Shajeer grew taller than anyone else in his class. In no time, he had become upright like a palm tree—branching out for the sky—while all the other boys and girls in his class peeked over him to look at the podium in the school assembly. He was like any other hazel-eyed boy with his wavy curls and a peel of mean laughter. He had just stepped into the cusp of his late teens and stood out in the lazy crowds of the small town of Poonch—the one that often engulfed everyone in its monotony.
“Shajeer, with your height, you should play sports!” His class teacher had remarked once.
Choices were numerous: cricket, tennis, hockey, basketball. He had decided his heart was in tennis. The school PE teacher was also a member of the town’s sports committee, who told him that there were no provisions for tennis in Poonch. If he wanted to become the next Roger Federer, he would have to travel to Delhi! Shajeer could not even dream that far yet. So he opted for what was available and joined the volleyball classes. Unsurprisingly, Shajeer stood tall even in the game. His performances were promising; he could smash the volleyball with utmost ease, and his coach assured him that he would qualify for the nationals; make his family proud, and if everything went well—possibly score a comfortable government job.
Poonch was a town sleeping on its glory. The ennui wrapped around the valley like a weighted blanket. Those who escaped it would never return, and the ones who stayed—it was hard to tell if the town made people into what they would become or if they shaped it.
Every day, after school, he would help his father in the welding shop. From there, he would ride his dingy scooter to the Sher-e-Kashmir bridge and buy himself two cigarettes. Down the riverbank, he would settle on the largest rock he could find. It was always the same one. He would light his first cigarette, watching the smoke unfurl as the sun submissively dragged itself towards the night. Everything around him felt calm; the rhythmic hum of the traffic, the steady pull of the river, and the smoke in his lungs slowed his racing heart. By the time he reached the second cigarette, an unease would creep in. The cigarette would suddenly feel foreign in his hand. The sound of prayer from different masjids, temples, and gurudwaras would rise in unison, and the taste of the tobacco would soon turn bitter in his mouth. A wave of aversion would take hold of his chest, and he would fling the cigarette out of his mouth without finishing it. Its sparks scattered away as it hit the ground.
Often, he would crave the famous kaladi kulcha, sold by a man named Ramdhari from Bihar near the Fountain Park. He would spend the money he had saved while working at the welding shop on the chewy deliciousness of kaladi, topped with just the right amount of salt and chili powder, and gently wrapped in a soft bun. Shajeer’s father used to call Poonch a pecan nut, suggesting that it aspired to be a walnut but failed miserably. This was also the analogy he used to describe Shajeer’s future if he did not learn welding diligently.
Shajeer attended the Tanzeem al-Taleem school near his house but as soon as he turned 13, he insisted his father put him in an English-medium missionary school, like his cousin, Saira, who spoke fluent Englilsh. He had always been close to her and turned to her for everything before she moved to Delhi. Hearing Saira speak English fluently inspired Shajeer to work on his English speaking skills. He saw it as the doorway to confidence and success. And so, he started to borrow the Daily Excelsior from a local newspaper shop and read it at the welding shop. Even though the tardiness of the act frustrated him, he remained steadfast.
Shajeer had grown up hearing apocryphal stories about Poonch’s origins. Among these tales, the most absurd was the one about its name. In the final days of his grandmother’s life, Shajeer was the sole caretaker for her, washing her clothes, oiling her hair that felt as fragile as a bird’s skull, and dealing with her capricious bowel movements. It was an exhausting and tedious time for him.
One night, while his daadi struggled to sleep, he had asked her, “Daadi, why is Poonch called Poonch?”
She cleared her throat and began speaking in a hoarse voice, wincing occasionally from aching knees.
“Ehhhhhhh, years ago, there lived a great, sinister lizard the size of this town.”
“Why sinister? What did it do?” Shajeer inquired.“
It was asked to move away from the land so that humans could live there.”
“Then, what happened?” Shajeer asked, growing impatient and baffled.“
It refused to move, so a warrior cut off its tail and made mountains out of it. The moment the tail was severed, it dug a hole and hid itself right in this land.”
“OH! So this is why it is called Poooonch because it was created out of the tail of a lizard, right?” he blurted out a burst of mean laughter.
She continued, “Waai, I did not want to mention this, but since you are such a brat, I will tell you that your great-grandfather grew a tail, like that lizard, because he used to laugh at these serious things like you and indulge in bad things.”
Shajeer’s eyes widened, but he did not utter a word.
She continued, ‘When they buried him, they had to place him on his right side because the tail kept coming in the way. He did not even get to face the God in the sky. By God’s grace, your father and grandfather were saved from that curse because they kept on walking on the path of their faith. So be careful!’
