Portrait in Words | Mumtaz Hussain

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

“Ahhh…ah…ah…ahhhhhhhh…”

A hand crept along Aasim’s body. His eyes were closed, and strange voices emerged from his throat. The hand stopped at the junction of his body, where two main roads merged into a broad highway. It was his body’s center.

Under an overcast sky, an earthquake caused tremors throughout his body. Vigorous shaking caused the volcano to erupt, followed by pin-drop silence that took over the bathroom. At once, Aasim shut off the dripping water faucet, and he made sure silence is resumed.

Then another earthquake shook him, but it didn’t come from within this time. It was Aasim’s mother banging on the door, creating waves of vibrations.

Thud.Thud.Thud.

“Aasim! Open the door. Who are you talking to for such a long time? Who’s there? Who’s inside?”

Vigorous beating on the door started up once again. 

Aasim quickly opened the bathroom window to distract attention that someone has jumped and turned on the water faucet at full force. After washing his hands and face, he put on his garments. 

“What’s the matter, Mother?” Aasim asked as he opened the door.

“Who is there inside?” Aasim’s mother exclaimed as she pushed through. 

Nobody was there.

“Why is the window open? Who ran away from here? Who were you talking to about such strange things?

“It’s only me, Mother,” said Aasim. “I’m alone—there’s nobody here.”

Aasim’s mother searched thoroughly everywhere in the small bathroom, including behind the shower curtain, but found nothing. “What kind of noises were those you were making? What exactly where you doing?”

“Nothing, Mother. It’s all your imagination.”

Aasim’s mother had no proof, so she kept quiet. “Aren’t you ashamed? When your father comes, he’ll teach you a lesson.”

Aasim’s mother’s anxiety morphed into perplexity. Worry took over her mind. To supervise Aasim’s every activity, she recruited a complete secret service team. She assigned the functions of James Bond to her younger son—a job that he accepted enthusiastically and immediately. Information about Aasim’s every activity was communicated directly to headquarters through his younger sister, Money Penny. Yet Aasim’s mother’s secret service failed to come up with solid proof of any wrongdoings. 

At night someone touched Aasim’s body again. The touch of this hand filled Aasim’s every pore with pleasure. His face bloomed like a flower. A sweet slumber of peace entombed him. The morning dew tickled his bare feet with a sweet coldness. His fatigue melted away as his temples were massaged. Each night low voices and sobbing came from his room. The entire team invaded, but Aasim always opened his window before his mother, brother, or sister opened the door. Despite the family’s efforts and the employment of a gold finger, not even a silver nail could be found.

Each failure drove Aasim’s mother into a whirlpool of anxiety. She grew more severe and recognized how complex the problem had become. After dismissing the family team, she approached the elders of the neighborhood. But there was still no clear solution. 

Madam, the maid called Aasim’s mother, loved getting her maid’s advice. The maid had gained credibility by telling the story of her husband, who was captured by a ghost-like fairy madly in love with him. After forty long days of chanting by Peer Jhanday Shah, the maid’s husband escaped his captor. 

Aasim’s mother was educated, but fear of losing her son entangled her in a web of strange thoughts. “Yes, Aasim is, indeed, a handsome youth. When he swings his cricket bat, the girls’ hearts intercept the ball before it can hit it. Yes… But I have never seen Aasim take any interest in a girl. He’s very proud, like his father. It would be a fairy ghost whom he would like.”

Aasim’s mother dealt with her fear that a fairy ghost had captured her son by ordering her maid to make arrangements for an offering to Peer Jhanday Shah—without considering the cost. Therefore, on a Thursday, the Peer burned chili spices, onions, and other such things in the courtyard. Smoke infused the house, making everyone cough and sneeze. The more the sneezing increased, the more Peer Sahib became enraged. His eyes turned red, and he shouted, “Get out of this house and spare the life of Aasim!” He recited hocus pocus abracadabra while spraying and sprinkling water onto the garments, body, bed, and every other spot Aasim could reach. 

Aasim’s mother calmed down a bit. She sent sweetmeats in abundance to the mosque and offered them during meals. She vowed to slaughter an animal whose meat would be waved over Aasim’s head as an offering and then thrown into the river. 

It was all in vain. The night voices from Aasim’s room continued. Aasim’s mother cursed Peer Jhanday Shah, but when she told the whole story to her husband, he made fun of her, remarking that in this enlightened era, she still harbored thoughts like those of ignorant people. “I think you are the demon who has haunted him,” he said. “Leave him alone. There’s nothing to all this. Let him take care of himself and live his life. He’s a grown-up. No more a child. So, think about what Adam did when alone. Think why he produced Eve from his rib.”

For a while, this progressive thinking quieted Aasim’s mother. That is until a new thought emerged, and a fear of new and different relationships gripped her. “Maybe Aasim likes boys instead of girls. Nobody knows the angles of relations in this modern age, in which homosexuality is the fashion, and clubs are being created in the city. Could Aasim have floated into this unnatural state?”

This thought vexed her. Aasim’s friend became a suspect. Little things grew into mountains of suspicion. She visited several tombs of saints and prayed with lamentation. “Save him from boys. We cannot live this way. I could accept a sinister influence of a ghost but cannot accept the curse of homosexuality.” 

When Aasim returned from school, she entered his room with her arms folded and stared at him with tears.

“Oh, my son! Please tell me if you like girls.” 

Aasim replied in a fury, “No, No, No!”

Aasim’s mother started to weep bitterly at the thought that her son might like boys.

“Alas, you have badly disgraced our family. I wish you were never born. If you committed fornication with a black toilet cleaner or an ogre, I would have endured it more than this. Oh! What have you done?” 

Aasim couldn’t understand a thing. “Mother, what are you getting at? Please explain what you want to know.”

“Aasim, do you swear you will tell me the truth?” 

“Yes, Mother, I swear that I shall speak truthfully.”

“Dear son, do you like boys?”

Aasim screamed, “Mother! Do you know what you are saying?”

“Yes. Do you like boys?” She put his hand on her head. “Do you swear in my head that you don’t like boys?”

“I swear on my mother’s head. I don’t like them. You have misunderstood. ”Then he asked her to promise to leave him alone.

Aasim’s mother again distributed sweetmeats and gave offerings, and Aasim continued to meet somebody freely, either in his bedroom or in the bathroom. And sometimes on the roof of the house. But his mother was satisfied and stopped having him followed.

After several days, Aasim saw a change in his right hand. He engaged in self-pleasure using his hand. 

A blister ballooned, growing more extensive in the middle of his palm. Aasim kept quiet and never mentioned the pain and swelling. It seemed as if his palm had become pregnant! One night the pain was so intense it made the fingers of his hand writhe. Aasim started to crush his swollen palm with the other hand, which caused the pain to pass the limits of his endurance. He pressed his palm harder. 

Then, a moon-like baby girl was born in the rift between his two middle fingers. At once, Aasim placed his hand on his rib and asked, “Are you Eve?”

 “Yes, Adam,” she replied. “I am your Eve.”

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:

• Historic Win for Pakistani-American at International Impact Book Awards (April 13, 2024)
• Pakistani Mumtaz Hussain Bags 2024 International Impact Book Award (April 23, 2024)

Portrait in Words is available on Amazon’s Audible, narrated by Scott LeCote (4 hrs and 36 mins). Order here.

Portrait in Words | Mumtaz Hussain

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

“Today, I turn 40,” Mohsin mumbled as he looked at the birthday cake. The lights were off, and there were no candles to illuminate the kitchen sufficiently to allow him to find a knife.

At once, the candle of his mind lit up. He sprang up with an idea, found a little candle, and placed it onto his cake. “I have become a person of forty years…so what? I’m escaping the tragedy of middle age and starting life afresh.” Immediately, these words condensed into one precise phrase, “Midlife crises,” he uttered disgustingly.

To combat that crisis, he made a decision. “When I was born, I needed someone to raise me. This necessity greatly impacted my growth and played a role in completing my personality. Although many important facets were not covered then, I can now get them and fulfill my deficiencies.”

Like a mysterious sense of helplessness, something else started to bother him. The solution to his crisis may be found by identifying his life’s shortcomings. The maturity of his personality depended upon finding those handicaps. To solve this psychological puzzle, he had to compensate for his deprivations, allowing them to become his psychological protein. He sought to identify what he lacked and then reassess his mental state.

As he reached for the stove to turn on the flame, he told himself that he didn’t need the help of any psychologist or psychiatrist. He poured two spoonfuls of tea leaves into the kettle. As the water began to heat up, another idea came to a boil in his mind.

“Why not take tea in Lord’s Restaurant on Mall Road?” After reaching the place, he found a table near the window and gazed outside. The colorful lights from passing cars seemed to send him birthday wishes. But when a car passed through without stopping at the red light, it made him feel like a naughty child. As if he were still a child.

Mohsin motioned to the waiter by nodding and then ordered a tea set. At once, the waiter placed his order and brought an assortment of tea bags on a tray loaded with colorful pastries. Mohsin poured a spoonful of sugar into his teacup and then moved the spoon to the teapot to improve the color of its water. He poured the tea into his cup, inhaling the fragrant vapors of this costly brand. When Mohsin lifted the pot of milk, his hand started to tremble. He could not pour the milk. Suddenly, he stood up to leave the restaurant and un-drunk tea behind. He wasn’t sure why this happened but then distracted himself with his daily tasks.

After a few days, he visited a small fair on the city’s outskirts. He watched the motorcycles race around the circular well of death. Mohsin reached the mini zoo and looked upon the hanging pictures of lions, jackals, and monkeys until his attention was diverted by the bang and pop of a shotgun hitting a balloon. Mohsin wanted to blast the balloons. They were attached to a cardboard wall with glass buttons underneath. Upon blasting a balloon, the next shot was free, with a twenty-rupee prize for hitting the glass button. Mohsin took the gun from the Pathan (local tribesman, they do this game in Pakistan) and took a shot but failed altogether. He continually missed the balloons, not once or twice but after twenty-five attempts. He argued with the Pathan that the barrel of his shotgun must be crooked. But as he started to walk away, he saw a small child successfully shoot the glass button with a single gunshot. Again, he became overwhelmed with anxiety. But the balloons still held a magnetic attraction for him, forcing him to press the balloon with his hand, and he was embarrassed when his gunshot failed. So as he left, he purchased two pink balloons from a vendor. They soared toward ceiling as soon as he returned home and entered his room, so he stood on a chair to catch them. They felt firm and big in his hand.

Mohsin tied the balloons to his two front coat pockets and hung the coat on a hanger. Then, he again busied himself with domestic pursuits and forgot about the balloons. In the morning, before leaving for work, he looked at them. They drooped with less air and roundness as he touched them with his hand. Indeed they had become very soft. 

With slightly shriveled balloons, both hands felt a sensation of loss. Nonetheless, he hurried off to work and forgot about them.

But he couldn’t shake the sensation of loss throughout his day at work. After work, he left immediately and inspected the balloons, still tied to his coat. They were hanging down even more deflated. One side was fastened to the thread, and the other had become a nipple like a child’s pacifier.

Mohsin could not help squeezing the balloon. He felt the balloon in his hand. It was soft and helpless. He put the nipple of the balloon in his mouth. Some energy charged throughout his body, like an electric current in his veins. Absent-mindedly, he bit down with such force that it popped like a firecracker. Shamefully, he went into the kitchen and put the kettle on the stove to boil water for tea. After filtering the tea into his cup before pouring the milk, the same nervous condition started again. His hands started trembling, and he could not pour the milk into the cup. He left the tea and left his home. But he was still unable to understand this state of mind.

Every weekend, Mohsin would visit his paternal aunt. He thought of her like a mother because she brought him up. When Mohsin was born, his parents separated, leaving nobody to raise him. He was only two months old when his father handed him over to his sister. But there was no lapse in his upbringing. His father provided him with a good education, background, and all the amenities of life. His mother went abroad and remarried. Mohsin never saw her again and sometimes felt the loss of his biological mother. 

But the thought that he had attained the age of forty years encouraged him very much. The blood from his parents was now replaced by that which his body machine-generated. Now, he was the architect of his body. His personality depended only on his actions. This thought gave him a spark of energy.

The blood in his brain started climbing the stairs of his body and circulating like in a line graph. He leaped up the stairs to his aunt’s home and found her praying. The maid offered him tea, but he refused due to fear of seeing the pouring of milk into a cup. He only requested cold water.

