FICTION

Every man harbors within him a beast — a creature that rises itself at times: its gait like a leopard and face with pig’s grimace. Thorns emerge from its flesh, and its teeth bite not only into flesh but also into the very core of the soul. This grotesque beast knows no restraint; its veins swell with centuries of forbidden sins, seeping drop by drop until they turn into a torrent. When this fevered blood boils, even statues of honor crumble, and mothers, sisters, and wives dissolve into a single indistinct mass.

Such a beast dwelled within Narang — a scion of wild blood. With small, bead-like eyes, a dusky complexion, and an unremarkable stature, Narang was but a shadow in the village. His nose sat uncomfortably close to his eyes, the round nostrils flaring like an ever-sniffing animal. His face was overgrown with hair, giving him the semblance of a disheveled imp lost amidst an unruly beard. When lost in thought, his fingers would absently claw through the thick tangle, his eyes flickering like dying embers. A tangled mane of unwashed hair tumbled down his head, reeking of sweat and grime. Hunched like a ragged ascetic, he would sit with his legs tucked beneath him, his mind a crucible of searing thoughts — fingers sifting through ashes of contemplation.

The youngest of twelve siblings, Narang wandered through the village lanes like a stray dog — unmoored and restless. His father, the village schoolmaster, wielded authority like an iron rod —unchallengeable and absolute, both in the classroom and at home. A molten fury coursed through his veins, hardening him like steel. To him, Narang’s mother was merely an instrument of joy, and the dozen children they bore but clucking hens fluttering in a coop. Narang was the rebel — seething beneath his father’s covetous gaze. He kept his mother within the fortress of his watch, but when his father swooped like a hawk with claws bared, Narang would scurry across the courtyard — knees skinned, spiraling into frantic, self-destructive cycles. His fragile body bore scars from these wild rituals, and his spirit grew more untamed with each passing day.

To drown the chaos of his parents’ tumultuous lives, Narang often lingered near Chacha Rafiq’s soda cart, where the thuds of bottle caps and the glug glug of poured drinks soothed him. He watched customers gulp fizzy soda as if consuming invisible children, his mind replaying old memories like a flickering reel — teeth gnawing at his nails in restless anticipation.

He recalled the day of Masi Barkate’s daughter’s wedding, when his father had lined up all the children and sent them to the bride’s house, only to slink back home himself. Narang, like a hunting dog, sniffed out his father’s trail, peering through the broken lattice of the bedroom window. Swallowing his rage, he imagined grinding his father’s gaunt face beneath his untied boots. Pity for his mother swelled within him, his heartbeat quickening, sweat beading at the corners of his nose. He dashed into the courtyard, eyes landing on a stick propped against the edge of the trough. Snatching it up, he brought it crashing down upon the charpoy with furious blows — each strike a blow to the man he despised. When his mother entered, scolding him for disturbing the fragile bed, Narang felt like a cannon teetering on the verge of explosion.

Men like Narang born seldom — they are the culmination of centuries of filth and decay. Their lives, cursed from the very beginning, ferment in impurity. The rot inside Narang had become so deep-rooted that cleanliness seemed him futile. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and he moved through life unwashed, untouched by the warm sunrays. His heart and mind, like those of wild creatures, were jungles where no light dared to penetrate.

He bore no love for home. Instead, he roamed the village lanes — initially obsessed with billiards, then football, later the headman’s VCR screenings, where flickering images of women sent his body into frenzied delight. He collected film advertisements from newspapers, tracing the curves of actresses with trembling fingers.

Then he fell in love — with Niggo, the neighboring daughter — her dusky skin a mirror of his own shadows. Yet, his love was like crude oil — its value fluctuating wildly. He was raw himself, an unripe fruit with no sweetness — its juice bitter and untasted. Soon, his fascination shifted to his sisters’ belongings. He rummaged through Anwar and Akhtar’s drawers, stealing their undergarments and hiding them beneath his clothes, as if to steal their essence.

