Atif Ali’s Novel

The Eighth Day

Of the Week
A Tale that will slit your Heart
 Preface
After the incredible success of my book "A Girl with a
Black Umbrella", I happened to meet many poets, writers,
literary critics and educationists. All of them were
astonished by the imagination and the craftsmanship of
that Book. Almost all of them advised me to write
something about our own culture, places, names and
people. So, I decided to have a try. I created this story in
three hours when I was standing an as invigilator during
Send up exams in the college.
I know many people would call this book as an
autobiography. I want to make this point crystal clear that
this is not an autobiographical novel. Two or three events
in the book do relate with my own life but to call it an
autobiography would be completely absurd.
I cannot tell you how many times I have cried during
writing this book. I know many readers will call me a
cruel, heartless person when they will finish reading this
book but this is how story works. If Othello knew he was
doing something wrong before killing Desdemona, there
would have been no story at all.
Except for the first person narrative, this book has been
written in the same format which was implied in "A Girl
with a Black Umbrella".
At the end I would like to say that my readers should not
read this Book in a single sitting. I want them to go outside
and find the characters of this Book in the real world.

Atif Ali
 Dedication
This Book has been dedicated to the people of my village
Wandhi Arrian Wali and to the people of Maharanwala.
Wandhi Arrian Wali is my Birth place and the People of
Maharanwala gave me description, names, incidents for
this book and above all these two villages gave me love.

Atif Ali
 Foreword
It is an engaging story recounts of improvidence of a boy
named Jamal who unintentionally lands Abida in such a
hostile situation that she has to pay dearly. The irrevocable
outcome makes Jamal repent exceedingly. The author
presents here a ubiquitous facet of our society that teaches
us to judge human behaviour in preordained categories
often leading to dismal denouement. The dark and deep
forest between the two villages is a metaphor of the
unbridgeable gulf that separated Jamal and Abida to
communicate with each-other and the darkness of
misunderstanding broods. The notorious dacoits who
often rob innocent wayfarers, stand for the cruel
orthodoxy of society that blames an individual for his/her
misfortunes and segregate them to be ominous leaving
them in misery.

Dr. Nargis Tabassum

(Ph.D in English Literature)
Joypur Panchanan Roy College,
Howrah, West Bengal, India.
 Chapter 1: The Pang of Conscience

It is very difficult for us to hold the string of life once again

when we face a disaster and we ask ourselves,
"Will the stream of our life flow in the same direction as it
was flowing before?"
Our life is like a leaf of a tree, when we are happy, it shines
as the leaf shines in the sunlight and when we are sad, it
becomes dark as the leaf gets dark at night. Happiness and
sorrow are a part of life. It is another matter that the leaves
of happiness fall quickly than the leaves of sorrow from
the tree of life.
My friends, I am like a lost ball in the grass right now. I
have committed a mistake. A mistake that cannot be
rectified, a mistake that has no redemption and I do not
have courage to tell what I have done. My mistake cannot
be undone. My mistake is bound to my soul. The roots of
my mistake go deep in my soul. The words seem futile,
feeble and fragile before my mistake. My mistake does not
allow me to sleep; it takes me to a barren wasteland where
there is only fire, ash, dust and regret. My mistake has
engulfed my soul. It never forsakes me. I want to give
words to the anguish present in my heart. I want to get my
mistake off my chest. I fear in my heart that my mistake
will have an unnatural long life. I want to relieve myself
from the weight of the guilt that I am carrying.
I have been carrying a wound on my conscience beyond
healing. Its pain might decrease if I share it with someone.
Should I call birds and ask them to tell my tale in their
songs? Will these birds tell my tale?
No, no, they are the most innocent creatures of the
Almighty. I do not want to ruin their happiness. Let them
fly in the sky. Let them sit in the garden of happiness. Let
them see all the beautiful colours of spring. Let them make
the whole world melodious with their songs. I do not want
to destroy their happiness.
Should I write my tale on these fluttering leaves of the
tree? And when the leaves will fall, they will be buried in
the ground forever and after many years when someone
will dig the ground, he'll know my tale but at that time I
would be long dead.
No, no, this is not a good idea. Look at those dry leaves;
they are barely attached to the branch of the tree. If I will
touch them, they may fall. How can they carry the weight
of my mistake! How can they hide my mistake! Let them
flutter in the wind of happiness; their fluttering should
never be ruined with my sorrow.
Should I engrave my story on a stone so that every
passenger, every tourist can read it?
No, no, this is also not a valid suggestion. With the rainfall,
with the moving of earth-plates, there might come some
cracks in that particular stone. Half of my story would be
readable and the other half might be misunderstood by the
readers. So, I have to shun this idea as well.
Should I tell my tale to a poet who is not finding a topic for
his poetry? He would be delighted to hear my tale. He
would weave my tale in his poetry and then the rest of
world might forgive my mistake that I have committed.
No, no, not a poet, the poet himself carries a lot of sorrows.
He carries the sorrows of society, the sorrows of family
and the sorrows of mankind. I do not want to make him
sad, he already has a depressed soul, besides, writing
Poetry is a blessing and is one of the gifts of the Almighty.
I do not want to spoil that gift with my own sorrow.
What about a musician and a singer? They would not
mind having my story expressed in their song, they have
been expressing the sorrows of others for centuries, and if
my sorrow becomes one of their songs?
No, no, I need to remove this idea as well; people might
forget my story in the sizzling and captivating music. I
have seen many people lost in the fluctuating rhythm of
music. People would dance. They would not care about
my mistake. They would forget my mistake. They would
shake their body; spin their head with the flow of music.
So, I believe there is no use in telling my tale to a musician
and a singer.
I do not want anyone to tell my tale. I will narrate
everything by myself. The silence and loneliness would
accompany me in my story, and the grains of sand would
also sit and listen to my tale. I hold my Allah as my
witness that I would not hide even a slightest of detail. If
you want to read it, read the complete tale otherwise
throw this book away, don't read even a single line. You
may not feel the same as you are feeling right now at the
end of my tale.
If you are still reading, here my tale begins.
Few days ago, I was like a bird that flies over the sea and
sometimes strikes the water of the sea to disturb its silence;
I was like a fish that swims in the sea without caring about
the routes. I was like a small deer that runs in the valley,
touches and presses the grass under its feet. I was like a
child that leaps in his mother's lap. I had no worries at all.
And one day, my mother asked me to bring milk from the
neighbouring village, Hanifabad and advised me not to get
late while crossing the thick forest on the way. The forest
was infamous for robbers. The robbers had been looting
the passengers for many years. The forest was the only
route to Hanifabad.
It was the month of December when my mother asked me
to bring milk. To be honest, I really did not want to go
because I had to stop playing cricket and playing cricket in
the winter season was the most delightful sensation.
Playing cricket and flying kites were two of my darling
hobbies. I had a great association with kites, I always
thought kite to be a sort of person's life. If somebody is rich
and has a lot of money, his kite will fly high and if
somebody is poor and does not have much money, his
flying kite will only be seen by his neighbors. I always
considered the string or thread of a kite to be money and
the wind to be circumstances of someone's life. To me, kite
flying was a whole world in itself. The delight of watching
black kite disappearing among the black birds and the
white kite among the white clouds in the air was
incredible. When I used to hold my kite after it had flown
in the air for many hours, I always thought it to be the
luckiest object in the world because it had seen the world
from that height where I could not reach. Kites were very
dear to me. Besides kites, the other thing which I admired
was cricket. I had a leather coat and when rain would
come, I used to zip my coat and put my hands in the
pockets of the coat during fielding. The delight of playing
cricket in the rain was indescribable.
I gave my consent to my mother on this condition that I
would return thirty minutes before the Azan of Maghrib
prayer and she would not stop me from playing cricket
and my mother accepted it.
I was a boy of seventeen years old and buried in my skin
was a shy, nervous boy.
I would guess the time of my departure when the rosy
coloured light of the sun would shine and when the doctor
in our village would close the front door of his clinic.
 Chapter 2: Day One

