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In the morning, I was arguing with the vegetable vendor standing at the street door over the price of cabbage. In the cook's kitchen upstairs, pulses and rice were put to boil. The employee had gone to the market to buy a deal. In the bathroom, Waqar Sahib was humming while looking at his face in the dim mirror placed above the china basin and kept shaving. I was busy arguing with the vegetable seller and thinking about what to prepare for dinner. Meanwhile a car stopped in front. A girl peeked through the window and then opened the door and came out. I was counting money. That's why I didn't see him. She took a step forward. Now I raised my head and looked at him.
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It seemed as if she had imagined me dead for a long time and now my ghost was standing in front of her. The memory of the terror I saw in his eyes for just one accent has driven me crazy. I will go crazy just thinking about it. This girl (I don't even remember her name and at that time out of shame I didn't even ask her otherwise she would have felt very bad) used to study with me in Queen Mary, Delhi. This happened twenty years ago. I must have been about seventeen years old at that time. But my health was so good that I looked much older than my age and my beauty had already started making waves. There was a rule in Delhi that boys and girls used to go from school to school to like girls and 'Ruqa' was sent to the house of the girl they liked. At the same time, I came to know that the girl's mother, aunt etc. had liked me (after seeing her during the school day prom) and now she was bent on making me her daughter-in-law. These people lived on Noor-Jahan Road and the boy had recently joined the Reserve Bank of India at a salary of Rs 2,500 per month. That's why 'Ruqaa' was sent to my house. But my mother Jaan was having big dreams for me. My parents lived outside Delhi in Meerut and there was no question of my marriage, so the message was not immediately accepted. After that the girl also studied with me in college for some time. Then she got married and left college. Today, after so long, I encountered him in this lane behind Mall Road, Lahore. I told him…, “Come up… have tea-y. Then we will sit and talk peacefully.” But she said, “I had come to this street in a hurry in search of the house of some in-laws relative. Inshallah I will definitely come again sometime.” After this, standing there, she quickly narrated the stories of all her old friends, name by name. Who is where and what is she doing? Salima is the wife of Brigadier So and so. Have four children. Farkhanda's uncle is in foreign service. Her elder daughter is studying in London. Rehana is the principal of such and such college. Saadia has brought many degrees from America and is holding a high position in Karachi. She was also unaware of the condition of her Hindu college friends. Prabha's mother is a commodore in the Indian Navy. She lives in Bombay. Sarla is a station director at All India Radio and Junubi is posted somewhere in Hind. Lotika has become a very famous artist and has a studio in New Delhi etc. She was saying all these things but I could not forget the terror in her eyes.
He said…, “Whenever I, Saadia, Rehana etc. gather in Karachi, I always remember you.”
“Really…?” I asked with a hollow laugh.
I knew in what words I would be remembered. Back-feet, hey, were these people my friends? Women are actually witches to each other. Harvests, scams, he didn't even ask me what I was doing here in this ruined house in a deserted street. He knew. The intelligence service of women is so powerful that even Interpol has to face it and then my story is well known. My status is not worth mentioning. I am an unknown celebrity. That's why no one cares about me. I don't even care about myself.
I am Tanveer Fatima. My father was a resident of Meerut. He was a small-scale landowner. There was a very strict purdah in our place. I myself was separated from my uncles and aunts. I was a girl who was loved by countless boys. After I won several scholarships at school, I was admitted to Queen Mary's School specifically for my matriculation. I was sent to Aligarh for Inter. The time at Aligarh Girls College was the best period of my life, what a dream-filled period it was. I am not a sentimentalist, but even now, when the atmosphere of the college, the splendor, the rain falling on the tall plants of grass, the black burqas roaming in the exhibition ground, the thin verandahs of the hostel fire, those gloomy domestic atmospheres of the small rooms, When I remember, my heart sinks.ReplyForwardAdd reaction
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The clay boss was also like the one who is being created in my heart and mind at this moment and in the same way, while lying down, I had handed over my fluttering soul to her.”
