The Protectors & Other Stories

By Nasir Mahmood

This collection of short stories takes its title from one of the stories contained in it: The Protectors. All stories are basically romantic in nature, but they are not simple love stories. Their themes have all the colours, and their myriad shades, to afford you a panoramic view of the world we live in.

The first story, for example, is that of a boy whose rebellious nature, not accepting the norms of a corrupt society, struggles to achieve a job on the basis of his qualification, and not on the recommendation of a friend. Another story deals in defence of the motherland from the vicious attack of a rival force. Then there is a story which gives a graphic picture of a poverty-stricken housing scheme where women, forgetting about their self-respect, stoop so low as to adopt a life style, both execrable and pitiable but there are women and there are women!

In brief, the book touches on unemployment, indignity of a religious family, and inheritance inciting to murder. A story each describes the horrendous custom of doing away with female foetuses, the ugly face of feudalism, and foundering efforts of a courtesan to escape to a righteous life. Last but not least is the story of educated youth, who for want of any reasonable job, resort to robbery.

The book takes you along on a journey which unravels a picture of unspeakable misery some people are subjected to. One would feel the milk of human kindness is drying up fast!

One could read these stories with a view to killing time, but if they pause and think well, that is exactly what these stories are aimed at.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Apr 20, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456776862

Nasir Mahmood

Nasir Mahmood is basically a language teacher, and as such, has been teaching at a local college and different venues throughout Glasgow, Scotland. Poetry which was, and still is, very close to his heart, overwhelmed him in such a way, that in 1984 he started writing poems, to the exclusion of everything else. Many of his poems had a story in them which eventually coaxed him to turn his attention to writing short stories. This is his first book, as well as his first collection of short stories. He has been endowed with a restless mind which urges him to write something all the time. He is a professional translator, and he has been translating for different counties in Scotland. Perhaps, it is his ability to translate which helped him to branch out into a serious translator. At present, he is trying to divert his attention to translating small pieces of world literature. He is living a peaceful and contented life in Glasgow, the capital city of his heart!

Book preview

Contents

NAMELESS RELATIONS

THE LAPSE

THE PRAYER

ONLY TEN RUPEES

CRUEL DESTINY

A MEAN FELLOW

THE PROMISE

EGO

EXPERIENCE

ON THE EVE OF EID

INTRODUCTION

CHAUDHARY

REGRET

THE PROTECTORS

A MESSAGE FROM THE GRAVE

HALF A CHILD

THE GYPSY PRINCESS

THE STORY I HAD TO TELL

GLOSSARY OF UNCOMMON

TERMINOLOGY USED IN THIS

COLLECTION OF STORIES

NAMELESS RELATIONS

Death is a bitter truth, and life but a mere dream. One lives a protracted life and nurtures an opinion to have lived life to the full, but when the shadow of death looms, it is dismaying to know that life was but a short sojourn. Life seems to have spanned only a few moments; a little plop and the bubble bursts.

My son Jaleel, drew back the curtains on the outer door, and entered the lounge out of breath. Arif’s dead! he wailed.

The shock struck me numb. For a few moments I was bereft of my senses. Gradually, I pulled myself together and asked him, What are you talking about?

Before the situation became clear, I offered a silent prayer to God Almighty beseeching Arif’s safety. In my mind’s eye, I saw my wife telling me that Arif was all right.

My boy inched towards me and almost cried out the statement: Arif has been run over by a truck.

Lord, you did not answer my prayer. I complained in delirium. However, when my muddled mind cleared, I sought His forgiveness. My mind still refused to believe it. I blinked back tears, and headed for the backyard where my wife was talking to a friend. Yes, the news was true, but I was unable to accept it. The picture of an innocent boy was recurring in my mind’s eye, paying his respects and asking the same question time and time again: So, sir, even you believe I’m dead? My mind does not believe I’ll never see Arif again. When I try to stifle a sob, my heart is smashed to smithereens, and when I console my heart, tears stream down my cheeks. God Almighty! What’s this relationship! Who is this boy who has taken a firm ground in my soul? A stranger he may be, yet my very own!

