HANKERING
HANKERING

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By the way, still I forget the ways. I was only fourteen or fifteen years old when my father was transferred to that city.
There were the employees’ quarters next to his office. Right behind the government colony was the migrant settlement called Camp Number Four.
The migrants had made a shortcut, breaking the boundary wall of the government colony. Instead of sitting idle at home after coming from school, I often tried to take that shortcut to the settlement. I couldn’t recognize the narrow streets of the Camp, so I got confused often and returned after promenading through one or two alleyways, scared of getting lost.
When I asked my father, he told me that before the partition, there was a big temple there. And there was a residence for the priests and an inn for the pilgrims adjacent to the temple, and a big Dhobi Ghat (a particularized place at the river’s brim for washing laundry by washerman), Almonry and a Monastery for them. After the partition, the latecomers got a built-up refugee camp, and then as people came, its population increased day by day. It wasn’t possible to do the haphazard resettlement in order.
I got the chance to see the camp from the inside first time when I passed through that labyrinth with Shabbir.
My fear of getting lost subsided.
The streets of the camp were so narrow that the platforms of the houses and the street corners acted as junctions. One had to stop for the other to pass.
There was a big problem of pure milk in our government colony. It was solved by Shabbir — one of colleagues of my father. He lived beyond the camp. He took me with him to a byre in the camp, and thus my duty of fetching milk started. I returned home asking the way back from people, and when I reached home it seemed as if my arm had grown three inches longer with the weight of the three kilos milk pail. The distance was not longer, but I had lost my way six times.
The next day at four o’clock in the afternoon, the same occurrence of disappearance was encountered. Now I found me lost in a compound where there were houses with front yards all around, and an old big tree in the center with a round podium.
On one side of the podium, a few girls were doing some work and doing some unfamiliar thing playfully.
I stopped by the podium. I was looking around like nincompoop that a girl of my age approached me and looked at me inquisitively.
“Where is Dittu’s barn?” I asked.
She pointed to a corner where many taps were lined up for ablution.
She had a mischievous smile on her face, which led me to ponder for a moment skeptically, and then I moved towards the corner she had pointed.
Along the taps, there was a 15 to 20 feet room-like mosque. There was a two-foot wide lane along the wall of the privy for the prayers.
I got out of that narrow passage, rubbing against the wall and found a street with shops on both sides.
I asked about Dittu’s barn, a man pointed to the same two feet wide alley on the right. There was the byre at the end of the lane.
I had found the shortcut.
When I returned from the same way with milk, the girls were still there. But my guide girl wasn’t there.
I started to stop for a minute on the podium under the old tree when I went there to fetch milk. Some cloth-shreds, some amulets hanged on the tree.
When I returned home with milk, mother was talking to a neighbor woman.
“Mother, why do people tie twists on trees?” I couldn’t wait.
“Where did you see that?” Mother asked me, astonishingly.
“You must have seen it in the camp. There is a big banyan tree in the compound of the old temple. They do it for the fulfillment of their wishes since the time of the Hindus.” The neighbor aunt said in one breath.
I had no wish.
Next day, I sat under the tree on the podium. The old tree seemed me kind. I felt an urge that I should talk to him. Twines and cloth-shreds hung here and there. I don’t know which unfortunate’s wish was stuck between the earth and the sky.
Sometimes, I would see that girl and other times not for several days. The day she appeared, she must had stopped for a moment and looked at me.
One day, I saw her coming from the alley next to the mosque. The passage was so narrow that either of us could pass.
I stopped.
When she came near, I dared to say, “Thanks.”
She stopped. “For what?”
She asked without stepping move forward.
“To show me the way.”
I shifted the milk pail from right hand to left hand.
“Only this way leads to the market. Even if I didn’t tell you, you would have found it by yourself,” she said and went away.
I watched her go. She stopped at the door step of a house, turned around, gave me a cursory glance and entered the house.
When I lay in bed at night, I felt something missing in my life for the first time. What? That girl?
A fifteen-year-old boy cannot segregate sex and love. So, I couldn’t either. I just understood that a companion is necessary for the perverted deeds cited in the profanities.
