FICTION
Pashto Literature / Pashto Fiction
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A Poor Soul
And
Murmuring Trees
— SHORT STORY by
Farooq Sarwar
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(Translated from Pashto)
I was running swiftly through the surrounding orchards — leaping over streams, climbing over great mounds of earth. Sometimes a tree stood before me, sometimes another. Some were tall and vast, others small and tender. Yet I kept running, endlessly running, because I was searching for something. But the thing I was seeking could not be found, and so my obsession only deepened.
Then, there was a voice calling me, drawing me toward itself. What kind of voice was it? What was it calling? Even now, I could not understand. But, it had a strange enchantment — a pull that took hold of me and drew me forward.
And perhaps, it was that unknown voice I had been searching for.
Today again, the wind was wild, dancing with the trees in a frenzy. Sometimes it came with such force that the trees themselves seemed to roar as if a wolf had broken into a herd of sheep and goats, scattering them in panic. Then, in the blink of an eye, the noise of the trees grew, as though many women were wailing over the death of their brothers and sons, tearing at their chests in grief. But soon enough, the wind softened, and a sweet rustling arose among the trees, as if gentle hands were coaxing a delicate melody from an instrument.
In that moment, some trees swayed as if a beautiful maiden’s hair had been let loose into the wind. The dance of trees looked like the ball of wine intoxicated women who were singing aloud in their revelry.
Standing among the trees, I marvelled at the beauty of nature when suddenly, I heard the faint sound of someone quietly crying — a cry that carried both sobs and a sad song.
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The presence of a stranger in our garden astonished me even more because its walls were very high; and the door was locked from inside.
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The grief shook me. A flood of questions surged in my heart — whose voice was it? Who was it? What had happened? And why was that person crying?
I searched carefully among the almond trees, whose blossoms had just begun to appear, but I saw no one.
Now, in that vast garden of apricot, plum, and apple trees with bare their branches, I ran like a madman. Because I was desperate to find that person. So, I ran from one corner to another, even planning that if I could not find him here, I would cross into the neighbouring garden of Gulab Uncle, hoping to find them there.
Finally, I saw an old man with a white beard near a tall earthen wall, along a row of rose bushes about to sprout green leaves and red flowers. He wore a long, worn Boski coat over his shoulders and a light green turban on his head. His face was pale, and he was bowed, lost in sorrow.
The presence of a stranger in our garden astonished me even more because its walls were very high; and the door was locked from inside. How did he enter? And why did he stand in the cold wind and light rain? Why was he crying, in this storm, with the trees screaming like enraged dragons? What was his problem? What misfortune had struck him? What were the thoughts that had left him so restless?
Thus, the surging questions in my mind compelled me to move toward the old man. Many small trees stood before me, and I parted their thick branches as I moved. But when I reached the spot where the old man had been, he was gone.
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The sudden disappearance of the old stranger amazed me. Hence, I began running again. Although, I searched the garden in every direction, but he had vanished as if a magician had come from a land of magic. I could understand nothing.
I had returned village after a long time from the city to prepare for my final-year medical exams during a two-month vacation. But in the blink of an eye, the weather turned that way it always did — driving me to madness.
Although it was a beautiful spring afternoon, dark clouds suddenly spread such darkness as if someone had laid a black cloth over the bright sun. But at the same moment, the wind blew fiercely, like a hungry, exhausted child rushing indoors, screaming and crying for food.
Even surrounding trees seemed to speak; their rustling whispers, and secret conversations were so enchanting that I abandoned my books as if an incompetent boy had heard friends playing in the street and runs away from his studies.
When I returned home, my mother was preparing dinner; baking bread on a large black griddle above blazing fire that had made her eyes red from the smoke, if she had seen anything unusual in the garden. I told her, “I saw a stranger — an old man with a white beard.”
“He is our new gardener — Shakur Uncle.” My mother said, taking a large ball of kneaded dough from the high hipped platter.