In the meantime, the cries of the maid’s newborn baby grew louder. Mohsin asked the maid to look after her child while he poured his water from the refrigerator. When the maid headed toward her baby, Mohsin opened the fridge and removed a water bottle. As he raised the bottle to his lips, he glanced at the maid, who had lifted her shirt and given her breast to the baby. For a moment, Mohsin was struck with a frozen stare. It looked as if the child was sucking in life with his lips and cycling his legs as if this action was helping him in the flight of his life. Mohsin was convulsed with emotion, knowing that he had never experienced being breastfed by his mother.

Meanwhile, his paternal aunt finished her prayer. She asked him how he was doing in life and work. Mohsin couldn’t move his eyes away from the maid as if she were a goddess carved into the caves of Ajanta. Or as if that goddess was his mother and he was the child being fed breast milk. 

The paternal aunt immediately diverted Mohsin’s attention away from her. “Jindaan is our new maid. Though her child is only one month old, she has to work for a living. I try my best to help them.” 

After coming home, Mohsin’s thoughts remained with mother and baby. He felt deprived of suckling and still wanted to, even as a 40-year-old man. This desire was taking him to an extreme state.  He realized this condition was driving his mid-life crisis, with breastfeeding as the only cure. This is the lost path that leads to the top of Mount Koh Kaf. He was the caged parrot, like a fairytale, deprived of mental peace and unable to break free. 

To secure peace and the parrot, he went to his aunt’s house every day after work for dinner. Slowly, he cultivated a relationship with the maid. Every day, he brought gifts for her and the baby. She grew to be very pleased with Mohsin.

One day, Mohsin knew that his aunt would be away visiting other relatives. So he rushed over to her house. After entering, he noticed a glass of cold water sitting on the table in front of the chair where he usually sat and asked for water. He asked Jindan how she knew that he would come over so early. Jindaan, gesturing toward the edge of the veranda replied, “Whenever a crow flies by and caws thrice, it means you are coming. “ Mohsin loved how villagers have such superstitions. He was impressed that villagers knew the secrets of communication. 

Mohsin and Jindaan talked for a while, comfortable with each other since they met often. Soon he asked to meet her in private. She agreed immediately. Then he told her the reason for this secret meeting. “I have a one-year-old motherless child. If you feed him, I will pay you anything you want.” As a mother, she was shocked and replied, “Dear Mohsin, mother’s milk has no price. I would love to serve your child and reserve my second breast for him.” 

“But this secret should remain between us,” Mohsin said. 

“There is nothing to be ashamed of, dear Mohsin. You have bestowed on my child a foster brother.” Jindaan was fond of Mohsin and was attracted to him, despite his much greater age.

The next day, Jindaan kept her promise and went to Mohsin’s home. She looked around for the child but couldn’t find one. Mohsin then informed her, “I am that child. I have been deprived of suckling my mother’s breast, so I feel as If I must do it now.” Jindaan understood immediately and patted his head affectionately. “Dear Mohsin, you seem to have been weaned since birth. You are breast broken – a thun tuta.” 

Mohsin did not understand. 

Jindan explained, “We villagers call this kind of person a weaned one, thun tuta, who has never been breastfed and remains disassociated from his mother’s spirit.” 

Jindaan took pity upon Mohsin and opened her blouse, offering her breast filled with treasures as a gift of motherly love.

Jindan reclined on the pillow, raised her shirt, and took Mohsin’s head in her lap. She lifted his head with one hand and her breast with the other, putting her nipple into his mouth as if he were her son. Mohson started sucking Jindaan’s milk. An electric shock-like sensation passed through Jindan’s entire body. She lost control and began to embrace and smother him with kisses. Mohsin broke free in a violent jerk. He was furious. The motherly fountain of pleasure and solace, which had been made available to him for the first time in his life, was transformed. 

Mohsin again started to suck her breast. Jindan’s body filled with anxiety and anger – he crossed the limits of her patience. Angrily, she slapped his face with great force. She pulled her shirt down and ran off, yelling, “I don’t need a 40-year-old child. I want a 40-year-old man!”

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:

• Historic Win for Pakistani-American at International Impact Book Awards (April 13, 2024)
• Pakistani Mumtaz Hussain Bags 2024 International Impact Book Award (April 23, 2024)

Portrait in Words is available on Amazon’s Audible, narrated by Scott LeCote (4 hrs and 36 mins). Order here.

Portrait in Words | Mumtaz Hussain

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

Zeenat was sitting on the bed on her wedding night, waiting for Hashmat Khan to come and lift her long bridal veil. Two years earlier, on the same bed, Hakim Khan, her first husband, Hashmat Khan’s older brother, had raised her veil. But after Hakim Khan’s death, the family was worried that if someone outside the family proclaimed Zeenat, she would take 1/16th of the family estate with her. This was unacceptable to them. 

In the Khan family, every man is considered godlike, standing as high as the sky. The women look up at the men hoping to be showered with mercy, even if it means being spat at, for even the spit from the men is considered blessed. 

As soon as the mourning period was over, the family decided that she was to marry younger brother, Hashmat Khan. Sitting on the bed, the thought was racing through Zeenat’s head that a man more youthful than herself would touch her body tonight. She tensed up as she felt the sensation in her breast. But it was not a sensation aroused by passion. Her gaze fell on the four-month-old infant in the cot beside her, whose lips were moving as though he was suckling at her breast even in his sleep. 

She was in turmoil. She felt a continuous rhythmic hammering sensation inside her body – tin-tin, tin-tin, as though there was a pillar inside and someone was beating on it with a stone Was this turbulence caused by the infant sleeping by her side, or was it her late husband’s younger brother, now her husband who, till recently, had also been like a son to her? 

What is a woman’s worth anyway? Isn’t she always looking up to a man – be it one that comes out of her or one that enters her?

As the day dawned, the sun rose with its sheer youthful arrogance, and the moon and all the stars seemed to pull the covers over themselves to hide as though in shame. There was no sign of Hashmat Khan, who was to come and lift her veil. By midday, it became clear that he had absconded, leaving everyone behind.

The wheel of time kept turning and, much like a tailor’s yardstick, kept folding the fabric of life with every turn. When the fabric finally unfolded, Hatim Khan was a strapping lad of 6 feet in the image of his fathers before him. He walked, talked, and moved just like them. How similar to his ancestors can a baby be, born out of a mere drop of semen!

Hatim Khan used to gaze quizzically at the photograph of his mother on the mantelpiece in the drawing room, which was placed between the pictures of the two brothers, one of whom had left the world and the other left his maternal mother. Frequently perturbed by this thought, he would run out of the house. Picking up a stone, he would beat on a pillar, tin-tin, tin-tin, as though seeking an answer in that rhythmic sound to the perplexing questions troubling him. 

Eventually, prospects of a bright future brought him to the portals of the Finance Dept of the Ohio State University. When he asked his mother for permission to leave home and go to college, she wept: “Who am I to stop you?” she said. “Three men came into my life. One disappeared and dissolved amongst the stars leaving me with a living, breathing little body of flesh and bones; the second ran away out of fear of having to assume the responsibility of that tiny being; and the third is now poised on the chariot of his life with the reins of destiny held firmly in his hands, raring to go.”

Hatim hugged his mother and said, “Amma, the spirit in this ‘living breathing body of flesh and bones’ is your own. Only my body is going away. My heart is always here with you, and you will be in my heart forever. As soon as my education is complete, I’ll return to you.”

And so, with his mother’s blessings, he devoted himself to his studies. 

When hormones transformed the filters through which he viewed the world, he became aware of the beautiful Carmen at the library counter. Like a 3D film, she began to appear very clear and so close that he longed to reach out and embrace her. Her beauty reminded him of the famous wax sculpture of Marilyn Monroe, unsuccessfully trying to hold her dress down against the strong gust of wind blowing it up. The mole on Carmen’s cheek, a la Marilyn Monroe, brought an Urdu couplet to mind: “Daulte husn pe darbaan bitha rakha hai…….” (“…Like a guard guarding her beauty…”). He tucked away the English translation in the recesses of his mind to retrieve it at an opportune moment in the future… 

Borrowing and returning books provided an excellent excuse to talk to Carmen daily. He would make her laugh with funny anecdotes, “The other day, I saw an advertisement for the Mercedes car. The ad featured a smiling Marilyn Monroe. Instead of the mole on her cheek, it had Mercedes’ star logo, and written beside it was the word: ‘Glamor!’” She would double up with uncontrollable laughter. When he invited her out to dinner, she accepted unhesitatingly. He recited the Urdu couplet in English to her, and despite the poor translation, she laughed heartily.

Both were young and good-looking. All differences between them melted with the force of their mutual attraction. On their first particular date, Carmen arrived at Hatim’s apartment wearing a white dress, a la Marilyn Monroe, and this time it did not require a gust of wind for Hatim to blow it off of her. The two blended beautifully into each other and could no longer bear to spend even a moment apart. Carmen told him, “I feel as though I have known you forever. Your face and mannerisms are so familiar that I feel we have known each other for a long time.”

Carmen was also a student at the same university. She told Hatim that her mother was very religious and never allowed her to miss a Sunday sermon in church. Hatim Khan, on the other hand, was indifferent to religion. He never even looked towards the mosque and rarely ever prayed, even on the occasion of Eid, let alone the Friday prayers that devout Muslims were required to do. However, Hatim and Carmen were convinced that love was their most significant religion, and they had both reached the stage of love from which there was no return. 

They had started living together like man and wife for all practical purposes. Carmen’s frequent absences from home alerted her mother to what might be happening, and she broached the subject with Carmen. She told Carmen that if she was romantically interested in someone, she should bring him home, and she and her father would be happy to marry them with great fanfare. 

When Carmen related this to Hatim, he was overjoyed. He was delighted that all his dreams were coming true. He was in his last year of college, and several job offers had already reached his way. 

Carmen’s parents invited Hatim for dinner one Saturday. Hatim was the epitome of manly good looks. If Carmen was beautiful like Marilyn Monroe, Hatim was equally handsome with curly hair falling over his forehead like Errol Flynn!

Hatim arrived punctually at Carmen’s for dinner on the assigned day. He and Carmen’s mother sat and talked in the living room for a long time. Carmen’s father, a businessman, kept long hours at work and had left word that he would join them later, in time for dinner. 

They all collected at the dining table. The food had just been served when Carmen’s father entered the room. As soon as Hatim saw him, he recognized him as the man in the photograph on the mantle-piece in his house, which he had seen every day of his life growing up. 

Hatim Khan instantly became silent. “My name is Hashmat Khan,” Carmen’s father introduced himself. Hatim was speechless. The color drained from his face, and his mouth felt dry. Carmen and her mother mistook it for shyness. Men with good values and noble upbringings were often understandably uncomfortable at times like these.

As they started eating, Hatim Khan and Hashmat Khan picked up the spoon with their left hand. Carmen was quick to notice. “Didn’t I say that I know you from before? I used to see Papa in you. After all, every girl looks for her father in her prospective husband!” Carmen’s mother, being the religious woman she was, said: “Jesus Christ is the spiritual father of us all!” 

Hatim was finding it extremely hard to remain composed. What a crossroad life had brought him to! Carmen was his sister! 

On the pretense of suddenly feeling unwell, Hatim excused himself and got up from the dining table. Carmen offered to leave with him, but he diplomatically declined. “Let me go alone. You spend time with your family.”

As soon as Hatim left the house, his mental turmoil became so intense that he resolved to commit suicide. Having become aware of the facts, he could not continue to live in sin. He started thinking deeply about ‘sin’ and ‘awareness.’ He wondered what the due penance for a sin committed in ignorance was. He decided that after he had done proper penance, it might absolve his conscience so that he could die in peace. For a while, he considered consulting the mullah in the mosque but then ruled it out, thinking that the advice of an ignorant and unwise mullah might push him deeper into the quagmire of sin.

Finally, he went to the head of the Department of Islamic Studies at the University. He stated his dilemma: “After my father’s death, my mother was forced to marry his younger brother, who ran away and married someone else. Can I now legally marry his daughter from his second marriage?” 

The head of the Department advised him: “The girl’s father is not your biological father. Nor is her mother your biological mother. According to Islam which derives its laws from Nature and the Laws of Life, it is permitted for you two to be legally married.”

The heavy life-threatening burden weighing him down immediately lifted from Hatim’s shoulders. He happily took a copy of the Code of Religion from the Islamic scholar and confidently went to meet Carmen. 

At first, Carmen could not believe that life could play such an incredulous trick on them. After reading the copy of the Code of Religion that he had brought, she started weighing the ‘permission’ granted by it against the basic principles of morality and human values: Her father was Hatim’s stepfather, and Hatim was her stepbrother. Regardless of the permission granted by the Religious Code, could she ever accept their marital relationship in her heart? Could Hatim’s mother ever marry her husband’s younger brother, who was like a son to her, as her husband, despite the codes, norms, and laws of religion and the mores of her society and family permitting it? 