Yes, I can still remember meeting him first as if it were yesterday. It was the month of March, and I was studying in the backyard. It was a clear day; not a cloud in the sky. The sun was shining brightly, but it wasn’t so hot as to cause any discomfort. As if in a trance, my eyelids started to feel heavy in drowsiness and soon I was fast asleep. I was startled out of sleep when something fell down next to me with a thud. Naturally, I was annoyed. I looked on the table, my study notes weren’t there. Half asleep, I tried to grasp the situation, but my mind refused to function. Then I saw a football lying in a corner, and a small boy looking at me from over the common wall. That’s yours, then? I said, pointing to the football.

Sir, I won’t do that again. I promise.

I was no longer angry, but assuming an angry tone said, See, what you’ve done to my notes! Now, aren’t you sorry?

The boy touched his ears as a token of apology.

What’s your name? I changed the subject.

My name is Arif, sir. My dad has been transferred and we’re going to live here. Then his attention was diverted to his football and he said, My football, sir?

Yes, I said, come and get it.

Arif’s voice had that sweet tone about it that made one think they had known him for ages. I felt he was part of my life. I tried to give this relationship a name but couldn’t. My mind called it a waste of time, saying some relationships can never be named. I understood its futility.

When Arif was leaving with his football, I took a cursory look at him. He had nothing special about him. He was a small, dark-skinned boy with ordinary features. His forehead was broad and flat. He had a fairly big head, and piercing bright eyes gave him an eerie seriousness not normally found in children of his age. I do not like precocious children at all. I believe in childhood adorned with innocence and happiness. In a strange way Arif lacked these, but nature had atoned for it by bestowing on him a magical voice.

Would you like to have some cashews? I enquired.

No thanks, sir. I’m not allowed.

I was amazed that a child his age was so disciplined as to be putting restrictions on himself. Character building creeps along at a snail’s pace and that too starts when you are no longer a child. Before that you’re normally termed ‘the innocents’. I can vividly recall occasions when my friends and I collected sweets from old women distributing them, by listening to their harsh words and an occasional smack on the back. On weddings when small change was thrown over the heads of the married couple, my friends and I swooped like vultures to get it. Sometimes we got hurt, but it was fun, and we would relate to each of our friends how much we had made that day and what difficulties we had to go through.

Now that we are talking about weddings, let me relate to you something about mine. My family is typically lower middle class believing customs to be religion. I was married in my childhood. Whenever I think of it, it makes me smile. I was thirteen years old and the bride had hardly stepped into her ninth year. I have seen people obsessively worried that they will pass away before their young ones are married. It seems they are on the brink, and death is going to push them into the grave. Nobody cares whether the young couple has an inkling of what married life is all about. As it happens, you and I, ordinary folk, invent these customs, and we adhere to them with religious zeal. Well, I won’t dwell on it. I haven’t undertaken to reform the world. Most people will not listen to you lecturing them anyway.

I am an ordinary young man whose household is entangled in a web of family squabbles. I shouldn’t put my hand in a hornet’s nest. It’s a small matter. My wife wishes my younger brother to marry her sister. My brother has given his consent, but my mother, not at all happy with her daughter-in-law, opposes any such move. My Dad has always taken sides with my Mother. My wife’s concern for her sister’s future is only natural. My Mother claims that one girl having caused so much friction in the family; two together will wreak havoc. Both angles being right, I am at a loss how to cast my vote. My younger brother is so upset; he has declared he will never marry. The house is in turmoil, and I should thank my lucky stars if I get a moment or two of peace.

After completing my studies at a medical college, I got a job at a local District Headquarter Hospital. At the hospital it was quite difficult in the beginning, but slowly I got used to the atmosphere. I became privy to many secrets. They say: A good bird never messes its nest. But hospitals are nests littered with ‘bird droppings’. Time is a precious commodity, and everybody is tainted with its unruly indulgences. Many nurses have tried their luck with me, but I am married. You can’t draw blood from a stone. However, when I look at Andleeb my glances linger on her face. I like her attitude too as, like other nurses, she doesn’t seek any favours from doctors. Neither does she cast a net of airs. Doctors will persistently try their luck, but I am confident their efforts will never come to fruition.

I can never forget that day when my son brought me the usual daily newspaper. It bore Arif’s picture on the first page. He had topped the Board of Education Matriculation Examination. I called and congratulated him.

You have done extremely well, I said.

Thank you, sir, he replied rather dully.

You don’t seem to enjoy your success, why?

This is but a beginning, sir. I want to go far.

You are on the way to success, isn’t that enough? What destination do you seek?