On the first day, when I took out my cycle from the room,
my mother ran and brought a bucket, gloves, hat and
socks. She was like all the other mothers of the world,
extra conscious, extra caring, and extra loving. I only took
bucket from her hand and then sat on the seat of my cycle.
I did not put on gloves, hat and socks. I promised her not
to get late. I rode my cycle in the narrow lanes of my
village. Riding a cycle in my village is like dancing without
drums because our village had a lot of cracks in the streets
with many speed breakers and turns. I had a hunky dory
cycle and after my parents and friends, the only thing I
would rely on was my cycle. I was not a Sunday driver. I
was an expert cyclist. The bucket was suspended on the
handle and every now and again when the front wheel hit
something, the bucket would swing like the bell of the
school. When I hit the main road, I felt cold and then I
realized that it was a very cold day and now I was
regretting why I did not put on gloves, hat and socks.
Mother was right. The cold wind was striking my feet like
the drilling of some steel nails. I preferred to remain off the
road and very shortly I entered the forest. The forest was
dark and the light was striking through the boughs. The
forest had many trees but I recognized only eucalyptus
and bamboo. I heard the cawing of birds in the jungle. The
ground was filled with decomposed and dry leaves. After
crossing the forest, I entered the village, Hanifabad. I had
been in that village many times before but it was quite a
sensation that day. I was full of beans when I arrived in
Hanifabad on the first day. Watching Hanifabad after a
long time was a feast for the eyes. I was watching
everything like a traveller who enters a new place for the
first time. I saw few boys running after hens and hens
were running in a zig-zag motion. I passed in front of a
house and saw some spinach in a little field. A woman was
making cow pie and the other was packing cow pie in a
sack. The seeds of the wheat were just sown and green
leaves were just showing. It seemed as if there had been a
green carpet spread everywhere on the ground. I saw a
tree with few dry leaves and they were at the mercy of
wind. Few birds were also sitting on wires. The leaves of
the mustard plant were shaking in the wind and some
children were playing cricket in the field. Their ball was
lost in the field of sugar cane and they were desperate to
find it. A boy was holding a stick that was peeled off and I
guessed it was their bat. I thought they were going to have
a devil of a time in finding that ball. I moved in front of a
field and found a man cutting the grass, the man was
cutting the grass in a strange way, he began from the front
and reached the middle of the field and left the grass that
was present on the right and left side. The field was
actually looking like the head of a bald man with few hairs
present on the temples and at the back. I looked in the
opposite direction and found a tractor that was plowing
the ground. I stopped for a while to whiff the sweet
fragrance of that field. I saw a sack of urea fertilizer at the
edge of that field. I crossed my cycle over a small canal
and saw a woman washing clothes on the bank of that
canal. Small children were throwing slippers at the jujube
plant and when jujube fell, they pounced upon them. I
used to eat them when I was a little boy. We called them
bairs. I learned in the school that they were called jujube in
English. I was watching the boys and did not look in front,
suddenly, the front wheel of my cycle hit a big stone and I
lost control of my cycle. I had to jam on the brakes. I
stopped for a while, calmed myself down and then
paddled. I entered the streets of Hanifabad and found few
pigeons caged on the roof of a house and a young man
was clapping forcefully to make pigeons fly from the
wires. I saw a little girl standing behind a woman and I
guessed that the woman was her mother. The woman was
picking up the dry cotton sticks. The little girl was
watching me by putting her index finger in her mouth; her
mouth was half the length of her finger. Her cheeks and
lips were cracked. I tried to smile and waved my hand but
she hid behind her mother's back and held her mother's
clothes tightly. I thought she became afraid of me. I
stopped for a while when I saw a dog stretching its legs
and shaking its coiled tail. I was afraid of dogs. But that
dog sat there and did not bark. I passed in front of a house
and the gate of the door was opened. The gate was
enormous; I had never seen such a big gate of a house. I
saw a woman, frail, tired and wrinkled face, she was
holding the rope tied to the neck of the buffalo and a
young calf was running and jumping beside the buffalo. I
rode my cycle at a slow speed in order to avoid the cold
chill of the evening. It had to stop again because I heard
the honking of a car. The car raised a lot of dirt and it
became difficult for me to see through and at that time I
saw some torn hardly recognizable posters of a politician. I
don't know whether the politician in the poster won or not
but he must have become very famous. At that time, I
found few men sitting in front of fire, gossiping and
warming their hands on fire. I shook hand with one of
them and asked about the house of Ghulam Rasool, that
house was my destiny, that is where I was going. The man
told me that I had to go straight, take a turn from Iqbal
Kiryana Store and then you would find the house of
Ghulam Rasool at the end of the street. I thanked him and
did what he told me and found the house that I was
looking for. I stopped in front of the house, I tapped on the
door and then I heard a voice, I could not understand
whether the voice was of a lady or a woman or a girl. I
stood at a distance as I did not want to catch the glimpse of
her face.
"Who?" The voiced asked.
"I - I - have come from Sakonabad. My mother has sent me
for milk," I slightly stammered. I suddenly became
nervous, confused and abashed.
"Give me the bucket." She said and took her hand out.
I saw a tired, weak hand. There were few hairs on her arm
and her nails were untrimmed and they looked quite
messy.
I handed her the bucket and she took it in. Whether she
was a girl or a woman, I hadn't had the foggiest idea. I
folded my arms in front thinking what to do now, I was
worried about the darkness and as it was my first day, I
spent a lot of time in finding the home and especially by
looking at things which were not necessary. I had no
watch but I could do anything to pass my time. I was
expert in killing time.
I looked towards the sky and saw some birds returning to
their nest, I started counting them in my heart,
"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, Oh not seven as one
bird was hiding behind another one. Oh, I mixed it up. I
have to count them again.”
“One, two, three, four, five, Oh, that one bird is far away,
flying among those clouds, should I count that bird or not.
Oh, I again mixed it up. I have to count them again.”
I counted the birds third time, hardly had I counted ten to
fifteen birds when the lady took out her hand and the
bucket was suspending on her index finger of her right
hand. I caught the bucket and perceived the presence of
milk because of the weight I was feeling at my right hand.
And then I returned quickly because I had to pass through
the jungle. It was not a big problem on the first day and
then I saw the emergence of the first star which was the
indication that the sky was beginning to change its colour.
I reached home and handed the bucket to my mother and
honestly speaking I was trembling. My feet and hands
were frozen and I quickly rushed towards the fire for
warming my hands and feet. I did all that when my
mother was in her room because I knew that I had to face
insulting words, I did not act upon her advice. And then
the night came, night time was a splendid time in our
home. In our home, there were many members, our home
was occupied by two uncles and three aunties. They all
had separate rooms and portions. During the night, all the
elders of these families would sit in the kitchen beside fire
and would discuss the things that were present, are
present and will be present in the world. Through their
discussion, one could consider them the wisest people on
the planet. And we the boys, we would sit in the room on
our beds and would tell one another stories that were
mostly fabricated. I always remained silent in the company
of my cousins because I was shy. Everyone considered me
a fifth wheel. We had a radio and would listen to
everything whether English, Urdu or whatever. I still
remember the day when one of our cousins died in Lahore
and all the elders of the families had gone to Lahore,
leaving us behind. That day, one of our cousins, Shakir,
who had big ears like the handles of the jug, brought a
mobile phone; we never saw a mobile phone before. Shakir
was like a cat among pigeons. I don't know how he got
that mobile phone. He did not do anything except for
playing a stupid and strange Snake game. We all gathered
around him. Each one of us had a desire to touch that
mobile phone. We all thought that it was a divine or sacred
thing. We thought in our mind that it would be a blessing
if someone would touch or hold that little machine. We
never knew that it was a little devil. That night, when we
were lying on the bed, Shakir dialed a number, I don‟t
know what number he dialed and to tell you the truth he
himself didn't know that number. Shakir first used
uncivilized, uncultured words and later abused that
person for no reason. The person who was one of the other
side of the phone became furious and said in a dreadful
voice,
"I am coming for you, rascal. I know your home and your
father. I will be present at the gate of your home in a split
second."
Shakir hung up and put down the mobile phone with his
shaking hands. He was very frightened and he wanted to
hide somewhere. He did not know the number that he
dialed but still he was frightened because he committed
something wrong. We all teased him by saying that the
person would be at the pull, he might be in the street; he
might be at the gate of our home. Everybody was teasing
him. At the same time, someone knocked at our door, now
Shakir became literally scared. He was asking about the
place to hide. We laughed so much at his behaviour that
we forgot to check who was knocking at the door. He
begged us not to open the door. After few minutes,
knocking became ferocious. Atlast, I was sent to open the
door. I opened it slowly. Luckily for Shakir, it was our
neighbour who was knocking and he asked me to switch
on the motor. Atlast, Shakir's fear disappeared. I still
remember that day and will remember for the rest of my
life. All of us used to play together, sleep together, walk
together and go to school together. And above all, we used
to love one another.
 Chapter 3: Day Two

I went to my college next day and everything seemed

normal. I attended my classes, sat in the ground with my
friends and returned home. Later in the day, my mother
told me that there was Quran Khawani in the
neighborhood, and I had to go there. After ablution, when
I walked in the street, I came across Hameed and Habib
and then we went to the neighbour‟s house.
Hameed and Habib were my best school friends. They
were not as bright as button infact they were birdbrains
but I liked them. There was something unique in them
which was absent in others. One day, when we were in
high school, Hameed asked a question to our teacher,
"Sir, Why Liaqat Ali became the Prime Minister of
Pakistan? Why Allama Iqbal refused to become the Prime
Minister? Was there a special reason behind it?" We all
turned back and were astonished to hear his question.
"Before answering your question let me kiss your head
first, you son of Aristotle," replied by our teacher.
We laughed our lungs out at his question.
We all thought Hameed spoke that nonsense deliberately
but we had no idea that he honestly did not know that
Allama Iqbal died in 1938.
And my second friend, Habib, he was the biggest tomfool
among us. When we were in Ninth Class, there was a topic
of Mitosis and Meiosis in Biology. Our teacher taught that
topic for more than two months, every day, we had to
learn that topic. Every day we used to see that topic
written on the board. And, after two months, when our
teacher took a test, Habib stood up and said,
"Sir, please tell the spelling of Mitosis and Meiosis."
I cannot tell you what our teacher did with Habib that day.
But the greatest tomfoolery was still to come.
We were still in the High School when one day someone
knocked at the door of our school. Habib said, "I'll go."
When he opened the door, he saw some nice, decent
people wearing shirt, tie and pant, and they were holding
bags. Habib thought it was a polio team and without
thinking and without listening to any words, he showed
them the house of our Headmaster. Luckily, our Head
master was in the house as the team members had come to
meet our Head master. The Headmaster brought them in
the school and then we found that it was an inspection
team sent by the government. When the inspection team
came to our class, Habib was sitting in the front row, the
team quickly recognized him. The team thought that the
door which Habib showed was another entrance door of
the school but when they found that it was the door of
Headmaster‟s house, they realized that Habib wanted to
make monkey out of them. The team members looked
extremely angry and when they saw Habib sitting in the
front row, they asked him to stand up. One of them asked
Habib a question,
"Who is the creator of this universe?"
"Allah Almighty," Habib replied.
The team was impressed and they asked us to clap for him
and we did. Habib was smiling. He turned back and
looked at us.
Next he asked,
"Who is the Prime Minister of our country?"
Habib thought and thought and then said,
"Allah Almighty,"
"What?"
"Yes, yes, Allah Almighty," Habib said again.
I cannot tell you how I was holding my laughter at that
time.
Then another member stepped forward and asked,
"Okay, leave this question. Who is the President of our
country?"
Habib racked his brain, looked towards the roof, put his
index finger on his chin and said,
"Allah Almighty."
After this reply, the team members, the Headmaster and
class fellows, we all burst out in laughter. We never
thought Habib would be so dumb and dumber. He became
a laughing stock at that time.
Later on, when we were going home, I asked him why he
was repeating the same answer and he told me that the
team members were so impressed by his first reply that he
thought first answer would be perfect for all the questions.
Poor chap, indeed.
And, on the day of Quran Khawani, all three of us made a
plan. We really wanted to enjoy that moment, Hameed
asked me to get some onions and knife from my home. He
himself brought tomatoes and Habib brought lemon and a
plate. We made a salad as we knew that there would be
Pilau after Quran Khawani. We did make a salad and
made that moment tasteful.
And then the evening came, same ground, same faces and
same dust and then again I had to go on the second day to
the house of that girl.
The tyre of my cycle disturbed the plain patterns. I reached
her home much quicker than yesterday. I did not take
much notice of the surrounding but I did try to find that
little girl who was hiding behind her mother yesterday but
I did not find her. I saw a cow at that place. The cow was
sitting on the ground and was shaking her left ear. Every
now and then, she shook her tail. The cow was chewing its
cud like the spinning of a grass cutting machine.
When I reached her home, I knocked at the door and
started waiting for the hand of the lady. Then I saw her
hand, her hand was like a small log of tree that had been
peeled off and her fingers were looking like the tiny
branches of the tree. I attached the bucket with one branch
or I should say with one finger of that hand. And, again I
started counting the birds, there were not many birds
present that day but I still counted them. First a flock of six
birds flew over my head, I counted them easily and then I
saw many birds, first they were flying in a circle and then
they changed their pattern and later they all scattered
which made it difficult for me to count them. And then
there was no bird at all, I tried to look in every direction
even I stood on my toes to see them but I couldn't. I was
beginning to feel a little worried because that day, the sky
was beginning to be darkened too soon or I was late
because on the previous day the same darkness I saw
when I crossed the jungle. I heard the striking of the
bangles and I hurriedly looked at the door and found the
bucket filled with milk. I quickly turned toward my cycle
and then something struck my ear drum and I heard,
"What's your name?"
"What!" I said. I didn't know where the voice came and
then I again heard,
"I asked, what is your name?"
"Jmm, Jamal, I am Jamal. Jamal I am."
I don't know why I stammered again.
"Well, Jamal, I am sorry, today you had to wait a little
longer but it would not happen again."
"It‟s alright. I must leave now. My mother must be waiting
for me."
I said and could not wait for what she was about to say or
said. I was pressed for time. I knew that I had to paddle
my cycle against the clock in reaching my home. I had just
one thing in my mind that I had to cross the jungle. I saw
the leaves and they were becoming invisible with every
passing moment. I was in trouble. I knew that my mother
would scold me for getting late. I paddled as hard as I
could to reach the gate of my house before darkness could
reach there and I did it. I made a promise to myself not to
get late next time. This was the end of the second day.
 Chapter 4: Day Three