Carmen found herself caught in this soul-wrenching dilemma. Her spirit wanted to be with Hatim, but her body trembled at the thought of giving herself to him. When she looked at Hatim, she felt she was losing control of her emotions. She decided to leave the city to get away from him.

After she left, Hatim searched for her everywhere. He left no stone unturned to find her. In the computer world of technological advancement, he checked every conceivable website to locate her. He was deeply in love with Carmen and felt utterly lost without her. Everything around him reminded him of Carmen.

Carmen, too, tried her best to stay away from Hatim, but it was a great challenge for her. To seek comfort and solace, she started going to church. Eventually, she decided to meet with Hatim, and one day she rang him up: “I am ready to meet you. Come to the lane by St. John’s Cathedral. I’ll be dressed as a bride waiting for you there.”

Hatim was beside himself with joy. His love was deep and true – and true love is divine. He could hardly wait for the moment he would face to face with her. Time appeared to stand still. He reached the appointed place at the appointed time, and there in front of him stood Carmen – in a nun’s garb, the bride of God! 

• 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:

• Historic Win for Pakistani-American at International Impact Book Awards (April 13, 2024)
• Pakistani Mumtaz Hussain Bags 2024 International Impact Book Award (April 23, 2024)

Portrait in Words is available on Amazon’s Audible, narrated by Scott LeCote (4 hrs and 36 mins). Order here.

Portrait in Words | Mumtaz Hussain

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

Roshan pulled out the hidden layers of his cane, lengthening it longer. He addressed the stick. “I value your hidden powers.” Then he took a handkerchief from his pocket and started to clean the table tennis-like ball at the end of the cane as if he were rubbing his eyeballs after a sound sleep. Roshan began to think… Do I fall asleep? How does rest work? And why must my eyes be closed? It shouldn’t make a difference if they are open or closed.

Life is like a dream. One continuous dream that never ends. My life in this dream is an everlasting pleasure. He inquired again as he handled the eyeball end of the cane. “Oh, splendor, the light of my eyes, please surprise me with the magic of your luminosity.” He proceeded to twirl the cane left and right. As he crossed the road and approached the bus stop. A woman’s voice entered his ears. He heard a woman. Ask someone, “Sir, where is the drugstore?” Roshan answered, enraptured. “Madam, you are standing exactly before a drugstore.” The lady was surprised. “Can you see?” Roshan touched the ball of his cane and stretched his nose slightly. “Madam, I told you the location of the drugstore. Only if I’m wrong do you have the right to complain. “She then bashfully went in. And Roshan walked away from her with a slight smile.

After a short while, the bus arrived. As soon as Roshan entered from the front, he accused the driver of being fifteen minutes late. “Yes, Roshan, today the roads are crowded with heavy traffic. And the bus is too full for you to sit.” Roshan smiled and replied, “Don’t give up your seat because I don’t know how to drive.” All the passengers laughed, and four people stood to offer their seats to the blind gentleman, but he refused.

Roshan was about to push Kamal’s doorbell, but Kamal stopped him and Roshan said, “Dear, why do you damage my eardrum with the unpleasant sound of this bell?” Roshan said, “If you don’t like the sound, why don’t you change the bell? Listen to all those people with the power of listening, which is the same as the power of seeing. Those are great blessings,” and he entered his home with a cackle.

Roshan was about to sit on the sofa when Kamal asked, “Don’t you want to have tea?” Roshan stood up and said, “You refuse to serve tea.” Roshan repeated his words, “Don’t you want to have tea?” Kamal became self-conscious. “I’m sorry, sir. Would you care for tea? I have to watch my mouth.” Kamal chuckled and said, “My dear… Precaution will save your life a lot of tribulation. Let’s talk about something interesting. “Kamal asked, “How many children asked you the time today?” Roshan amazed the children by telling them the correct time by looking toward the sun. They would check their watches to verify. “Today, I enjoyed directing a lady to the pharmacy that was right in front of him. Though embarrassed, she must have thought what a shame it is when the blind lead people with sight.” Kamal responded, “People don’t judge an aroma by the smell. Although they are gateways, my eyes are sealed. But a princess in my nostril guards the palace of my brain. Now tell me about your health. How is your medical report? “Kamal replied, not wanting to talk

 “My medical report is not good, but I don’t want to take notes on your philosophical lecture on life. Now, let’s start our work.”

 “We are approaching the third quarter of the novel, and since your publisher is making a fuss should finish promptly. Please inform the publisher of words that collecting compound interest is not kosher in the business of words. In the commerce of fiction, a blind heart walks while holding the soul’s finger. Let them walk gracefully. When the heart is blind, emotions are directed by the soul.”

We shouldn’t waste any more time. Kamal grasped a pen and notepad while Roshan started to dictate. “Why don’t we shriek today? Or experience thirst for starvation. Or find liberation (musical or symphonic) from the sound of dripping water from a faucet. Or count the waves (Let’s count the waves) crashing from the ocean? We should converse or argue with Faiz’s soul. Or find God in a stone and lecture him with the theories of Lenin and Marx.” Kamal said, “Or why don’t we count the stars?” Roshan responded, “Counting stars is a common phrase I’d rather not use.”

Roshan dropped his head and explained, “Yes, please write this… Ask Kalashnikov. When a bullet converts a human skull into pieces, how much pleasure do you experience? Let’s ask the blood which colors you embrace. Why don’t we make blood white?” Roshan explained again that this is a common phrase, that blood should be colorless and that all humans have the same color of blood. 

If you have never experienced colors before, how can you distinguish them or use them in expressions? Roshan’s forehead became creased. “I sense colors. The five senses cannot possess God. The five senses cannot judge God. It is Muslim thought that God is totality and above the five senses. So today, you glance at Maqsit Nadeem’s poetry.” Kamal was again embarrassed and spoke in a bewildering way. “Put away this reading and listening business. Start speaking so that I can write.” Roshan said, “On one condition. If you don’t drop an anchor in the flowing ocean of my thoughts.” Kamal muttered, “Yes, I promise.”

Roshan was about to assemble his thoughts. Kamal stopped talking because of a sudden, unbearable stomach ache. His silence made Roshan aware of his pain. Kamal said, “I always try to convert this bad luck that is cancer into Urdu poetry. Pain is like the separation of lovers.” He tries to convert his cancer pain into a lover’s separation, but this is only poetry. His pain is much worse. This misfortune only looks good in poetry. Gastric cancer is like a stunning white blond acting mercilessly toward Indian people. My tolerance is out of reach when this stomach cancer scrapes my abdomen. He then takes four tablets from a medicine bottle. 

The next day, Roshan received the news of Kamal ending up in the emergency room. He was fighting the war of his life against the venomous serpents of cancer. Roshan pulled the three hidden layers and made a longer cane, which he threw onto the ground. “You are a staff of Moses and should convert into a dragon to gulp down Kamal’s dangerous cancerous snakes.” But the poisonous snake of cancer was so powerful that it worked promptly. After opening Kamal’s abdomen, the doctors closed it since the cancer had proliferated. He was a guest for a few hours in this world. He made his last request to donate his eyes to his friend by saying, “This spark of my eyes will light the extinguished candles of my friend’s eyes. The gift of eyes was not a reparation to his lost friend. 

At least, he can write and hopefully complete the unfinished novel. My eyes will turn out to help him write his imagination onto paper.

Roshan’s eye surgery was successful. After a lifelong wait, the time has arrived that he will be able to see. After removing the bandages, he wished to visit his friend, who no longer existed. According to his desire, Kamal’s life-sized portrait was positioned in front of him. The doctor untied the bandage and warned Roshan not to open his eyes when only two cotton pads remained. “Lift your eyelids slowly, and a sharp light will sting.” He opened his eyes, and everything was hazy. He couldn’t see anything, so he closed his eyes. As Kamal’s image entered his mind, his imagination excited him with his smell, voice, and touch. He was his jolly attractive friend with a good spirit. The doctor’s speech brought him back to reality. He asked him to open his eyes slowly. Roshan tried hard to force his eyelids. His vision was clear. He shrieked as soon as he saw Kamal’s picture. Everything was different from what he imagined, including the room, bed, table, and clock. 

From what he knew, images reflected downward inside his cornea, reversing the image on the mind’s topsy-turvy picture. Everything was deceptive, from the victorious smile of doctors to confirmative shadows that passed in front of the eyeball. Every image, which he created directly from his brain when he was blind, was honest and close to his heart. The sound of commiserating people and piercing flashes of a camera light… filled him with unpleasantness. He could see the whole lot, but he was not delighted. Regardless of seeing everything, he felt sightless. The doctor comprehended his barriers and formed an opinion. He told Roshan that it would take time to adjust. He experienced 40 springs of his life without sight. Life is different with bright eyes open. He can recommend a psychologist to help him become normalized. Roshan mentioned that his life was not complicated when blind, but now just the sight of people gave him agony. He found that everything was beautiful in his blind heaven. He started to take classes on how to read and write along with psychotherapy and became fast at writing.

In next to no time, he became conscious. He was determined to bring an end to his uncompleted novel. When he resumed writing, he couldn’t drop a line into it. The doors to his thoughts were shut. The trade for two bright eyes on his face for his intellect was not good after all. The purpose of his life was to become a creative writer; without accomplishing this objective, life would be worthless. He lost his whole treasure of imagination and got only two tiny pearls. He was agitated as he stepped out of the house. He saw children playing with marbles. Roshan looked at the marbles with resentment. The children clutched the marbles with two fingers and pulled back the third, making a slingshot and shooting the marble to the ground.  The unique sound was so cheery that Roshan started to play with them. At the end of the competition, he triumphed over two marbles. He likened them to his eyeballs. As he held them up between the sun and his eyes, rays appeared before him. His eyes were aching.

He kept the two marbles in his pocket and encircled them with his fingers, just as he used to touch his cane. One day, while taking a leisurely walk, he passed an empty old movie theater. A blind beggar was standing next to the theater. He held one hand on a long cane with bells tied to one end. The other hand was bent like a begging elm tree with a bowl. He enjoyed the dialogue of the film by listening to the actors. He held his hand out, and Roshan placed two marbles in his palm. The beggar caressed them. Roshan asked, “Do you see through these marble eyeballs?” The blind beggar replied, “Yes, the whole universe. Why don’t you narrate a story?” 

He started, “The ultimate truth is an interior light. The body does not exist without light. This life is a paper boat with a pigeon as its sailor. The world is a land of mortality and will obliterate. Go ahead and step out to find yourself and the course of wisdom.” Roshan, very delighted, shrieked with passion. “I discovered my lost companion. We must change our names. You recite, and I will write. From now on, your name is Roshan, and I am Kamal.”

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:

• Historic Win for Pakistani-American at International Impact Book Awards (April 13, 2024)
• Pakistani Mumtaz Hussain Bags 2024 International Impact Book Award (April 23, 2024)

Portrait in Words is available on Amazon’s Audible, narrated by Scott LeCote (4 hrs and 36 mins). Order here.

Portrait in Words | Mumtaz Hussain

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

“You are a swing, and I am its shadow; I wish to fly with you.”

When Jawaid saw the record for sale in the antique store, all his scattered childhood memories were glued back together like pieces of shattered glass. He picked up the extended play record, dusted it off, and pulled it from its cardboard sleeve. It was 50 years old but had not a single scratch. It was shiny and black, like the long hair of a beautiful woman pulled up into a bun. A red circular label sat in the center of the shining plastic. A white dog sitting on the wrapper seemed gratified by the sound pouring out of the gramophone horn.

When Jawaid spun the record on the tip of his middle finger, the dog also rotated. The rotation of the record started awakening some melodious sounds sleeping in Jawaid’s mind. His slumbering memories returned, much like his mother’s morning song. He then gazed upon his blurry reflection in a mirror of lost memories. He vividly saw his misty reflection in those lost memories. He immediately put the record back into its sleeve, paid the asking price without haggling, and promptly left the shop. He felt as if he had found a thing of significant monetary value. In days to come, he would occasionally pick up the cardboard sleeve and pull out the shining black record, looking at it with remorse as if it when a small packet of tender memories. He waited with impatience for the day to come when he could hear its music. One day he would listen to the song and embrace the memories of his mother as his mother used to embrace him.

During the day, he studied pharmaceuticals and worked in the Nadim Medical Hall at night. He heard the song several times on stereos, but clear sounds couldn’t bring him back to his mother. A gramophone’s winding handle, its beak holding the needle, produced the background hum needed to connect him. 