I don’t know that yet, sir, but the moment I get inkling of that, I’ll come back to you with details.

I prayed for him. He left, but I kept on thinking about him. I envisioned him going up the ladder of success; going steadily up the rungs. I felt so proud. What was the nature of this relationship? I tried to figure it out but failed.

Six years passed by. My wife, at the behest of her brothers, asked me for a divorce and got it. Ours was an incompatible marriage. I had tried hard to save it, but it had to happen. When I looked for another partner, I couldn’t look further than Andleeb. My proposal was accepted and soon we were married. On 12th August each year we celebrate our wedding anniversary. Usually she is very economical, but on this day, she gives me a very expensive present. She takes offence when I do not approve of it, and I give her presents to mollify her.

On our eighth wedding anniversary, we arranged to throw a party as usual. We were on our way shopping when a man crossed in front of our car. I slammed on the brakes, and cursed him, Are you blind?

The young man turned his face to me. It was Arif!

I opened the car door, headed towards him and embraced him.

How are you? I asked him. What about your studies?

I graduated two years ago; I am looking for a job.

You have been looking for a job for two years? I was overwhelmed by emotions.

You know, sir, we have demeaned education to an extent where a degree is a worthless scrap of paper. I used to think I would get a job after my BA. I dreamt of a prosperous future. I counted painfully all the fleeting years, and hoped one day all my hopes would be realized. But all my hopes and aspirations were dashed. I found that the society we live in gives no importance to the degrees we secure for all our labour. Therefore, we end up being taxi drivers, or sell goods from a barrow. The truth is, jobs have become commodities on the market. You can have any job you wish, if you can afford to pay for it. But, sir, I will not bid for jobs. I won’t degrade myself. I will not insult my education.

I knew what he meant, so I put my hand on his shoulder and asked him to come and stay at my house until things got better. I looked into his eyes. He was hesitating to accept this offer. Perhaps he didn’t want to disturb my privacy. I scribbled a small note and handed it to him. This is to a friend of mine. He will see to it that you get a job soon. My friend, Shehbaaz Khan, is a high official in the Department of Education; he wields a considerable influence. It should be easy for him to arrange a job for you. If you ever need any help, just phone me. Saying this, I put my card in his pocket. The note rested on his palm for a minute and then the wind blew it onto the road.

Forgive me, sir, he said, forgive me!

I looked in his face. Ordinary features, small eyes. The eyes I didn’t like when he was a kid were now radiant as stars. I could recall vividly a boy to whom I offered cashews but he, due to self-discipline, had refused them. It was impossible for him now to accept favours, and thus betray his ideals. The truth had dawned on me. My eyes twinkled with a sense of pride. You aren’t allowed this, right?

He didn’t look up. He had done me a favour. I couldn’t meet the intensity of his look. I pulled myself together and said to him, Arif, today I know what your destination is. I will not implore God Almighty to grant you wealth or popularity. You are above these things. Instead, I will pray that you achieve your objective. I wish you lots of luck!

I’ll probably need that, sir. He said goodbye and left.

And today … my son has broken the sad news of Arif’s death. Tears are coursing down my cheeks. Time and time again, a child appears in my mind’s eye asking me: So, sir, you too believe that I am dead?

No! Not at all! True, you were an individual, albeit, an individual that sows the seed of goodness in the soil of a corrupt society. You were an individual who sacrificed his present for the future of others. Let me say you weren’t an individual. You were a revolution in the making. You were defeated in a battle, but the war that you started to wipe out corruption will go on. I believe it will! Many young ones following your footsteps will join it. The plant that you nurtured with your lifeblood will become a mighty tree. Victory will be yours! You were the honour of this country! You were the son of this land! You were my son!

THE LAPSE

Let’s go, princess! Fazl harnessed the tonga and patted the back of his mare, but gave Nawaaban a mischievous leer. The mare shook her head gently and whinnied in response. Nawaaban threw Fazl a contemptuous glance, and shut the door with a bang. Fazl chuckled shamefully, and got back to his work.

The arrival of Nawaaban in the district caused quite a stir. Men talked about her pleasant golden complexion, and their jealous women, upset by the attention accorded to the newcomer, rounded on them viciously.

Nawaaban couldn’t sleep during the first night in the district; her mind was a tangle of worries, as an uncertain future lay ahead for her and her child. Dawn was about to break when she drifted into sleep, but in her dreams she heard Habib ask, Could you fix me breakfast, Nawaaban, I’m late for the office?