And then the next day began, when I was going to college,
I saw Bilal, he was my childhood friend, he joined Army
after doing matriculation. It was a tradition in our village,
our parents did not have any particular interest in our
abilities, every father wanted his boys to join Army after
matriculation but I had other ideas.
Six months training in Army totally changed Bilal.
Everybody was laughing at his hair cut. He was now
beginning to speak few words of English that he learnt in
Army. I remembered him from the time that he spent with
me in the childhood.
And what a childhood we had. Bilal was the one who used
to call and knock at the door of every friend at night. We
all went to our mosque for offering Isha prayer. When the
month of October and November would come, the nights
became cooler. One of the boys would bring Chadar, the
boy would wrap himself in Chadar and would make other
jealous. One boy used to sneak in his Chadar and later we
all used to bring Chadars every night. One of our friends,
Imran, became slightly blind at night because he was once
involved in Dharah. Dharah was a magical practice and it
was carrying on for years. If somebody loses some jewelry
or money or something precious, a boy was called, and
after some magical charm, the boy was able to see the
culprit and the lost object on the nail of his thumb. It is
believed that the boy who would be involved in Dharah
becomes blind at night. Was it a truth or myth? I don‟t
know but we had to take care of Imran.
We all used to learn and read Quran Pak in our mosque.
And when Thursday would come, we all prayed for Quran
Khawani. We had an Imam in the mosque of village. His
name was Dost Muhammad. I cannot tell you how much
regard we had and still have for that man. He taught his
ethics, respect and dignity. He used to mark our
attendance after every prayer. We followed his
instructions more passionately than our parents or
teachers. We all cried when he left our village. He was a
true legend.
We had no troubles or worries. We had no concern about
the world's troubles. When somebody's marriage would
come, our happiness exceeded limits. The happiness was
inexplicable. We all had cycles. We used to ride on the
cycles and would circle around our village and on Sunday
when there was Baraat and Walima, we used to buy guava
and mangoes and ice cream from the people who were
selling these items.
We all used to play in the same ground, one of our friends
was Waseem; he was as black as a coal pit. He had a face
that only his mother could love. One of our friends was
Najeebullah, we used to call him Naji, he was the shortest
player in our team with only 4 feet height. But boy, Oh
boy! What a player he was.
Today when I see these modern children, having electronic
machines in their hands, I sometimes think in my mind
that they would never know and understand what a
pleasurable childhood we had. They would never ever
understand.
Anyway, on the third day when thirty minutes were left in
Maghrib prayer, I rushed home, took out my cycle and
went through the heart of the jungle. I never tried to look
at the silent and still trees of the forest. I even ignored that
little girl. I knocked at the door and then I saw a hand, this
was not the hand that I saw yesterday. That day, I was
seeing something else. I don't know how a human hand
changes in a day. Yesterday I saw a tired, half wrinkled
hand with messy nails and that day I was watching a hand
which seemed as if it had been powdered and nails were
well trimmed and dipped in red colour. Her hands were
like virgin white. I also saw red bangles like the women
wear at wedding. I thought in my mind that probably the
lady inside had returned from some wedding. As I was
staring her hand, the hand shook a little and then I heard,
"Give your bucket."
"Oh, sorry. Here, here it is!"
I placed the handle of the bucket on her fingers and she
took it in. I raised my head towards the sky to count the
birds but I did not find even a single bird that day.
"Where the birds have gone today? Why don't I find them
in the sky today?" I thought in my mind.
When I did not find birds, I shifted my eyes towards the
white clouds and saw them with my folded arms. The
colour of the clouds was changed because the sun was
about to sleep in the west. I said in my heart that probably
clouds are telling a story to the sleeping sun or they are
singing a lullaby. All the friendships of the world would
come to an end one day but the friendship between clouds
and the setting sun would never come to an end. At that
moment, I heard the sound of slippers dragged on the
floor. I prepared myself to get the bucket but I heard,
"Jamal," the voice was of the lady.
"Yes, yes."
"There has been a lot of load shedding these days. It
becomes very dark at night. Will you go to Iqbal Kiryana
store to buy some candles for me? There is no one here
who can bring candles from the shop. Will you buy
candles for me?"
"Sure, sure, I will."
"Here, take this fifty rupee note."
She was holding that fifty rupee note in her fist and then
she opened it. I picked up that note in a careful way
because I did not want to touch her hand.
"I will wait for you, Jamal."
"Alright, I am coming in a minute."
Iqbal Kiryana Store was at the corner of that street. Iqbal
himself was a very kind man. I remembered him very well
because he used to sell kites. And when I was in school, I
mostly came to his shop to buy kites. Iqbal had a strange
habit. He had a big black marker and he always wrote the
date on the item that he sold. When I reached his shop, his
shop was crowded with five or six women who were
bargaining about the increase in the price of washing
powder. Iqbal told them that after the election, the new
government had deliberately increased the prices of every
item because they had to pay the loan taken by the
previous government. The women did not understand that
and were holding their heads with their wide open mouth.
When they left the shop, I entered. I thought that he would
remember me but he didn't. I noticed that his hair round
the temple and his moustache had some white hairs and
he had grown quite fat from the previous time I watched
him. Anyway, I gave him fifty rupee note and asked for
candles. He put only five candles in the packet and wrote
18th December on it, I was shocked because I thought that
he would give me ten candles. When I asked the reason, he
gave me the same answer that he had given to the women
earlier. I had no idea for how long he would blame the
government for the increase in prices but one thing was
sure that it was load shedding that enabled him to get
more profit than anything else regarding candles. I did not
bargain because there were some other customers in the
shop and outside the darkness was spreading very
quickly. When I stepped outside, I saw few kids running
after a kite, the thread of the kite was broken and it was
floating in the air. I first saw the thread on the wire and
then on the wall. The kids were running after the kite and
forgot the thread. The wall was not high, I could easily
catch the thread but for that I had to jump and I did jump.
As I jumped, the packet of candles slipped from my hand
and the thread had passed over my head. I sat down and
quickly opened the packet. One of the candles was broken
in half. My eyes widened in surprise and "Oh, My Allah"
was uttered from my mouth. I quickly picked up the
packet. My mind quietened for a short time. The broken
candle left me entangled.
"What should I do now? Should I buy another candle?" But
I did not have even ten rupees in my pocket. I was
strapped for cash.
"Should I request Chacha Iqbal for another candle? Will he
give me the candle? I would promise that I would pay him
next day," I thought in my mind at that time.
When I reached his shop, he was having a verbal fight
with an old woman who was not paying the money of the
items which she bought last month. Her son had not sent
any money from the city. She was asking for some
duration. Iqbal's face was burning with anger. After
watching his face and his anger, I returned and picked up
the broken candle and placed it among the four candles. I
rushed back. A stupid kite brought so much trouble for
me. She was waiting for me, I gave her the packet and took
the bucket from her hand and rushed home. I was thinking
of that broken candle all the way,
"What would happen if she opened the packet to find a
broken candle hidden among four candles?”
“O my Allah Almighty! What have I done!"
Previous day, I had fifty rupee note and I wasted it on
useless things. But that day, when I was in a desperate
need, I didn't have it. I made a plan to get ten rupee note
from my father. My father was a man of patience; he had a
cool temper and was a thoroughly honest person. My
mother sometimes used to become a burning sun in her
rage but my father always remained calm like the soothing
light of the moon. My father had a shop and his happiness
always depended on the sale in his shop and we had a
unique way to know how his work was at his shop. Our
father always used to bring something for us to eat at
night. If he would bring fruit like oranges in winter and
mangoes in summer, his sale was good and if he would
bring toffees and candies, we used to realize that it was a
cold day in the shop. And when it was a cold day in the
shop, he would not talk with anyone. That day, when I
saw the front wheel of his cycle entering through the gate,
I was praying for the fruit and then I saw his hand, my
father put his right hand in the pocket and brought out
toffees and placed it on the table. He did not look at
anyone, and I felt that it was not good to ask him to give
me ten rupees. I slept that night hoping, wishing and
praying that the broken candle might remain hidden but
how could this happen. She must have opened the packet
and would have seen that broken candle.
 Chapter 5: Day Four

