Chapter 6 | The Death of Life (with audio)

Portrait in Words | Mumtaz Hussain

The Alphabet of the Image | Mumtaz Hussain’s short stories with paintings

In a small city, there was a small library. The library was divided into sections. A row of books on philosophy started somewhere and ended, and nobody knows where. Then, abruptly, a row of history books started, but the head librarian knew all the sections by heart. Most of the people who lived in the neighborhood of the library had no interest in it or its books. It was a desert to them. Occasionally, one or two students used the tables and chairs during the annual exam. They sat under the big-bladed fans from the British era whose constant spinning reminded them of human existence. The library orderly kept dozing to the sweet classical music of the fans.  The only way to draw his attention was to switch off a fan. It was as if the entire library stopped if the fan did. At this point, in a perplexed state, he would utter, “Sir, may I bring you tea?” since that is the only order he gets, but he gets it often.

“Yes, bring the tea.” In front of Allama Iqbal’s portrait was a large wall clock whose hands would join as if begging at noon daily, reminding others that the picture is to be washed. It should be cleaned every day at least once a year. However, it has not been cleaned in several years.

A spider had a kingdom of his own under the psychology bookshelves. It was never disturbed. It would weave webs from his abdomen and dwell among them. It would build a bridge from the wall to the shelf and from the frame to the books that rested there. It undertook morning and evening walks. When getting fed up with one place, it shifted to another, and nobody ever tried to drive it away from that place.

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In a small city, there was a small neighborhood. In this neighborhood, there lived a carpenter. Although there were no nameplates on the outer doors of the houses, the people were very familiar with each other’s residences. There was only one dispensary, and the town’s people were often in contact with the dispenser, Haji Sahib.  If someone suffered from a cough, flu, or cold, Haji Sahib administered his self-manufactured mixture and a prescription for salt-water gargling. God had endowed him the bounty of helping others to immediate recovery.  It is said that, at times, qualified doctors would visit the dispensary to take mixture for flu. 

There was no sign above the dispensary, which was located within the boundary walls of the house. Since his retirement from the hospital, he had been using the drawing room as a dispensary, the door of which opened onto the street. The hallway was used as a private entrance for the rest of his house. But a board sign stating, “HAZA BIN FAZAL A RABIE” (this is by the grace of my God) was necessary to hang. This was the only board in the town. The dispensary was situated on the corner of the road next to the carpenter’s house, the last one. After that, the road became an empty lot, a dead end.

The inhabitants used that dead end of the street to store their personal property, including Haji Sahib’s buffalo and the JG-29. The JG-29 was not about the license plate of a Toyota, but rather the stamped number imprinted on the left buttock branded on the donkey ass of Haji Sahib’s donkey – left there by the Department of Animal Husbandry so they could maintain a record of animals. The donkey was used for carrying fodder for the buffalo, but it also kept watch over the empty lot by kicking any intruders. 

The local boys used to call the donkey JG-29! It was hilarious for them. The local municipal corporation had branded the donkeys with ID numbers and this Particular donkey had become the talk of this group of lads. It was “JG-29! JG-29!” all the way followed by peals of laughter.  

The tie rod of the JG-29 was untied from its rod. Broken the carpenter used to repair the machine that cleans and fluffs cotton. With his spinning machine, he made colorful spinning tops for the boys in his free time. The boys respected him even though the carpenter’s son didn’t care for them. He also hated his name. The carpenter had no child until the final years after much praying and making a vow. When the carpenter was blessed with a son, he made a promise. “Oh venerated saint, Peer Dhaji Shah, if you grant me a son, I shall name him Allah Bakhsh (Endowed by Allah).” When Allah Bakhsh passed his tenth grade (he got some education to differentiate himself from uneducated people), he decided he did not like his name. Villagers use words like Allad Ditta, Khuda Bukhsh, and Allah Bukhsh, a sign of uneducated people. All of these names mean “Endowed by Allah.” But his parents promised Saint Peer Dhuji Shah that Allah could give his name to him and that he would keep it.

