TRANSLATED FROM URDU BY HUZAIFA PANDIT
No sooner was the fajr adhaan over, that Jameela turned in her bed, as if she were waiting for the adhaan to end. She lay inert and still for some time. She thought of closing her eyes, but closing her eyes filled her with a strange dread. In the dim light, every object in the room appeared to be fleeing away from her. Her husband – Mohamad Afzal had gone out of the room to perform ablution before prayers. For a few moments, she kept staring vacantly at everything around her as she fell into a strange trance. She felt herself being torn from inside. Suddenly, something fell in place in her memory, and in her horror and fear, she tried with all her might to call her husband. She opened her mouth to call, but her shout turned into a dreadful shriek. Every object in the room appeared to join in her shriek, as it echoed across the room. While thus engaged, she clutched a pillow and held it close to her bosom, crying out loud – ‘Javid, Javid, apple of my eyes, my dearest, call me too to yourself’, and so in her frenzy began to pace the room. By this time, Mohamad Afzal had finished his ablution, and came out of the bathroom. Hearing his wife wail, he shot furtive glances in every direction, as if undecided about the source of the commotion. He stood rooted to the spot, undecided whether to go into the room, or proceed to the masjid.
Five days ago, their lone son had died in a bomb blast on the main road, while coming back home after computer classes at a local institute. The sky had literally come crashing on their head. The whole lane had been shaken with the loud bang of the blast. Whereas the walls of houses facing the road had only developed cracks, the whole edifice of Mohamad Afzal’s life had been razed to the ground. That terrible night was the longest of their lives. Jameela had only managed to stay conscious fully only yesterday, and managed to regain a modicum of composure with an effort that seemed to drain her entire self. Mohamad Afzal was somewhat relieved at the patience of his wife. ‘Javid’s memory must be tormenting her again,’ he surmised. Helpless and grief bubbling inside him, he leaned on the door of the bathroom gazing towards their bedroom. He was waiting for the sniffles to end. However, a loud wail rang out from the room again followed by loud sobs. Fortifying his heart, Mohamad Afzal walked forward glancing left and right, as if expecting and waiting for some help from the realm of gaib. He knew he had not in him to face Jameela at this time. What consolation could he possibly offer? Mulling over all that he must say, he walked to the bedroom. Grasping the knob, he pushed the door lightly, and it opened a little towards the inside. In the dim light, he could see Jameela had buried her face in the pillow, and her sobbing continued unabated. A flood of tears was gushing from her eyes that seemed to have no end. His heart broke into a thousand shards at this sight. But gathering courage, he went ahead and stood impassive before his wife as if he were a criminal. Jameela gave him a strange grief-stricken look. He turned his face away from her. He was searching hard within himself for the right words of consolation when Jameela burst out: ‘Where did you leave Javid? Where did you leave the light of my eyes? Answer me? Where?’ and she burst again into loud sobs.
Mohamad Afzal stood still like a statue, but no answer came to him. He sat down, looked at her helplessly and resigned. Then steeling himself, he began to mumble ‘Jamila, console yourself. We are all Allah’s …’ and his voice tailed away. Comforted somewhat by her husband’s words, she put her head in his lap. She lay like this for some moments, and then addressed her husband in a strange voice, ‘I saw Javid in my dream. He was surrounded by his friends. They smelled of some strange heavenly perfume.’ ‘Oh!’, Mohamad Afzal uttered as if in disbelief, ‘Yes, I can smell the perfume even now. But … but …’ Jameela left the sentence incomplete amid fresh sobs. Mohamad Afzal could not make any sense of the dream, and merely stroked her head to comfort her. In a faint voice, he asked ‘But what?’
‘His right hand was missing. He asked me to find it for him.’ Jameela mumbled and fainted. The dream struck Mohamad Afzal like a thunderbolt. His legs began to tremble, and his knees seemed to buckle under his weight. He felt as if the earth would swallow him whole. His eyes fell on a copy of the Quran on the shelf. An unceasing torrent of tears flooded out from his eyes and trickled off his face to wet the cheeks of his wife. Her eyelids fluttered a little but closed again quickly.
Reaching off for a strip of tablets on the shelf, he placed a tablet gently on her tongue, helped her swallow it with a glass of water, and laid her head gently on the pillow. Then remembering that it was time for namaz, he gathered all his energy and stepped towards the door with purpose. When he stepped inside the masjid, he hesitated for a moment. He recalled that the neighbours had assured him that they had collected all the scattered organs of Javed’s body, and buried them all together. But … the hand … suddenly he felt dizzy all over again. But faith gave him strength, and he joined a row of worshippers. During the prayer, his son’s hand propped up in different forms and shapes before his eyes. He had held that hand when his son was a little toddler to when he had grown up to be a fine young man. He kept ruminating over each finger – how many times had he kissed that hand, how many times had he held it to keep his son from falling over, how that hand used to hold the pen.