The imaginings of that girl turned out to be my need.
When Mom left, switching off the light in the room. My fancies brightened, and sleep flew far away. There was a turning around girl’s gaze that continued hugging throughout the night.
After that, if I would lie down even during the day time with my eyes closed resting my head on my arm, she would appear before my eyes instantaneously.
And played with her all that what I had perceived.
I loved her features better than her face. I started to stop for a longer time beneath the old tree.
Onlookers’ senses and girls’ censors are very sharp. She knew. The next day, three or four people came to see my father. I was asked for forgiveness. After that, I was allowed leave home only to go to school.
The milkman started to supply milk.
The story did not end here because I had learnt how to weave a story.
Now I am 40 years old married man. I have children. I have a job.
But it’s still fanciful to lie in the dark imagining someone. The screenplay remains the same, only the heroine changes.
….
(Translated from Urdu by Najam-uddin Ahmad)
****
By the way, still I forget the ways. I was only fourteen or fifteen years old when my father was transferred to that city.
There were the employees’ quarters next to his office. Right behind the government colony was the migrant settlement called Camp Number Four.
The migrants had made a shortcut, breaking the boundary wall of the government colony. Instead of sitting idle at home after coming from school, I often tried to take that shortcut to the settlement. I couldn’t recognize the narrow streets of the Camp, so I got confused often and returned after promenading through one or two alleyways, scared of getting lost.
When I asked my father, he told me that before the partition, there was a big temple there. And there was a residence for the priests and an inn for the pilgrims adjacent to the temple, and a big Dhobi Ghat (a particularized place at the river’s brim for washing laundry by washerman), Almonry and a Monastery for them. After the partition, the latecomers got a built-up refugee camp, and then as people came, its population increased day by day. It wasn’t possible to do the haphazard resettlement in order.
I got the chance to see the camp from the inside first time when I passed through that labyrinth with Shabbir.
My fear of getting lost subsided.
The streets of the camp were so narrow that the platforms of the houses and the street corners acted as junctions. One had to stop for the other to pass.
There was a big problem of pure milk in our government colony. It was solved by Shabbir — one of colleagues of my father. He lived beyond the camp. He took me with him to a byre in the camp, and thus my duty of fetching milk started. I returned home asking the way back from people, and when I reached home it seemed as if my arm had grown three inches longer with the weight of the three kilos milk pail. The distance was not longer, but I had lost my way six times.
The next day at four o’clock in the afternoon, the same occurrence of disappearance was encountered. Now I found me lost in a compound where there were houses with front yards all around, and an old big tree in the center with a round podium.
On one side of the podium, a few girls were doing some work and doing some unfamiliar thing playfully.
I stopped by the podium. I was looking around like nincompoop that a girl of my age approached me and looked at me inquisitively.
“Where is Dittu’s barn?” I asked.
She pointed to a corner where many taps were lined up for ablution.
She had a mischievous smile on his face, which led me to ponder for a moment skeptically, and then I moved towards the corner she had pointed.
Along the taps, there was a 15 to 20 feet room-like mosque. There was a two-foot wide lane along the wall of the privy for the prayers.
I got out of that narrow passage, rubbing against the wall and found a street with shops on both sides.
I asked about Dittu’s barn, a man pointed to the same two feet wide alley on the right. There was the byre at the end of the lane.
I had found the shortcut.
When I returned from the same way with milk, the girls were still there. But my guide girl wasn’t there.
I started to stop for a minute on the podium under the old tree when I went there to fetch milk. Some cloth-shreds, some amulets hanged on the tree.
When I returned home with milk, mother was talking to a neighbor woman.
“Mother, why do people tie twists on trees?” I couldn’t wait.
“Where did you see that?” Mother asked me, astonishingly.
“You must have seen it in the camp. There is a big banyan tree in the compound of the old temple. They do it for the fulfillment of their wishes since the time of the Hindus.” The neighbor aunt said in one breath.
I had no wish.
Next day, I sat under the tree on the podium. The old tree seemed me kind. I felt an urge that I should talk to him. Twines and cloth-shreds hung here and there. I don’t know which unfortunate’s wish was stuck between the earth and the sky.
