Translated from the Urdu by Syed Kashif
God knows what is happening to her day by day, as if someone has thrown her into a well, having chained her hands and feet—and she is drowning deep, very deep, in complete helplessness. She wants to scream. But her howl echoes back in her ears. She feels as if her soundless scream would burst her eardrums. For some days, she has not felt like doing anything. She just wants to keep lying down quietly. She neither wants to utter a word nor listen to one. A strange cobweb of despair gradually gets woven around her existence. She feels like tearing apart her dress and claw away the webs woven around her. Why does it happen? Why is it happening at all?
For long, she was lying down quietly on her back and staring at the ceiling. The ceiling fan was whirring right over her head. What if the ceiling fan gets unhooked? A visual appears in her mind. Her trampled head is hung with the revolving fan; the blood gushes out from it and splashes onto the wall—making it colorful.
Caw caw——caw caw.
She turned her head and saw. A crow was sitting on the railing of the gallery. He was cawing relentlessly. She looked at the crow sternly. She had seen a crow after a long time. She felt a bud sprouting from an unknown corner inside herself. But in the very next moment, the crow flew away. The little excitement that had just blossomed inside her burst like a bubble.
The sunlight had slipped down from the railing of the gallery. The lone rose flower, blooming in the pot hanging from the ceiling in the balcony, had now paled. In the morning, she had thought to pluck it and wear it in her hair. But, later, she had deferred it. What should she do? Nothing attracts her. Neither dressing up, nor doing makeup, nor even putting a flower in her hair. A strange and suffocating mist keeps her mind engulfed. A mysterious murkiness, if tried to be cleared, makes things darker. As a siren of a faraway mill blew, she startled. She looked at the wall clock of the room and murmured, “Oho, it’s time for...”
The suffocation in the atmosphere amplified. The walls, gradually, slid to grab her. The ceiling came down. The fan hanging from the ceiling began to spin right at her head. Oho, how intolerable are all these! What am I even alive for? She closed her eyes. She felt the floor in her room was slowly sinking into the ground. Will she get buried alive here only? Jittered, she opened her eyes.
Ah! The evening is on its way to descend—like a grinning witch. Now she is very scared of the evening, as if the darkness of the evening every day crawls into her heart rather than descending on the roof. Evenings here are horrific—terrible, dull, and exasperating! As the evening approaches, she still gets reminded of a mooing cow; the calf sucking milk from her mother’s udder with her tail waving in the air; the puffed-up twilight appearing to be a red scarf; the birds chirping among the branches of peepal; herds of white egrets; and hazy hills during twilight. Why is she reminded of all these? She wishes she could forget all of her past! But, is it easy to forget all of that? Tan Tan Tan…
It’s time for Ashok to arrive. Now I should get up. If I do not get up, and in case Ashok happens to see me lying on the bed like this, he would get upset—What happened, are you alright? Why is your face getting paled? Let’s go to see the doctor. Would you like to go out for picture?
What a problem is this! Why does Ashok at all love me so much! Why does he care about me so much! I am really having a little headache. But I would not tell this to Ashok, otherwise he would rush and get a doctor home or call a taxi and insist that I should go and see a doctor. Or he would settle down beside her to massage her head. And, then he won’t stop even after a millions of ‘No’. She remembers well how he had taken leave for more than one occasion and had kept seated beside her to look after her even on her usual ailment. Now she is even scared of falling ill.
He does not offend her—not even for fun. She hardly remembers a day when Ashok gave her an opportunity to sulk. How much she yearns for a chance to get angry with him! When got angry, how much her father and mother would toil to win her over! And, how much pleasure she would get in this game of getting angry and then being cajoled! But Ashok knows nothing about cajoling. When at all he gives her a chance to get angry, she has a chance to be cajoled! He does not go against her ever. When she says ‘Yes’, he also says ‘Yes’. When she says, ‘No’, he also nods in negative—‘No’. To tease him, at night she would say to him, at times—“Not today, I am feeling sleepy.” And, his fingers crawling over her body would stop instantly. No rage, no reproach! No squabbling, no bickering! Only a bare affirmation!
“I see, you are feeling sleepy—go to sleep—tomorrow…….”
And then, after a while, the nasty snore echoes in the room. She gets very upset. Her heart gets filled with anger, insult and embarrassment. She feels like screaming loud, loud enough so that the neighbourers get waken; Ashok gets up jittery and she scratches his face with her long nails. But she is not able to do anything like that. She neither screams nor scratches Ashok’s face. She keeps lying silently, with her eyes gazing at the ceiling. The silence of night keeps echoing in her ears, with the ticking of clock. It screams—Shalu——Shalu——Shalu…”
At the riverside, while collecting seashells and pebbles, she would walk afar. Kamla would get anxious. She would keep calling Shalu and running after her.
