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  ‘How is Firoz now?’ I asked in solicitous tones.

  She hesitated a moment then said: ‘The same. Like a hollow reed, bobbing up and down on the surface of a pond. Drink, like a termite, has hollowed out the very core of him. My dedicated artist is busy destroying his own life. Sometimes I feel I’ve no patience left – but that doesn’t mean I’ve given up on him.’

  ‘So what do you mean, Zulf? If you haven’t given up on him, then why do you need to state the obvious? You should remember the good times you’ve shared with him in the last five years: the laughter, the celebrations, the carefree pleasures … your memories of spring?’’

  As usual, I was off on a trip to the islands of memory. My melancholy deepened.

  Zulfie shivered and closed her eyes. She took a long time to collect herself before saying: ‘Don’t bring back memories of spring in stormy weather, Roohi. I want to forget about it.’

  ‘No point in denying solid facts, Zulfie. It was that autumn, five years ago, that turned your life upside down. An incident on a tempestuous night just like tonight …’

  ‘Begum Najam’s autumn festival was in full swing, that occasion that put a stop to my life’s festivities. I drank what I imagined was nectar and it turned out to be deadly poison. For God’s sake, why am I going on like this? You all think that I made a great mistake, but I regret nothing. I love Firoz.’

  I gave her a glance of pity. ‘You’re actually contradicting yourself by saying again and again that you love him. I’ve never ever doubted that.’

  She bridled. ‘Who can say I don’t love him? Granted, he’s an alcoholic. But I care for him more than ever.’

  As she spoke, she was absently toying with a paper knife she’d picked up, shaped like a sword.

  ‘Zulfie, I’m used to judging people not by what they say but by their unconscious body movements. Why are you boxing with shadows? You need to learn to tackle the person himself.’

  The night deepened. The sound of the waves was like the cries of a wild animal. Again and again I, too, felt like crying out loud.

  My mind began to paint pictures of a night five years ago, another noisy, stormy autumn night. But in Begum Najam’s grand halls, the festival of music and dance was in full flow. The stirring, passionate notes of music, echoing by the studied pauses of the classical dancers, created an ethereal atmosphere and had a powerful impact on the audiences. Lively guests stood around with glasses of colourful drinks in their hands in the galleries flooded with light, conversing and laughing with their companions. Some music lovers had drifted away in pairs to balconies and terraces where they sat, immersed in the music, observing the restless waves of the human ocean. I, too, was in one of these groups, lost in the strains of a favourite ghazal. I was standing still, by a tall candelabra, when all at once the dialogue between two young women distracted me.

  ‘Who’s the girl in the pink outfit to whom he’s talking so attentively? He was supposed to be madly in love with Sunbul, and that was only last month.’

  ‘But that was August and now it’s September. It’s so old fashioned to continue an August affair into September.’

  The elderly lady sitting on my other side looked at the girl in pink and murmured: ‘God save us – these young girls today meet a handsome young man with a carnation in his buttonhole who offers them a seat or picks up a plate of ice cream from somewhere and hands it to them with a smile, and they think he’s lost his heart to them. And about his character, a total disregard and lack of discernment. How careful we were, when we were young …, remember, Aisha?’

  ‘Very particular’, answered her elderly companion. ‘But we did lose our hearts to a glad eye. Remember how the lightning smile of Prince Farrukh struck down your citadel of …’

  ‘Oh, that was something quite different. There’s quite a difference between today’s little tramps and the way we were. We were caught in spite of our discretion; they get hurt in spite of being reckless.’

  Pleased with the point she’d made, the lady gathered up her golden skirts and sat back comfortably.

  I felt like laughing out loud. I raised my eyes to see who it was they were gossiping about. And there was Zulfie, clad in her Schiaparelli pink outfit, black curls bouncing on her shoulders, talking animatedly to a dashing Don Juan. They made an attractive couple, like a pair of swans cresting the surface of a lake. Their absorption in each other was making the younger crowd envious while the older crowd found it comic or judged it distasteful. I wondered why people showed so much interest in the behaviour of others.