Whenever he was relieved of his duties at the Nadim Medical Hall, he would visit Hall Road electronic shops, where new-style stereos were available. Under the pretext of purchasing a machine, he would play his songs repeatedly. But the polished tunes never created the same imperfect scratch of the gramophone’s needle that triggered those rich memories. 

And, anyway, he didn’t have enough money to purchase a stereo, so he always carefully brought back his record, housed in its sleeve, like a bag of memories after listening to it in the stores. When the last days of his pharmacy studies approached, Jawaid’s teacher informed him that American Visas were being distributed to those interested in working for pharmaceutical companies abroad. Jawaid prepared himself to find the light of his future in a foreign land.

Upon reaching the U.S. Jawaid was offered an apprenticeship in a big pharmaceutical company with several stores spread throughout the country. He entered a new world filled with new ways. Fortunately, he was an educated man not unfamiliar with the language of this land. He brought his luggage along with the bundle of his memories. This meant he brought that record with him. He hoped that one day he would find that gramophone with that worn-out sound that would connect him again to the memories of his mother. 

It just so happened that Jawaid frequently passed by the office of the company’s president. The man’s name and title were inscribed on the door as president, with the vice president’s name below. The president was always seen leaving his office in the company of a dog. But Jawaid never saw the vice president, even though he looked.

One day, Jawaid asked a colleague about the vice president’s whereabouts. After getting the answer, he fell under a spell of amazement and anger. He could not understand how the honorary vice-president of the company could be the dog itself, which always walked elegantly with his master the way King Akbar walked with his son Prince Salem. As soon as the master would stop, the dog would stop. As they walked, Jawaid’s anger moved along with them. 

Jawaid considered this a disgrace to the entire human race. “Cursed be this life in which I have to serve dogs.” Jawiad consoled himself. “All bosses are dogs anyway.” He developed a hatred for dogs. “What type of dogs are these? And why don’t they die?” According to Mushtaq Ahmad Yusufi, the dogs were created for the sole purpose of permitting the existence of art, as so beautifully articulated by the great Pakistani essayist Pitris Bukhari or witnessed in the Italian film Umberto D.

“What a shame that bosses are always loathsome, and on top of it, mine is a dog?” Jawaid’s agony was similar to that of the President’s wife. She also cherished hate for this dog. Perhaps the president had more love for the dog than his better half, especially since the dog was also a company shareholder. Or maybe she was after the office of vice president herself. Jawiad and the president’s wife bonded in a way Karl Marx explained by the line, “If the destination is the same, the understanding is one.”

The shared hatred for the dog brought Jawaid closer to the president’s wife. The boss’s wife always cursed the dog. Additionally, Jawaid hated the dog from the viewpoint of culture and religion since dogs are considered contrary to a clean and holy household. If a dog is within a home, angels never say prayers for the inhabitants but rather from at least five blocks away. 

If a rabid dog bites a human, he suffers from the pain worse. Looking at the color blue, the only way to eradicate the pain leads to death; if the medical aid is available on time, the poor individual still has to endure 14 injections in his abdomen. If a dog bites a dirty pig, two horns will emerge from the swine’s forehead, and a pointed red tail will emerge from its hind side. 

As time passed, the bitter poison of the shared hatred between Jawaid and the president’s wife evolved into the sweet honey of friendship, resulting in promotions for Jawaid. The sectors that he was managing became more financially successful. And in turn, he became more prosperous.

While dusting away the poverty of his past, he also dusted his beloved record. He started tightening his pants belt like he was tightening lost memories. He began to visit gramophone stores on Fifth Avenue in New York. But no store had a machine that could produce those circles dancing on the record or bring back memories like the circular ripples surrounding a stone thrown into standing water. 

But he didn’t lose heart and continued his efforts. 

Inna Lillaha wa Inna Ilaihi Raji’oon

 “We are for Allah, and we are to return to Him.”

One day, the president of the company passed away. The entire company observed this black day and grieved, including the dog who lost his title. The president’s wife kept the dog for a few days and endured his presence but developed such vigorous sneezing that she had to consult a doctor. It was advised that she had allergies to the dog and needed to get rid of him as the only prescription for relief. The president’s wife then asked Jawaid to arrange for the dog’s removal; subsequently, the three of them left for a slaughterhouse. This was where owners of unwanted dogs and cats brought their pets so they could be put to sleep with lethal injections. As they passed the antique shops on Broadway near 29th Street, the dog would repeatedly look toward the stores and bark. As Jawaid turned to look at their showcases decorated with gramophones, a memory was sparked like the scratch of a matchstick.

After they arrived at the slaughterhouse, Jawaid and the president’s wife completed the necessary paperwork. As Jawaid strengthened his grip on the dog’s leash, the dog raised his sorrowful eyes as if he knew that his death warrant had been stamped. Despite this, he wagged his tail. And when the slaughterhouse attendant called them, the dog again appealed to Jawaid with a helpless and pleading expression. A faint scream came from the dog’s throat with an “Oooon” as he went inside. And after a while, his limp, lifeless body was handed over to the president’s wife for her to bury.

But the dog lit a spark of memory in Jawaid, which could not be put out and blazed up in his mind. The next day, he went to the antique shops and asked about a certain gramophone they had. He learned that it was 100 years old and still working. A key-rotating handle and sound-box needles come with it. With anxious excitement, Jawaid bought it and rushed home to give it a suitable home. He placed it on the floor, put the speaker in a hole on the right side, moved the key with the small handle to build up the required energy, and bent the sound box’s head by moving its neck and placing a new needle in the beak. He fetched the record from its sleeve and wiped it clean with his shirt.

He anxiously placed the record around the fat nail protruding from the middle of the gramophone and put the needle on the record. He hurriedly sat in front of the speaker, longing to melt every word of his memories in his ears. He wished to store these words in his soul. And when he gazed upon the record, he noticed the picture of the small dog on the red label. It was as if the dog sat with him before the gramophone. It looked exactly as if he had been sitting in front of the gramophone in the form of a dog, and at once, the sight of the dead dog started to revolve in his mind like the spinning record.

He raised his hand and accidentally touched the gramophone head with his hand, making a scratch sound precisely like the dog’s “Ooon” uttered just before his death. The round, red label on the record caught Jawaid’s attention of had the inscription,

 “HIS MASTER’S VOICE.” 

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)

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.

———-

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.

———-

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. 

———-

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.

———-

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.

———-

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.

———-

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. 

———-

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. 

———-

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.

———-

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)

Portrait in Words | Mumtaz Hussain

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

Anarkali’s little wooden cabin was adjacent to the fruit pudding shop, which faced the street and housed a small wooden table between two benches. For privacy, a curtain covered the entrance for customers seeking an escape from the bustling street.

Colleges and universities surround Anarkali. On one side, there lies the old campus of Punjab University, and on the other, schools of Government, Law, Oriental Studies, and Art, as well as the King Edward Medical College. In addition to these institutions, there are numerous smaller education centers for computers, language, arts, and crafts. That is why Lahore is known as the city of colleges. Anarkali serves as the food market for all of these institutions. During lunchtime, the street becomes packed to capacity with crowds gathered around rice and lentil carts for their afternoon lunch. Tania passed through the massive crowds to have lunch at the fruit pudding shop. She placed her order at the counter and sat in the little cabin. 

Soon after, a boy came in, placed her fruit salad on the table, and asked, “Anything else missed? Would you like juice or a milkshake?” “What is kind of juice you have?” she asked. The boy named a few. Even though pomegranate juice was the most costly, Tania ordered it since it had beneficial ingredients. She chose only that so as not to worry about her budget since the cost of pomegranate juice was equal to that of a packed lunch.

After some time, the boy returned and sat the glass of juice on the table. As he left, he partially closed the curtain, leaving a quarter view open, through which Tania could glimpse the passersby. Some were portly, some were short, and others were tall. She then glanced at the most beautiful woman. Tania stretched her neck out of the curtain like a crane to get a better look but could not. In one large gulp, she finished her juice instead of her usual of pleasantly sipping. The entire glass passed through the esophagus, flooding this main digestive tube of the body. Then it moved through the vital organs – kidney, liver, and intestines – and reached the bladder to be stored.

Hurriedly, she counted her change, paid the shopkeeper, and left the shop immediately in quest of this beautiful woman. Tania imagined the woman through the construction of her body. Cells sit beside other cells making organs and building tissue to make a complete human machine, allowing it to move about, 

With rapid strides, Tania walked past the beautiful lady and stopped near a street vendor to gaze upon her while pretending to shop for shawls. She observed the anatomical structure of her body with great curiosity. Its design consisted of 206 bones of various sizes, each connected with others, allowing each step of her walk. She perceived the division of the bones, but the style, gait, and arrogant posture, coupled with how she moved her head and smiled, were beyond Tania’s comprehension. 

When Tania raised her arm to imitate the beautiful girl’s, she glanced at her watch and suddenly got worried. She was now late for her gross anatomy class. Taking shortcuts from the Neela Gunmbat and through the main gate of King Edward Medical College, she arrived at the class on time. After the lecture, there was a special lab for the dissection of cadavers. She looked upon them and wondered, “How and when did muscles spread throughout the human structure?” The body was divided into two halves by the spine, starting from the skull and connecting to the rib cage, which protects the precious inner organs. 

During the lecture, Tania stared at the instructor and imagined gas-filled intestines wrapped around his body like the trunk of a tree coiled by ivy. The more she thought about it, the more she saw every person as a leather- jar covered by a map of veins and arteries. Every human being seemed to be a mannequin-like plastic sculpture moved by some mysterious chemical process within the body. She became obsessively curious about her movements. As she stretched her hand to pick up a glass of water, she wondered how this action was accomplished, which neurons communicate the message from the brain to the hand. She asked how her fingers opened, took hold of the glass firmly, and lifted it. What combination of chemicals, nerves, tissues, and flesh worked together to create movement? 

Upon seeing a good-looking man, her mind would imagine strange things such as how long and short tubes, filled with countless sperm, travel into a woman during a sexual act. How they fuse with a woman’s egg, converting it into a living, breathing child. 

Such a complicated occurrence began to vex Tania. And if anyone used a medical term while talking with her, she would become ensnared again in this mental trap. Brooding over human deceit always brought her aesthetic death. Whenever absorbed by such thoughts, she would jerk her head with hatred. 

Her next class – on anatomy – was not taught by a doctor but rather by an instructor from the National College of Arts. While drawing, he talked like an ordinary man as he drew various organs. His teaching methods were interesting. He spoke eloquently on the aesthetic beauty of different body parts. After class, Tania invited him for a cup of tea. Ali Baba accepted her offer. He looked disheveled, wearing torn jeans and a full beard covering most of his face. He wore two-toned glasses upon his little nose, attached to a thin string behind his ears.

They continued talking about elegance and aesthetics for a good while. Tania became more interested when he discussed his particular physical features. A small chin, he explained, was the reason for his long beard. And it also balanced the proportions of his face, creating symmetry and, in turn, visual appropriateness. When the conversation turned to clothes, he described his clothes – which were old and torn, stitched together with strips – as more economical than the expensive brand names on the market. He thought one’s style should be unique and part of one’s identity. 

When they talked about life in the future, Tania was amazed that Ali Baba drew forms that resembled those of the Indian subcontinent’s goddess of beauty, Madhoo Bala. There were three thousand pictures of Madhoo Bala in his portfolio. He told her he was in quest of a beauty that resembled this goddess. Ali Baba imagined such a physique with perfect precision. He wished to have a model like this to transform his fantasy into reality. He spent a significant portion of his salary in brothels to gaze at young, beautiful naked bodies. He wanted to draw them, but no more. On this topic, Tania challenged him, asserting that drawing nude women was a sin and prohibited by their religion. Ali Baba responded with great perseverance and passion. Like lawyers, engineers, bankers, and doctors, the art of painting is a profession of merit. One must acknowledge that the pursuit of knowledge exists in the domain of artwork just as it does for other professions. Studying the human body yields several benefits in addition to aesthetics.

If a doctor looks upon a woman’s body during surgery, why was an artist not allowed to do the same to create a masterpiece? Tania disagreed with Ali Baba since doctors must see naked bodies to save them. If a surgeon looks at the naked body of a woman in the process of an operation, there is no harm. Similarly, it is not sinful if unlawful food is eaten in a desperate situation. They could not reach an agreement but agreed to be friends nonetheless. Their friendship grew. Tania took an interest in Ali Baba. She went to much trouble to spend time in his company. But Ali Baba maintained his side of the friendship in formal terms since he had no mental harmony with her. That is to say, Ali Baba had no interest in women except for his masterpiece. With time, Ali Baba appeared less and less and eventually disappeared altogether. Tania also left for America after completing her education, but the memory of Ali Baba with his torn pants did not vanish from the far corner of her mind.