“Shalu, let’s go home”, it’s been a while!”
“Wait for some more time, it’s so much fun, aren’t you enjoying?”
“I am, but you get crazy when you visit the riverbank.”
“Yes, it’s really so much fun here. How wonderful it would be if I were a fish, a small fish! I would dive and swim in the water—from this corner to another!”
“And, where would you sleep at night?”
“In the boat of the moon! At night, the moon descends on the river to take a bath! I would sit in his boat and keep drifting across the river for all the night.”
“You are crazy…”
Kamla would drag her home by her braid with great difficulty. At times, both of them would run on the sand at the riverbank. They would make balls of the sand and hurl at each other. They would grapple with each other—and keep falling down and getting up. By the side of river, with the waves of water going up and down, her heart would always fly up in the sky like a wanderer bird. And now here—she looked at the naked walls standing beside her, which appeared to be falling down on her from all four sides. She felt as though she was a mummy, a thousand-year-old mummy of Egypt and this room was a very big coffin. She had never ever thought that she would be picked up, all of a sudden, from a lush-green field, boiling waterfall and singing river and then be confined inside these narrow and stern walls. She was a flower of jungle. Who did sow her in a pot? Poor rose of the pot! She glanced at the rose, blossomed in the pot outside, with great grief.
There was a bagiya before her house too. How colourful flowers bloomed there! Red, yellow, purple and pink! When she ran to pluck a flower, bumble bee would buzz around and tease her. They would buzz around her ears again and again. When black and ugly bumble-bee hovered around the flowers, she would get annoyed. She never liked the bumble bee buzzing around. On the first night of her marriage, when Ashok whispered in her ears—“how beautiful you are!”— only God knows as to why she was reminded of bumble bees buzzing around. On the first night itself she had understood that Ashok was crazy about her. He can even lay down his life for her. Now it’s been a long time since they got married. But he is still buzzing around her. No matter what, she is ashamed of herself now, thanks to his intense love. She is not in need of such a glutinous love, which fills her heart with emptiness—and fails to satiate it. She did not know how to say it to Ashok that he should not love her that much, as she did not like him being so clingy at all. After he gets released from the office, he keeps spinning around her—like a whirlpool. In the evening, when they go out to stroll, he holds her hand and snake-walks, saving her from motors, rickshaws and the hustle-bustle, as if she is made of glass and would shatter into pieces, if pushed by anyone or anything. He leaves her hand not even for a moment. She feels as if she is still seven to eight-year-old Shalu Mina and her Baba is taking her to the village-fair.
“Baba, buy me a doll…..”
“Okay, will buy you one.”
“Baba! See that chaabi-wala monkey.”
“Hey, toy-seller, what’s the price of that monkey?”
“Baba, leave my finger, na...”
“No beta, look at the crowd, you will get lost.”
She wished to roam around in the fair alone and walk far away! Wander far and wide, roam relentlessly, and then get tired! But she was really very small then.
Suddenly, she would get annoyed. She would try to get her hand freed. Ashok would, readily, release her hand. But in the very next moment, he would slip his arm around her waist, and then, helpless, she would take a deep sign and surrender herself to him. Walking on the footpath, he would protect her—from bumping into people and vehicles speeding on the road—the way she used to help Jamna Maiya cross the road in the village with her stick. On such occasions, she wished for a speeding car to crush them or a roaring bus to toss them away like a ball, so that both of them were kicked to faraway places, separating them from each other.”
When they travelled by train or by bus, Ashok would sit beside her—so close that smell of his sweat would keep bumping into her nostrils. In case only she got a seat to settle in and he had to stand beside her, she would glace at his face, surreptitiously. How perturbed he looked on such occasions! Perturbed and pitiful! And, as soon as the adjacent seat fell vacant at the next stop or station, he would rush to sit beside her. He looked so perplexed and perturbed as if he had found his lost wallet out of blue. He would often reserve corner seats in theatres. As soon as lights of the theatre were switched off, he would budge up close to her, so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her shoulder. He would hold her hand in his and keep caressing that. And, she would witness her joy of watching movie being ruined before her eyes. She did not know whether it was Ashok’s love behind his passion for her or it was his strategy to protect her from other men. Even in his absence, she would feel as if he was somewhere around her and keeping a vigil on her, with his eyes rolling all around. What kind of relation is this at all which haunts her all the time like a ghost? What kind of love is this which scares her at every corner as if it is a ghost? It’s been a year since they got married, but the zeal in Ashok’s love has not diminished even a bit. She is now sick and tired of lifeless everyday-love. But Ashok practices this routine punctually, like a dull-headed student repeats his lesson, persistently, to memorize it.