I was so nervous about that broken candle that I had no

idea when the sun brightened the world and when it
completed its half journey next day. That day when I was
fielding on the boundary, I heard the voices of few people
behind me, they were those people who would sit on a
green patch of grass and would tell the stories of their past
and would discuss everything that was happening in the
world. It was a tradition and it was going on for years.
Between Asar and Maghrib prayer when the boys would
play cricket, the old people would gossip by sitting in a
circle. Among them was Chacha Sattar, I have never seen a
funny man like him. He had a long beard and a bald head.
He used to wear turban and if he did not put on his
turban, his face looked like a big old shuttlecock turned
upside down. He had a habit of running his hand in his
beard and then he would count all the hairs that fell on his
kameez. He had a wrinkled face and his wrinkles around
his eyes would become even more prominent when he
laughed or smiled. He was an old man but still young at
heart. Although he was a penny pincher, yet he was very
popular in our village. I still remember the day when he
brought a motorcycle in the village. That motorcycle
looked like the bike of a ghost, it had a grotesque look and
its sound was sharp and pinching. He claimed that he
bought it from a person who wanted money for his
medicine but some of the people were saying that the
circus people forgot it and he brought it home.
We had a lot of load shedding in our village and
sometimes we all got annoyed with that and then we used
to tease him by asking this question,
"Why there is so much load shedding Chacha?"
"They are sending electricity to the Sun, the Sun's light is
decreasing day by day and they are restoring its light."
He used to give this reply every time. We, the boys of the
village, considered him to be the wisest man on the planet.
And, once on a full moon light in summer when the
transformer of our village blasted because of heat and
overpower, and the WAPDA men were placing a new
transformer, all the men of the village were outside and
then I saw Chacha Sattar, I rushed towards him. He was
sitting on the ground with his legs crossed. I sat near him
and asked a question,
"Chacha, what is that shape on the Moon?" and he replied,
"Long ago, there was a man whose name was Feroz, he
bought a cow from the fair and it was lost, lost like a
perfume in the air, nobody knew that where the cow
disappeared but one day when Feroz was lying on the roof
of his house he looked towards the moon and thought in
his mind, "Oh that's my cow on the Moon and he got so
excited that he spread the news in the whole village that
his lost cow has been found and when the people asked
him 'where is it' he looked towards the sky and said 'it is
present on the moon'."
I giggled and chuckled and was delighted to hear that
story. I forgot about the trouble of electricity. This was just
one of his stories. We, the boys of the village, liked him. He
had innumerable stories to tell. I was a die-hard fan of
Chacha Sattar.
Among those people was also Chacha Zafar, he had a
habit of praising his son-in-law. Just a few years ago, his
daughter was married and when you would ask him,
"What your son-in-law do?"
He would reply,
"He does nothing, but the boy is nice."
"What is his education?"
"He is matric failed, but the boy is nice."
He even sometimes used to say,
"He does not drink, does not smoke. And I have already
told you that he is a nice boy. And what is the need of
education. He has lands and he can count all the furrows
in the fields, he can count all the sacks of wheat so what is
the need of education? What these educated people have
done in the world? Have they caught the ghost of old
palace?"
Honestly speaking, there was no use in arguing with
Chacha Zafar and people always teased him by asking
questions about his son-in-law. I mostly sat behind these
old people and would listen to their talk. These old men
were a perfect cinema for me. But that day, I was so
nervous and worried about that broken candle that I did
not listen to anyone's tale. I had no money; I failed to
arrange even ten rupees. I went home and sat on the cycle.
All the way I was praying to Allah Almighty to end my
agony. That day I did not look at anything, I did not care
about the dog. I did not care about anything.
I stood just beside the gate and my heart was beating fast. I
knocked at the door and heard some sound, someone
rushed towards me; I got butterflies in my stomach.
"Are you Jamal?"
"Yes - yes, it was just a mistake, I will replace it, don't
worry."
"What? What are you speaking? Is somebody standing
beside you, Jamal?"
"No, no, there is no one."
"Then with whom you were speaking?"
Good Heavens, I certainly looked very stupid at that time.
I thought she would ask about the broken candle.
"Nobody, nobody, actually I thought you were about to
discuss cand..."
"Jamal,"
"Yes, yes."
"Tomorrow is the Urs of Hazrat Baba Qibria, and all the
ladies of the village are going to his shrine, I need a green
sacred cloth, will you go to Ahmad Cloth House for
buying it? I would have asked somebody else but I haven't
found a single boy in the lane today, will you go to the
shop, Jamal?"
"I would but it is far away from here and the first star is
about to show in the sky, I think I will return late."
"Don't worry, give me your bucket, you will surely return
in time, here take these two hundred rupee notes and
remember it is a sacred cloth, your hands should be under
the shopper."
"But, if I return late."
"Don't worry, I know you will return when the cow will
spin her tail second time."
I swear I did not want to go. But when I thought of Hazrat
Baba Qibria, I gave up. I paddled hard, as hard as I could.
My eyes were straight and they were focused right on the
front wheel. I did not look around; I did not observe who
was standing, sitting or passing. I did not pull up the brake
even for a slightest of seconds. My only intention was to
reach before the disappearance of twilight. Atlast, I
reached Ahmad Cloth House, when I entered his shop, I
saw a familiar face, a face that I believed I had seen before
and then I realized he was Chacha Ashraf, same Chacha
Ashraf, who had once a General Store and Kiryana Store
combined in our village. A strange incident happened with
me in his shop almost eight or ten years ago.
One day, I went to his shop and asked about Zeera Biscuit.
I don't know whether he understood my words or not or
whether he was talking with somebody else, he went
inside, opened a box, brought a zero watt bulb and placed
it before me.
"What is this?" I asked by raising my shoulders.
"This is a zero watt bulb that you asked."
"I did not ask a zero watt bulb, I asked Zeera Biscuit."
Chacha Ashraf was embarrassed and ashamed but we
both laughed at that time.
“Give me a Five!” he exclaimed.
Later when I told the incident to my brother, he laughed so
much that he nearly fell from Charpai.
Anyway, that incident was a story of the past. When I
entered his cloth shop that day and when he saw me after
many years, he stood up and embraced me. I thought he
would not recognize me but he was familiar with my face.
He told me that there was not much profit in Kiryana store
so he closed it down and opened cloth shop on the name
of his son, Ahmad. I told him my reason for coming. He
leapt up, cut a piece of cloth from a big bundle, folded it
neatly, put it in the shopper and placed it before me.
"How much?" I asked.
"Four hundred rupees."
"Four - four hundred. But..."
"Oh, forget it, how much your mother has given?"
"I have just two hundred and it is not my mother who..."
"Give me that two hundred, it is enough for me. And tell
your mother to pray for me in her prayers. The money will
be compensated."
"But it is not my mother who wants this cloth," I almost
said these words but stopped myself.
I picked up the shopper by putting my hands under it, I
looked absolutely foolish. Chacha Ashraf and the people
sitting in his shop looked at me strangely but they
preferred not to pass a comment. I sat on the seat of the
cycle and started paddling. The first star had appeared,
and half of the twilight was disappeared when I reached
the gate of her home. I knocked at the door and I heard the
sound of slippers.
"Jamal, Is that you?"
"Yes, yes."
"I am really sorry, I did not give you enough money, here
take these two hundred more."
"But, I have acquired the green cloth."
"But, how?” She sounded upset.
“Did you pay it by yourself?”
"No, no, actually..."
I was short of words. I did not know how to explain, did
not know how to narrate what happened in that shop.
“Don‟t be shy, tell me did you pay it by yourself? Anyway,
take these two hundred rupees and give me that green
cloth. The darkness is spreading.”
I took two hundred rupees from her right hand and after
that she brought out her hands from the door. When I put
the shopper on her hands, my fingers touched her fingers;
she slowly moved her fingers back. I felt a sensation in my
body; the nails of her fingers scratched the skin of my
fingers. The sensation pierced in my soul and I stood there
with my parted lips. I have no idea when she gave me my
bucket and when I sat on the seat of my cycle and paddled.
I came to senses when the front wheel of my cycle hit a big
boulder and two or three drops of milk fell from the
bucket. I found myself standing in front of a mosque. I
dropped two hundred rupees in the box which was
chained to a big tree for the fund of the mosque. That two
hundred rupees did not belong to me and I had no right to
use them.
 Chapter 6: Day Five