When I asked her about Shakur Uncle’s strange behaviour — crying and singing a sad song — she too was surprised. “Honestly, I have no idea why,” She said.
The next day, the wind again roared. And the trees played sweet melodies as if even the black clouds above swayed to their rhythm. I ran to the garden once more.
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When I returned to my garden, Shakur Uncle’s sorrowful song reached my ears again. I saw him — sitting among the trees, on a large stone, crying.
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What I saw amazed me. The tall and small trees swayed and bowed as if they themselves were humming along to the rhythm of their own dance. These were not merely trees but magic. And the magic was so powerful that I wandered through my garden; enjoying the scene, until I passed through the broken walls into Gulab Uncle’s garden.
Now the wind had grown even stronger, and trees screamed with such intensity that it sent shivers down the spine. I searched the garden, looking for workers or gardeners. But it seemed that the screams of the trees had driven everyone indoors; no one was visible.
At times, a hidden bird would let out a cry, as if enjoying the vibrant scene of nature. But the stormy wind would not let it rejoice fully.
Today, the cold was so bitter that it froze the heart. In the valley ahead, all the gray, clay-built houses of our village emitted black and white smoke from their stoves, and the wind played with the smoke.
To the west, down the slope, there was a distant low roar like a flooding and screaming great river. Sometimes, echo of the roar and tumult of the trees merged like two instruments playing the same tune, creating a new delightful melody.
When I returned to my garden, Shakur Uncle’s sorrowful song reached my ears again. I saw him — sitting among the trees, on a large stone, crying.
Today, I resolved to approach him and asked, “Uncle, why do you sing such sad, sorrowful songs whenever there is storm and the trees sing along with it?”
First Shakur Uncle was surprised, but then laughed heartily; and after a moment, he fell silent as if surrounded by the quiet grandeur of the mountains.
Then, he gasped and asked: “When trees converse; when their whispers join one another — how does that make you feel?”
“It makes me very happy. But, at that moment, I feel like a small child. Sot, I want to jump; dig; laugh; shout, and sing along with the trees,” I said.
“The trees’ clatter delights me too,” Shakur Uncle smiled, “and my little daughter used to disappear into it. When she was small, she would stand among the trees, sway and dance with them. Obviously, her long round frock would flutter in the air. And, she looked me like a tiny fairy from heaven. Then, like a madman, I would run to her; lift her in my arms; kiss her red and white cheeks, helplessly.”
“Uncle, who are you talking about?” I asked, astonishingly.
“My beautiful daughter, Nazo,” he laughed. “I spent my life tending gardens in various villages… But then Nazo was alive.”
“What do you mean? She’s dead?” I asked, shockingly.
“Yes,” Tears filled in Shakur Uncle’s eyes.
“Was she a child?” I asked, unconsciously.
“No, she was young. Whenever a storm approached, she would run and say, ‘Papa, let’s go outside; the trees are talking!’ She was so happy then; her face redder than the pomegranate flower. So, we would go toward the green trees of the garden together. The more frightening the storm; the greater her joy. Naturally, she would watch the tall trees as if many fairies sat upon them, singing along with the trees.”
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“That wicked one was me,” Shakur Uncle burst into sobs. “I killed her myself, strangled her bird-like beautiful white neck with my own hands.”
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He continued, lost in his memories, “Then we would listen to the trees’ uproar for hours, trying to understand their secrets and whispers; guessing at their conversations; asking questions of each other as if sharing stories. Nazo was a beautiful; cheerful girl. She used to say, ‘Papa, do you know what the trees say?’
I asked her, ‘No, my child, tell me — what are they saying?’
Then, she would laugh loudly, ‘Papa, they’re saying that I am not at all dear to you. Papa doesn’t love me at all.’
And, then I would kiss her forehead.
‘What is my nightingale saying; you the fragrance of my heart? My daughter is part of my soul; seated in my heart — how could I not love her? How could I not wish for my dear; my beloved; sight for my eyes?’”
I asked, “Then how did she die?”