“He told me… Believe me, my life was empty of these moments that you have given me… I am thankful to you for the empty spaces that you have filled in my personality today. If you had not come into my life, perhaps it would have always remained incomplete… I don't understand. What more can I say to you… I am done. So completely that I feel like I don't need you anymore... and he's gone... gone forever.”
“My eyes cried… my heart cried… I pleaded with him. I asked him a million times why I don't need you anymore... whereas your need... has started now with all its intensity. After those moments which, according to you, have filled the empty spaces of your personality.”
He said, “Every ounce of your existence that was needed for the development of my personality, I kept on giving these moments… Now that the development has taken place, my relationship with you has automatically ended.” Is."
How cruel those words were… I could not tolerate this stone pelting… I started crying loudly… but it had no effect on him, I told him, “These particles which have enhanced your personality, They were a part of my existence... Do they have no relation with me... Can the remaining part of my existence break its relation with them? You have become complete… but by making me incomplete… is that why I made you my god?”
He said, “Bumblebees suck the juice of flowers and buds and make martyrs, but they do not even bring its dregs to the lips of those flowers and buds. By staying with Adam for a few moments in hell, he perfected his existence... where is Adam now... what is the need of his existence now? She was a mother who had perished on her mother's bed as soon as she gave birth to existence."
A woman can cry… she cannot present arguments… her biggest argument is the tears rolling down from her eyes… I told her, “Look… I am crying… my eyes are shedding tears… If you are going, then go, but wrap some of these tears in the shroud of your handkerchief and take them with you... I will keep crying all my life... I will remember only this much that the shroud of a few tears will be buried. Stuff you did too… to make me happy!”
He said, “I have made you happy… I have separated you from the solid pleasure of which you used to see only glimpses… Can’t his enjoyment, his coffee, become a support for the remaining moments of your life? You say that my perfection has made you incomplete... but is this incompleteness alone not enough to keep your life independent... I am a man... today you have completed me... tomorrow someone else Will do... My existence is made up of such a person whose life will have many such moments when he will consider himself as a fulfillment of desire... Many women like you will come who will fill the void created by those moments. Will fill the places.”
I kept crying and getting upset. I thought... these few moments which were in my grasp just now... no... I was in the grasp of those moments... why did I surrender myself to them... why did I give my fluttering soul to them I put her in the cage with her mouth open... there was fun in that.
There was a pleasure... there was a coffee... it was definitely there and it was in his and mine's stead... but... what is it that he was proven-o-salim... and I was in trouble. ...What is this, that he no longer feels the need for me... But I feel the need for him even more strongly... He has become powerful. I have become helpless... What is it that there are two clouds in the sky facing each other... One started crying and raining, the other turned into a bolt of lightning and ran away playing with the rain and making noises... Whose law is this? ...of the skies?...of the lands...or of their creators?
I kept thinking and getting irritated. Two souls coming together and becoming one and becoming one and taking up marriage... Is this all poetry... No, two souls definitely come together and reach that tiny point which expands and becomes the universe. But why is a soul sometimes left injured in this universe... Is it because it helped another soul to reach that tiny point?
What kind of universe is this? These were the days... the sky was as blue as the eyes as it is today and the sunlight was also as lukewarm and lying down like that, I had handed over my fluttering soul to her... she is not present.. .Who knows with what clouds he is playing like a flash of lightning… After completing his homework, he went away. There was a snake which bit me and went away... but now why is the trace left by it turning in my stomach... is this my progress?
No, no... what kind of improvement can this be... this is a change.
But these empty spaces of my body are being filled... with what debris are these pits being filled... what rustling sounds are running in my veins... what tiny feeling am I curling up in my stomach? I am struggling to reach the destination... After sinking, in which seas is my boat now rising to emerge?
For which guest is the milk being heated on the stove burning inside me...this is my heart. ReplyForwardAdd reaction
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- he train had entered the border of Western Germany. Lala's thighs were swaying as far as one could see. Cars kept passing by on the narrow roads of the countryside. Ducks were swimming in the rivers. Five passengers were sitting silently in a compartment of the train.