Life was monotonous—wake up in the morning, take a shower, have breakfast, go to the office and then return home again in the evening. As the evening descended, she would do all household chores as she did the previous day and Ashok would keep hovering around her. Then, they would take a glass of milk. Afterward, they would change their dresses. And, then while lying on the bed; they would flip through the pages of some magazine. In the meantime, Ashok would keep coaxing her. As the time passed, they would breathe faster.
Next, he would cuddle her body gently, as if it was a shawl made of silk or velvet. A chilling wave would run through her veins. Her husband caressing her body would soon fill her with a strange feeling of flabbiness inside her. While drowning in the flabby sea, she could hardly sense as to when the table-lamp was switched off and as to when she was taken to dark— which was dense and familiar. During ups and downs of her breath, in the moments when she was in her senses she could see the zero-power bulb spreading dim light in the room, making the ambience of room awful like an emergency ward of the hospital. It was the moment when she felt being surrounded by the roaring sea but yearned for a sip of water—cold and sweet. In thirst, her throat turned dry. Her heart rent in a strange fear, repent and abhorrence. Soon, she would shut her eyes and bury her face in the pillow. Her body would turn numb like a branch of tree which had been cut down. Ashok would put on the light again. He would drink the milk kept in the glass and extend the other glass to her, but she was so knocked- out that it was hard for her to even open her eyes, let alone get up and have milk. Often, Ashok would drink her share of milk too or it would keep lying as it is till the sun rises. From morning to evening, and from evening to morning—everything would happen as planned, as framed and as before; as if hands of the clock are revolving around in the definite circle running one after another; tick, tick, tick, tick...
Now, she is jaded with all these. At times, she even dreams about weird things—her husband has come home drunk late at night; as he is angry he is beating her mercilessly, but only God knows what is that he is angry about; her body is drenched in blood; but shockingly even after being beaten up so mercilessly she is not crying; nor is there even a drop of tears in her eyes; and strangely she is rather at ease from inside, as if a ripened and throbbing boil has suddenly ruptured and thus the entire pus has flown out. She also dreams about a dacoit taking her away on a horse; and a shadow chasing her while screaming and shouting, with dust blowing all around. She recognizes that shadow instantly. It is none other than her husband Ashok. But strangely she does not feel pity for him at all. Rather, she gets pleased—savagely—to see Ashok in this state of restlessness.
But all these were dreams. At one time in sleep, and at another time, while awake. No dacoit kidnaps her ever. Ashok, too, does not come home late at night, inebriated. He comes home every day on time. Everything happens as it had happened the previous day, the day before previous day, and the day before that previous day.
“Shalu, I have heard your husband is an officer in some office of the city?”
“Yes!”
“You are very lucky! You are going to settle in a city. Will you miss your friends after you are settled in the city?” A strong storm had erupted in her heart.
“Shalu, you are not saying a word. Have you seen your husband-to-be, haven’t you?”
“Yes!”
“How is he?”
As she walked the lane of memories and recalled these questions, a gust of wind arrived and took her away, far away in the past, opening the window of nostalgia.
Two years ago, she was in Class IX. A kabaddi match was going on in school play ground. Many young school-boys had come from neighboring villages to play kabaddi. She, Kamla, Lata, Pushpa and other girls, on behalf of school committee, were deputed to distribute sweet-sour toffees to the players whose turn were over.
Perhaps he was the leader of Dharampur’s team. Dark complexion, black and glittering eyes like the seeds of custard apple, body like an athlete, height perfectly tall—when he came to raid, crossing the midline, on the opponent side of the court yelling kabaddi kabaddi, there was a complete chaos amongst the players of opponent team. Once, he was the only one left on the side of his team’s court. His all co-players were out. When he raided the opponent team, they surrounded him. Everyone’s eyes were aimed at him. Shalu had even held her breath. Then, the opponent team, all of a sudden, shouted and launched an attack on him. Shalu could not control herself. She screamed spontaneously. But in the very next moment, she saw that he leapt like a fish, ran over their heads and fell on the midline. People shouted in surprise and joy. Seven players of the opposing team were out at once. After three minutes, the game was over and result was declared. She headed forward and placed toffees, one in the hands of each player. While she was offering the toffee to him, her hands shivered and the toffee fell down.
“Oho, I am so sorry”, while being apologetic to him, she placed four to five toffees together in his palm.
“This much--?”
“Yes, please have it—You must be thirsty.”
“Yes—yes, I am thirsty.” While saying this, he put all four to five toffees in his mouth, and laughed while looking at her. She too had laughed out loud. Thus, till prize distribution ceremony was not over in the evening, she kept hovering around him. Whenever he glanced at her, he smiled, and that’s it. After the evening ceremony was over, all the players left for their villages. The team of Dharampur also left. And, he too. After that, she did not find him ever. But that day, with that question, god knows why she was reminded of him. The boy—whose body shined like copper in the sunlight, whose arms had eye-catching biceps, who had ever-smiling lips, and whose eyes were as black as the seeds of custard apple.
