SHORT STORY 𝒃𝒚 Salma Sanam 

He stood amidst the outstretched verdant farmlands like a scarecrow with his body mimicking a wooden stake and his head inverted like a round, narrow-mouthed clay pot. The frail old man with sunken eyes and a flat belly shuddered. He exclaimed, “Munna! What kind of jest is this?”

“Just doing labor!” his simple-minded young son replied, shaking his pot-like large head.

“Who asked you to do it?”

“The Sahukar![1]”

The old man gently lowered his son’s arms, uttering a profanity for the Sahukar. The boy clung tightly to his father’s weathered torso, shedding tears and yelling ‘brother, brother’.

The old man’s heart swelled with emotion. A million painful cries throbbed in his chest, crumbling him apart. His cheeks got wet with hot tears of anger, regret, helplessness, shame, and sorrow. He lingered in this state until he abruptly realized his silliness. “Munna! It’s time to go home, my son,” he said, patting him lovingly.

“I have to work.”

“No, you won’t.”

“How will I meet the expenses for my late brother’s Chehlum[2] then?”

“Don’t fret. I’ll take care of that,” the old man assured, gently patting his insane son’s pot-like head. In the days following the tragic road accident that claimed his older son, Babu, he had been consoling his distraught younger son, Munna, promising to organize his brother’s Chehlum.

How could he manage to set aside funds for Chehlum? Each time he had some money in hand, it effortlessly slipped away as soon as he pocketed it. The allure of poker at the village square proved irresistible, and he indulged in frenzied gambling until he had depleted the last bit of currency in his possession. His obsession with poker intensified as he aged, leading to a continuous cycle of playing, losing, and depleting his resources.

The old man discharged a cold sigh, contemplating his situation. Now, there was nothing left in his hands except for a dry, crumpled playing card.

In the late hours of the night, the old man stealthily entered his hut. He was fatigued, despondent, and apprehensive. He wanted to lie down quietly in a dark corner, but he was startled by the sight that greeted him—Munna was sitting wide awake, directly in front of him.

“You….you haven’t slept yet?”

“I can’t sleep. I see my dead brother in my dreams.” His simple-headed son replied, giving a peculiarly innocent, childlike look. “Aunt Anwari says his restless soul is wandering around and his salvation will only be after his Chehlum.”

The term Chehlum lingered painfully in the old man’s thoughts, bringing forth a profound sense of guilt. He had gambled away the funds he had gathered for Chehlum, mortgaging his worn hut.

“We will definitely observe the Chehlum,” the old man assured his son, embracing his guileless son and consoling him with gentle pats on pot-like head.

But he was unable to afford the expenses of the memorial service.  The inability to conduct the memorial service due to financial constraints weighed heavily on him, leading to a profound sense of helplessness and despair. Wrapped in a tattered blanket, he lay curled up in a corner of the hut, drifting into sleep while recalling the tragic accident — the drunken son of an aristocrat — death of his deceased son Babu — the pending Chehlum, and the lost funds haunted his mind involuntarily, adding to his distress.

Next day, the old man found himself in a perplexing situation when summoned by the Sahukar at the falling of dusk. He wondered why he was being called, especially when he had lost all his money in a gambling spree the night before. He reached at the Sahukar’s threshold, panting and feeling uneasy.

“Stop there!” roared the Sahukar in harsh tone. “I’ve heard rumors that you and the village head are scheming to receive compensation from your son’s killer.”

The old man, struggling to speak, managed to stammer, “Compa…sason, my Lord? Yes, my Lord, but not for myself. I’ve requested the village head to channel the funds for Babu’s children.”

“Really?” the Sahukar sneered mischievous. “You told me that your mad son repeatedly insists for the Chehlum.”

“Yes, my Lord!” the old man replied.

“I can arrange that money to be credited in your account, if you want.” the Sahukar tempted him.

“My account?” the old man, taken aback, protested, “No, my Lord! That wouldn’t be fair to Babu’s children.”

“And what will your mad son do if there is no Chehlum for his brother?  Will he work in the fields all day?” the Sahukar asked, touching his itchy point. His words struck a nerve, and the old man looked at him helplessly.

“So, I suggest you to steer clear the village head. I can secure a large sum for the Chehlum from the killer,” the Sahukar said.

What kind of a deal it was! What could that allure signify? The old man got confused. Countless thoughts raced through his mind. The sum of compa-sason could bring light to Babu’s children’s lives. Why should I accept this money? It’s needed for Chehlum. But why Chehlum? Munna is insane. There’s no necessity for any Chehlum. I should hand over that money to Babu’s children. The old man found himself ensnared in an endless internal dispute, feeling utterly shattered.

It was a chilly, pitch-black night, with intermittent glimmers of light struggling through the darkness. A card gambling game was underway in the inner courtyard of Sahukar’s house. Betting on a card felt akin to wagering on life. The old man’s pockets overflowed with money acquired from Babu’s killer for the Chehlum. He was determined to carry it out soon.

But betting on a card felt akin to wagering on life. Empowered by the possession of money, his palms began to itch abruptly. He could not resist the overpowering temptation to invest that money and make it grow, and for him, gambling was the only avenue. His wayward heart tempted him to leave the house, and his steps fidgeted to join the gambling game at Sahukar’s house.

No, no! I won’t succumb to that. The old man sternly checked himself, fighting an inner battle. No gambling today. This money is for Chehlum. — But why to waste it on Chehlum? Munna is mad! There’s no need for any Chehlum. I should give this money to Babu’s children.

Yet, the enticing colors of the cards, their smoothness, and shine ensnared his thoughts! Betting on them felt like betting on life. The old man’s resolve began to waver, and his mind faltered. Would I always lose? No, I can win too. Let me make one last bet and see. Why Chehlum? What’s the need for it? Babu’s children are needier. I am going to win today’s bet for them.

At the darkest hour of deep night, the old man — fatigued, despondent, frightened, empty pocketed and overcome by a raging thirst — left the Sahukar’s house, and vanished into the cold, dark night.

When the dawn appeared, the villagers, walking along the trail of the green fields, discovered a scarecrow stood in the lush green farm. Its body was like a dry, straight stick, and its head looked like an overturned earthen pot. Someone approached and touched it. It had become cold and stiff.

….

(Translated from Urdu by Prof Syed Sarwar Hussain)

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