Sometimes, I would see that girl and other times not for several days. The day she appeared, she must had stopped for a moment and looked at me.
One day, I saw her coming from the alley next to the mosque. The passage was so narrow that either of us could pass.
I stopped.
When she came near, I dared to say, “Thanks.”
She stopped. “For what?”
She asked without stepping move forward.
“To show me the way.”
I shifted the milk pail from right hand to left hand.
“Only this way leads to the market. Even if I didn’t tell you, you would have found it by yourself,” she said and went away.
I watched her go. She stopped at the door step of a house, turned around, gave me a cursory glance and entered the house.
When I lay in bed at night, I felt something missing in my life for the first time. What? That girl?
A fifteen-year-old boy cannot segregate sex and love. So, I couldn’t either. I just understood that a companion is necessary for the perverted deeds cited in the profanities.
The imaginings of that girl turned out to be my need.
When Mom left, switching off the light in the room. My fancies brightened, and sleep flew far away. There was a turning around girl’s gaze that continued hugging throughout the night.
After that, if I would lie down even during the day time with my eyes closed resting my head on my arm, she would appear before my eyes instantaneously.
And played with her all that what I had perceived.
I loved her features better than her face. I started to stop for a longer time beneath the old tree.
Onlookers’ senses and girls’ censors are very sharp. She knew. The next day, three or four people came to see my father. I was asked for forgiveness. After that, I was allowed leave home only to go to school.
The milkman started to supply milk.
The story did not end here because I had learnt how to weave a story.
Now I am 40 years old married man. I have children. I have a job.
But it’s still fanciful to lie in the dark imagining someone. The screenplay remains the same, only the heroine changes.
….
(Translated from Urdu by Najam-uddin Ahmad)
****
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Authors
Salim Mirza, born on 27th December 1966 in Kamonke, District Gujranwala, Punjab, Pakistan, is primarily a painting artist and also a Urdu humorist. His writings are mostly humorous. He writes irregularly, but excellent humorous texts within the limits of ethics. He got his early education from Govt. High School Kamunke but could not pass his Matriculation. Painting is his full time profession. Salim Mirza has written his autobiography with a humoristic title “𝘔𝘰𝘩𝘣𝘢𝘵 𝘒𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘢𝘬 𝘏𝘢𝘪” (Love is an Allergen), yet to be published. His wife Rabia Salim is a short story writer. She gives a touch of humors to her stories.
View all postsNajam-uddin Ahmad is Urdu novelist and short story writer. He has published three novel: 𝘔𝘶𝘥𝘧𝘶𝘯 (The Burials) in 2006, 𝘒𝘩𝘰𝘫 (The Explore) in 2016, and 𝘚𝘢𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘮 (The Partners) in 2019, and two collections of short stories: 𝘈𝘢𝘰 𝘉𝘩𝘢𝘪 𝘒𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘪𝘯 (Brother, Let’s play) in 2013 and 𝘍𝘳𝘢𝘢𝘳 𝘢𝘶𝘳 𝘋𝘰𝘰𝘴𝘳𝘢𝘺 𝘈𝘧𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘺 (Flee and Other Short Stories) in 2017. Presently, he has been working on his Urdu novel, 𝘔𝘦𝘯𝘢 𝘑𝘦𝘦𝘵. A collection of Urdu Short Stories is also expected soon. He is also renowned for his translations into Urdu. Among other translations, he has recently translated the famous Turk epic “The Book of Dede Korkut” into Urdu, published by the Pakistan Academy of Letters. He has also translated a number of Urdu short stories into English. He has been bestowed with Pakistan Writers Guild Award, 2013 (𝘈𝘢𝘰 𝘉𝘩𝘢𝘪 𝘒𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘪𝘯), 7th UBL Excellence Award, 2017 (Translation of selected short stories of Nobel Laureates), and National Award of Translation, 2019 by the Pakistan Academy of Letters. His Novel 𝘒𝘩𝘰𝘫 was also short listed for 7th UBL Excellence Award, 2017.
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