There was happiness in the wind of next day, the whole

village was decorated and the Dhol and musicians were
brought. The young boys were given the duty to place
banners and colourful flags on the trees. I myself spread
white chalk on the ground. It was the day when Chaudry
Ramzan was returning from Hajj. He sat in the black
vehicle and arrived among the crowd of hundreds of
people. When the people saw him, he was quite different;
he appeared thin with bald head, wearing white clothes.
Everybody was eager to embrace him and to touch his
hands. When he sat in his room, I was also sitting behind
the people. I did not go to college that day. Chaudry
Ramzan was boasting of his chance to perform Hajj. He
would raise his hands in the air to magnify the grandeur of
the Holy Cities. I could see the drops of spit coming out of
his mouth when he was speaking. His left leg was folded
and right leg was shaking and touching the slipper.
Whenever someone would ask,
"How was your experience?"
 He would narrate everything. His arrangement of money,
his commitment, the visit of Holy Places and his return, he
spoke so magnificently about the Holy Cities that all the
people who were sitting there had only one desire i.e. to
visit the Holy Cities of Makkah and Madina, and when
Chacha Khalid said,
"I would also go to Hajj next year, I am saving money and
next year I will have enough to perform Hajj.”
Chaudry Ramzan scolded him by saying,
"It is not about the money, stupid old man. It is about the
will of the Allah Almighty. For a case in point, look at
Chaudry Shoukat, he has all the money one can desire but
has he gone to Madina? No, because it is not about money
it is about the will of the Almighty and if HE calls, if HE
chooses, then you will visit Madina."
These words of Chaudry Ramzan silenced everybody. I
also saw Qari Ghulam Muhammad sitting among the
people. I was amazed to see why he was silent that day.
Qari Ghulam Muhammad had a habit of boasting. He
would tell a story to a stranger every now and then of a
tree which was possessed by a demon spirit. Between
Sakonabad and Hanifabad, there stood a tall tree. The tree
was possessed by a demon spirit; it was notorious for
throwing stones at the people at night and during the day
time. Many years ago, a caravan had passed beside that
tree. One man from the caravan stopped and went under
that tree at night and disappeared, the whole caravan
searched him but he was not found. Only Allah Almighty
knows where he went. From that day onwards, the news
spread in both villages that the tree is possessed by an evil
spirit and the spirit devour people. The story later became
a legend. Nobody had courage to go in the direction of the
tree but Qari Ghulam Muhammad did. He went under
that tree at night and recited the Verses of Holy Quran.
The Demon disappeared; the tree stopped throwing stones
at the people. Qari Ghulam Muhammad became a
celebrity. The maulvi was held in high esteem in both the
villages after that incident. I listened to that story for the
very first time when I was in the mosque on the night of
Shab-e-Qadar. I listened to Qari Ghulam Muhammad's
story and was thrilled but later I heard it so many times
that I became bored. That day, Qari Ghulam Muhammad
did not boast, did not say even a single word. I think cat
got his tongue that day.
Later in the day, the dark clouds covered the whole sky. It
became a splendid scene with the rustling of the leaves
and bending of trees. I took my cycle out from the room
and went to Hanifabad. When I was on my way, I saw few
little kids who had blackened their faces and were carrying
a cloth tied to the hands of four kids. They were shouting
at the top of their voices:
"Kala Bakra, Kala Sheee"
They were knocking at the doors of every house in the
village. It was a tradition in my village, the kids would
gather on the day when there were some chances of rain
and they would ask people to give them either some grains
of wheat or money. It was believed that this practice
would bring rain from the clouds and every home in the
village would give them something at least. Later the kids
would sell all the grains of wheat to the shopkeeper and
would buy some candies or fruit for themselves. I myself
was the part of this practice for some time but when my
moustache became prominent, I stopped.
I passed in front of a home and the door of the house was
opened, I saw a lady running after the hens so that they
should enter their loft. After watching this, I remembered
my own days of childhood; I used to sit in the loft of hens
and would see the falling rain. It was such a beautiful
spectacle that I wanted to be there in the loft forever. And I
had always dreamed of knowing one thing that how these
hens spend their night. How they sleep. It was a desire
that really never fulfilled. I was thinking about these
things and I reached my destination. I knocked at the door
and gave the bucket. Strong wind started blowing and the
dust spread in the street. I covered my face and eyes with
my hand to save myself. When I looked towards the sky, I
saw some kites still flying, the sides of the kites were bent
and one kite was making huge circles and I realized that
the kite flyer had lost control of that kite and it might fall
somewhere on some tree soon. I looked down and found
some big drops of rain. I looked towards the sky and at the
same time, a huge drop of rain fell on my face and then
another on my right foot.
At that time, I realized that I made a mistake, I should
have come earlier, now it would rain and I would be
drenched in water. As I was regretting, I heard a voice
from inside the door. She said,
"Jamal, come inside. I have opened the door of the back
room. You will get wet here."
"No, no, I must leave now. Please give me my bucket. I
must depart now."
"Don't be a fool, Jamal. The rain will not end soon and it is
winter, don't feel shy, come inside."
I listened to her and obeyed because I knew that the rain
was not going to stop soon. The rain starting falling very
fast and I could hear and see the roar of thunder and flash
of lightning. When I entered the room, I found that it was
an old room that was hardly cleaned and there was a
strange smell in that room. I stood beside the door and
saw the tiny bubbles of rain that were forming and
vanishing. The sound of the rainfall became fierce. The
wind suddenly stopped and the trees were strangely still.
The drops of rain were shaking the leaves of trees. It was
very difficult for me to stand there and to wait for the
stopping of rain. I decided to kill my time once again; I
started counting the leaves that were trembling in the rain.
When I counted fourteen leaves, my eyes turned toward a
tiny bird that was trying to sit on a little hole in the wall,
the bird was trying to hold on but the wall was wet and
the bird was unable to do so.
"Poor little bird, should I go and help that bird? No, no, the
bird would become afraid," I said in my heart.
At that time, I heard a knock at the door and then I heard
the same voice,
"Jamal,"
"Yes, yes."
"First of all, thank you so much for bringing the cloth
yesterday. I was jubilant to spread the cloth on the grave of
my mentor, my Murshad. And here take this torch, it has
become very dark now. You might lose your way."
"No, no, there is no need of torch. I must leave now. Please
give me my bucket."
"Don't be stupid, Jamal. You have to cross the jungle.
Losing way in the jungle is a terrible disaster. The
darkness will become pitch black very soon."
"Alright, I take it but I will return it tomorrow and now
please give me my bucket."
She handed me the bucket and the torch. It was a new
torch and it looked as if it had been brought from the
bazaar just now. It shone like a new penny. I asked her to
close the door and then I stepped outside. The rain
lightened a little but still it was enough to make somebody
wet. I heard the bolting of the door behind me, I did not
look back at the door because I had a fear that I might look
at her face. I zipped my jacket, paddled slowly, and moved
the tyre of the cycle carefully. I stopped for a while to see
whether the bird was being able to sit or not but there was
no bird at all at that place. Probably the bird flew away.
When I passed in front of the main gate of the house, I
heard a sound and I felt that somebody had opened that
gate. I did not look back but I knew that somebody must
have opened that door. I was trying whatever I could to
avoid the dirty, muddy water that was present in the
street. Wind started blowing again, I placed my left foot on
a stone that was present in front of somebody's home and
zipped my jacket completely. Till the time, I reached the
forest, the wind converted into a light storm and it became
cold, extremely cold. I stood for a short time and saw the
trees of the forest. The trees were all bending to one side
and they looked like a face of a big witch scaring a little
child. The sight of the forest made my hair stand on the
end. Allah Almighty knows that I did not want to enter the
forest but I had to. The rustling sound of leaves was so
fierce that it seemed as if some demons were screaming at
me from the top of those trees. The sound of the leaves
was a distraction but I didn‟t take much notice. It was very
difficult for me to control the handle of the cycle. I could
have fallen many times if I had not been vigilant. The torch
helped me a lot and then I realized that she was right. The
best I could tell is that I crossed the jungle safe and sound.
When I entered my village, my father and brother were
coming for me. They had all been worried. I entered my
home and saw my mother at the corner of the street
waiting for me.
"My son, you should not have gone today."
"I am alright."
I gave her the bucket with my trembling hands then went
to bed. My fingers shriveled like peach pits. My mother
brought a boiled egg and milk. She had a fear that I might
get ill but it didn‟t happen.
 Chapter 7: Day Six

A new day started with the emergence of sun, the previous

day was the day of joy at first, then it became a day of
blessing with the rainfall and later it became a day of
trouble for me. I witnessed everything that day.
When I was going to college at 9 AM, two men overtook
me and they were discussing about the robbers that had
robbed a man last night. I took quick paces and tried to
hear their discussion. The robbers had robbed a man in the
jungle when he was returning home. It all happened after
twenty minutes when I left the jungle last night.
The news later spread in the whole village. But the bad
news was yet to come. I was on my way to college, when I
heard wild shrieks of ladies, I stopped at the very moment
and turned back. My face turned pale and my heartbeat
increased. The shrieks were coming from Chacha Bashir's
residence. Everybody in the village came out of his house
and ran towards his house. I ran to his home as well. We
all thought that may be his home was on fire or may be the
horn of the cattle had stuck at some place because this sort
of incidents were common in the village. Everybody had
conjectures; nobody knew what had actually happened in
that home. When I reached Chacha Bashir's residence,
there was a huge crowd of people and everybody was
gazing inside his home. Then came one man from his
home, I had no idea who was that man. He told something
and people rushed towards the main road. I moved
forward and enquired from a man who was standing
beside the door of Chacha Bashir's home. He told me that
Chacha Bashir was returning home from bazaar when a
fast moving bus hit his bike and he fell from it. Chacha
Bashir was in hospital, and his condition was critical.
Chacha Bashir was the night custodian of the whole
village. It is being said that he used to take a round of the
village at night. Many people had seen him do that. He
was an analogue clock in the digital world. During the
month of Ramzan, he was the one who would open the
gate of the mosque. He was the one who used to announce
on the speaker that twenty or thirty or fourty minutes
were left in eating Sehri. He used to brighten everybody's
day. He was a court a justice. I still remember the day
when we were playing cricket in the field and our bat
broke. We were collecting five and ten rupees from each
player and then Chacha Bashir passed by. He looked at us
and asked,
“What has happened, why have you stopped playing?”
We told him our condition and he gave us a hundred
rupee note at the very moment. He was liked by everyone.
I wanted to go to hospital to see him. Many boys in the
village gathered and decided to go to the hospital but as
we were about to depart. We heard a news that shattered
everyone's heart. Chacha Bashir was announced dead in
the hospital. After few minutes, his body was brought
from the hospital. I with my friends went to every house
for collecting pillows and Charpai. When I knocked at the
door of Chacha Attuallah's house, he came out himself. I
asked for Charpai and told him that Chacha Bhasir had
died. He did not believe my words because he had met
him in the bazaar only half an hour ago. Life is very
strange nobody knows what will happen next. The death
of Chacha Bashir was announced on the speakers of every
mosque. The dead body of Chacha Bashir was taken to the
graveyard. I was late. I had to hurry but as I crossed the
Chacha Bashir's home. A lady stopped me, she told me
that one of the relatives of Chacha Bashir had not seen the
last face of Chacha Bashir and she was crying in wild
hysterical manner. She asked me to take her to the
graveyard. It was really a trouble for me, how could I do
that. I myself was late for Namaz-e-Janaza. Luckily, I saw
Waseem, he was on his bike and was also going to the
graveyard. I asked him to take that lady to the graveyard
and he did. I ran and ran and ran and joined the Namaz-e-
Janaza at the last minute. He was buried in the grave; the
night custodian of the village was buried. Everyone
prayed for him and I prayed in my heart,
"O Allah Almighty, forgive us, make Chacha Bashir among
the guided ones. Bestow upon him the shadows of the
towering trees of Jannah for we have seen his heart of
Gold. He was the beacon of our village. Illuminate and
place his soul among the dwellers of the Heaven. Time
does not heal; it just causes the wound to hurt less. Give
valor to the family of Chacha Bashir to bear this loss,
Amen."
Life is like that apple whose one side is shiny and the other
side is rotten. We all celebrated the arrival of Chaudry
Ramzan previous day and the next day we buried the most
beloved person of our village.
Everyone returned home and Chacha Bashir was left alone
in his grave forever. None of us had an idea that the hour
of happiness was going to end. That day, I laid on the bed
and closed my eyes. I did not want to talk with anyone.
My mother entered the room and gave me bucket. I looked
at the clock and then at my mother in astonishment. She
ordered me to bring milk first and then I could go to play
cricket. When I asked the reason, she hinted at the robbery
last night in the jungle. I took my cycle out and decided to
return quickly before the spinning of coin in the ground. I
was thinking of Chacha Bashir all the way and stopped
where I once saw him during the midnight encircling the
whole village when we were going to Lahore. It was quite
amazing that when everybody was sleeping, he was taking
a round of the whole village. I was in my trance, the wheel
of the cycle and the handle were moving automatically.
The water splashed under the tyres of my cycle and I only
heard the croaking of frogs. I reached my place and
knocked. First, no one came and then I knocked hard. I
heard the suppressed sound of slippers striking the
ground.
"Who?" The voice was so low that I hardly heard.
"Jamal, I am Jamal."
"Jamal!" She sounded very happy.
“Sorry for the intrusion but I have come to take milk.”
"Right now, but why so early?"
"Mother asked me to do this. Last night, there was a
robbery in the jungle. She does not want me to return late."
“Robbery! Did you return safe last night, Jamal?”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
"Thanks Allah Almighty. But Jamal, I have to milk the
cow. Anyway, I am opening the door of back room, come
inside."
"Thanks for your gratitude but I don't want to sit in the
room. I am happy here. I will wait here."
"You might have to wait for half an hour or more, Jamal.
You will look foolish here."
And she went away.
"No, no, please listen. I don't want to sit."
I heard the sound of the bolt and she signaled me to come
inside. I turned my face down, I did not want to see her
face. I entered the room and sat in the chair. I put my
hands in the pockets of my coat and looked at the stuff in
the room. The room had three doors, one opened in the
street, second opened in the house and third, I had no idea
about that but perhaps, it opened in another room. I was
not sure. I tried to look outside and the leaves of trees were
motionless. Previous day, they were all shaking but that
day they were still like statue. And then I thought about
the bird that was trying to hold on. I had no idea where
that bird went.
"How I would pass my time today? Which thing should I
count today?" I thought in my mind. I looked around and
found nothing to count.
"What I would do now," I thought.
Then, I saw hundreds of ants on the wall, the wall that was
just beside me. The ants were scampering on the wall. It
was like a mini car race. One ant was really quick; I don‟t
know why that ant was in such a hurry. That ant went out
of my sight very soon. Then I saw a group of ants and they
were carrying a moth. The moth was perhaps enough for
them for one week. Abruptly, a mischief came in my mind,
and I deliberately pushed that moth and it fell on the
ground. The ants were in disarray.
"Aaaah! I should not have done it." I said with my parted
lips.
The ants were surely angry with me. I thought that the
ants would not carry the moth again but I was wrong.
They again held all the sides of that moth and tried to
carry it alongside the wall.
I turned my eyes in another direction and observed the
second door minutely. It was a door that had green colour
and it was bent inward at the lower side. And then I saw a
hole, although it was not a big one, yet one could see
through it. I observed that the hole was becoming dark
and bright moment after moment. I stood up and went
near that hole. I knew that I was doing something wrong. I
just wanted to see how the home of that lady looked. I
wanted to see how much time was still left in milking the
cow. I saw through the hole and was astounded. The lady,
she was not milking the cow, she was colouring her eyes,
her lips and her cheeks.
My teeth rattled in anger, here I was waiting for milk, and
there she was colouring her face. She turned back and
walked straight towards that door where I was standing, I
saw a slight glimpse of her face; I moved back from the
door and quickly sat in the chair. I turned my face in the
opposite direction. I could feel her presence. I could feel
the fragrance. She was standing beside the door and was
staring at me through the same hole. I could see that there
was a shadow of someone at the floor beside the door. She
was staring at me. Why she was staring at me? Why?
Why? Why? It was really hard for me to sit there.
I deliberately looked at the hole and we had an eye contact
for slightest of moment and then she backed away. She
knew that I saw her. I wanted to go home. It became
extremely inconvenient for me to sit there. My whole body
was trembling in the winter season. Unusual it might be
but I did happen at that time. After few moments, I heard
a knock and saw my bucket. I rushed forward, and
snatched the bucket from her unnatural, powdered hand. I
never looked back, sat on the seat of my cycle and paddled
as hard as I could. I decided to tell everything to my
mother but I did not tell. I did not tell anything. When I
was on my bed that night, I thought, and thought, and
thought.
"Why she abruptly became so happy when she heard my
name today? Why was she colouring her eyes and her
face? Why was she staring at me?" All these questions kept
ringing in my mind and did not allow me to sleep for three
hours.
 Chapter 8: Day Seven