One day, when the house was quiet, he crept into Akhtar’s cupboard and slipped on her blouse and petticoat before stepping outside. Akhtar wept for her missing clothes for days, the house turned upside down in frantic search. Yet Narang slept with them under his pillow, coiled around them like a serpent guarding stolen treasure.

His torment grew unbearable until, one afternoon, a toy-seller’s call broke his reverie: “Ghungroo horses for sale! Elephants, lions, bears!”

“Aunty, don’t you have any new toys?” Narang asked, squatting on the ground.

“What kind of toy do you want, boy?”

“Something for girls.”

The vendor cackled. “Girls? Since when do you play with dolls?”

“I don’t want ghungroo horses. Show me something else.”

Narang adored figurines — plastic or clay. He would stare at them for hours before finally shutting his eyes, inhaling their aroma. He kept a plastic doll buried near the buffalo pen, digging it up whenever his mother milked the cows. He smelled it and imagined it was his sister Anwar — her firm body, shapely legs, high breasts. One evening, he watched her stoke the fire, her face reddening like a tomato, sweat gleaming on her cheeks. Later, he lay his head on her lap and kissed her feet.

“My sweet brother,” she murmured, unaware of the beast lurking behind his gentle façade.

“Anwar, love me,” he pleaded, the leopard within him pouncing — gripping her wrists. She hesitated for a moment but then hugged him, kissing his cheeks. “Go home, child. The streets aren’t safe after dark.”

She knew nothing of the beasts outside — only the one within her brother’s gaze.

Narang returned home, unsatisfied, his mind brimming with violent urges — to crush Akhtar in his arms or claw at his mother’s breasts. He feared that Anwar would reveal him, but then a sly smile curled his thin lips. He began visiting her every other day. At first, she ignored him, but gradually, like a tethered buffalo, she swayed closer. Narang, like a rutting bull, nuzzled against her. The jungle’s law ruled in the depths of that village — unseen, unchallenged.

When he massaged Anwar’s shoulders, her body trembled beneath his fingers — a drumbeat in his mind. He played her like an instrument, plucking melodies of his own desire. Both Anwar and Akhtar became drums in his hands — rhythms under his control.

But the house remained deaf to the beast’s growl. No one saw falling Narang into darkness. Until one day, his mother perceived it — that this beast now thirsted for its own blood.

She was oiling his wild hair when the swine within him exhaled slowly. The leopard had yet to stretch its limbs, but the heat of her touch hardened him like forging steel. His neck trembled, and he shoved her onto the charpoy, pinning her beneath him. She lay frozen — paralyzed by an avalanche of rage and fear. Narang whimpered like a child, nestling against her breast.

It became a pattern — the beast, with the leopard’s agility and the pig’s snout, lunging for her buttons before retreating, muttering “Ma… one…” as it bumped into his father’s legs. His mother remained like fallen kite — her motherhood long dead — to Narang, a string twitching in his fingers, sending her soaring. When his father attempted to rein her in, Narang yanked the string, laughing cruelly like a reckless kite-flyer.

Time flowed relentlessly, darkening Narang like pan’s burnt oil. Akhtar married, and the house lost its hold on him. Madness spilled forth — hours lost in thought, his legs swelling from kneeling too long. His mother shook him awake, dragging him to the charpoy, but his father only grunted around his hookah: “Woman, the boy has the evil eye. What can a doctor do?”

Eventually, the beast vanished — taking the evil eye with it. His mother searched the house, his brothers scoured the fields, yet Narang was gone. His father, resigned, puffed his hookah, whispering that it was divine will. How could he challenge the wild bloodline — children as expendable as foam on piss?

Now, along the railway tracks of Badami Bagh in Lahore, among huts of fakirs, a beast-like figure roams. Clad in a tattered coat, his beard matted with froth, he either sits lost in thought or squats like a sage amidst his shit, rolling his bead-like eyes. The creature — embodying the leopard’s spring and the pig’s snout — has become the city’s object of ridicule, darting past those who laugh at him, muttering maan yak as he walks around.

….

(Translated from Urdu by Rashid Javed Ahmed)

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