One day, after watching horse carriages in Central Park, Tania started to recall her student days. The scene of traveling by tanga (horse cart) from Garhi Shahoo to her medical college brought her back to Lahore. Her heart grew light at the memories of Lahore, and she longed to ride a Central Park horse carriage. So she hired one, which took her past The Plaza Hotel and around the periphery of Central Park. Suddenly, she saw pictures of New York City lying in a flat wicker basket on the sidewalk. In glass frames, some black and white portraits of Hollywood stars, like Humphrey Bogart and Marilyn Monroe. An African man was selling purses with forged brands and counterfeit watches. Some nearby artists were selling their masterpieces that were sitting on the ground. Amid the flat wicker baskets, some photographers took snapshots of the passersby. She saw a familiar long black beard on a folding chair behind a vast drawing pad. 

The distant memory of Ali Baba emerged in her mind, but she did not want to leave the horse carriage. But when the circuit of Central Park was complete, she started on foot to search for him amidst the rows of photographers. But Ali was nowhere to be found. She returned to her apartment in great sadness and excitement about possibly finding Ali Baba again. 

The next day, she searched for Ali Baba among the artists outside Central Park. Her heart soared as she spotted him sketching a charcoal portrait of a Frenchman. Suddenly, the memories of the days past reappeared, and she was overjoyed. They exchanged updates on how they spent their days. Tania took an immense interest in Ali’s class, were he drew living human beings at a school where anyone interested in figure drawing could enroll. No prior education was required for this class. The Art Students League was close to Central Park, and class time was 6 p.m. 

Tania decided to attend the art session since she could quickly finish her work before art class. Ali Baba was pleased to have her accompany him. The next day, they reached The Art Student League at 6 p.m. The drawing room was packed full, with students seated in a circle. On every bench, an artist sat with their drawing pad and a pencil or charcoal. Inside the circle of chairs stood a nude model. The first pose lasted two minutes. Then there were changing poses for five minutes each. The last pose was the longest and lasted one hour.

With total concentration, the artists drew the contours of her body. While Ali Baba described this, Tania recalled the accounts of her anatomy class. The heart, kidney, and bladder suspended in red tissue throughout the body filled her with disgust and nausea. She grew more agitated when she realized that though all the artists were looking at the nude model, the model was gazing at Tania’s distressed face. At the end of the session, the model ran off to the dressing room and returned to the class fully dressed. She spoke to Tania. Tania asked if she did this posing for the money, to which she replied no. As they said, Tania’s expression bloomed like a sunflower, as if a secret was being told to her. In the meantime, Ali Baba went to his locker to place his things.

As usual, Ali Baba went to his drawing class the next day. He didn’t chat with Tania all day and concluded that perhaps she didn’t like being exposed to nude bodies. All the artists sat down at their respective benches. Ali Baba also removed his pad from the corner of the bar and arranged his drawing tools. He grabbed a thick charcoal pencil from a leather pouch and gripped it tightly between his fingers. His mind wondered how to connect the pencil with the images before him. After dividing the paper into quadrants, he raised his eyes to concentrate on the nude model. Suddenly, he felt an electric shock through his body as if a 200-volt bulb lit up in his mind. But it was more like a 440-volt shock because Tania was standing nude before him. Ali felt an electric wave circulate throughout his body, and his blood circulation grew; his heart started showering hues of color instead of blood to his brain. His hand started sweeping on her page like a wall had been lifted from his brain. He finally found the thing he had been searching for so long. 

Tania looked at the artists around her. She found them painting her beauty with admiration. She felt their appreciation from their eyes as if they were all reciting her ode through their gaze, praising her head to toe. For the first time, she became intoxicated by her beauty. For the first time, she felt that her body was not a machine complex of pulleys and components but contained a soul and spirit only recognizable by another spirit.  She felt such joy as if she were the beauty queen.

At the end of the drawing period, Ali Baba danced like an insane man. As soon as Tania returned from the dressing room fully dressed, Ali Baba embraced her happily with trembling hands and swirling passion of enthusiasm and pleasure, he showed her his drawing. He told her that the glittering spark of her beauty broke the lock of his mind, and his search for a masterpiece in a body was complete. Tania glanced at the drawing. With surprise, she saw the image of Madhubala.

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)

Portrait in Words | Mumtaz Hussain

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

“Mumtaz. What kind of a name is this? Are you a woman or a man?” asked Nawab Doda Khetran, laughing loudly, making fun of her.

Absorbed in thought, Mumtaz Begum looked down at her body and saw the path between two small hills leading to the threshold before a castle. You became the owner of this threshold simply by uttering two words and a marriage contract, under which I became your legal possession. Didn’t the two witnesses of our union reveal to you my sex? Or perhaps you are searching for a man within me?

Despite his question, Nawab Doda treated my body as he did the bodies of his other wives, maids, and mistresses. He seized my body like a warrior and held me captive. He looted and pillaged my treasures and left me lifeless. 

But my body remained static like a patient on whom a doctor has experimented with intoxicating injections and disfiguring surgery without the patient’s permission. My body lay cold as Nawab Doda spat the phlegm of his manhood into me, and his breath started to pant. His eyes, hungering for praise, looked at me like he had defeated his opponent in a chess game.

I was a beautiful fish captured from the ocean and thrown across the ice. My fish eyes narrated a story as heat dissipated from my body. Nawab’s breathing slowed down as he asked why I never smiled. I wanted to tell him that my passion was slumbering. I pursed my lips, feeling the irony of this helpless man’s question. “You have conquered my body, which is in your possession. But you cannot imprison my soul behind bars”. 

After a few days, Nawab Doda made an announcement. “This evening, an English lady will be arriving. Arrangements for a feast are to be made. And the piano from the library covered by books should be transferred to the women’s chambers.” Until that time, the piano had been a showpiece. Nobody knew how to press its keys. “Only the English woman knows how to fix the loose wires with her touch. Her hands on the keys will revive its body.” 

The English lady was unrivaled in her beauty. She was like a single, perfect ear of corn peering through the harvest with golden hair and rows of teeth like the pearls of unripe kernels. Her gait was graceful, like a swaying bough in a gentle wind. 

When she took a seat at the middle of the dining table, streams of light from the Venetian chandelier descended over her and fought like sworders to win a kiss on her cheek. As she picked up her spoon, my heart jumped into her bowl so I could be scooped up and raised to her lips. I longed for her to take my body or give me hers.

After dinner, cognac made the deep blue of her eyes take on the colors of a sunset over Lake Saif ul Muluk. She sat on the piano stool and started to stroke the piano’s keys with solid and rounded fingers. When she played, every pore of my body began to open like the unbuttoning of a shirt. My heart was aching to fit into her, one metal button snapping into another. I wanted to be a slave to the English. And this Englishwoman would be the master of my body.

As she played, the ends of her golden mane swayed against her waist-not only to the tune of her song but also to the rhythm of strings inside me. The tunes triggered something within me and affected me profoundly. My body was sprinkled with dew drops of lust. My eyes delivered the message of love sent by the carrier pigeons of my heart. The news came forth like a sermon, a Koran on a pulpit, and swaying to the words, “I accept, I accept, I accept.”  

Helpless, the lips of the English lady murmured, “Mumtaz, you are most beautiful.” This very much pleased Nawab Khetran since they were spoken in the language of his masters. Like an art piece on the mantle or a leather-covered antique book on his shelf, his prized possession was receiving praise.

The next day, Nawab Khetran informed me that she wanted to give me a gift of my choice. “Mumtaz Begum, please inform the cobbler to make a shoe with threads of gold and a sparkling ruby.” I require shoes that can take me to the garden of heaven. I want to taste the seed of lust, which Adam ate and for which he paid the price of having to leave paradise. Nawab Doda announced that a shoe of golden threads and red stones must be made for Mumtaz.

After some time, Nawab Doda received an alarming report regarding his health.  He could no longer sleep due to a growing fear that a suspicious mark on his neck could be dangerous, so he decided to leave for London for treatment. I prayed that his neck would be stuck there so I could be alone with the English lady.

We started to meet. I learned the language and culture of my lover, including her name, Judith. She understood the delicacy of my body in a way that only a woman could. Foolish men can never know that every small pore of a woman’s body is filled with the sweetest honey. On the road that is a woman’s body, most men focus only on a single converging point and cannot see beyond it.

At last, one day, I invited Judith into my bedroom dressed in a black tuxedo and hounds-tooth tie. I waited for her. As if a man, I wanted to absorb her body. A man and woman without sex would eat each other alive. Only a woman can recognize the emotional necessity of another woman, and with lust, it could become the strongest of relationships, exceeding the potential of a man and woman.

Judith entered my bedroom. Meanwhile, the cobbler Balaj had started working on my shoes in his shop. Golden threads illuminated my walls, bathing Judith’s body in golden water, and her center was a ruby. We commenced a spiritual and physical voyage, making two smoldering fires grow into one immense bonfire. Our bodies mingled like two kinds of sand, which could never be separated. It was as if my body gave birth to her, yielding a connection that could not be severed. Unlike a husband, I didn’t need to possess her but let my passion lead the way. After making love with Judith, I felt like the fruit of paradise was just an excuse to leave heaven so I could attain true heaven on earth.

Judith and I started meeting regularly. In the meantime, the cobbler, Balaj, worked on my gift. He softened the leather with fragrant oils and herbs.  He made toe covers shaped like the dome of the Taj Mahal and embroidered a design with gold and silver threads like a new bride’s henna. This was his masterpiece, from which he could not avert his gaze.

And in the same way, I never took my eyes off Judith. Sometimes, we were intimately together in the sleeping chamber, and other times, in rest houses or even open fields. If we felt a dust storm spiraling in, we held each other tight and became the eye of the storm. Our relationship was not the mindless physical counting of the rosary beads in which God’s name is uttered, but rather like the bowing of two personalities worshiping each other. 

Sometimes my fingers touched the skin above my lips as if waiting for a mustache to emerge.

At last, one day, the pot that held the life-sustaining water in a desert broke. Judith had to return to London. It was the death of pleasure.

As Judith prepared to leave for England, Balaj, the cobbler, prepared for his long journey through the desert to deliver my gift. He arranged all the other shoes against the side of his basket with the ruby ones in the center, like a daffodil standing in stagnant water.

Before the long journey, Balaj wrapped the basket with several layers of fabric and secured it onto his camel. After many miles, under open skies and a harsh sun with no trees, he found that his food and water were gone entirely. The sun’s heat absorbed every drop of water from his body like a towel running dry. He felt a prickly cactus growing in his throat. His poor camel cud food from its own body to survive.

Balaj felt faint. Far away, he saw a hand pump, put there by a man hoping to attain God’s blessing. Water was life for the desperate traveler. When he reached the pump, he saw no water and no spigot. Nonetheless, he covered the hole with his hand and pumped it as if he were squeezing water from the infertile womb of the earth. Slowly, pressure started to build, and some water emerged. But since there was no spigot, he couldn’t get enough water to reach his lips, and water was dripping on the sides… 

He suddenly remembered that in the basket of shoes, he had a loose piece of leather, which he curled in the form of a rod and stuck into the water hole. He pumped more water and desperately put his lips to the leather. After drinking for a while, his thirst was quenched. He gave blessings to the person who had built the hand pump, placed the wet leather back into his bag, and proceeded toward the castle of the Khetran tribe.

Mumtaz desperately awaited her shoes. Finally, Balaj arrived. After some rest, he presented them to her, praising them highly. She admired the shoes but glanced into the basket and saw the curled, loose piece of leather. Strangely curious, she asked about it. Balaj shared his story of how the leather had saved him. Mumtaz Begum picked up the leather and felt its natural softness. It has become his lifeline like the English lady was hers. Suddenly, the beautiful shoes with golden strings and rubies became Nawab Khetran. She knew what she wanted. She told Balaj, “I don’t want the shoes. I’ll take the leather.” 

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:

• Historic Win for Pakistani-American at International Impact Book Awards (April 13, 2024)
• Pakistani Mumtaz Hussain Bags 2024 International Impact Book Award (April 23, 2024)

Portrait in Words is available on Amazon’s Audible, narrated by Scott LeCote (4 hrs and 36 mins). Order here.