And then the seventh day began, the day when the fate
had woven the most difficult pattern of my whole life. It
was a windy day. When I woke up in the morning, I saw
the trees of my college from a distance; they were all
bending to one side. The cold was intensified. It was very
unusual for me that nothing happened that day; I went to
college and found that there were hardly two or three boys
present in my class. Our teacher did not teach anything
that day. The strong wind was disturbing the calm stature
of the trees. I returned home after the second class. The
sun completed its half journey and then the hour of cricket
came. I went to our playground much earlier than usual
and again I found two or three boys. They told me that it
was impossible to play cricket because of strong wind. The
wind would not allow us to bat or ball properly. I was
very depressed that day. It was really a bad day.
I went home and took bucket from the kitchen and rode
my cycle through the lanes of my village and through the
familiar places.
It was very windy and I had to paddle my cycle against
the wind. Although it was difficult, yet I managed and
reached my destination after destroying many mini roads
of the ants by the tyre of my cycle. I knocked at the door, I
was fully determined that I would not sit in the back room
that day.
"Who, Are you Jamal?"
"Yes."
"Come inside, the door of the back room is opened."
"No, no, not today."
"Why, I have to milk the cow.”
“Alright, I‟ll wait here.”
“If you don't want to sit in that room, come inside from
this door and sit in the compound."
"What?" I was shocked to hear these words. Why she said
so.
"Thanks for your kindness but I am not going to sit.”
"Don't be such a blockhead, Jamal. It is very windy and
you may get ill."
“Thanks for your concern but I don‟t want to sit.”
“Why have you become stubborn today, Jamal?”
“Stubborn! Not at all, I just don‟t want to sit.”
When I was talking with her, I saw a man in the street that
was sitting in front of his home and was staring at me
suspiciously. I thought he would certainly take that
conversation negatively. In spite of my resolution, I backed
away and said,
"Ok, I will wait in the back room."
"That‟s like a good boy. Thanks Allah Almighty, come
inside, the door of the back room is already opened."
Allah Almighty knew that I did not want to go inside; I
knew that it was some kind of a sinister room. I could not
forget the previous day and how she was staring at me
through that tiny hole. And what would happen if she
repeated the same deed again. I opened the door and sat
down in the chair. The wind was very fierce and it was
constantly moving the door haphazardly and at last I
stood up and put bricks in front of both the doors. I did
not bolt the doors. If someone would pass in front of the
door and found me sitting in the room with bolted door, I
didn't want to think what he would think in his dirty
mind. The wind was very fierce that day. I looked at the
walls, there were ants to count previous day but that day,
it was clean and there was no ants at all. The room had a
mysterious door, I didn't know where that door opened,
that door had a lot of cracks and the paint was distorted, I
started observing the shapes and designs which were
present because of distortion of paint. Most of the shapes
looked like stars with four to six corners. I started
observing them. I was about to see a square shape on the
door when a strong gust of wind entered in the room, the
bed sheet and the shoppers flew and the glass fell down
from the shelf. The strong wind opened that mysterious
door and I saw a glimpse, a glimpse of a packet. I was
right. There really was another room on the other side of
that door. I stood up when I saw the packet on the shelf,
the packet of candles; the packet of candles which I
brought. It was the same packet that made my life
miserable, it was a high time for me to see that broken
candle, but it was a stranger‟s house. How could you enter
in the room of a stranger without permission, if she caught
me red handed, what answer would I give? But there was
no turning back, I had to see what happened to that
candle, it was a time to end my pain forever. I had to see it;
I moved my feet towards that door and silently entered
through that mysterious door. I was like walking on eggs
when I entered the secret door. I stopped to look whether
someone was present in the room or not. "No, no, there
was no one inside." A voice in my heart told me to go
forward. I took a step and picked up the packet, and
opened it, "What, O my Heaven!" how could it happen, the
broken candle was still present inside the packet, I took it
out and decided to throw it in the jungle, I had twenty
rupee note in my pocket and I could buy a new candle. But
just as I placed the packet back, I saw the date on the
packet, the date was 18th December, that was the day
when I bought that packet from Iqbal Kiryana Store. I
decided to go to Iqbal Kiryana Store to buy a new candle
and to end my misery forever but just as I was about to go,
I saw two more packets, one was completely sealed and
the other had seven candles and the date on those packets
was 15th December, I looked up with a scowl. It meant she
lied. She told me that she had no candles when she already
had two full packets of candles, my eyes turned red. I
looked at other things, and found that green, sacred cloth
was lying on the floor, she said to me that it was a sacred
cloth you should not hold the shopper from above, hold it
by placing your hands under it. She told me day before
yesterday that she had spread that cloth on the grave of
her Murshad. The sight of the candles and cloth jangled
my nerves. Each and every word spoken by her was a lie.
Everything became uncovered in front of my eyes in that
room. My whole body was drenched in anger and fear. I
heard the sound of bangles; I decided to stay where I was.
She must have seen through that hole, she must have seen
the opened door of the room. I did not move an inch. I
closed my eyes and tried to calm myself down but I
couldn't. I looked at the door of that room, the room where
the hideous secrets were just revealed. I saw a shadow of
someone through the corner of the door, she was standing
outside. I stood there and did not move. And then, I heard
the squeaking of door, she came inside. I laid my eyes on
her for the first time. I saw her face. Her face was
powdered and she was wearing earring. From day one, I
thought she must have been an aged lady but she was a
girl, a mere girl of twenty five or twenty six years old. I
could see that she was trembling, she put Dupatta over her
head with her shaking hands.
"You lied," I said in a suppressed angered voice. I curled
my lip at her.
"No, Jamal, don't think in a wrong way. I will tell
everything." She was gasping. She had her wires crossed.
"You said the cloth was sacred. See it has been spoiled by
dirt and spit by ants."
"Let me explain, Jamal. Let me explain."
My nose widened and eyes shortened in anger and her
lower lip trembled in fear.
"You touched my hands, you already had two packets of
candles, you lied."
"For Allah Almighty's sake, please let me explain."
She joined both her hands and was pardoning but the
anger blinded my senses. I had reached the deep valley of
hatred when the hatred of all the demons is placed. The
conversation was out of question. Whatever she said,
whatever she requested, all fell on deaf ears.
"You stared at me through the hole of that door, you lied. I
will tell each and every thing to mother," I said in a
growling voice.
"No, no, please Jamal, for our Last Prophet, for our Sacred
Saints, please don't tell your mother. I touch your feet."
"Back off. Don't touch me. You are a liar, for all I care. I
don't want you to touch me with your wicked and sinful
hands."
I turned back. She rushed forward and grasped my left
hand.
"Jamal, please listen to me, I will explain everything, give
me one minute to explain. I am not what you think."
My anger reached the peak of animosity, my eyes and my
whole body turned red in that cold weather. I pushed her
back and she fell on the ground, I quickly left the room
and sat on my cycle.
"Jamal, Jamal, please stop, please stop. I am not what you
think."
She ran to the main gate of the house.
"Jamal, please do not tell your mother.
Jaaammmmaaaallll."
These were the last words I heard, I paddled hard, wind
was blowing in the same direction; I rode my cycle with
the wind.
It took half or less time in reaching my home than the time
I took to reach her home. I opened the front door of my
house and saw my mother sitting on the Charpai, she
stood up when she did not see the bucket in my hand,
"What happened and where is the bucket?"
"Ammi," I cried.
"What happened, tell me what has happened? Did those
robbers in the jungle..."
"No, no."
"Then what, tell me before the angels take my soul out of
my body."
And then I told everything, everything to my mother, from
candles to cloth, from touching my hands to staring at me
through the hole, I told everything.
My mother knitted her brow and said,
"Oh, that slimy, witless worm dared see my son. I will pull
and crush those eyes under my feet."
My mother said these words and went outside. I took two
steps to stop her but my anger let her go.
I sat there and saw my mother leaving the house. I don't
know where my mother went. She didn't tell where she
was going. And then one hour passed, two hours passed.
She didn't come. My father reached home and asked us
about our mother. We had no idea where she went. Just as
we were about to search her, we heard the opening of the
door, mother reached home.
"Where were you, Haleema?" Father asked.
She did not answer. We only saw her reddish face. She
was not looking at anybody, she was not answering
anybody. She had a face like a thunder. She was very
angry, our whole house was always afraid of her anger.
She always became loose cannon when she got angry. That
day, nobody spoke. We all went to our rooms. I sat beside
the fire and the fire became extremely hot, it was
unbearable. I had never experienced that much intense
heat. My elder brother advised me not to sit beside the fire,
so I stood up as they all did, I went to my room, laid on the
bed and closed my eyes.
I was thinking in my mind about the silence of my mother,
where had she gone when I told her everything, why she
returned so angrily? And the girl, now my heart started
melting. I was thinking rationally, what happened to her
when I pushed her, I did not see where she fell. Once again
I found myself in her room, I saw myself standing in front
of her. The walls of her room were burning. I asked her to
stand up, but she did not listen. She did not turn her head.
The fire was engulfing the whole room,
"Hey, hey, listen, the whole room is on fire!" I said loudly.
She did not turn her head. I didn‟t want to touch her. But
now I had to. I had to save her life.
"Please, stand up, your room is burning."
But again she did not turn.
"At last, I grasped her arm, and tried to lift her body but
her arm broke. I stood astounded. The fire was burning my
feet. I tried to lift her body but just as I did, her corporeal
frame, her whole body broke into pieces and the pieces fell
on the ground. I saw my hands; my hands were stained
with her blood. She died at the moment when I pushed
her, she really, really died. The broken pieces of her body
and the stain of her blood on my hands didn't allow me
move my feet. I stood there as a statue, waiting for the fire
to burn my body with her. And then I saw the roof, it was
falling straight on me. I woke up; I woke up from my
dream. Thanks Allah Almighty, it was a nightmare, my
face and my body was drenched in fear. I was trembling.
“Why her arm broke and why her whole body broke and
the stains of blood. Why have I seen all this in my dream?
What has happened to her?”
 It was 2:18 AM in the morning. I drank a glass of cold
water and laid down on the bed, I tried to sleep but I
couldn't. I became worried about her. I remained awake
till the first Azan of Fajar Prayer and then somehow I
again slept but only for a short while.
 Chapter 9: The Passing

