lights it. Then he goes on:
“You know, father, sorrow can turn to water and spill from your eyes, or it can sharpen your tongue into a sword, or it can become a time bomb that, one day,will explode and destroy you … The sorrow of Fateh the guard is like all three. When he comes to see me, his sadness flows out in tears. If he remains alone in his hut, it becomes a bomb … When he steps out of the hut and sees others, his sorrow turns itself into a sword and he wants to …”
You don’t hear the rest of the shopkeeper’s words. Your thoughts pull you inward, to where your own misery lies. Which has your sorrow become? Tears? No, otherwise you’d cry. A sword? No, you haven’t wounded anyone yet. A bomb? You’re still living. You can’t describe your sorrow; it hasn’t taken shape yet. It hasn’t had a chance to show itself. If only it wouldn’t take shape at all. If only it would fall silent, be forgotten … It will be so, of course it will … As soon as you see Murad, your son … Where are you, Murad?
“Good father, where have you drifted off to?”
The shopkeeper’s question brings you back from your interior journey. You reply humbly:
“Nothing, brother, you were talking of sorrow …”
You finish the tea in one gulp and give the empty bowl back to the shopkeeper. You pat your pockets, take out your box of naswar and put a pinch into your mouth. Then you go and sit at the base of one of the wooden posts propping up the shop’s corrugated-iron roof. Yassin plays silently with the stones from the jujube fruit. You take him by the arm and pull him to your side. You want to say something, but the sound of footsteps silences you. A man in military uniform approaches.
“Salaam
, Mirza Qadir.”
“Waleykom Salaam
, Hashmet Khan.”
The soldier asks for a pack of cigarettes and engages Mirza Qadir in conversation.
At your feet, your grandson is busy playing with an ant attracted by the naswar you have spat out onto the ground. Yassin mixes the naswar, the earth, and the ant together with a jujube stone. The insect squirms in the green mud.
The soldier says good-bye to Mirza Qadir, and walks past you.
Yassin digs with his jujube stone at a footprint left by the soldier.
The ant is no longer there. Ant, mud, and naswar are stuck to the boot of the departing soldier.
Mirza Qadir abandons his spot behind the scales and withdraws to a corner of the shop to perform his midday prayers.
It has been a week now since you’ve been to the mosque or prayed. So, have you forgotten about God? No, your clothes are not in a fit state for prayer. This same pair of clothes has been on your back day and night for a week. Yet, God is merciful …
Whether you pray or not, the reality is that God isn’t concerned with you. If only he’d turn his attention to you for a moment, if only he’d come to your side … No, God has forsaken his subjects. If this is how he looks after his subjects, you yourself, in your absolute ruin, could be lord of a thousand worlds!
God help me! Dastaguir, you’re committing blasphemy. Damn the temptations of Satan. Damn you.
Occupy your thoughts with something else. But what?
Aren’t you hungry? Spit out your naswar.
“My good man, your tongue will wear out. Your insides will wear out. For days naswar has been your bread and water.”
You hear the words Murad’s mother would say to you before you sat down to eat. When Murad was in prison, you would make up excuses to avoid coming to the table. Naswar under your tongue, you’d disappear into the little garden saying that you wanted to catch the last rays of daylight or that you had weeding to do. You would sit among the plants, and open your laden heart to the earth and flowers. Your wife’s voice would boom out into the courtyard declaring that, after your death until the Day of Judgment, your mouth would fill with earth and your body would turn to earth from which a tobacco field would grow. In Hell you would burn in an
“You know, father, sorrow can turn to water and spill from your eyes, or it can sharpen your tongue into a sword, or it can become a time bomb that, one day,will explode and destroy you … The sorrow of Fateh the guard is like all three. When he comes to see me, his sadness flows out in tears. If he remains alone in his hut, it becomes a bomb … When he steps out of the hut and sees others, his sorrow turns itself into a sword and he wants to …”
You don’t hear the rest of the shopkeeper’s words. Your thoughts pull you inward, to where your own misery lies. Which has your sorrow become? Tears? No, otherwise you’d cry. A sword? No, you haven’t wounded anyone yet. A bomb? You’re still living. You can’t describe your sorrow; it hasn’t taken shape yet. It hasn’t had a chance to show itself. If only it wouldn’t take shape at all. If only it would fall silent, be forgotten … It will be so, of course it will … As soon as you see Murad, your son … Where are you, Murad?
“Good father, where have you drifted off to?”
The shopkeeper’s question brings you back from your interior journey. You reply humbly:
“Nothing, brother, you were talking of sorrow …”
You finish the tea in one gulp and give the empty bowl back to the shopkeeper. You pat your pockets, take out your box of naswar and put a pinch into your mouth. Then you go and sit at the base of one of the wooden posts propping up the shop’s corrugated-iron roof. Yassin plays silently with the stones from the jujube fruit. You take him by the arm and pull him to your side. You want to say something, but the sound of footsteps silences you. A man in military uniform approaches.
“Salaam
, Mirza Qadir.”
“Waleykom Salaam
, Hashmet Khan.”
The soldier asks for a pack of cigarettes and engages Mirza Qadir in conversation.
At your feet, your grandson is busy playing with an ant attracted by the naswar you have spat out onto the ground. Yassin mixes the naswar, the earth, and the ant together with a jujube stone. The insect squirms in the green mud.
The soldier says good-bye to Mirza Qadir, and walks past you.
Yassin digs with his jujube stone at a footprint left by the soldier.
The ant is no longer there. Ant, mud, and naswar are stuck to the boot of the departing soldier.
Mirza Qadir abandons his spot behind the scales and withdraws to a corner of the shop to perform his midday prayers.
It has been a week now since you’ve been to the mosque or prayed. So, have you forgotten about God? No, your clothes are not in a fit state for prayer. This same pair of clothes has been on your back day and night for a week. Yet, God is merciful …
Whether you pray or not, the reality is that God isn’t concerned with you. If only he’d turn his attention to you for a moment, if only he’d come to your side … No, God has forsaken his subjects. If this is how he looks after his subjects, you yourself, in your absolute ruin, could be lord of a thousand worlds!
God help me! Dastaguir, you’re committing blasphemy. Damn the temptations of Satan. Damn you.
Occupy your thoughts with something else. But what?
Aren’t you hungry? Spit out your naswar.
“My good man, your tongue will wear out. Your insides will wear out. For days naswar has been your bread and water.”
You hear the words Murad’s mother would say to you before you sat down to eat. When Murad was in prison, you would make up excuses to avoid coming to the table. Naswar under your tongue, you’d disappear into the little garden saying that you wanted to catch the last rays of daylight or that you had weeding to do. You would sit among the plants, and open your laden heart to the earth and flowers. Your wife’s voice would boom out into the courtyard declaring that, after your death until the Day of Judgment, your mouth would fill with earth and your body would turn to earth from which a tobacco field would grow. In Hell you would burn in an