“She wasn’t dead — she was killed; murdered.” He said, emphatically.
“Killed; murdered?” I was shocked. “By who? Who was the wicked one?” I asked, surprisingly.
“That wicked one was me,” Shakur Uncle burst into sobs. “I killed her myself, strangled her bird-like beautiful white neck with my own hands.”
“You…?”
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She tried to rise from the bed and said, “Papa, let’s go outside to the garden, the trees are talking again. Let’s listen slowly… to see how much you love me and I love you.’”
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“Yes, I did,” Shakur Uncle wept loudly, “I committed this injustice; I am the cruel; murderous one — I am guilty. Despite my boundless love, I failed to care for her feelings. I don’t know why my eyes closed. Perhaps some charm blinded me — I sold her to an old man; lured by gold; by silver. My daughter shed countless tears at this injustice; wept much, but greed of the wealth had covered my eyes. The sight of my feelings was taken away; that’s why I could not understand her red eyes. She was not be happy in her husband’s house; constantly ill. Her two stepsons and older stepdaughters treated her harshly. Those heartless people did not care for her suffering or illness. Her husband, frustrated by her sudden sickness; grew weary of her. When she came to my house, she said nothing — just remained silent, and her tears fell endlessly.”
Tears streamed from Shakur Uncle’s eyes as he was lost in the past.
“Then, on one stormy day, when the trees were rattling and the wind was roaring, she came to my house after many nights. Very ill; extremely weak. She tried to rise from the bed and said, “Papa, let’s go outside to the garden, the trees are talking again. Let’s listen slowly… to see how much you love me and I love you.’”
He continued, “We went out together. I was crying; and Nazo too. Her eyes were filled with grievances, and I did not dare to meet her gaze. The trees raged — they were upset with me. They accused me of the blind injustice I had done; they casted harsh words at me. The wind of anger surrounded us.”
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Then he sighed and said, “Strangely, I could not tell the moment her breath stopped. I screamed; cried; begged for forgiveness; pleaded, ‘My child; my dear, lift your head; open your eyes, smile at me just once…’
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He stopped and then said, “But the trees also sympathized with Nazo; soothed her wounds with their soft songs. They cried with her. Though it was daytime, the atmosphere was dark as if the sun itself had hidden in shame.”
The old man continued, speaking in cool, measured breaths.
“Then, we sat by the stream in the garden. Nazo had a high fever — my child was exhausted; weary, as if every breath was leaving her body. She held my hand and, laying her head on my shoulder, closed her eyes. Within moments, sleep overtook her.
At that very moment, the trees began chanting Allahu Akbar — they loved Nazo, and in their love, started singing lullabies. A strange shiver ran through the air. Those were Nazo’s last moments, yet neither I nor the trees knew it. Suddenly, she let go of my shoulder — and when I looked; my daughter; my beloved; my Nazo was silent like a fragile bird. Her head fell from my shoulder.”
He paused for a moment. Then he sighed and said, “Strangely, I could not tell the moment her breath stopped. I screamed; cried; begged for forgiveness; pleaded, ‘My child; my dear, lift your head; open your eyes, smile at me just once…’ But she would not heed her cruel; butcherly father. She would not ease her Infliction. She would not open her closed eyes.
“Since that day, all the trees have been angry with me. When they speak, I hear them — blaming me for Nazo’s death. That’s why, whenever a storm comes, I weep, remembering Nazo; hoping her spirit will appear among these trees and forgive me. But who knows… my hard-hearted Nazo — when will she soften her heart toward me? When will she forgive me; the cruel one?” Shakur Uncle cried aloud.
Next morning, I went to Shakur Uncle’s house to speak with him. At the door, I heard the sounds of quarrels again. I was surprised, and also annoyed at myself for not asking the previous day who lived in the house and the reason for the argument.
When I returned home, I learned that Shakur Uncle lived there with his son, and both tended the garden together.
Before noon, the sky again filled with clouds. The wind blew fiercely; the trees rustled; and delicate raindrops started falling.