When I woke up in the morning, I felt something strange, I

could not feel life in my legs, I was unable to move my feet
for some moments, the last night's dream was still lurching
in my mind, I felt as if my senses had been lost in last
night's dream. I could not comprehend the meaning of the
broken body and the stains of blood on my hands. I
wanted to tell everything to my mother, but she was still
silent. She did not talk with anyone. I did not eat breakfast;
I just picked up my bag and went to the college. Hardly
had I covered the half distance, when I heard the
announcement on the speakers of the mosque:
"The Folks of Sakonabad, Abida, daughter of Fateh Sher
and Granddaughter of Alam Sher has died and her namaz
e janaza will be in the Old Graveyard at 10 AM. Inna lillahi
wa inna ilayhi raji'un"
I heard the announcement but did not take much notice. I
thought Abida must have been the name of a newly born
child. She must have died due to some disease. I was going
to my college and I did not want to miss any class. When I
reached the gate of my college, I saw Chacha Sattar sitting
beside the wall of the college, the chain of his cycle had
slipped off; I went to him and helped him in putting the
chain back. I had always found him hale and hearty but
that day he looked like a busted up old man. He looked as
white as sheet and his eyes were red. He looked very ill
that day. I tried to ask but before that he requested me to
go with him or atleast dropped him at the Old Graveyard
for Funeral. He told me that he was sick and could not
paddle the cycle. I did not want to go with him, my heart,
my mind, my soul kept stopping me. Had it been
somebody else, I would not have gone. I rode the cycle and
Chacha Sattar sat on the back seat. I paddled hard but the
chain of the cycle again slipped off, so we had to stop for a
while to put it back. After that I rode the cycle as slow as I
could because I had a fear that the chain might break.
Chacha Sattar showed me a way; I rode behind the pond,
over the pull, in front of lonely houses and reached Old
Graveyard. It was quite surprising for us that the people
had not reached the graveyard. I decided to stay with
Chacha Sattar because I had already missed two classes till
that time. We stood for a while in the graveyard but later
decided to go to the house of the deceased person. Chacha
Sattar walked in front and asked me to follow him. I
followed him by holding to the left handle of the cycle.
When we were in the streets, I felt that I was looking at the
familiar trees and the familiar houses but on a different
canvas. I had a feeling that I had already watched that
sight before. I tried to understand what was happening.
My mind was forcing me to believe that I was in
Hanifabad, but my heart was not accepting this notion. I
was walking behind Chacha Sattar with a thumping heart.
Every step of Chacha Sattar was ominous. I was chaotic.
"Chacha, what place is this?"
"This is Hanifabad."
"Hanifabad! But that village is on the other direction. We
have to go through the road, and then we have to pass the
jungle."
"I know but I am an old eagle, I know all the roads and
jungles. I have walked on them many times before you
were born."
"But, tell me where are we going, Chacha?"
He stopped and turned back.
"You haven't heard the announcement of a funeral, have
you?"
"I did but it was of some girl called Abida." I said and
raised my shoulders.
Chacha Sattar looked down and started walking again.
"What happened, Chacha, and who is this girl, Abida?"
He did not answer. There was an atmosphere of menace at
that time.
I saw a man who came out of a house and ran and later I
saw two more men who were running in the same
direction. And, then suddenly, I saw a shop, the shop of
Chacha Iqbal.
"No, no, please, please don't turn in that lane, Chacha.
Allah Almighty, make him stop." My legs started
quivering and my heart beat became intense. My
shoulders felt a sensation and my whole body started
shivering. Chacha Sattar turned in the same lane, the lane
where the marks of the tyre of my cycle might still have
been present. I did not feel any power to move my feet. I
stood there astounded, astonished and not willing to
accept the apprehension that my mind was suggesting. I
heard shrieks of some women. I took two or three steps
and saw a spectacle, a spectacle that scared the soul in my
body, a spectacle which would be engraved on my soul
and on my body forever. People stood at the same spot
where I used to stay. And the deceased person was none
other than Abida.
Abida, this was her name. That was the first time when I
came to know her name. People walked briskly by
carrying her dead body on Charpai. I stood there and
watched her dead frame passed in front of me. The sight of
her dead body sent shivers down my spine and scared the
life in my body.
I saw Chacha Sattar, he was weeping and running behind
the men. I rushed forward and asked,
"Chacha, what happened to her. What happened to her?"
My words shattered. I did not find voice to speak. Chacha
Sattar did not answer.
"Chacha, do you know her, what happened to her?"
Chacha Sattar again did not reply. He was wiping his tears
by the loose end of his turban. I was dying to know what
happened with her. Chacha Sattar ran forward and
grasped one leg of the Charpai. After that, I did not see
him. He was lost in the crowd. I was in a trance, I was left
behind; I could not feel my legs. I wanted to cry. I wanted
her to wake up. I wanted to hear her voice. I wanted to feel
her presence. I could not behold her lying without life on
that Charpai. And then my mind heard something,
something that was unintelligible,
"Who - will you buy candles for me - here take this torch - I
have to milk the cow - will you buy a piece of cloth - Don't
be a fool - please listen to me - I will explain everything -
Jamal - Jaammmaaalll - Jaaaamaaaaaallllll"
I came out of my trance when Chacha Sattar patted my
back. I had no idea that I was standing at the end of all the
lines in her funeral. And I did not raise my head up. I did
not find courage and power in my body to lift my head.
Chacha Sattar was awestruck to see my condition. He
patted my back to put me at ease. I saw a man with
Chacha Sattar. The man was Hayatullah and he asked us
to go with him to his home. He wanted to tell something to
Chacha Sattar.
When Hayatullah reached his home, he brought out a
Charpai from inside and we all sat in the courtyard. There
was no lady at that house.
I sat with Chacha Sattar and held my lips tight. I did not
speak a single word.
"What happened yesterday and who were those three
women?" Chacha Sattar asked.
"Don't know exactly but I will tell what I saw last evening,
three ladies came to her home. There was a lot of
screaming, sobbing and crying. The door of her house was
opened. I saw that the ladies were slapping her face,
pulling her hair, they dragged her on the ground. The
ladies came down on Abida like a ton of bricks. One of
them called her an uncouth, unrefined girl, common as an
old shoe. One of them was calling her a whore, a slimy,
witless worm."
"What! These were the words spoken by my mother before
she left home yesterday. It means among those three
ladies, one was my mother. But who were the other two
ladies," I said in my heart.
"You all stood there and watched and did nothing,"
Chacha Sattar said in anger.
"What could have we done? They were all women. It was a
women's matter."
"And you let them beat Abida?"
"No, we asked two or three women to intrude and make
them stop."
"Why were they beating, Abida?"
"I don't know, nobody knows, one of the women who was
beating her told the whole village that she was a whore,
nobody would come near her. She professed that Abida
had seen her son with her lusty, lecherous eyes. The curse
of Allah Almighty will be on that person who will come to
her help. These were the words of that lady and then they
left. I don't know who were those ladies, I did not see them
in this village before," said Hayatullah.
"I spit on your virility. You should have gone to her help.
How could you and the rest of the people become so
callous and cruel? How could you..." said Chacha Sattar in
a dreadful voice.
"Yes, you are right. We should have gone to her help but
we couldn't. She sat there beside the door and did not stop
crying. She was weeping bitterly by hiding her head under
her arms. Every villager heard her sobbing and moaning.
The hearts of the onlookers were melting away at her
pathetic and miserable condition but shame and disgrace
stuck our feet to the ground. The allegation was too
gigantic that none of us had the courage to help her."
"I would have gone to her help. I wouldn't have become so
coward as you all became," Chacha Sattar said by spitting
on one side.
"She sat there whole time and then the night came, she did
not stand up. Whoever passed from the lane and infront of
her home saw her weeping and moaning. She sat there in
the cold night but alas! Nobody came to her home. And in
the morning when Massi Sakina walked in front of her
home, she saw her lying dead in the courtyard. Her hair
was disheveled and her body had become intensely cold.
She committed suicide."
"Pathetic, absolutely pathetic," I said in my heart. I left
with no courage to hear her heartrending condition. I did
not speak a word at that time. How could I tell the people
that it was I who was behind all that and then I realized
and understood the dream, her broken body, fire and the
stains of blood, she died, she really died when I pushed
her.
"All her life, she only saw affliction," said Chacha Sattar.
"I remember the time when she was born, the joy of his
father was indelible. He used to be my friend. He died
when she was only two years old. And her mother became
the victim of an unknown disease; nobody knew and
understood her disease. Even the doctors failed to
understand it. She died less than a year after her husband's
death. Poor Abida, she lost the soothing shadow of her
parents at an early age. She became an orphan. Her
grandfather raised her up, I knew the time when I came to
visit her grandfather, her grandfather, Alam Sher was my
bosom friend. I knew the time when Alam Sher‟s father,
Ghulam Rasool built home in Hanifabad. When I came to
visit Alam Sher, Abida would run behind my cycle and
then she would sit on my shoulders and I would buy her
whatever she asked.
When she reached the age of twenty, she was married to a
man, an air force officer. It was an extremely cold day
when she married and the food became short, later when
food arrived and when the guests were eating, a giant log
had snapped from the tree and it fell on the shamiana, one
person was critically injured and people took him to the
hospital. Some stupid superstitious people called it a bad
omen for the couple. I did not believe in those things at all.
I and her grandfather blessed her. The fate had not been
kind with her and just after two months, hardly had the
henna wiped from her hand, when she heard the news of
her husband's accident. He was returning from Karachi
when the bus slipped. He was sitting near the window, his
body was severely cut by the mirror of the window and he
died. She was cast aside after her husband‟s death. Abida
was thrown outside by her in-laws as they considered her
Manhoos, a wretched one. She started living with her
grandfather again, I and her grandfather tried to find a boy
for her marriage but she declined every time. And after
passing of one winter solstice, her only hope, her guardian
died. Her grandfather had become an old man, he would
have sheltered her for the rest of her life, but the shelter
was destroyed. I came to her home many times and
requested her to come with me. I knew that she could not
live alone. This is a cruel world. Nobody knows what may
happen next. But she always declined on the ground that
she is Manhoos and would bring trouble in my life as well.
She had a cow, and she would milk the cow for her
livelihood. She earned barely enough to keep body and
soul together. I tried to help her financially but she
declined every time.
„I earn enough and besides I get grandfather's pension
every month,‟ this was her usual reply.
I had always realized that she was lonely; she had become
a victim of loneliness. She did not confess even one time
but I knew she wanted someone to be with her. She was
lonely but she always declined to come with me." Chacha
Sattar stopped, removed his turban, wiped his tears and
took a deep sigh.
"Lonely," I said in my heart. Yes, she was perhaps lonely; I
had not seen anybody in her home. I had not seen her
talking with anyone. Oh Almighty Allah, I had never
thought about this. She might be lonely, she might want
somebody to be with her. But why she didn't tell me she
was lonely. Did I allow her to speak? No, no, not at all, and
the last time I saw her she was begging me to listen to her.
She probably wanted to say that she was lonely; the
loneliness was devouring her soul like termes. But why
did she touch my hand? Perhaps she literally wanted to
feel the presence of someone around her and when she
stared at me through the door, why did she colour her
face, her eyes and her hands. Perhaps my presence was
bringing out the soul of a girl in her body. A girl who likes
to polish her nails, combs her hair, wears earrings, and
powders her face. I was wrong in judging her character.
And who am I to judge her, a mere boy of seventeen, how
could I be so perfect. I am not perfect but I do know one
thing that I murdered her, I murdered Abida, she did not
commit suicide. I did not allow her to speak. I did not
understand her. She was a victim of loneliness and she
wanted somebody to be with her who would talk with her,
who would listen to her. Life was very cruel to her. She
lost everything, she saw a tiny spark of life when I used to
go to her home to get milk. And I extinguished that light
forever. The candles and the cloth were just an excuse, an
excuse to spend some more time with me and I
misunderstood and my misunderstanding brought her
death.
I have no clue when Chacha Sattar stood up and when
Hayatullah said Allah Hafiz. I was lost, lost in some
distant land where there was no sound, where my own
voice was lost. I saw her face in the smallest of objects and
I saw her eyes full of tears. Those eyes stabbed my heart
and tore my conscience forever.
And here, my story ends, I am a culprit, I murdered her, I
did not allow her to speak. I strangle her, I killed her, I
smothered her, I blew out the life in her.
 Chapter 10: I am Sorry