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Since people visiting the library were not in great numbers, the spider’s habits worsened. It walked where it pleased with great courage. If it wished to smell the fragrance of leather, it refreshed its mind with the shoes of the librarian and orderly. And then changed the taste in its mouth while relishing the woolen and cotton garments. Whenever it was in a romantic mood, it would come out of its space and enjoy the romantic weather by singing a Bollywood song like “Mausim ha Ashaqana” while swimming and diving in a pool of water. 

One day, an incident occurred while the spider passed through the English literature shelves without much attention. The head librarian, who rarely moved from his chair, exclaimed, “To be or not to be,” while reaching for the shelf of English literature. The spider’s leg was crushed under the high heel of the librarian’s shoe. At once, the spider ran away swiftly on its remaining seven legs, which bore its weight without much change in speed or gait.

But then it became so frightened that it decided not to go out anymore. 

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Allah Bakhsh was always aloof to the people of his community. He had either of two complexes: inferiority or superiority. Without my psychology training as a writer of this story, I couldn’t begin to understand or analyze this. He might be bothered by a name usually given to villagers. Even after accounting for this, he had a very different style from his peers. Being an only son, he was favored. He didn’t allow the crease of his bell-bottom pants to be wrinkled. He kept his curly hair long and sideburns down to his jaw. And every five minutes, he would sit and comb his hair while looking at a mirror hidden in his college file.

He rode his new model Becco bicycle day and night; the headlight stayed on day and night courtesy of the dynamo that was fueled by pedaling. He worked on its horn.

 However, he remained reluctant to reveal his name. Someone advised him to have his name officially changed in the presence of two witnesses from the Municipal Committee Register. But his genuine hurdle was his matriculation certificate, which would require much effort to change. He busily worked on this until one day, he fell into a fever and couldn’t rise from bed. He remained under the treatment of an allopathic doctor. Foreign-qualified doctors gave him medicines for typhoid and other such diseases. But the extent of his ailment affected his left leg so badly that it became unworkable. Allah Bakhsh’s parents had complete confidence that this happened because of the lousy prayer of Peer Dhaji Shah. The incident made him even more irritable and he developed a new facet of his personality. 

One day, Allah Bakhsh went to another city to attend a relative’s marriage. There, he met a remote but influential family member. Abdul Baqir Sahab was an auxiliary session judge in a small city but belonged to Allah Bakhsh’s community. Abdul Baqir and his wife, who hailed from Karachi, would converse with their children in English. Allah Bakhsh was very impressed by them because of their higher level of education. Every child of the family spoke English. Allah Baksh remained hungry while attempting to use the table knife and fork (in villages, people don’t use knife and fork) but felt satisfied with the company of Baqir, who also spoke English. He would quickly translate Urdu and English. “Mujhay pata nahein.” “I don’t know.” “Beshak,” “Of course.” He used to speak Urdu but in the western style. When music was mentioned, he recounted many names of western musicians and their songs. When asked about Pakistani songs, he would switch back to Urdu and say songs such as “Too Jo nahein hai to kuch bhi nahein hai” (Nothing exists if you do not exist). He liked this song because of the singers’ names, S.B. John and S.D. Berman, whose names were merely letters. From that day on, Allah Bakhsh resolved to be called A. B. But to portray himself as well-read, he would go by A.B. Hasrat, which sounded poetic.

Upon returning home, Allah Bakhsh started craving all the stories he read in 10th grade, such as “Thirsty Crow,” “Morning walk,” and “Postman.” He recited those stories in English while conversing with others. When encountering others, he would repeat phrases such as, “Postman is my best friend” or “Let’s go for a walk. “He would recite the whole essay on his morning walk.