After his prayers, he decided to inquire from his neighbours, especially Haji Sahab and Abdul Samad, whether they had really gathered all the body parts of Javed ripped apart by the blast. However, his courage failed him. The worshippers trickled out from the masjid, one by one, but he continued to sit inside for a long time. By the time he came out, the sun had almost risen up in the sky. He stepped out of the courtyard of the masjid and took a step or two in the lane, but stopped again. A pall of darkness seemed to prevail before his eyes, and everything appeared to have hidden behind this pall. He recalled the dream of the morning, and the wail – ‘He said my right hand lies scattered somewhere there, get it for me’ rang in his ears like a bell that tolls continually. Like a man possessed by frenzy, he began scouring here and there and turned in the lane adjoining the masjid. After passing a few lanes, he reached the spot on the main road where the blast had taken place five days ago. The spot lay right beside the road, but a few yards ahead sloped down somewhat.
Clumps of weed grew there alongside thorny brambles while unpruned trees that cast a dark shade over the spot, completed the impression of desolation. Alongside lay a large heap of stinking garbage. Steeling his heart, and mustering all his courage, he began to tear apart the weeds with his bare hands, and began searching for the missing hand in earnest. For a long time, he kept tearing out and pushing the weeds aside from one corner to another, but to no avail. Thoroughly tired, he gave up the search in the weeds and made his way to the pile of garbage, raking it with his bruised hands, but again to no avail. Any onlooker would have been surprised by the sight of him — his body and face bore clear bruises and scars from the brambles, while his clothes had been torn in many places from being entangled in the bushes and brambles. In dismay and disbelief, he stared wildly at his surroundings, as if sure that the missing hand lay hidden somewhere there. His back ached and a hundred needles appeared to prick his back; he glanced up at the sky, and realized that the sun was out now in its full glory. Suddenly, it struck him that Jameela must have woken up, and so he hurried home. As he reached home, the sight of the closed door made him stop in his tracks.
A thousand misgivings erupted in his heart. He began to think hard over how to handle the situation, but no solution struck him. Nevertheless, he mustered all his courage to push open the door and headed for the room upstairs. Everything was as he had left it in the room except the Quran lay on the bed, and Jameela was nowhere in the room. Where could she be? he thought – misgivings and fears welling up inside him. He inquired from the neighbours, and relatives, and searched in the neighbouring lanes and looked for her everywhere he could think of. But Jameela could not be found anywhere. Exhausted, and at his wit’s end, he wended his way to the masjid. As soon as he entered the masjid, he prostrated on the floor and lay in this posture, till an adhaan for zuhur rang out in a distant masjid. Somehow, this offered him some calm and soothed his frayed nerves. He got up and walked towards his house, the calm evaporating fast with each step. The door was open, and he climbed up the stairs to his room. He found Jameela sitting there, reading the Quran with great concentration. He went near her to touch her, to be sure that he was not imagining things. He was about to touch her, when she looked up. Her face shone with such a strange glow of peace and tranquility, as defied his comprehension. ‘What took you so long?,’ she asked in a voice that appeared to be coming from afar. He stood transfixed. ‘There, the property of someone lies there. Make sure that it reaches its rightful owner,’ Jameela said, pointing towards a small table in the room.
Mohamad Afzal felt compelled to look towards the table, despite himself. Something wrapped neatly in a white bag stood on the table. He gazed at the white bag with disinterested eyes for some moments when suddenly he felt as if his heart had been ripped out from his body. Eyes fixed firmly on the bag, he sat down as if his knees had given way and could support him no longer. ‘When you didn’t come back, even as a long time had passed, I sat down to read the Quran. As I was reading, I fell into a light sleep. I saw Javid again in my dream. He told me that Abu can’t find my hand. Ammi, you please go and find it. It is there on the lower bough of the big tree …’ she said, her voice trailing off. The next moment, she was again reciting the Quran in a loud voice. Mohamad Afzal sank to the earth, half in shock, and half in disbelief. He kept glancing from the bag to Jameela, as if to find answers for some knotty question. For some time, he kept listening to the recitation, and then with an immense effort raised himself up with the support of both hands. He stepped forward towards the table, closed his eyes, and picked up the bag. Eyes firmly shut thus, he felt his way out of the room. Once outside, he hauled the bag on his shoulder. He felt as if today he was shouldering the coffin of his son. The bag was heavy, indeed quite heavy!
Glossary:
Adhaan: Call for Muslim prayer:
Namaz: Muslim prayer
Zuhur: The Muslim afternoon prayer
Gaib: The realm of divine that harbours transcendental and divine secrets
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