And today, twenty seven days have passed since Abida

died. Her death is choking me day by day. Her death is
eating me from inside. Her death has taken control of me. I
and my mother have not talked with each other as we used
to do. She is also feeling regret in her heart. I figured out
later that the other two ladies who thrashed Abida were
Saleema and Saabu. Both were virago and were expert in
making mountain out of a mole-hill.
Our life is very strange. Sometimes we wish to remember
something for our whole life but we forget and sometimes
we eagerly desire something to forget and the mind kept
reminding us. I want to forget her but I can‟t. I can‟t
remember to forget her.
Each and every day, I sat in front of her grave. I don't
know how many times I have said: "I am sorry" and how
many more times I will utter these three words. I hear no
reply; she is buried in front of me in the grave. I‟d rather
have her hate me for the rest of my life than sat before her
grave. I hold myself accountable for her death. I cannot
overrun time and forget my guilt. The price of my sin is
steep. My pain will never be tamed. How I will remove the
invisible stains of Abida's blood from my hands. I know
with the passage of time, memories begin to lose freshness.
But I fear that my mistake will remain the same till the end
of the world. And on the day of judgment, when the justice
of Allah Almighty will be swift and true, when Allah
Almighty will put my sins in front of me, I know he would
forgive everything at the end, he is kind and benevolent
but when her name would come and when angels would
bring her soul and when she would look at me with her
vengeful and tearful eyes, what answer would I give to
Allah Almighty, how would I look in those eyes, how
would I say I am sorry. I should have listened to her. I
should have listened to her plight. I should have sat beside
her. I should have consoled her. I didn't know that she was
lonely like a lonely tree in a deserted desert. I didn‟t know
that she was already tormented in this world.
Oh! Allah Almighty, open the gate of the Heaven and let
her see me. I will not be able to carry this weight for my
whole life. Abida, I am sorry, I could write this on all the
bricks of your home, I could write it on all the leaves of the
tree. But I know that you would never ever return now.
I have a feeling that I would not write the last paragraph of
the book of my life with these words that I spent a happy,
charming life.
It is not blood that runs in my veins; it is shame, disgrace,
cries and guilt of murdering an innocent soul that I am
carrying.
Oh Almighty Allah! YOU write the destiny, the fate of
every man and woman before they enter in this world.
You wrote just one week in my life and in her life, how
will I forget the memory of this one week? Why this
universe does not have the Eighth Day of the week, why
there are only seven days in a week? Why that very first
man who divided the time in days, weeks, months and
years put only seven days in a week. One more day, just
one more day and she would have been alive. We all need
just few more moments to rectify our mistakes. And I
needed a day, the eighth day, I listened to her story
through Chacha Sattar on the eighth day, the day when I
could not do anything, she died because I did not listen to
her. I wish to turn back the clock to save Abida. She was
living in vale of tears. Her soul and body was already
crumbled and I struck a blow so fierce that her soul and
body was torn to pieces and every piece curses me. She sat
there on the ground whole night and cried. My soul has
been stained by her blood.
My friends, I have written my story in this book, "The
Eighth Day of the Week" and made it immortal. And,
many years from now when I would die, when my bones
would be completely eaten by worms, when the last
person who would remember my name would die, this
book might be present in some isolated corner of some
library at that time. If someone would pick this book up
and if he would read it, I would come to life again and I
would advise him to understand your loved ones, don't
turn your face away from them. Don't commit the same
mistake which I have committed. And when the tears
would flow from his eyes and when he would run towards
his loved ones and would embrace them, my soul would
smile at that time and I don't know precisely but probably
Abida might forgive me that day. I wish in my heart that
this Book should stand the test of time.
Time is not far away when man would discover life on
some far away star or on some far away planet, time is also
not far away when our lives would be governed by robots,
the emotions and feelings would be erased from the hearts
of the mechanical men and in that particular time of
machines, if a man would mistakenly open the pages of
this book, and if he would read this book to the last page,
he would think after finishing the book that much that
once was is lost for none now live who remember it. He
would come to know that there were once two villages
called Sakonabad and Hanifabad. There was a boy named
Jamal who wrote his story in this book. There was Chacha
Ashraf who had a cloth shop, there were two stupid
friends of Jamal, Hameed and Habib, there was Chacha
Zafar who always praised his son-in-saw, there was
Chacha Bashir whose death was mourned for a long time.
There was an Imam of the mosque who always used to tell
how he banished the demon from the tree. There was
Chaudry Ramzan whose return from Hajj was celebrated
memorably. There was Chacha Sattar who was Jamal's
hero and he was a guardian of a girl named Abida, same
Abida who was killed by Jamal.
People say that our good deeds bring Heaven and our bad
deeds bring Hell after our departure from this world. I
don't believe in this notion. We witness Hell every time
when we lose our loved ones in this world. The loved ones
who were dear to us and the pain of their departure
increased million times when we lose them by our own
mistakes. There is no mosque and church in the world that
can ease the pain of their departure. And now I would go
to her home and would stand in front of the gate. I would
knock and knock and knock but I will see no hand of
Abida. No one will come to open the gate. No one will
come.
Author: Atif Ali
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