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The spider sat in isolation, so he started adding to the number of his webs. But over time, he felt increasingly lonely and thought of a new method to make his life colorful. He would come down with the help of a thin thread spooling out of his stomach and then go back by swallowing the same. One day, he felt a sensation in the tiny hair of his body and used all his senses to find out who was there. This is how he came to know about his five senses. He descended with the help of a thread stretched out of the wheel of his mouth and looked like a dangling kite. He staggered in ecstasy and thought, “Jhoom jhoom ke nacho aaj, gao khushi kay geet” (today, start dancing and sing the songs of happiness and pleasure). What he saw was a beautiful she-spider who ran rapidly. She had golden hair on her clay-colored body, just like an American blonde. Perhaps, some spider or she-spider might have sat there instead of migrating from Macedonia with Alexander the Great. Both started meeting in the English section of the library under the shadow of ‘Romeo and Juliet’. This is how they started dating.

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A. B. Hasrat’s English conversations brought about the neighborhood’s tumult. He would tell people loudly that he was going to Muhammad Hussain Book Shop to get “The Pakistan Times.” The goldsmith of the lane, who was very fond of English films, used to make an effort to speak English by reading aloud titles of films, such as “The Guns of Navarone” and “The Fall of the Roman Empire.” These were the only two who were well-educated and English speakers. Thus, the children from the street would visit them to inquire about the meanings of various English words.

In the neighborhood, there was a lane known as the lane of stones. This was the only lane in the city built entirely of rocks. There was also a massive mansion in that lane, with a main gate made from tin. In that mansion lived 20 to 25 families. There is an expression that trying to count family members is like remembering to say “God Bless this unique family and keep growing.” The lower portion of the house was called the hookah maker floor, used by a particular group. Every one of the residents was in the business of preparing hookahs. They would turn small bamboo stems, bend them over a stove fire, wrap them with cloth straps, and tie them with aluminum, copper, and iron wires. Lastly, they fitted them into long-necked baked mud flasks. 

That hookah family was well known throughout Pakistan since they were the country’s leading suppliers. The family members were well-connected and sequestered from the rest of the town. They had their rituals. This family had a girl named Bhoori, who was very beautiful. Here elegance made her very similar to Zaib-un-Nisa, the Mughal Princess. In short, Bhoori was a fascinating ninth-grade student in the government girls’ high school. Her mother earnestly desired her daughter to finish her education and marry someone from a reputable family. Bhoori’s mother asked A.B. Hasrat to teach English to her daughter, and he happily agreed. He readily consented and would reach their house every day at 6‘0 clock in the evening to teach her English.

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Daily, the she-spider would come to see the spider behind Romeo and Juliet. Their intimacy started to cross the limit when they wanted to have sex. One day, the dark clouds hovered in the sky as it thundered. The spider told his desires to the she-spider, reminding her that she should know the rituals and customs of that kind. They must have a duel, and only if the male wins can they have sex. If the she-spider could overthrow the spider, he would be defeated and have to accept death. “Look. If the price of drinking the poison from your lips is death, I accept it.” They started wrestling. The spider was very confident that he would trounce the she-spider, but when he entangled his arms with those of the golden she-spider, he felt her strength. Because he had one less leg, no sleight or trick worked in wrestling. The male spider was defeated. 

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Bhoori and A.B. Hasrat started meeting each other every evening. Although A. B. Hasrat taught her in the presence of her mother, they developed affection and love for each other that transgressed the limits and touched the boundaries of lunacy.  It seemed that both, Bhoori and A. B. Hasrat could not survive without each other. The series of meetings took place at different venues besides the stock room of the hookah makers. They resolved that they should talk to their parents to cement their relationship. But Bhoori knew her parents and other family members would not consent to the proposal. They would never be pleased to give their daughter’s hand to someone outside their family. They swore they would take poison if they failed to be each other. A.B. Hasrat declared, placing his hand on Bhoori’s head that he would cut his life off if he could not be with her. Bhoori liked him from the core of her heart but remained silent and only nodded her head.