Portrait in Words | Mumtaz Hussain

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

Posing nude for a Zahoor painting was a privilege, an event for any woman. A complete portrait reflects the heart’s innermost emotions, pain, and wisdom interpreted onto the rough surface of the canvas. 

Zahoor had yet to paint that portrait, which could be the key to his soul. He searched for himself; his secrets and desires lay deep inside him, but he couldn’t reach them. Zahoor had painted many beautiful faces, yet that wasn’t enough for him. He felt empty inside. Beauty alone didn’t quench his thirst. He wanted a look in which he could see his true self. He wanted to feel alive, content, and perhaps even complete. He wanted a face that would pull at his heartstrings and change the monotonous heartbeat to which he had become immune. Zahoor wanted to feel life fully. 

Today, Suzan Velonsky, the most beautiful woman in the world, sits before him. She has broken many hearts and enjoys torturing his friends’ bodies somewhat sadomasochistic ally. As usual, she is high on heroin. Her scantily clad photo cover for Cosmopolitan Magazine has set many a heart beating. While the whole world is dying over her divine beauty, she is dying for Zahoor. All this stimulates his creative mind and engenders magic sparks from his conical finger. Whoever stares at his paintings will turn into a stone statue. 

Today, as usual, Suzan’s high on ecstasy. Absorbed, Zahoor stares at her naked body, starting with her moonlike face. Upon this perfect circle of a look are perched the two perfect circles of her eyes, a circle’s distance between the two. Under these round eyes lie the rounded arches of her cheekbones and the small convex semicircle of her lips. Below them were her slender neck, and between her two round shoulders, the bowl-like circles of her soft breasts. And in the center of the tummy sits her raisin-like navel. But when Zahoor emerges from his imaginative trance, he examines the canvas and finds a single circle. Deep in thought, Zahoor gazes at this circle. He has seen magnificently attractive women. And has been streaked by the visual appeal of the moon, sun, and earth. They convince him that the most splendid form in the world is a circle. The circle is proportionate from all sides and evenly connected to its core center. It is a complete shape in itself. 

But Zahoor was in search of his soul, his purpose. He marvels at the exquisiteness of Suzan’s naked body. It reads like a sermon for his masterwork. He is still searching for his soul. This leaves only a simple circle on the canvas, continually encircles his eyes. However, there’s no way yet to enter the circle. It is sealed shut like the gates of a fort upon the kettledrum’s announcement on a night. Zahoor’s anxiety keeps him distressed and perplexed throughout the night; he hopes that either Muezzin’s call for prayer or the first ray of the sun might rouse the watchman to open the deadbolt of the gate to let Zahoor enter.

Nonetheless, the gates remained closed. (He was shouted out) After waking up from her intoxicated coma, Suzan sees Zahoor arguing with his canvas. Upon looking at the canvas, she could not understand it, and Suzan started crying and cried out, “I’m not beautiful!” 

 Zahoor tried to convince her that only magnificent beauty would yield the perfect Circle. “It’s because you are total beauty.” Suzan was pleased to hear his praise, but she still didn’t understand his aesthetic. She was cheered that such a well-known artist praised her.

****

After this, Zahoor stopped painting and locked up his studio. In his heart, he no longer desired to paint. His inspiration had fled. His mind was on gridlock, where beauty once flourished, where youthful passion rained. Gradually, his life’s savings ended up breaking. Suzan offered to help, but his swollen pride wouldn’t let him accept. He knew no other profession nor wanted to do any additional work. While strolling downtown and feeling financial distress, one day, he came across a few tattoo shops near Astor Place. He was fascinated by their shades and the colorful paintings on the body’s canvas. With a needle screwed into a tattoo-making gun, the color would fill up the naked body at the cost of oozing blood. It was like shedding blood and tears over his incomplete, projected masterpiece. As he watched this new process, excitement took over. He discovered pleasure in pain. The experience of agony blended with ecstasy seemed to compensate for his sense of failure. It was the price of a minor satisfaction, whereas sweet pain is not such a bad deal. Achieving the look of beauty at the cost of saccharine pain might be a worthwhile endeavor. He inquired of the store owner, who demanded some experience. Zahoor told him he was a creative artist willing to learn the art of tattooing bodies. The store owner hired him on the condition that he knew without pay. Zahoor enthusiastically accepted and, in no time, became a master of this trade. 

Suzan continued to live with him. She earned a whole year’s rent in a single day. Always on ecstasy or heroin, she would sleep all day and visit the most expensive bars at night. Wealthy people paid any price in jewels or gifts to be in her company. Wealth, fame, and beauty were her handmaids. Suzan’s attractive and magical image sold many products through eye-catching ads in prominent magazines. But her breathtaking beauty was just an ornate goblet for Zahoor, another ornament on the shelf above his fireplace. One neither filled with liquid nor dry, yet holding the fragrant jasmine of his soul.

One day, one of Zahoor’s friends got an infection from a tattoo on his back. Zahoor went to the hospital to visit him but, by mistake, ended up in the ward for Craniofacial Anomalies. It was a strange, new place to him. So, he asked just what craniofacial anomalies were. The nurse explained: “Anomaly” meant “abnormal.” And “Craniofacial” refers to the head and facial bones. Human beings who are afflicted look different from most others. Zahoor thanked her and left the hospital, only to come upon an Indian girl with an unusual face. The circle of her left eye was hollow, broken, and incomplete as it stretched downwards. There was a gap between her nose and lips like an unstitched wound that had healed on its own. Her face was an incomplete circle, which protruded from a whopping bump.

Zahoor’s heart knocked at his soul’s door. “Here’s a beauty whose doors are wide open. Doing her portrait would help me meet my soul”. Zahoor nervously asked her, “Are you from India?” She covered her breast tightly with her books. He noticed that they were about craniofacial anomalies. “Yes, I used to live in Delhi, and now I’ve lived in New York for several years. What about you?” He replied, “I’ve also lived here for several years and don’t even remember when I was born, but it was in Pakistan.” He sighed deeply. She asked if he was in pain. He told her that sometimes the rawness of beauty wounded him. And that every wound bears a tale. The girl was astonished and asked, “The story of my wound? I don’t have a wound. If you’re judging me by my face, let me enlighten you that I was born like this. My mother told me that the universe shifted gears when I was born. The sun got stuck in an eclipse, the moon hid behind the stars, and the earth spun out of control But the ox, or the bull that held up this earth, had only one horn. So when he got tired, he switched his horn” She went on, “I may be different, but I am not wounded.” Zahoor extended his hand to her and introduced himself. My name is Sundermukhi. Zahoor’s eyes shimmered as he told her he was an artist, but his studio was shut down. 

She asked why. He told her that his heart was searching for his soul and that his former style had disappeared. She said to him that his style was very enigmatic. I am aware of your art; you are one of the leading painters from south Asia. Then they parted ways with a promise to meet again. Zahoor sensed that Sundermuki’s beautiful face might open the locked door of his heart. He was convinced her portrait would be the only masterpiece to free his heart and soul. After a long wait, they met at a restaurant, and after dinner, he said. “I would love to paint your portrait.” After a while, she agreed. 

Zahoor was ecstatic. He had found his new muse; his professional life would start again. He informed art dealers that he was coming back. That became the raging news of the art circles. Zahoor was painting again! He bade goodbye to his tattoo job, even though it was another aspect of his profession. He kept his gun and pigments as a souvenir. Like a bridegroom in high spirits, Zahoor decorated his studio impatiently and impulsively, like passionate waves crashing against the shore. Suzan was delighted that he was painting once again. And was still very much in love with him. Of course, Zahoor didn’t tell her about Sundermukhi, who was supposed to arrive at noon to sit as his model. He assembled all his paint materials. He could hardly wait. He couldn’t sleep the previous night with all that excitement, lust, and thrill moving coursing through him. Suzan thought this was because he was excited by his return to painting. Zahoor was surprised when he restlessly arrived at the studio to find the door open, pigment boxes adequately arranged, and the brushes aligned and ready. Even the brush cleaning oil was on the table. Then he saw Suzan naked in an intoxicated stupor, lying as usual in front of Zahoor’s canvas. Next to the brush cleaning container lay an unopened envelope addressed to him. He saw it was from Sundermuki, and he opened it with great disappointment that she had changed her mind. “My face is an open book; it should not be imprisoned within the four walls of a canvas prison.” Zahoor was heartbroken and sad. He sat down on the chair to pull himself together. When he looked up, he saw before him the enraptured and intoxicated Suzan; He felt a sudden shock wave hit his head. He grabbed the tattoo machine filled with paint and tattooed the imagery of Sundermuki all over Suzan’s face. 

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)

Portrait in Words | Mumtaz Hussain

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

The sound of a person sobbing forced Hina to turn and look behind the tree. In the middle of Lawrence Garden, a handsome young man sits on a stone bench under the tree’s shadow. He held a little velvet box while shedding tears of grief.

Hina could not control herself. She walked over and sat down next to Thim. “Please take this box,” he said, pushing it toward her, wiping his tears with a handkerchief. She tried to respond but was not able to move her lips. The young man insisted. “It would be a great favor to me if you kept this ring.” Hina glanced at it. The small velvet box was engraved with “Tiffany & Co.” She knew of rich and famous people who exchanged gifts from this company. Suddenly, Hina was drowning in thought. Could the prince charming of her dreams ornament my finger with this Tiffany ring? The young man opened the box and asked again, “Can you please take this diamond ring? It has no value to me.”

Hina answered, “Why should I take your ring? You should give it to whomever you wish to marry.” She looked at him, paused, and continued, “Sorry. I was trying to be humble. You look well-educated and from a good family. But I’m bashful about talking to you – a stranger. Even if I want to accept this ring, I don’t know you.” She turned to go. 

 “Stop. My name is Rafit!” He said while extending the hand that was previously clutching the handkerchief. “I belong why so many hyphens to a decent family.” Hina took his hand hesitantly. “I am Hina Yousaf,” he said. “My full name is Rafiat Sultan, and I work for Armo Company in the WAPDA House building at a minor post. I just graduated with a master’s degree, and this is my first job.”

Hina was astonished that a man in a minor post could afford a Tiffany ring and asked him about it. “Yes, it’s a long story.” Raffiat sighed deeply. “Please have a seat.” They sat together on a bench, the same court in the opposite direction facing each other. He told her that he was studying at Punjab University. One of his classmates was the daughter of a renowned politician and feudal lord, Shahnawaz Daultana. “We climbed the ladder of attraction and opened the window of our affinity. We were so tied together and couldn’t endure being apart.” As he spoke, he noticed the shrunken lines of her face expanding. The spark of a Tiffany ring shone in Hina’s eyes. He told her that he bought the ring by selling his belongings and spending his life savings, which was the only way to accomplish his dream of marrying her. He borrowed money, asked for help from his American friends, and bowed to her every wish. “Today, she demolished the castle of my dreams. The same thing might happen in a Bollywood film ending with a feudal lord’s father humiliating and removing a poor clerk during a fancy ball. I hate all those feudal lords whose veins flow with golden water rather than blood. They weigh flowers like love and honesty against the heavy weight of a diamond.”

Rafiat observed Hina’s glistening eyes. “Now you tell me. What kind of love can bring me comfort? This lifeless, glittering ring lacks the warmth to melt the ice of grief and sorrow inside me. I wouldn’t say I like this ring. Its shine stings me like a venomous female snake!” He thrust the ring toward her. “Please. You keep this one.” He gasped with tears and covered his face with his hands. “It was my late mother’s wish to see my happy family. She longed for grandchildren.” He began to sob uncontrollably. Hina felt intense sympathy. She felt so sorry for Rafiat and was angry at the rich.

Rafiat continued to cry. “Please forgive me. I don’t know why I felt so comfortable that I revealed everything. As my mother said – someone can build a canopy to provide shade of love and protect against sunbeams of hatred.” Hina moved toward Rafiat’s shadow. Her defenses were lowered. “I work in the Alflah building close to the WAPDA house. My parents live in Sheikhopura. I’m a clerk in a bank and share an apartment in Rivas Garden with a friend from Gujranwala. She is gone for a few days to visit back home. If you’re not busy, I’ve prepared and wrapped a thread around a bitter gourd before cooking. We can have it for dinner. On one condition. That you keep your ring. Rifiat opened the box and showed her the sparkling ring with one dazzling diamond in the center and three small ones surrounding it. There was space for a fourth, which was missing. She wondered if the diamond had fallen out. In the meantime, a sparkling raindrop equal to the size of the missing diamond dropped onto the marble bench with a slight thump. Hina looked at the sky and started to laugh. “Look! See the rain through the sunshine. I heard that when jackals get married, rain falls through sunbeams. “The rain then turned into a hail storm, and they ran to the road, hopped into a rickshaw, and headed towards Hina’s place. Rafiat handed the ring to Hina, who accepted it quietly. Upon arriving at the apartment, she placed the ring box in the middle of the coffee table and started cooking.