After marriage, one day Ashok was showing his album to her. “See, this is my childhood photo. I am going to school carrying books. See, in this photograph, I smell the flower, like a Nawab of Mughal. See this one; I am lying on the grass. In this, I am with my office colleagues. This one, I am with my boss.”
“Have you ever played Kabaddi?” She asked him out of blue.
“Kabaddi?”
“I mean, do you not have any photograph of playing Kabaddi in your school or college?”
“No, not at all!” Ashok replied with his head high in pride. “I did not have any interest at all in games since beginning; I always remained engrossed in my study. You know, I was topper of the university in B.A.”
She fell silent at once. After that day, she never felt interested to see Ashok’s album.
After marriage, she and Ashok came to the village for the first time. In the evening, she took him to the riverside.
“Here, I and my fried Kamla used to stroll and collect sea-shells for hours. We used to spend hours in the water, catching fish and then releasing them in the deeper area. Do one thing, you catch me, I will run. I will see how fast you can run on the sand.”
Although Ashok ran to catch her, but after not more than ten steps he began panting. By then, she had already reached the parapet of the field, by prancing like a deer. As she turned around, she saw Ashok was still on the riverside. Bent down, he was trying to find something. Perhaps his spectacles had fallen down while running. All her enthusiasm had died out.
In the mid of the field, a ‘scarecrow’ was standing. God knows why she felt a strong urge to snatch the spectacles from Ashok and put it on the scarecrow. How will the scarecrow look in the spectacle? Without his specs, Ashok looked weird.
She always laughed out loud whenever she saw a scarecrow. Whenever she passed through a field, she did throw a stone or two at the scarecrow. She would enjoy hitting the scarecrow. Yet, it’s true that she was a bit scared when she had seen a scarecrow for first time. She was very small then.
“Baba, who is this man of clothes?”
Baba, while smiling, had said, “Arre muniya! This is not a man, but a scarecrow.”
“What is this scarecrow, baba?”
“A scarecrow looks after the field, my dear daughter!”
She had laughed and said, “How does this man of clothes keep a watch on the field, Baba! He is not even moving!”
“He does not move. But, birds and animals keep away from the field believing this effigy to be a man.”
Since then, god knows as to why whenever she saw a scarecrow; she would have a desire to throw a stone at him.”
“Tan——”
Oho, it’s half past five… Now, I should get up. Ashok is about to arrive. She rose and sat up on the bed. As she sat up, she encountered her image—dull and drained—in the big mirror of almira, kept against the wall.
Who is this? So exhausted, and so worn-out...
Oho, how much I have changed in a year! Earlier, I would play and run all day. But I never got tired then. Now I keep lying all the day, even then I get tired. A rest, not desired, makes a person tired…
Her eyes fell on the big frame hanging on the wall—of Ashok, who was smiling and staring at her. A strong desire erupted in her, and then faded—to hit the frame with a stone, so strongly that it gets shattered in one blow.
In the meanwhile, the door bell rang.
She had her heart in her throat. Oho, perhaps Ashok is home. She stepped towards the door, but reluctantly.
Salam Bin Razzaq was a renowned Urdu fiction writer. Born in 1941 in Panvel, Maharashtra, Razzaq was considered one of the distinguished Urdu fiction writers of the time. His short stories—many in number—were published in several reputed journals of Urdu. His first short story ‘Raincoat’ was published in popular Urdu magazine Shayer (Mumbai) in 1962. There are four anthologies to his name—Nangi Dopahar Ka Sipahi (1977), Mu’abbir (1987), Shikasta Buton Ke Darmyan (2003), Zindagi Afsana Nahi (2012). Breathed his last on 7th May, 2024, Salam Bin Razzaq was the recipient of Sahitya Aakademy’s Award (2004), for his third short story collection Shikasta Buton Ke Darmyan.
Syed Kashif does literary translations as a hobby and he loves doing it. He translates from Urdu to English and vice-versa. His various translations have been published in Muse India, Urdu Adab (Delhi). His English translation “Land of the Law” of Sheen Muzaffarpuri’s short story “Qanun Ki Basti” (Urdu) has been published in Urdu Studies, a Peer-Reviewed Bilingual Research Journal (Vol 3, Issue 1, 2023). His latest English translation of Salam Bin Razzaq's “Priests of the Black Cobra” has been published in Indian Literature, IL345 (Sahitya Akademy, New Delhi). He can be reached at kashifrazasabri@gmail.com