SHORT STORY 𝒃𝒚 Khalid Farhad Dhariwal

Yesterday, I disembarked abruptly at the Sattoke stop from a bus that was supposed to go to Daska, only to realize it wasn’t my intended destination. It wasn’t until the bus had traveled a couple of furlongs ahead, leaving me stunned, that I grasped this fact. In that moment, I felt like a sleepwalker who, upon finding himself in the yard instead of his bed, wondered in amazement, “How on earth did I end up here?”

As I stood in astonishment at the Sattoke bus stop, I pondered, “I was peacefully seated on the bus. How did it end up here?”

Originally, I had been heading to Gujranwala and boarded a bus that was bound for Daska. There were no buses available that day which traveled the road from Pasrur to Satrah Bangla, a route I had long abandoned for travel. It had become a disremembered path for me. On the other hand, the Pasrur-Satrah road provided straight access to Gujranwala, taking less time for its shorter distance. From Daska, there was no undeviating route to Gujranwala and passengers had to change buses at Daska with elongated and exasperated travelling.

The bus heading towards Satrah Bangla wasn’t expected soon, and in my haste to reach Gujranwala, I eventually boarded the bus en route to Daska. I was not unfamiliar with this road; in fact, I had spent a significant part of my life traveling on it. It was the same road I had taken on my wedding day, moving from my parental house to my in-laws’. How could I ever forget it?

As the bus moved, familiar sceneries started to pass by, eliciting memories from my past. The land of my childhood slowly slid beneath the bus, prompting my present into the past. It felt as though my body stayed seated on the bus but my soul ventured into the dust, immersing itself in nostalgia.

Eventually, when the bus reached a stop, the conductor yelled out: the Sattoke stop. The name of my village resonated in my ears, causing an irresistible hankering surged through the soles of my feet. Unconsciously, I disembarked from the bus, watching it disappear from sight until the settling dust created a tranquil atmosphere. “The other bus will be tardy,” I anticipated.

Left with no alternative but to wait at the bus stop, I pondered, “The journey has already been disrupted. Why not to pay a visit to my ancestral village? It’s not far away.” The idea rushed into my mind, but an inner voice asked, “Which ancestral village? Stupid! When you have no ancestral home, how can you speak of an ancestral village?” And then, my life’s entire journey started flickering before my eyes.

I saw myself sitting in a patio, surrounded by stuffed dolls, looking like a doll. I remembered running through the streets, amidst a queue of girls, my voice blending with a chorus of voices. During times of drought, we would race through the fields, setting dolls ablaze and singing:

“Drop your rain, oh black cloud,

We have set the stuffed dolls on fire.”

You may find it hard to believe, but the black clouds gathered on the horizon and rain poured down upon the earth. In the midst of the prolonged rainfall, the roofs started to seep, and the elderly women advised in their loud voices to some maiden to go, taking some green gram in a pot to bury under the cullis. Astoundingly, the rain always stopped by performing this ritual. It seemed that God always honors daughters and never returns them empty-handed. I vividly remember burying the mung beans under the cullis of that mirador house with my own hands, and now the threshold of that very house had become a verboten boundary for me. The gate that was once adorned with green petals from the Albizia lebbec tree on the day of my birth but now I was barred to enter.

This situation did not ensue suddenly but stretched gradually. My brother approached me, requesting the hand of my daughter for his eldest son. I suggested he must consult his brother-in-law instead, but it was strenuous for him to ask a stranger instead of his sister. Despite his insistence for my response, I couldn’t agree to when my daughter’s was unwilling to approve this bond.

“We women have no control over the birth of our daughters or their marriages,” I thought genuinely but I did not express these words, refusing my brother’s proposal. My parental home held great significance for me, but I felt utterly helpless. My refusal had bad impact on my brother’s heart. The rift caused by my rejection widened further when I pleaded with him for a bride from his house for my son, Bakha.

“Brother, I have come here like a scrounger, and I beseech you not to return me empty-handed,” I besought my brother. He was just a brother, not a deity who never returns daughters empty-handed.

“This is your parental home. Its doors are always open to you, but do not set foot here in search of a match for your son,” he responded harshly.

I never had a premonition that my refusal to his proposal for my daughter would breed such antipathy between us.

“The beautiful face that always captivated me now rests in a grave. This house is not a sanctum where I will perpetually yearn to return,” I told myself, holding a stiff and callous demeanor.