She woke up with a start; her daughter was shaking her urgently.

Mum, she said, somebody is at the door.

Who is it? she asked.

It’s Parvez.

She undid the latch on the door, and Parvez entered. He had a box of sweets in one hand, and a doll in the other for her daughter, Kaneez. The child ran to get the toy.

You shouldn’t have troubled yourself, she said.

If you treat me like a stranger, I’ll stop coming here, he responded, but looked hurt by her formality.

Her eyes welled up with grateful tears. She remained quiet, but in the silence that ensued she thought to herself, Mr. Parvez, I could never treat you as my own as it was my people who, after my husband’s death, left me in a lurch. You’re the one who steered the ship clear of turbulence. Truly and sincerely, I’m grateful to you.

What are you thinking about? asked Parvez.

Nawaaban wiped away the tears with her sleeve and said, What good would that bring about? Go to the market for me and bring some vegetables, and I will prepare dinner for you and Kaneez.

He opened the door and left. A woman entered the open door; it was Shareefaan, the wife of Meraaj Din, the baker. She was a woman in her mid-twenties, who boasted a mop of silky-smooth, black hair and a long pleated tail. She introduced herself and said, You look as if you belong to a good family.

That brought a smug expression on Nawaaban’s face, accompanied by a ghost of a smile.

It beats me, she went on, what made a decent woman like you to come to this den spawned by easy women?

By a stroke of ill-luck, but surely it can’t be as bad as you’ve painted it. If other people can survive, I’ll manage.

Parvez entered before Shareefaan could say another word, and she looked up at him suspiciously and asked, Your man?

No, she answered. He is a friend, my late husband’s best friend.

Is he? she replied and cast another look at him; a very dubious look. She took her leave, and promised to return another time.

At dinner Parvez enquired, How do you find this district? Did you have any visitors?

Only that woman who called by earlier, she told him.

Make some friends here, he suggested. Time will pass quickly, and the pain caused by your memories of Habib will ease.

Nobody in this world stays with you permanently, she wailed. The one who promised me that died after seven years, leaving me alone in this world. When Habib left, my soul abandoned my body. I can’t reconcile with life without … Her voice cracked with emotion and tears choked her.

You will have to make a tremendous effort. You’ve got to live for Kaneez, and as for me, I’ll stand by you all the way.

Her face lit up with an angelic smile.

The night was disturbed and sleep still lay in a distant valley beyond the horizon. Nawaaban’s mind was filled with so many memories. Habib used to work in a bank, and this provided him with a comfortable lifestyle. Whenever he rode his motorbike through the narrow winding street with a roar, girls would cautiously draw close to the curtains at the door, and look at him through a chink. From behind her curtain, Nawaaban looked at his passing figure and found him attractive.

Wow, he’s very handsome! She muttered to herself, but her mind discouraged her by saying, Silly girl, don’t you see the social difference? Don’t ever try to attempt the impossible!

It’s not a crime to like somebody, she grumbled, but her mind went on, Your lower station in life will make it a crime.

She tried to shake off her train of thoughts, but instead she recalled the incident when hooligans beat up her younger brother, Javed. It was Habib who took him to hospital, and when Nawaaban thanked him, Habib was captivated by her voice, her golden complexion and pleasant features; love was taking roots in his heart.

Her thoughts drifted yet again to when she went shopping at the market, accompanied by her brother, and they ran into Habib.

What are you going to buy? he asked Javed, but looking at Nawaaban.

Javed rattled off a string of essential items for the house.

You must be enjoying this, Habib said, and then diverted his attention to Nawaaban’s hair, which was partially covered by a scarf. He then turned to Javed and said, Rain seems to be imminent; look at the dark clouds! I must leave now, or I’ll be soaked.

Nawaaban adjusted her scarf and tried to cover her raven, black hair. Javed looked at the sky and was puzzled, as there was no cloud to be seen. She, in her confusion, turned and entered a draper’s shop. She took a few moments to catch her breath and asked herself, What should I say? Her heart broke into a song, but her mind was as adamant as ever: Your lower station will make your wish a crime. She had great difficulty in convincing her heart.

Nawaaban’s mother had died giving birth to Javed, and her father could not bear the grief, and his condition deteriorated further with a heart attack. She