  A few minutes later, as Begum Najam passed by, I asked her: ‘Who is that fellow, Shamsa?’

  ‘Oh! Don’t you know Firoz, the famous and popular painter? Looks like a beautiful painting himself!’

  I agreed. ‘Has Zulfie known him long?’

  She laughed. ‘Would they have looked quite so sweet together if they’d been old acquaintances?’

  ‘Yes, I see,’ I said. ‘Such attentiveness is the sign of a budding relationship. Besides, I’ve just been listening to praises of this talented artist; his views on friendship are very liberal, I’m told, and he always gives precedence to a new friendship over an old one.’

  Begum Najam smiled. ‘A sign of good taste. Such people are the life and soul of a party; that’s why they make such popular guests and everyone invites them.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘The things we have to do to to create a lively atmosphere!’

  The lovers spent September and October swimming in a sea of passion and turned the autumn into spring. Sincere friends, however, in their customary old fashioned way, started interfering and reading lectures to Zulfie, trying to stop her from sliding down the slippery slope of love, or from cutting through its thorny wildernesses. The result was that Zulfie severed all contact with these well-intentioned fools and she jumped over the hurdle of marriage in spring. Only a few months after the wedding, the artist’s inspiration raised its head. Tired now of old images, he started showing interest in new ones. He consigned his old paintings to the waste paper basket. Zulfie’s springtime idyll was overshadowed by autumn’s storms.

  Presently I returned, with a jolt, from my dreamy voyage. Wandering through those memories had saddened me. I said. ‘I wonder what had happened to you that when all the bells were ringing you didn’t run for cover – you went out to meet the danger? Agreed, Firoz radiated a devastating charm that night. But he also had that overflowing glass of red wine in his hand in which so many women had unwittingly drowned. He was madly drunk, his feet unsteady, his hands trembling. And yet you fell in love with him.’

  Her anger had spent itself. She looked like a wounded bird.

  ‘What else could I do? Haven’t you heard the famous lines on love:

  It’s a fire that you can neither kindle nor extinguish

  When beauty prepares for battle, love lays down its arms.’

  I was swayed for a moment. Then, recovering myself, I said, ‘What are you talking about, Zulfie? That’s the kind of emotional blindness only men are capable of. To float away like a straw on a torrent of emotion is typical of a man, but in similar circumstances women use their heads, not their hearts.’

  ‘I’ve become more aware of the levels of emotion and reason now,’ Zulfie said.

  ‘Aware of the levels? You innocent soul. Five years ago, all your friends tried to warn you, pointed out the vicissitudes of your relationship … but you had fallen, panting like a wounded animal. Helpless and powerless. Sometimes I feel you can hardly be blamed, it’s in your nature to enjoy being hurt: you’re like a disciple of that ancient school of Greek philosophers – was it the Pessimists? But over the last five years you’ve experienced enough pain. What more do you want?’

  ‘I just wish I would die instead of Firoz.’

  ‘Do you really believe your own words? Darling, I’m convinced you desire the exact opposite of what you say. Because we rarely do express what we genuinely desire; we reveal what we don’t want instead.
Granted, the process is largely unconscious.’

  I’d hardly finished my sentence when the roar of the waves and a bolt of lightning caused a tremor in the atmosphere. Zulfie felt it before I did. She said, ‘Do you hear the roar of the sea, Roohi?’

  ‘I do, Zulfie.’ I looked at her carefully. ‘But which storm do you mean – the one outside or the one within?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ She was listless. ‘It’s a depressing autumn night. Don’t talk in complicated philosophical language. Whatever I did, right or wrong, aren’t I carrying a millstone of patience now?’

  ‘I’m not in favour of carrying burdens of patience, because that shows inadequacy in being able to combat a problem. Patience is easier than confrontation. If you’re determined to confront injustice and persecution courageously, you don’t need patience. But you’ve based your ideals on the belief that the height of human integrity and moral achievement is to suffer pain and bow your head, with fortitude, to every disaster that befalls you. I can’t understand – why should you spend this all too short span on earth by becoming a slate for life to chalk up its hardships on?’