They talked to their parents. A.B. Hasrat’s parents agreed to the proposal, but Bhoori’s did not. On the one hand, he was the son of a carpenter. And on the other, he was disabled and stupid. They promised their daughter that her hand would be given to a good family. They also told her they would kill her rather than give her hand to him. In the end, A.B. Hasrat decided that if he could not be hers, he would be nobody’s. 

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The spider was very much ashamed. The she-spider also recognized this. Due to the shortage of one leg, the spider was unsuccessful in the wrangling. In keeping with the custom, the spider was bound to accept death by the she-spider, but the she-spider, given his handicapped leg, said she would not kill him. The spider ran away immediately and stood under the English bookshelf. At that exact moment, the librarian, who read Shakespeare, returned to a book, stating, “to be or not to be.” When the librarian raised his right foot, the spider ran and stood under his foot. The weight when he put his foot down was sufficient to crush the spider. He saved the honor of his race.

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Neither of their devices worked, so A.B. Hasrat and Bhoori decided to take their lives. A.B. Hasrat made arrangements for poison. That night, both of them went to a dilapidated ruin, the wall of which was joined to the tomb of Dhaji Shah. Nobody was around, so A.B. Hasrat poured water into two glasses. It was dark, but they could see each other’s faces from the light of the baked clay mustard oil lamps that A.B. Hasrat took from Dhaji’s tomb. They put equal amounts of poison into the two glasses and diluted them with water. They gazed at each other according to their hearts’ desire for the last time. Bhoori looked very graceful in the lamplight. They both picked up their glasses of poison and brought them slowly to their lips. And then Bhori poured hers down into her stomach at once.

As A.B. Hasrat placed the glass on the threshold of his lips, he started to shiver. The light illuminated sweat dripping down his face. The fear-induced sweat on his forehead glittered. A.B. Hasrat looked at Bhoori. Signs of tribulation became prominent. Dew-like cold perspiration twinkled like pearls, and her face became more splendid. The poison in her stomach started cutting her arteries. Blood flowed out of her nose, and she coughed up more blood with a shriek. A.B. Hasrat looked at her face with great wistfulness. He was trembling. His hand was so shaky that the glass of poison fell to the ground. He emerged from the ruin with terror. He went inside the tomb of Peer Dhaji Shah. An utter darkness surrounded him. He had broken his promise. After groping in the dark, he felt that all the lamps were put out. He lifted a lamp, which had no oil. He poured oil into it from another lamp and lit it while justifying, “I have completed the offering of the ritual lamp of the while unfaithful human race.”

As soon as A.B. Hasrat stepped out of the threshold of the tomb of Dhaji Shah, a spider quickly ran out. It stopped for a moment but then ran away. “Thank you God; I am not living like a human being.”

Portrait in Words | Mumtaz Hussain

The Alphabet of the Image |
Mumtaz Hussain’s short stories with paintings

• Chapter 1 | The Barking Crow
• Chapter 2 | When the Rain Shines through the Sunlight
• Chapter 3 | Her Resplendent Face
• Chapter 4 | Enigmatic Mumtaz
• Chapter 5 | Mona Lisa of Bones and Flesh
• Chapter 6 | The Death of Life
• Chapter 7 | His Master’s Voice
• Chapter 8 | Half Shut Eye Wisdom
• Chapter 9 | The Bride of God
• Chapter 10 | The Fragile Mountains and the Flowing Moonlight
• Chapter 11 | Adam’s Rib
• Chapter 12 | Godly Bastard
• Chapter 13 | Poppy cultivated in Heaven
• Chapter 14 | Virus Bomb

See:

Pakistani Mumtaz Hussain Bags 2024 International Impact Book Award (April 23, 2024)

Historic Win for Pakistani-American at International Impact Book Awards (April 13, 2024)