Her eyes had turned blatantly morbid. The center of the town had cracked open for a fleeting moment. It reshaped the perception of his family, this place, and its people. There was, now, a dissonance—a split between what he had known before and what had been revealed to him.
But the story was etched in Shajeer’s mind. In the evenings, he rushed to the roof of his house and checked if the mountains were indeed growing bigger, like the tail of a lizard. For the next three months or so, Shajeer kept checking his tailbone, in case there were signs of a tail growing.
Shajeer was putting his blood, sweat, and tears into volleyball practices, he already won a few games at the state level and won. His name was even mentioned in the Daily Excelsior and Kashmir Uzma newspapers. The time of reckoning was near since the selection rounds were soon going to happen in Jammu. His father had no clue about his growing ambitions, his photos in the newspapers, or the fact that he might leave for good.
Every so often, Shajeer’s father would send him to Jammu to get supplies for his father’s welding business. Shajeer’s longing to get out of Poonch grew from those quarterly meetings with Salim in Jammu. Salim had once been his classmate but had to change schools when his father got transferred to Jammu. Despite having grown up in a comfortable family, the difference between Salim and Shajeer never affected their friendship. The virtue of their friendship was that the town’s burden had not tainted Salim. He had left before it could.
“Like your Daadi used to say when I used to visit you, jithe da khota, uthe aaya khalota,” Salim would say in a broken dialect every time he picked up Shajeer at the bus stand in Jammu. Where the donkey belongs, there it stands. His mangled accent always made Shajeer laugh, though he often wondered if Salim understood the meaning behind this saying.
Salim had insisted on living independently and rented a room just a few kilometres away from his parents’ new house. “A man needs to struggle and be independent, he said.
“That is why I admire what you do, all that manual work at the welding shop,” he added, fidgeting with his new digital watch.
Shajeer forced a nervous smile and said, “Abba has hired two new men; I don’t have to work anymore.”
“That’s great, but yaar, I miss Poonch and its people and the gediyaan at the bridge! Do you still smoke there?”
“Oh, hardly, I don’t have time anymore with volleyball practices and studies.”
“Ohooo, our future volleyball champion, I saw your dashing photo in the newspaper!” Salim teased, pinching Shajeer’s right cheek.
“You should come to Poonch and watch me play sometime, I am Anwar sir’s favourite.”
“I will, one day! (he sipped on tea) I have heard the road is still under construction. Bumpy rides make me sick. I don’t know how you do it every month.”
“Maybe the man should not whine like a little girl over a bumpy ride,” Shajeer shot back. Salim’s eyes narrowed before breaking into a grin.
As usual, Salim offered his statement t-shirts and cargo pants. They visited Wave Mall, bought tickets to watch a movie because Salim loved movies, discussed their crushes, their ambitions, and in the evening, took a ride to Talab Tiloo to have noon chai and butter girda, which Shajeer loved.
When it was time to leave, they chatted about when they would meet next. As Shajeer was about to board the bus, Salim stopped him and thrust a box into his hand and ordered, “Take this, volley ball champion!”
Shajeer raised his eyebrows in protest, “I can’t; it seems very expensive.”
“Anything for you, Yaara! You are my only true friend, rest everything is fake!” They hugged awkwardly. On the bus, he waved Salim goodbye, who disappeared into the crowd. Shajeer opened the box; inside lay a modest analogue watch. Shajeer tried it on, but the dial fell loose against his wrist, and the thin scratch on it glinted in the window light. Shajeer felt his heart drop as the bus engine roared.
A month before the selection process, Shajeer had gone to meet his cousin, Saira who had come to stay for sometime. He looked up to Saira for how confident she was but did not quite understand her short, bright red hair and dark lipsticks.
“Assalamualaikum, baaji! How are you?”
“Waalaikumussalam, Shajeer. Look how tall you have grown! MashaAllah.”
Shajeer blushed and asked, ”Baaji, can we talk?”
“Yes, Shajeer! What is it?”
“Baaji,” he said, holding up a newspaper cutout proudly. It showed the state game he had won. His voice trembled with excitement. “Baaji, I really want to become a khiladi.”
He shared everything, the dilemma he was in.“Shajeer! I am proud of you!”
“Baaji, but you will have to talk to Abbu. I have asked my coach also, but if you speak a little English, he will take you seriously.”
The following day, Shajeer had made all the arrangements at home. He brought a one-litre Fanta bottle from the neighborhood shop, some biscuits, and a snack mix. He arranged them on a tray and ran to the terrace to wait for his Khala, Baaji and his coach, Anwar.