When I went to the garden, I was astonished — Shakur Uncle no longer wore the shadow of grief. He had no exhaustion in his eyes. He was joyful; leaping; dancing; stomping the earth.
When I stopped in front of him, he did not cease dancing but swayed even more vigorously, as if today, at last, his sorrow had ended… But I did not yet know the story.
“What’s the matter, Uncle? Are you right? Why such a joy?” I asked in wonder.
He laughed, trembling, “Do you know? Today the trees are happy with me again! Today, Nazo will be happy too… and today I will see her!”
“What do you mean?” I asked, startled.
“Now, Nazo will no longer be angry with me, even in her dreams!”
Uncle quickened his dance; stamping his feet in rhythm; expressing his joy with the abandon of a madman.
I dragged his arm, “I don’t understand, Uncle…!”
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Then, suddenly, the old man stopped dancing as if something bizarre had appeared before his eyes.
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He breathed deeply and said, “Today, I finally convinced my son. He will no longer sell my young granddaughter, my daughter, to an old wealthy man. He will not destroy her life. He will marry her to a dear young relative, a young shepherd of camels in the mountains — free, without greed or money. Surely, Nazo knows… the wind has told her… Look, the trees say, she will come today — she will definitely come and dance with me here! She will dance and celebrate with me!”
Shakur Akka was swaying like a madman, turning around, and clapping his hands; his eyes were closed, and the wind was playing with his white, radiant beard. It was caressing him.
Then, suddenly, the old man stopped dancing as if something bizarre had appeared before his eyes.
At that very moment, he pointed toward the tall cypress tree ahead, around which the almond trees stood silently.
“Look… there she is; Nazo has come. Her silky hair are flowing in the air; green moles sparkle on her beautiful face, and she is wearing the same green bridal dress. Look, her friends are with her as well; all laughing, singing, and holding tambourines in their hands.”
When I looked at the trees, my sight bewildered me, because there was no longer a cypress tree. But really Nazo herself was standing there. The sparkling bridal dress enhanced her beauty even more, and around her were the same friends — bright-eyed, holding garlands of henna flowers, and each carried a large tambourine decorated with henna-colored flowers.
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“Come, my daughter! Come, come and dance; perform the Etan; celebrate, and end all sorrows!” The old man shouted excitedly.
Then Nazo and her friends laughed loudly, waving their bangles adorned beautiful hands in the air, and joined the dancing old man.
It was an outlandish moment, as I too was coloured by Uncle’s joy. I too lost in the world of imagination. Sweet little Nazo was dancing before me with endless happiness.
….
(Self-translation from PASHTO)
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Born on June 02, 1971, is an Urdu novelisBorn on 25 June 1962 in Quetta. He completed his matriculation from Islamia High School Quetta. And later he earned his M.A. degree in English from the University of Balochistan. Notably, he started his artistic career in 1974 as a child star in Pashto-language programmes on Radio Pakistan, followed by his television debut in 1975. Since then, he has consistently participated in Pashto and Urdu programmes and dramas on both radio and television.t and short story writer. He did his masters in English Literature from Islamia University, Bahawalpur in 1996.
Work:
So far, Farooq Sarwar has written 17 books. As an actor, he performed in dozens of dramas on television and radio, and has written many plays as well. The Pakistan Academy of Letters awarded him the Khushhal Khan Award for one of his books. Also, The Government of Balochistan has honoured him with various awards for different books at different times. His books are taught in various universities.
For many years, he is publishing a column titled “Adab Sair” in “Daily Jang” Quetta, focusing on world literature. Currently, one of his short stories, “Bhediya” (“The Wolf”), is included in Urdu textbook for 9th grade under Federal Board.
Awards:
Farooq Sarwar won the Best Writer Award from Pakistan Television. The central institution of Radio Pakistan honoured him with the title of “Super Star.” He also won the Excellence Award from the Government of Balochistan. Additionally, he won the Presidential Award in 2018.
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