While eating dinner, Riffat slowly unwrapped the thread from the bitter gourd and unwrapped the clothes from her body. They both enjoyed the taste of the bitter gourd and amused themselves with desire. They satisfied their bellies and then moved on to fulfill regions below their bellies…

When Hina woke up after a sound sleep, neither Riffat nor the ring was to be found.

******

On Sunday, all the offices were closed. But Lahore Museum, Lahore Zoo, and the department stores were open. Dolly was visiting Pakistan from the US. Her mother always forced her to spend the holidays with her sister in Karachi. If she happened to find a suitable husband, she would love to make her hands yellow with henna despite the blue American passport she possessed. She felt like the majority of young Pakistani Americans who throw away their lives watching fare meters by driving yellow cabs. Some young Pakistanis even marry their relatives to get US citizenship. Or they get married on paper while working day and night to pay the expenses of their white or black girlfriends and boyfriends. While doing Michael Jackson’s moonwalk, Dolly was looking for a Pakistani wearing blue jeans with a Giorgio Armani label on his butt. One who leaves work by calling out, “have a nice day!” She thought she could live a comfortable life if she found a Pakistani husband wrapped in Calvin Klein designer packaging.

As soon as she was bored with Karachi, she left for Lahore. Come what may, Lahore in the monsoon will be filled with mangoes submerged in water buckets. The entire city of Lahore gathered at the dried bank of River Ravi to wish that the moon would soon shed rain and fill the river. She settled in the Pearl Continental dining hall next to the swimming pool. When she purchased in dollars, it gave her the impression that there was a 99-cent sale at a buy one, get one free rate. 

It was Sunday, and the entire city was barren. She decided to visit the Lahore Museum, and as soon as she stepped up the museum’s stairs, she heard a sobbing sound. She turned and saw a young man gazing at a small velvet box on the table next to the museum’s empty canteen chairs. Dolly approached him and spoke to him sympathetically in her American accent. She asked about his crying. Rifiat answered in English, “Please take this.” Her eyes and mouth opened as soon as she glanced at the box. “Wow! You’re giving this expensive thing away to a stranger?” She refused to accept it and scanned the young man quite like the Xray scanners at airport security. The boy was tall, had a Caesar haircut, sizeable and intelligent eyes of jade color, and a shaved beard framing an angular jaw. Thick hair peeped out above his shirt, which covered a broad chest. New, fashionable, and tight-fitting clothes covered his body. Dolly lifted her eyebrow, thought this fellow was striking and spoke English. So, she extended her hand. “My name is Dolly, and I’m here on vacation.”

Rafiat told his story with grief. “I am not rich, but my fiancé belonged to a feudal lord’s family. To fulfill her wishes, I spent all my life’s savings and took loans to buy a ring from Tiffany’s. But today, her feudal lord father humiliated me and threw me out of his house. Even my girlfriend couldn’t stop it.” Rifiat did not have to put on much more salt and pepper to make the story spicier. My love was sincerely offered. But this Tiffany’s ring wasn’t enough to convey my passion. Please take this ring – I hate it. My late mother wanted me to have a family. Still, she is now already buried, and so is her hope.” Dolly imagined him as her husband. He is educated, unlike other Pakistanis. He doesn’t abuse phrases like “over here” and “over there” when he speaks English. He has a lovely British accent and is like a rare, high-priced sculpture piece in a museum from the British Raj era. And he will endow me with this Tiffany ring. Dolly impulsively invited him to go somewhere. Perhaps a diversion will make him feel better.

They both went to the outdoor swimming pool at Pearl Hotel to scrutinize the half-naked foreigners. Dolly asked him where he lived. He told her that he didn’t know how or where he might spend this gloomy night. “Why don’t you sleep here?” She asked. “Only if you accept this ring,” he answered heavily. Dolly blushed as she opened the box to see the large diamond surrounded by three others, but a fourth was missing. Suddenly, raindrops started to fall into the swimming pool. Dolly laughed when she saw the sun wink into the pool with one eye closed. She held Rafiat’s hand. He said, “Somewhere, a jackal is getting married.” They laughed and ran to the hotel room. Dolly placed the ring into the dresser among her fragrance bottles. She pressed a button, causing the window curtains to close. Rafait started to uncover her body, taking her clothes off. In the morning, Dolly woke up to find the ring missing and Rafiat. She smiled intuitively, wondering if he was having breakfast at Tiffany’s.

As usual, everyone in Rafiat’s office was interested in hearing about his ring adventure of the week. Javid asked, “Why don’t you like Dolly? She’s an American citizen!” He replied, “No, my dear. I’ve performed this dramatic piece of love with so many girls, but no single girl has enough room in her bosom to shelter me. All these dolls are made of plastic. They fill up the air. They can’t give you more than a five-second jolt of the body. I’m searching for an apricot tree with dense shade and unripe fruit with a sour taste to amuse me. Well, I have to disappear early today. I am going to see my father in Islamabad. He misses me and is very lonely after my mother’s death.”

Rifiat’s father was waiting for him. As soon as Rifiat arrived, he bombarded him with questions. “Why don’t you call? Why don’t you answer the phone?” He went on to say, “This large mansion haunts me. Why don’t you find a job here in Islamabad? I know many people here.” Rafiat responded, “Dad, this city haunts me too. People live like machines from 9-to-5. Maybe like them, you should learn to live like a machine. Walk with them. Your computer is your best friend. Why don’t you also go crazy on Facebook, looking at all the beautiful faces? And if you’re sick of temporary friendships, there’s a solution in online dating. 

His father replied, “Marriage at my age. Why don’t you get married? Bring happiness back into your home?”

Rafiat went on to say, “Dad, I’m like you. Always with exclusive taste and never liked anyone. Only mother could win your heart.” Rafiat’s father replied, “as soon as I meet an exceptional girl, you will be the first to know.”

When Rafiat returned to Lahore, he became swamped – working days and nights. On weekends, his friends organized a party at Javid’s house. Javid brought imported liquor. Abrar Khaba promised food. As the evening started to spread its color, the party started. A woman introduced herself to the group. “My name is Subuhi,” she said as she shook everyone’s hands. Rafiat didn’t pay any attention, but later, during dinner took notice of her. She displayed honesty, elegance, style, and grace. He began to think of all the girls who would do anything for a diamond ring. They are no better than her. Subuhi was incomparable in her looks, so the other guys vied for her attention, starting with the owner of the house, who was the first to sleep with her. Rafiat became lost in his thoughts and didn’t fight for his turn to sleep with her. He was the last. Eventually, Subuhi stepped away after performing sex with everyone. “I’m exhausted,” she told Rafiat. He readily understood. By that time, everyone was tired and drunk. Some went home to their wives, and others slept there, unconscious. 

Rafiat sat alone and thought of her. There are no differences between us, he thought. She’s even better in some ways. She’s honest. Don’t betray. While I lie to others, making a fool of them. He evaluated himself. If my boss’s ugly wife, fat as a buffalo, promised to give me a promotion or threatened to fire me, I would be willing to sleep with her. It is difficult to sell your body against your desire, bearing the burden of a fat body. And she was smiling while allowing an unfamiliar person to enter her body. He shivered in fear and then stood up in a panic.

Subuhi stepped out onto the balcony from the bedroom. She was smoking with a bed sheet wrapped around her body. As she stood on the patio, cigarette smoke pumped air into her body like air into a bicycle tire. She was building up the energy to get squeezed again. In the moonlight, her bosoms connected the bones of her shoulders. To Rifiat, she was like a lioness who defeated several animals and was ready again for a duel. And like a lioness, she let her husband sleep while she hunted food for her children. Subuhi was brave, beautiful, intelligent, and educated. Rafiat thought that if she were his life partner, she would be ready for anything. She would never say that she is weak or helpless. He decided that this was the woman who would fill his life.

He called her into the bedroom. She was ready for her job and dropped the sheet from her body. She was like a statue of a goddess glittering in the moonlight. Rafiat never saw such a body. He picked up the dropped sheet and wrapped her back up. With one corner, he covered her head. And then he asked her to marry him. Subuhi fell laughing and said, “Don’t worry, Mister. I will give you pleasure more than once. I’m familiar with the chocolate-covered promises men give women before taking them to bed.” Rafiat replied, “I’m telling you the truth.” Subuhi cackled, “Why don’t you visit me and see where I live? And then the intoxication of your kindness will evaporate just like your imported liquor.” Rafiat told her, “I’m telling you the truth. Love is not a free sample at the fragrance counter in a department store.” She stood up and asked, “Do you want to sleep with me, or should I leave?” Rafiat shook his head and said, “Without love, making love is like rowing a boat in an ocean of sand. My whole life, I’ve been rowing a boat going nowhere.”

Rafiat believed that she was the only person to have touched his soul. Love blended with pleasure to make a home in the bottom of his heart. “Please let me take you home,” he asked. Subuhi’s body was tired like a caught animal. She wanted to go home. He got her home address and put her in a rickshaw. After she left, he couldn’t sleep as if poisoned by love. 

He didn’t care if his friends reacted sarcastically. They’ll rebuke him. You are marrying a girl who slept with his friends one after another for sleeping with the girl he’s marrying with a girl so often that she was like a blooming flower in a taunting flame. He talked to Javid, who laughed at him. “You must be joking! I heard that Anarkali’s dancing grace conquered Prince Saleem. But never heard of this. A woman who has slept with all your friends, one by one, and then you fall in love with that grace.” Rafiat told him that love is the fire when you don’t have to ask for a match stick. This is a fire that is lit on its own. After two weeks of deep thinking, he decided to tell her everything. He wanted to tell her, “You are the only girl I can love and want to marry.”

He picked up the Tiffany ring and went to her house. He told her about the ring’s history and left it on her living room table. While speaking the truth, he wept and pushed the ring toward her. “Please accept this. “ He then told her about his father, who had a spacious house and wanted his son to live with him. He left the ring with a promise to return after one week. Subuhi opened the box and viewed the ring with a large diamond in the center and three diamonds surrounding it, with one missing. She smiled and thought, “Your name is not Subuhi, the call girl. You are Dr. Subuhi, the psychologist. Rafiat wants to marry me, but he is mentally sick. His diagnosis was not made by a lab test or a physical exam because his symptom is guilt. When his guilt fever goes down, the fairy of his dreams will again be a hooker. Yes, I’d like to get married and settled. I’d love to get away from that Kotha brothel, but I want to be the Mrs. of a bungalow. Not with a strong, muscular young man, but rather a strong shoulder of support. Instead of someone taking pleasure in my fresh-tight body, I need someone to love the loose pores and wrinkles.”

After two weeks, Rafiat took a short leave from his office and left for Islamabad. He informed his father in advance that he had news. He tried to get home quickly and took a luxury coach followed by a cab. When he paid for the cab, big raindrops began to fall. He smiled as he looked up into the sky filled with sunshine and rain. Happily, he reached for the shower and closed his fist around a raindrop.

As soon as he reached the drawing room and passed through the veranda, he found a small velvet box. He ran to pick it up and felt a thump upon opening it. His father’s voice forced him to turn. Son, I was waiting for you to tell you something. A few days back, when I was feeling blue, I went to Shakarparian Park. When I entered, I heard sobbing and found a girl weeping while sitting on a park bench. She held this box and wanted me to take it. Rafiat inspected it. It was the same Tiffany ring that he had given to Subuhi. He looked up to find Subuhi standing there. His father exclaimed, “I married her!” He then introduced them. Rafiat then looked at the empty fourth hole of the ring. It was filled with a diamond. Then he opened his fist. There was no rain drop.

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)

Portrait in Words | Mumtaz Hussain

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

I was dying of thirst, and rain had been banished from the skies. The clouds were intoxicated elephants waving their trunks at me, shapes transforming into a steam vortex. I longed to ascend and enter them to quench my thirst, but when I opened my elongated beak and penetrated a gigantic black cloud, utter darkness engulfed me. I found myself flying in a dry ocean of sky but determined to proceed to the ground and fulfill my fate, I shriveled my wings, wrapping them around my body, and took a downward plunge. After that, I saw dense smoke rising from a mud house behind a grove of trees.

My beak burst with joy, clacking like a wedding ceremony had just ended. I shifted my torso, looking left and right, and flew toward the smoking mud house, where curry (Kofta) and rice (biryani) were made over large outdoor fires. There, a portly chef scooped water into a giant bucket. I spread my wings and stretched my legs, planning to grab hold of the bucket with my claws. 