  ‘You’re right, Roohi. I’m aware that the person I met four or five years ago at Begum Najam’s, who took away me away from my sunny, fruit-laden orchards and left me in a bleak and lonely desert with no one to turn to, doesn’t merit a reprieve – he deserves punishment, severe punishment.’

  The force of the gale increased. She was breathless and drained.

  ‘Severe punishment?’ I said. ‘So in some hidden corner of your heart you’re harbouring a burning desire for revenge. Tell me, was I was wrong in saying what I did? The reason I wasn’t convinced by what you said was that instead of cursing him, you were praying for your own death. I told you off then. Now you’re talking of punishment for Firoz. This kind of inconsistent attitude bears witness to the immaturity of your mind. Not that your anger’s unnatural. If you muffle a fire it usually erupts in violent flames. It might reduce the very essence of you to dust.’ I was irritable.

  ‘No! “The fires of love are still blazing …” ’ she quoted a popular verse, but couldn’t conceal her distress.

  I said impatiently, ‘You always look at tidy surfaces and never peep into dark corners. That’s why you’re so proud of the depth of your love. But unfortunately, Zulfie, I’m obsessed with discriminating between the genuine and the fictitious. It’s that preoccupation of mine that whispers to me: Within the calm surface of your sea of love there are underwater predators. These aren’t just poetic figures of speech: they’re hard facts. But leave all this aside, and tell me what the doctor says.’

  ‘I hate him.’

  ‘Hate the doctor? Whatever is the reason for that?’

  Zulfie started at my question. She looked out of the window, where lightning flashed. ‘Reason?’ she said indifferently. ‘No reason. I just hate him.’

  ‘Well then, change your doctor.’

  ‘It’s not so easy, to change a doctor. There are some impediments.’

  ‘Is he an expert?’

  ‘Hardly.’

  ‘Doesn’t he charge you for treatment?’

  ‘He does.’

  ‘Then why do you hesitate?’

  ‘Alright, I might think of changing him.’

  I showed surprise at these vacillations. For a moment she looked distressed. Then she whispered, ‘Do you know what he said to me one day?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He said, “Begum Firoz, you and your husband are poles apart! The drunk and the Angel of Mercy.” ’

  ‘So what did you say?’

  ‘I slapped him.’ She was triumphant.

  ‘Slapped him!’ I was startled. Perhaps she’d expected me to be impressed with her loyalty to her husband. My reaction was just the opposite.

  ‘If you were so clear about your feelings, why did you have to use physical violence to prove your point? What was the emotion you were struggling against?’

  Just then a bat spread its wings noisily on the branch of a withered oak.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘My conscience. That was the reason I slapped him.’

  ‘Conscience!’ I was disdainful. ‘In the age of ignorance man listened to the voice of his conscience. Today man has a desire to rule himself as well as his conscience. He feels that to act under the influence of his conscience is an insult to his individuality. That’s why it was your conscience that made you slap the doctor without examing your motives.’

  ‘What else could I do – you think I shouldn’t have slapped him?’

  ‘Have you ever wondered why a fugitive resorts to force when he’s afraid of being caught? Your feelings were clear. Then why the need to slap him? Anyway, what happened after the slap?’

  She got up suddenly during our exchange. ‘Let me make some coffee for you.’

  ‘No Zulfie, I don’t need any coffee, I need some food for thought. What happened after the slap?’

  ‘He really went too far, Roohi. He slapped me back.’

  ‘That’s the next stage, Zulfie. Discerning man, your doctor: he can look at the deep end. Then?’

  ‘I hate him even more.’

  ‘Even more? How much?’

  She was a little perplexed. ‘Are you in your right mind? Do you think I have gauges to measure degrees of love and hatred?’

  ‘Love and hate are measured by the same gauge, not two different ones.

  But you’re right: they’re both commodities that have no measure. Even so, an integrated person can find a balance between conflicting emotions without much effort.’