As dusk approached, Shajeer saw a silhouette of two women. His heart sank. Baaji’s red hair was striking; she was not covering herself. Her hair was open, and its redness blinded him. She looked like a fallen mulberry. He anxiously rushed down to welcome them. His Abba was in the kitchen, cooking dinner for the night. The coach was already in the drawing room, sipping on his Coca-Cola. He had not noticed the dismissive look that Shajeer’s father shot him.
“Assalamuaalikum Maamu,” Baaji had wished, but he did not respond or look at her. Undeterred, she settled herself on the sofa of the drawing room. Anwar kept staring at her, but she remained indifferent.
Shajeer called his father, who hesitatingly sat down. Anwar showed his father the newspaper cutout from Kashmir Uzma.
“What in the world am I supposed to do with this?” his father retorted, annoyed.
Shajeer stood nervously near the door, chewing on his nails. Anwar began to explain Shajeer’s dedication and the hard work he had put into the game, exaggerating as he went. “Best player in the whole wide world! Very talented boy.” Anwar kept repeating these phrases without any conviction or substance. His father seemed more annoyed than convinced.
“What do you want me to do then? Leave everything so my son can play around while I break my back at the shop?”
“Maamu, he is a very talented player. He has won games at the state level. You should invest in sending him to the nationals. This is a good opportunity, and I know he will make you proud.”
“He will take care of the shop. That is decided.” He stopped her mid-sentence.
Shajeer’s Khala sat there quietly, nodding at everything while counting her prayer beads and signaling Saira to keep quiet.
“Please, Maamu, let him go na. He already works at the welding shop, and he has the dedication to become an even more dedicated player!”
“Yes, yes, completely agree with this girl,” Anwar added from the background.
“If he has such dedication, he should work more around the shop. We need more labour anyway.”
The conversation continued for an hour or so, with everyone making their case for Shajeer. Throughout the conversation, Shajeer did not dare to look at his father once.
“Abba, khuda kasam, I will kill myself if you don’t let me go! I have done everything you asked of me. Now you need to listen to me,” Shajeer suddenly mustered up the courage to speak up.
“Then go, kill yourself. You killed your mother also when you were born. At least I wouldn’t have such a bebaak aulaad.”
The room fell silent. Anwar approached Shajeer, placing his hand on his shoulder, “Let’s try next year!” he said and left.
“But this is unfair!” Saira emphasized with urgency in her voice.
“Should I send him out so he could become like you? These are all signs of the judgment day. Today he is doing this, yesterday he was looking at half-naked women, God knows what he will do if I send him out. I am not going to hell for my son’s sins! He is not going anywhere, and that is final!”
He left the house. His Khala urged Shajeer to comply with his father since he was getting older. He felt baaji’s disappointed eyes on him but did not look at her. The tears turned to anger again. Deep inside, he was mad at her for not acting right. She should have worn a hijab, or at least a dupatta! For one day, just for him. Maybe then his abba would have been more receptive. He was infuriated at his coach for not standing up for him like he should have. Shajeer questioned his coach’s faith in him and whether he really possessed the potential to play nationals. His superficial support infuriated him.
Shajeer locked himself inside his room with a kitchen knife in his hand and stared blankly in the distance. When it was the time for maghrib, his father started knocking on the door. Shajeer pressed the knife against his wrist and made a diagonal cut. Blood flowed, he fell back on his bed, his gaze meeting the gaze of a tailless lizard staring back at him from the ceiling and things went dark.
When he opened up his eyes, he saw his father sitting beside him on the hospital bed. He had rescued Shajeer in time and rushed him to the hospital. Shajeer felt his father’s hand over his, and felt an uncanny reassurance for the first time.
“You can go if you want,” his father murmured.
Shajeer could not believe his ears, “Really, Abba?”
“I will drop you off at the bus stand.”
Shajeer was discharged a week later. He saw Saira calling him on the phone, but chose not to answer. Two days before his departure, however, Shajeer’s father had an accident at the welding shop. While working on a big metal project with a metal torch in his hand, a heavy metal beam fell out of a frail rack kept behind him, hitting him on the back and pinning him to the ground. In the chaos, his gloves caught fire. Despite quick action from the workers at the shop, his father’s hands suffered severe burns, and his back had been badly bruised.
The doctors had suggested Shajeer take his father to Jammu for treatment. Shajeer rented a room in Talab Tillo, and with the help of Salim’s father, he was able to admit his father to Government Medical College, Jammu. In the indefinite chaos of hospital visits, what Jammu had meant to Shajeer changed gradually—from alive and beating to tumultuous and restless. He often thought of taking a moment for himself, perhaps to watch a movie or visit Wave Mall. Still, the sight of his wincing father at the hospital flashed before his eyes, ensnaring him in guilt. His outings were limited to the dingy lanes of Talab Tillo, where he had rented a shabby room for 500 rupees per night because he had strictly refused Salim’s father’s insistence that he stay at their house. He would have girda and butter for breakfast, skip lunch to save money, and buy a plate of daal chawal for dinner from the stall near the hospital.