“Hey, you uninvited clown!” the chef bellowed, throwing his shoe at my face. The shoe flew over my beak with a loud zoon. “The circumcision ceremony is a half-day away. You’re here too early with your silly kayn kayn sounds.”

One of the boys from the group yelled suddenly, “Look at that white crow!” he loaded a pebble into his slingshot. A white crow had never before been seen in this part of Pakistan. 

I told myself that life is a sweeter drink, that I had better try my luck elsewhere, and escaped just as the pebble approached my skull. I opened my half-dead eyes in another flash and stood in a cattle barn with an abandoned water pitcher at my feet. I put my thirst-stricken beak to the rim of the pitcher, delighted that I might drink a few days’ water quotas in one quick gulp. I spread my wings once more, extended my legs, and braced the pitcher with my claws, assessing the risks on all sides and thanking god that the only threat in view was a buffalo lashing its tail from side to side. I extended my neck, then passed through the mouth of the pitcher and reached into its belly. I couldn’t touch water, so I pulled my neck out and angled my head to peek inside with just one eye. Sparkling water refracted sunlight. 

I put some pressure on my brain. What should I do? Make use of my intelligence? Apply scientific formulas? Glancing around, I remembered the boy who’d loaded a pebble into his slingshot. His image took hold of me—I don’t know why—and my neck began jerking—stone, gravel, and pebble. A rock could be both a threat and my savior! The water level would rise if I dropped a pebble into the pitcher. My thirst might finally be quenched. 

Excitement pulsed through my bird body. I wanted to hop like a penguin in a black suit and tie. I peered around the barn again, my hopes and desires driving me, but instead of pebbles, I found clay. That would soak up my water rather than raise the surface. I needed solid rocks. 

I flew toward the sky, and after that, a gust of wind threw me god knows where, and I awoke in a beautiful town where enormous white stone columns floated alongside a marble staircase that led to a white granite throne. The glorious god Zeus sat on the throne in splendid pomp and show. Thin white and blue curtains draped around the columns and quivered in the breeze, and a harp made of turtle bones produced a melodious song. It was such a beautiful, white supernatural town. I longed to be part of it, to spend the rest of my life there, eating crumbs from children’s hands and entertaining my relatives. In this heavenly world of white, I could blend so well that even the most beautiful peacock would feel inferior. 

The god Zeus glanced down at me. “You will shine like the sun in my kingdom!” he declared. “You will alert us to threatening weather and storms. You will inform us of any approaching bad luck. I grant you will learn the secrets of the visible and invisible world.” 

Joy enveloped me, and gratitude fortified my soul—I was to be Zeus’s messenger! —but the next day, Apollo summoned me to his chambers and announced that his cows were missing. 

“You, white crow with the high qualities!” he intoned. “Zeus asks, ‘Where is my herd?’” 

I faded in fear, bowed, and took a deep breath. “Oh, god, Apollo, if you promise me safety, I will tell the truth—but I have big news, and my beak is small.” 

When Apollo promised to protect my life at last, I told him, “Your brother who is one day old. 

It was the twelfth god of Olympus who spirited your herd away.” 

Apollo flew into a rage. Fire blazed from his mouth, and smoke blew out his ears. “You lying bird! There are only eleven gods of Olympus; there is no twelfth!” He said, “I will teach you a lesson you will remember until Doomsday. I would wipe you off the face of the earth had I not promised you safety!” 

My body began to transform. My white beak and wings turned black. I said to myself, I want to move out of this world and escape this war of gods. Why are they punishing me? Why am I the victim of Apollo’s anger? 

And at that moment, I spotted a pebble near a large marble column. I secured it in my beak and bent my tail to chant a song:

• Crow, Oh Crow,
• You reign to reign
• In this imperfect universe
• In crippled time…
• You are the keeper of mysteries,
• Hoarding the filth of the world in your wings.
• Swim, float, fly through this sky to the skies beyond you,
• Holding the scene in your claws
• As you pass through this heaven to another.
• One day you are in the court of Zeus.
• You dissolve into each world, the black and white portrait…
• One day you witness the murder of Habeel.
• One day you journey across the killing-field of Karo Kashatar.
• In your eyes, you carry combat, holy waltzes, to future epochs.
• Thirst in your beak, hope in your eyes, and on your tongue,
• You recite the epic of the many lives.
• You are the chronicler of history,
• The messenger of mystery…
• But in the landscape of my life,
• Don’t you have anything but stones to throw?
• Crow, Oh, Crow!

I fled the heavens, returned to earth—to the barn and water pitcher—and threw my pebble into the depths. I angled my neck to see into the pitcher and strained to touch the water with my beak. Oh, dear! One pebble is not enough. I will have to get a hold of another stone. This time, though, I’ll find a larger one.

I flew toward the sky, wanting to hum, but my dry throat silenced me, and the wind threw me into another world—a beautiful land of lush green fields and trees loaded with fruits. A cool breeze rustled the leaves, and waterfalls cascaded from the mountains, producing the sounds of harps. Adam and Eve ate apples, their bodies covered with leaves, and I was pleased that I could finally quench my thirst in a stream of milk. Perhaps I should spend the rest of my life in this world! 

Milk gushed through the rocks. Be patient, I advised myself. The fruit of patience is always sweet. I thanked god for this opportunity and plunged into the stream, but a spear zoomed past me before my beak could touch the milk. I immediately took flight, descended into a grove of trees, and perched on a branch—I couldn’t believe my eyes! Adam’s twins, Habeel (Abel) and Qabeel, (Cain) were battling each other. 

Habeel’s (Abel) herd of sheep and goats was grazing in a nearby field, and Qabeel’s (Cain) fruit was scattered across the land—but why were the twins fighting? Was it possible that God was not satisfied with Habeel’s (Abel) sacrifice of fruits after receiving such a large flock of animals from Habeel (Abel)? Did jealously drive Qabeel (Cain) to challenge his brother to a fight? Or maybe there was a lack of love in Qabeel’s (Cain) sacrifice. Or Habeel’s (Abel) wife was stunning, and Qabeel’s(Cain)  was plain? I knew their wives must be a source of contention.

Qabeel (Cain) eventually quenched his anger with Habeel’s (Abel) blood. I thought momentarily that I should dip my beak in Habeel’s (Abel) blood, but I could not. I am a crow, not a human. I trembled, hid between the tree branches, and peered out at Qabeel (Cain), who calmly searched for a place to abandon Habeel’s (Abel)   body. 

This was the first murder on earth. 

My trembling made the leaves fall. Fear possessed me, and then light fell upon me, and I heard a booming voice: “I am God, and I command you to hollow out this earth with your beak to teach that human how to bury a man.” 

I obeyed God’s order, and with my beak trembling, I began to teach Qabeel (Cain) to dig a grave—until panic seized me. What if Qabeel (Cain) buried me alive? I flew away in fear, clutching some pebbles I’d found while searching, and returned to the earth, where the pitcher remained. I am a native of the land and shall fulfill my needs from there. This magical and miraculous world is mere allegory and illusion. I shall satisfy my needs with knowledge, intelligence, and wisdom from the earth. 

When I reached the pitcher, I threw my pebbles into it and rejoiced as the water’s surface rose. I moistened the edges of my beak with my tongue and lowered my head into the pitcher’s belly. My visor came very close to the water but still not close enough to drink. I yearned to dive into the pitcher but feared being trapped and buried like Habeel (Abel).

I pulled myself together and again took flight, confident that this time only a few more pebbles would accomplish my mission. Menaced by dehydration, I flew all day under a blazing sun. At night I passed over smoking tents and found a Giant Banyan tree, inside which many crows were nesting. I searched around for familiar faces. 

“Oh dear,” I whispered, “Where am I?” 

A crow reluctantly opened his dreamy eyes. “Why are you disrupting my sleep? Let me sleep.” 

Was this King Pandu’s camp? The army brigade and the king slept, drunk, and worn out from eating and dancing. What a feast they’d enjoyed! They’d licked their fingers, so to speak, and could eat as much as they wanted tomorrow. 

I was exhausted and fell asleep on the highest branch of the Banyan tree until I was awoken by a hoodlum gang of owls that descended upon the crows in the bramble below me. These owls rousted the crows, slit their throats, and broke their wings. 

I escaped by a hair’s breadth and looked downward; after that, I saw the Hindu King Asyathama laughing at the murders and dancing in ecstasy as an idea sparked in his mind. “I will draw the stream of blood from my enemies to quench the thirst of my vengeance,” he said. “I will take revenge on my father, and there will be a horrible war. My army will shoot arrows blindly, but if an arrow approaches me in error, I will sooner wash my hands of life than wash my claws with water.” 

When Asyathama put his heavy foot down, the earth opened, and I found more pebbles. I clutched those pebbles tightly in my claws and flew directly to the pitcher. It was dawn. The farmers had begun plowing their fields. 

When I released the pebbles into the pitcher, my heart sank because I still could not reach the water. My life was touching the lips of death. If I could not take a drink, my spirit could no longer inhabit my body. I gathered my strength, craned my neck, lowered my head, and strained again. At last! Thank god! I drank as much as I could. 

***

The auditorium roared with applause. My essay, “The Barking Crow,” won first prize. The Master of Ceremonies walked across the stage to embrace me and put a medal around my neck. He said a few words: “Your name is Shabaz (eagle), but your writing is that of a crow.”

***

When in high spirits, I always think like a crow. I am impressed by their qualities. Crows deliver messages from lovers because they bring hearts together. They are guardians of love. If a crow finds food, he summons his friends to share it. Humans don’t hesitate to steal others’ food and privileges. 

As I walked toward home, I passed through the Urdu bazaar. The Badshahi Mosque loomed in front of me. Holding my medal, I silently prayed with all my heart: “Oh God, you granted me success. Please award me one wish. I’ve always seen myself with a crow’s countenance. Please transform me now into a real crow.” 

I recited Koranic verses. I bowed at the doors of the Mosque. Soon my head began to shrink, my mouth and nose joined together, and my eyes moved to the far left and right sides of my face. Then I watched as my jaw narrowed and lengthened into a long black beak. My hands shriveled into wings, and my feet shrunk, transforming into claws. Black and gray feathers sprouted on my torso.

“Am I a crow?” I asked myself. “Ka. Kayn. Kayan. Kon.” 

I was delighted with the sound of my voice. Now I could fly up to the sky and see the whole world with a birds-eye view. I’d have the divine wisdom and intelligence of the prophets. 

This was the most important day of my life. I longed to return to Jhang, my hometown in Punjab, where everyone falls in love and Heer waits for her Rangha. No one murders in the name of religion, politics, or race. I hummed a joyful song and flew toward my motherland. I stopped in Shahkot, where I spotted smoke rising from outdoor mud ovens alongside tents where clerics gathered for a religious ceremony. I figured something must be cooking, so I approached the tents and studied the shadows and sounds: two groups of men—all bearded and in turbans—sat together on a makeshift wooden stage. They formed a ring around a beheaded crow drenched in blood. 

One cleric argued through a load speaker: “Today, we are gathered to fix the religion of Islam. We must confirm whether eating crow is Halal or Haram.” 

What was I? Parrots and eagles were haram, forbidden; the sparrow, pigeon, and dove were halal, holy. 

The cleric continued, “If the crow is Haram, then we feed our children crow and make them Haram.” 

I recognized many of the clerics. One owned a spice business in Shaho di Garhi. I’d often witnessed how he mixed ground bricks with red chili powder. Another cleric, the proprietor of a gas business, added kerosene to the diesel he sold. Another owned a pharmacy, selling water instead of medicine, to grow his profits. 

Income generated through illegal means was not Haram. If the clerics raised their children with Haram income, their children would not be Haram even if the crow is Halal and they gorged on me. So what business did they have determining my fate? Who were they to judge and punish crows?

The meeting ended abruptly when a pious cleric detonated the suicide vest he wore beneath his robe. I will never understand this: suicide bombing is Halal, suicide is Haram. I hastily flew away from the explosion, perched on a tree branch, and pondered my fate. 

Two fat tears rolled down my cheeks, warning me: if you are Halal, the people will kill and eat you; if you are Haram, the doors of paradise will be closed to you.

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:

• Historic Win for Pakistani-American at International Impact Book Awards (April 13, 2024)
• Pakistani Mumtaz Hussain Bags 2024 International Impact Book Award (April 23, 2024)

Portrait in Words is available on Amazon’s Audible, narrated by Scott LeCote (4 hrs and 36 mins). Order here.