  I was feeling restless now; the whole encounter was weighing on me. Sitting next to the candelabra, I went into a quiet reverie. The candlelight flickered and Zulfie fulminated about her hatred. ‘Felt like strangling him … rogue of a doctor … smiles and thinks I won’t be able to resist his flashing smile …’

  ‘Ugly, is he?’ I interjected mildly, and took out my bottle of cologne again.

  She kept quiet a moment or two, then said: ‘I don’t know. I’ve never bothered much about what he looks like. A nurse I’d engaged a while ago thought he was popular in the hospital because of his good looks. For all I care.’

  She went on voicing her grievances for quite a while and I went on listening without comment. The stormy winds were noisier and noisier.

  ‘Firoz may be mean and an alcoholic,’ she said eventually. ‘But I want him to live.’

  Far away, the ocean waves were laughing.

  ‘Why do you keep praying for Firoz to live? Or is it that you’re trying to convince yourself that you want him to live?’

  The storm seemed to abate for a moment and then it thundered again with even more force. Zulfie looked at me sharply.

  ‘Roohi, you do come out with such mindless talk. Your question doesn’t deserve an answer.’

  Yes, such questions, Zulfie, always remain unanswered. The onslaught of autumn seemed to have made her melancholy. ‘Do you mind if I rest a while?’ I asked her, making myself comfortable on the couch. At that moment I felt like drifting off to sleep on the strains of some exquisite melody.

  Zulfie said, ‘But autumn seems to take away my sleep. I don’t feel like sleeping at all.’

  ‘Do you mean you keep awake all night?’ I said, yawning. In the distance, a sea gull cried plaintively. I, too, felt like crying.

  ‘No. In the silence of the night, I just finish off all the jobs I haven’t been able to do because of the day’s confusion. Sometimes I sit up with a book or some needlework. I bought some lovely striped silk from last week’s handicrafts exhibition to make some pyjamas for Firoz. I haven’t found time to complete that yet.’

  I looked at her through half shut eyes. Thinking I was asleep, she covered me with a shawl and moved away. She stood at the window silently, as if she had no energy left.

  Then something suddenly made her go rigid and look at the table. She picked a pair of huge sharp scissors. It looked deadly enoug
h to cut not only cloth but an artery with ease. She started snapping the scissors open and shut as if to see whether they could match the sharpness of a sword.

  She stood a while in thought and then entered the room where the patient lay in his drunken stupor. She approached his bed on tiptoe, trying not to awaken him.

  The gulls were crying again in the storm. By the banks of the canal a stray bitch had set up a ceaseless howling. In the silence of the night the clock ticked. The winds gathered force outside. She reached the patient’s bedside with the scissor in her hand. There was silence all around. She uncovered her husband’s chest and looked up for a moment.

  My eyes closed of their own accord. I thought, anytime now this room is going to see a crime committed. Zulfie caressed her husband’s chest and murmured, ‘What a beautiful wide chest. Are you sweating a lot?’

  She knelt lovingly by his bed, and then she took out a pair of silk pyjamas from the pile of clothes beside it, which she started to cut up into fragments with a smile. I was afraid she might slash her fingers along with the cloth.

  Outside, the storm had spent itself. But the mysteries of the night were growing, growing.

  Translated by Sabeeha Ahmed Husain

  HIJAB IMTIAZ ALI

  Two Stories

  1. Autumn Morning

  That morning her face was pale. The sound of the wind was mournful, like the echo of a dirge sung by a man sitting in a dark cave.

  I didn’t say a word to her, nor did she try to speak. Because we both agreed that two women in love shouldn’t talk to each other on a dull morning in bad weather.

  I stood by the window in silence for a while, counting the sea’s mottled waves.

  And she quietly sat on a couch, trying to draw music from broken strings.

  2. Summer Afternoon

  Underneath the mulberry tree a bird weighs its wings. And from the guava tree green parrots, unacquainted with the theory of music, shrilly cry. It must be afternoon.

  Translated by Aamer Hussein

  MUMTAZ SHIRIN

  The Awakening

  ‘Apa, Gulnar Apa! Look, Miss Fen …’ Javaid was tugging at my sari with his tiny hands.