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This city is a village within a city and a city within a village, though it is a cosmopolitan. As it’s the youngest, purpose-built settlement, it’s neat and clean. The streets and roads are wide and open; the houses with flowerbed fronts look peaceful. This immaculate city studded with flowery trees is set in the lap of emerald green mountains. Though the abundance of shrubberies, trees, and flowers have filled the city with lovely hues and a variety of scents, still the mise-en-scène seems unnatural and inorganic. Where once there used to be native trees offering soothing shade and serene coolness like Shareenh (lebbeck), Kiikar, Berries (sidra tree), Phalahi (senegalia modesta), and Shehtoot (mulberry), now replaced with ornamental plants as their seeds were sowed by the government when this city was founded. This decorative flora is bereft of shade and fruits, and so is this city. How such inorganic cities can comfort their dwellers! On the contrary, these plants spread pollution. Some of these ill-starred trees are the causes of, even in the spring, people sneeze and cough, and their noses run. Well, at least the doctors’ clinics thrive and mint money.

The city, having been set up by the people who work in government offices and mind their own business, is the master of the country. In my early days here, I was rather used to detesting the town. No city-like hubbub, nor were there any native feasts, fairs, or festivals. An artificial assemblage of superficial people. A mandatory accumulation of mere government grades. Everyone’s trying to prove himself better than others — superior to others. An endless race — a futile competition. I remember, once I happened to visit this city and saw my mentor Sarmad and wondered, “Why are you the denizen of this barren borough?” The mentor is a magnanimous man, and so was his reply coupled with a guffaw, “Partner! Gnosis can only be found in wastelands.”

I never even thought of living in this chartered town. But ah! Forces of nature. They conspired to bring me here, and it’s been ten years now since I’ve been here like a part of it. And now, let me admit, I’ve grown attached to it. When I overhear the sparrows’ chirping and doves’ cooing, my heart aches. I miss my homeland, my people, and my village. Though I’ve been living here for ten years now, and my heart has started liking this place; however, when I hear the “coo-ah, coo-coo-coo” call of ringed doves, I’m reminded of my village and my people, and drawn to the innocence of these impeccable doves. Ah, poor doves! They really know this is no longer their ancestral village now. Many a year ago, a primal village was smashed, and a new purpose-built town was attempted to be forged in its place to make it the capital of the country. The sparrows, the doves, the larks, the eastern nightingales, the passerines, the eagles, the hawks, and the crows still think they’re still flying and diving and frisking in the skies stretched upon the same hoary hamlet. They still sing their songs, oblivious to the fact that they’re now in a big, commanding commune that controls the whole country.

I, too, have developed a queer connection with this city. Initially, some thirty years ago, I came and stayed here for a month or so and then returned to my village. A couple of years after that, I came here again and enrolled myself in a university course, but as I couldn’t get a hostel room, I shared a rented room in a government quarter, which, in itself, was an appalling experience. While at night, I was a prey to bedbugs, and in the day, “the quarter lords” would pester me with their argy-bargy. The city’s unnatural peace and quietude would also upset me.

The city’s character was like that of a widow, though qualified for remarriage, but forced to live a life of celibacy, and living alone would’ve turned her into a cold and obstinate person.

The city’s behavior sounded numb and banal. When fate forced my ways to come and settle here for good, I happened to attend the funeral of a renowned writer, who was also from a village like me but had spent all of his life in this city. When bereft of breath, he finally fell into eternal sleep in the lap of this city. Beholding the beautiful flowerbeds in the cemetery, I thought for the first time that there is no harm in dying and getting inhumed here. Before this, I had never thought of being buried anywhere else but at my ancestral graveyard.

This time, when I came to this city permanently, my heart didn’t feel at home the first year. I would think this city were a graveyard for the living people. Seemed like an abandoned city enveloped by mountains. Every morning and evening, I’d go for a walk in the park. Whether or not I heard any other voices, I’d always hear the “coo-ah, coo-coo-coo” of a dove. Eventually, my heart grew fondness for her. How delicate she was with a ring around her neck, with her beautiful gray color and enchanting airs! I caught and caged her. And she thought she had caught and caged me. We got entangled with each other. Two years passed in this game. One day, I saw the cage was empty. Perhaps I had forgotten to lock its door. Earlier, even if I hadn’t locked the cage, she wouldn’t have left it empty. But that day, she had flown to leave it empty. I would especially keep the cage empty and would keep it with its door wide open, hoping the dove would return. But it never did. It was merely a hope against hope. Doves kept in a cage with however much love and affection and care; once they decide to leave the cage, to leave you, they do.

This wasn’t the only dove in the city. Still the “coo-ah, coo-coo-coo” of many doves touched my ears, but what to me! I’d lost my interest in them.

 A few days ago, when I was sitting on the terrace, reading the newspaper, I was surprised to see a wild pigeon land on the railing and then enter the cage. I exclaimed to myself, I’ve never seen such a daring pigeon in my life! Where did she come from? I thought that perhaps nature had sent her to distract me from the dove that had flown away.

When the pigeon first entered the cage, I didn’t pay much attention to her. After a while, she wooed my attention with her tender cooing. I scattered some grains and put a water pot in front of her, but I didn’t close the cage door. While she got busy with the grains, I went inside, leaving the cage door open. Later, I didn’t even think about whether the pigeon was still in the cage or had flown away.

The next day, I went to the terrace as usual, and the pigeon wasn’t even in my mind. Perchance, I glanced at the cage; it was empty. Then, one day, I went outside, and the pigeon was sitting in the cage again. I scattered grains once more. Perhaps she wanted me to keep her in the cage, but I thought, If the dove didn’t stay despite my affection, why should I keep the pigeon captive? It’s better not to get attached to these flying birds anymore.

But my heart got affectionate to the pigeon. Perhaps she had come to appease my heart. Whenever she felt like it, she would visit my terrace. I’d also serve her with grains to keep her heart. A kind of bond was formed between us, one that had no name, but we hadn’t grown accustomed to each other. Perhaps, in this city, no one gets used to anyone else, and vice versa. In a city where muscle and mammon reside, no one makes the other their relative. Even if they do, no one owns it.

The dove would sometimes be seen landing on the windowsill, but whenever I attempted to approach her, she would fly away. She didn’t let me get closer, let alone she would get in to the cage.

Now, like these birds, I occasionally visit my village. I’ve just got back from a long stay there. This city or my village is my real home! I sometimes wonder.

It was only that pigeon who would come to my cage to allure my heart. I never closed the cage door, but she kept coming in and flying away as she pleased. It was in itself something odd and unusual to keep a dove in a cage. I’ve never seen anyone keep a dove in a cage. People usually keep pigeons in coops.

I kept a dove in a cage, but I never thought of keeping a pigeon captive.

This time after spending a long vacation in my village, when I returned — to my utter surprise — the pigeon had built a nest in the open cage. .

….

(Translated from PUNJABI by Dr. Ahmer Sohail Basraa)

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