- An old man who was looking outside with his head resting through the window. A beautiful woman who was probably his daughter and seemed very concerned about him. Probably he was ill. At the other end of the seat, a happy-looking, well-built man, around forty years of age, with a relaxed face was reading a French book. On the opposite chair, a young girl, who certainly appeared to be an American, was leafing through a picture magazine and occasionally looking up to look at the handsome man in front of her. The face of the fifth passenger was hidden by the newspaper. The newspaper was in a strange language. Maybe Nordic or Hungarian, or maybe Icelandic. There are many people in this world who speak Icelandic. Read, write and say poetry. The world is not devoid of wonders.
- The American-looking girl, who wanted to know from a purely American expert what language it was, heard the handsome man talking to a young man reading a newspaper. He was also speaking in a strange language. But that language seemed a bit human. The girl guessed that this person was an Iranian or a Turk. She had met Chand Irani Talba in her hometown Toronto. Well, we came to know that this Fabulous Guy is Persian. (He thought in English. I am telling you in Urdu because the story is in Urdu language.)
- Suddenly the old man, who was English, said softly, “The world is really very beautiful.”
- This was certainly a British under-statement. The girl knew that the world was infinitely beautiful. The old man's daughter smiled slightly sadly at the Canadian girl. Spreading the blanket on father's legs, Madara said lovingly, “Dad. rest now."
- He replied, “Edna. “I want to see this show.”
- His daughter said to Rasan, “Well, after this, sleep for a while.”After this she came and sat near the Canadian girl. Go was English but perhaps she wanted to share her sorrow.
- “My name is Edna Hunt. This is my father, Professor Charles Hunt.”, she said slowly.
- “I didn't want to come to Germany. There are many dreadful memories associated with this country. My mother's two maternal uncles and one aunt and their children. everyone. Even today, when my mother sees smoke coming out of the chimney of a factory, she turns her face away.”
- "Oh!"“Although these are events long before I was born.” Although your family name is pure Anglo-Saxon.”
- “My maternal grandfather was Russian. My father's real name was David Greenberg. After going to Canada, I changed my mind to fielding to avoid embarrassment, but I...”, he said with some enthusiasm, “I am not cowardly like my father. I write my full name like this. Tamara Greenberg Fielding.” “Really?”, said the British lady, “How interesting.”
- “The poetry of ‘Aulad-e-Adam’ is very melodious,” Tamara said, unintentionally, in a slightly raised voice. Because she was always ready for this reason. The heartbroken man in front heard her concern and raised his head to look at her and smile. The girl fell in love with him in her heart and she herself smiled after seeing him, now I am almost falling in love with this stranger.The British lady also guessed that both of them were looking at each other with interest. If two people are drawn towards each other at a place, then understand that the people present will immediately feel this under-current. Because there is a strange illusion of attraction in the arms of the Son of Man.The old professor opened his eyes again and started looking out the window.
- “My grandfather… when he fled Kariya during the revolution, he took only the Quran with him,” Tamara said softly.
- “Coran…?”, Edna repeated in surprise.
- Be happy in this and let others be happy too. And perhaps the Muslim Prophet had said that there could be no better world than this.”, Tamara started rummaging through her bag in search of a simple lighter to light a cigarette.
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- The Iranian-looking man immediately leaned forward and lit his lighter. Then, seeking permission, he sat near Tamara.
- Edna Hunt moved to the other side. The Iranian-looking man passing by the window became engrossed in watching the pleasant scene. Tamara said to him softly, “These old men are in trouble. Don't know how people would feel when they come to know that they are going to leave this world after a few days. The thought that we will become extinct very soon. This world will never be seen again.”
- The Iranian-looking man smiled painfully, “A person who knows that he is about to die. He becomes hard-hearted.”
- “Really?”Hum-Safar told his name. Daktar Sharif. Tabriz University. Sho'ba-e-tarikh. Gave the card. Many blue letters of the name were printed on it. The girl inquired sheepishly, “N.I.Q. That means no IQ? Nusrat Uddin Imam Quli.”
- The girl did not feel the need to tell her name. He knew that this was certainly not his first and last meeting with this Nusrat Uddin Imam Quli.
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- The train stopped at a station in a town. The boy reading the newspaper got down from the platform at the same place.