting of this novel is the nineteen eighties, which was particularly a time of unrest in Lahore. In this debut political novel, Naqvi eloquently portrays the struggle between a besieged democracy and the rise of Islamic fundamentalism on the one hand, and the thriving cultural traditions of Urdu poetry on the other.
The story begins with the young protagonist Arif Ali who moves from his hometown of Sialkot to Lahore with a dream of being a history teacher and a poet. A ‘tall, slight man in his late twenties,’ we find him relaxing on a bench in Jinnah Park — a place that has become haven for him to spend his time reading, far away from the ferocity of traffic and street crowds. In the days that followed, Arif realised that in the Government Model School for Boys where he taught, he was forced to teach the boys another kind of history for his sake as much as theirs. But that required deep thought, time, and enthusiasm. He befriended Salman Shah, another teacher in his school, and his rapport with him grew stronger by the day. But once again, Arif found the atmosphere in the school was becoming increasingly confining. He would often engage in animated chatter with the high school Islamiyat teacher Samiullah Sheikh, whom he found disagreeable. Not only dressed in Shariyah compliant clothes, but this man was also waiting for his opportunity to teach at a madrassah[1]. This was the period when bans were being imposed on popular music of the kind Nazia Hasan and her brother sang for the younger generation, and even though ‘Disco Deewane’ and ‘Dreamer Deewane’ were sung loud, fear had become an elixir for rebellion. Arif was forced to resign from the school and along with his friend Salman. he ultimately got another position as a history teacher in another private school, Lahore Grammar Institute, where there was more freedom to teach than in the earlier one. The free socializing among the sexes here was new and noteworthy for Arif.
As Arif’s impotent rage towards the increasing religious intolerance grew, he joined his friend’s uncle Kamal and his partner Nadira to secretly help them rescue underprivileged children in clandestine ways. In the meantime, his poetic creations found great impetus when he found a secret admirer in Roohi, Salman’s sister, and started sending her his poems regularly. Though they never met, Roohi would write letters to him every week, and gradually, the more letters Arif received from her, the more his feelings for her grew. The secrecy of their epistolary courtship continued for quite some time till things were disclosed and after a lot of twists and turns in the story, they were finally engaged to get married.
In the meantime, his friend Salman got engaged to a colleague Zehra Raza, and despite the Shia-Sunni clashes that prevailed in society all around, they were unaffected by such ideology. The three of them developed a close camaraderie among themselves, but soon after, the General’s death brought in a lot of political turmoil in the city. The mentality of the public also changed, people went en-masse to watch public flogging, and trouble loomed ahead when Sunni Shia, Ahmadi non-Ahmadi, Punjabi Urdu-speaking, Protestant-Catholic, divisions and sub-divisions, inter-faith, inter-class and inter-religion issues became more and more marked in all spheres of society. The warp and weft of faith produced such tangled intricacies as could only be imagined in nightmares.
As the nation was caught in the vortex of religious extremism, Arif’s position also underwent a great change in the school when he wanted to teach ‘true’ history to his students. He was caught in a dilemma when he found he was forced to teach false historical information in the doctored textbook that Aurangzeb with his hatred of other religions was adored whereas Akbar with more religious tolerance was totally sidelined. He tried to rectify the errors by providing supplementary notes to his students, but that landed him in more trouble. Apart from differences of opinion with the other teachers in school, Arif’s was gripped with a kind of fear and frustration when some unidentified goons threatened him to stay away from issues that did not concern him. Things got worse when a Christian student in his class was falsely accused of blasphemy and Arif decided to save him from being arrested. He embarked on a dangerous mission to resolve this Christian-Muslim conflict that landed him in the middle of sectarian clashes and without giving out all the details, one just mentions that the novel ends at a tragic moment.
In the acknowledgement section Naqvi states that she is grateful to her father for many things but especially for his Urdu poetry which she has used freely in translation. These poems, ghazals and nazms, help to explain the different moods of the protagonist and his mental situation very clearly. One interesting aspect of the novel is that each of the twenty-two chapters is prefaced by a small quote that in a way summarizes the mood and content of that chapter. Most of these quotes are from Jean-Paul Sartre, while others are from Spinoza, Ghalib, Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116, H.W. Longfellow, Jacques Derrida, Tertullian, Thomas Mann, and four entries particularly from The Lahore Observer dated 15 September 1990, December 1990, January 1997, and January 1998 respectively. These wide-ranging quotes not only increase the story-telling impact, but also endorse the erudition of the novelist herself.
To conclude we can say that Bapsi Sidhwa’s The Ice-Candy Man gave us the sights, sounds and details of Lahore during the Partition in 1947, and the same city becomes wonderfully alive again through the pen of another woman writer from Pakistan who had spent her growing years there, and who gives us details about it from the 1980’s onwards when the political situation of the country was once again very murky. The novel wonderfully portrays the radical Islamisation of the country that included murder, mayhem, and public flogging and more that was visible in Lahore, as this process resulted in terrible uncertainty in the lives of the city’s residents from all walks of life. Strongly recommended for all readers, we eagerly wait for more novels by Tahira Naqvi in the future. The insider-outsider’s point of view offered by her is remarkable and this debut novel can be counted as a collector’s item.
O, White Lady!
Your alluring figure,
With seductive gestures
And sway of your gentle gait,
Sets lamps aquiver
In shame and discomfiture.
O, White Lady!
Your flower-adorned hair,
At times, gleams red,
At times, shines black,
At times, turns grey.
The morning and evening breeze
Tousle them in shameful disarray.
Women, sneer at you
As with comely grace
Their exquisite clothes they array.
Atta Shad(1939-1997) is the most revered and cherished modern Balochi poet. He instilled a new spirit in the moribund body of modern Balochi poetry in the early 1950s when the latter was drastically paralysed by the influence of Persian and Urdu poetry. Atta Shad gave a new orientation to modern Balochi poetry by giving a formidable ground to the free verse, which also brought in its wake a chain of new themes and mode of expression hitherto untouched by Balochi poets. Apart from the popular motifs of love and romance, subjugation and suffering, freedom and liberty, life and its absurdities are a few recurrent themes which appear in Shad’s poetry. What sets Shad apart from the rest of Balochi poets is his subtle, metaphoric and symbolic approach while versifying socio-political themes. He seemed more concerned about the aesthetic sense of art than anything else.
Shad’s poetry anthologies include Roch Ger and Shap Sahaar Andem, which were later collected in a single anthology under the title Gulzameen, posthumously published by the Balochi Academy Quetta in 2015.
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 Atta Shad from the publisher.
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