My brother stopped meeting me, and gradually, I lost all interest in visiting his house. However, my heart still clenched whenever I passed through that particular area. Changing my route became the only viable solution.

Unfortunately, calamitous fate had led me here today as I was on my way to visit my child’s in-laws.

As I gazed upon the village, I saw an utter transformation. Skyscrapers had swapped the familiar landscape. Plentiful changes had taken place in the village over the past several years. At first glance, it seemed as though this was not the place of my birth. I felt an urge to move towards the village, but I restrained myself. The name of the village held significance for me, but its appearance seemed unfamiliar. I swayed my heart to forget about this village, admitting the evident changes it had undergone.

Who is left in the village to attract me? The last remaining connection with my brother had also faded away. While he was alive, there was a relationship in name, even if the pride of having that linking had been grabbed out.

“As the village belongs to its residents and relations survive through interaction. The sister-in-law, who is a stranger, holds no regard for me,” I reminded myself, recalling the ill-treatment I received at my brother’s funeral. I was treated like an interloper in my own home. I observed my brother’s daughters-in-law freely moving about the house, and it struck me how I once felt proud to claim that house to be mine.

Finally, I decided to visit the grave of my mother, and my feet turned towards the graveyard instead of the village.

As I walked along the path, my mother’s words resonated in my mind:

“O’daughter! It was only after your birth that I developed a connection with this village. Your grandmother constantly reminded your father that my heart longs for my parents, and there was no chance of me settling here. How could have I settled here when my dear chums were left behind?”

Her words echoed in my mind, and I remembered how my mother never scolded me for playing with my chums. “O’girls! Play to your heart’s content. These moments won’t return,” she would always say.

Sometimes, my mother would sing a folk song about cranes and maidens. We were those maidens, even though we had never seen a crane at that time. Through these songs filled with longing, we could sense the pain destined for that bird — the pain of parting etched on its face.

As we entered our youth, our group of friends began to diminish. Rajhi was the first to leave after her marriage, followed by Sughra, Seema, and Salma. One by one, all our friends departed, leaving empty streets and courtyards behind.

Parting, oh parting. Parting reigns supreme.

After crossing the fields of grass, I arrived near the weathered rosewood tree. Underneath its shade laid the one who brought me into this world —now peacefully resting in her grave.

“Mother! I am a part of you. Please speak to me,” I cried out, shedding tears uncontrollably. I sobbed there for a long time.

“Time is a cruel thief — snatches away our loved ones — but memory is a kind companion — preserves their essence. The dust of time fades away all colors and beauties, but the image of a mother remains fresh in one’s memory,” I thought on my way back from the graveyard.

As I stepped onto the way leading to the bus stop, memories flooded back once again. I recalled the days when those paths, streets, homes, and land were inseparable from us, and we proudly claimed our ownership. But now, we were neither able to call those streets, homes, and land our own, nor could we consider them foreign. The future abode remains uncertain. It feels as if the band of girls is like a flock of cranes, destined for various lands. Only time reveals their destinies.

There comes a time when the entire family declares a daughter as someone else’s possession. They are cast out from their home by their kin. Irrespective of whether they accept or reject their expulsion, enduring the pain of parting becomes their fate.

“Oh Bahu, do not make me fly in fear, for I am already on the brink of taking flight,” I whispered.

A storm raged within the river of my heart, but I was grateful that my back faced the village as I made my way towards the bus stop. Surely, I wouldn’t have been able to hold myself back if I had caught a glimpse of my village. I wiped away the tears that had welled up in my eyes with my scarf. Along the way, I encountered some girls returning from school. Their smiling faces, sheltered under white headscarves, brought me amusement. Laughing and bantering with one another, they made their way home.

Slowly, I reached the bus stop, trying to recollect the mannerisms of Sughra, Seema, Salma, and other dear friends. Their childhood faces resembled the joyful and cheerful countenances of these girls. Last year, I briefly met Sughra, and she warmly embraced me in her arms. It was only for a few moments in the marketplace, but it had been a long time since we last saw each other. Her face had changed so much from our juvenile age. I was trying to separate her face from the two frozen images in my mind, just then my bus arrived. Taking a seat, I looked outside. My eyes became again soggy, and my vision blurred. I couldn’t see my village clearly, but I could clearly make out the flock of cranes in flight.

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(Translated from Punjabi by Shahzad Aslam)

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