Eventually, his father was ready to be discharged. A considerable amount had been spent on medical expenses. His father had become extremely frail. He instructed Shajeer to start offering namaz regularly to pray for him, assuring him that it is the only way he will get better and Shajeer complied. He decided to dedicate his time to the welding shop and care for his father, who was still unable to walk correctly. The thought of returning to volleyball practice did not even occur to him amidst the mind-numbing fog of responsibilities he had fallen into, and those days of practice and playing soon became a distant dream. He joined the BA program at the local degree college and from that point on, his days followed the same routine.
Three cigarettes, a visit to the welding shop, a shorter time at the Sher-e-Kashmir Bridge, a scooter ride, stopping at phone recharge shops, offering prayers at the masjid, and then home. The dream of becoming a volleyball player gradually dissipated.
As he recalled the absurd stories he had heard and from his grandmother—the lizard, Ruki, ban buddhis, and the national volleyball player—all seemed like the beads of the same necklace, the one you wore to temporarily escape the indefinite monotony.
Shajeer tried actively to keep himself meaningfully occupied; he hardly took classes at college and could never study at home due to his father’s condition. He bought a few storybooks from the local newspaper shop, but his mind no longer accepted the comfort of imagination. He no longer felt the appetite for learning that he had once felt rummaging through the pages of the Daily Excelsior during his impressionable years.
He observed others like him, their flight, too, stifled by responsibilities, but they did not complain. Of course, he offered prayers as an obligation but the others seemed to have found God or had surrendered their youth to serve Him. He reflected on his life and convinced himself that he had squandered his days on insignificant pursuits, chasing temporary things. Even those times spent with Salim seemed like a waste. He saw Salim as directionless, too consumed by temporal longings—his clothes, watches, his flashy bike, all were compensations for his aimlessness. Then there was Saira—what had she gained, with her red hair, her fluent English—if she could not spread the word of God with that tongue?
Salim called him “There are so many smart and beautiful girls here in Chandigarh, you should definitely come here and see!” Salim exclaimed on the phone.
“Salim, those girls are not your mehram,” Shajeer replied.
Salim scoffed, not realizing that Shajeer was being serious and soon it hit him.
“Oho ho, so you have become a typical maulvi now?” Salim asked, surprised.
“I am your friend,” Shajeer asserted.
“Yeah, so be a friend. Just because you have grown a beard does not mean you are perfect now,” Salim answered.
“What does that mean?” Shajeer asked.“Like your Daadi used to say, jithe da khota uthe aaya khalota.”
*
Three cigarettes, an errand list longer than his beard, a paunch belly, a capless blue ball pen that he carries in the pocket of his kameez to mark off the errands, nestles itself on a stone under the same bridge. The hazel in his eyes—barely visible beyond his thick glasses. Eight years later, Shajeer, once as tall as the branches of a palm tree reaching for the skies, drops his cigarette. He hunches down to pick it up, and in those moments, between bending down and straightening up, there is a world of difference. No one can see Shajeer, who was once as tall as the palm trees. It’s like he never even existed in this world. It is the moment in which this town exists.
He rides his bike to the same old Ramu Da Kulcha Stall near Fountain Park. Ramdhir, now with his gray hair and slender build, gives Shajeer a meaningful look.
“How’s the little one?” asks Ramdhir.
“Ask him yourself!” Shajeer smiles.
“Ahmed Salah, stop playing with the bike’s handle and come over here!”
Ramdhir offers the less spicy kulcha to Ahmed Salah. Shajeer says his goodbyes and steps into Fountain Park. He settles himself on a patch of grass, Salah beside him.
“Fountain Park Pooonchhhh.”
“Abba, what is a fountain?”
“Fountain means fawwarra,” Shajeer answers and points to the nearest fountain.
“Poooonch, abba, why is it called Pooonch?”
“There was once a lizard whose tail was cut off, and from it, mountains were created. That is how our town came to be.”
Mehak Khurshied is a 28-year-old writer and a poet from Poonch, Jammu and Kashmir. She believes her writing is a constant dissipation of the self. Her work revolves around the themes of grief, nostalgia and identity. Her writing has been published in Muse India, The Monograph Magazine, The Chakkar Magazine, The Aleph Review, Verses of Silence and elsewhere.