Tag Archives: Childhood

Tales of the Ancient Turtle — The Merchant of Dreams

Posted in Short Stories English by

‘I was a boy when the Merchant of Dreams took my future and kept it safe in his kaleidoscope; now I’m a father, and I’ve become the Merchant of Dreams for my children.’

A touching multi-generational story about a mysterious old man with a kaleidoscope who collects and preserves people’s most valuable dreams. Through the eyes of a young boy guided by his wise friend, the ancient Turtle, this magical tale explores the transformative journey from unanswered questions to discovered purpose.

It was a cold December afternoon when I met the strangest of all old men. His bushy and unruly, silver hair, peeked from underneath a bright yellow skull cap, and he wore a bright red pyjama and shirt. He was certainly an old man, but instead of stooping shoulders and shuffling feet, he was walking with a purpose – eyes looking straight ahead and back straight as a bamboo.

There was a wooden, green box, which was mounted on a metallic tripod and carefully balanced on his shoulders. He was truly a spectacle – more than enough spectacle to catch the fancy of a young boy. Children gathered around him and he let each one of them peep inside the box, in exchange for a few coins. I approached him hesitantly once the children moved away and he picked up the wooden box and started to leave.

‘Please wait!’ I requested him politely. ‘I want to see too what’s inside this box.’

‘This box is called a Kaleidoscope.’ He informed me in a serious tone.

‘Okay. I want to see what’s inside the Kaleidoscope?’ I repeated my request.

‘Of course, you do.’ He smiled at me kindly, ‘But it is not yet time for you to look into it.’

‘Oh! But why?’ I felt so dejected, ‘Everyone else has looked into it. Why can’t I do the same?’

‘Because you are not everyone else.’ He was still smiling. ‘You are a friend of the Turtle and therefore, you deserve special treatment.’

‘Wait…what?’ I was startled. ‘How do you know about the Turtle?’

‘We are old friends.’ He patted my head and walked away, while completely ignoring my questions, ‘Run along now! It’s getting late!   

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It was a strange afternoon indeed, and it was filled with questions. I love questions especially once I have to search hard for answers. Easy questions do not excite me, but difficult questions fan the fire of my curiosity.

I knew where to find the answers. I had a friend who could answer any question that I had – the ancient Turtle in our backyard. As usual, he was taking a siesta under the Banyan tree, but woke up as soon as he heard my approaching steps.

‘Where were you this afternoon?’ He asked me with his eyes half-closed.

‘I was with someone.’ I said in a mysterious tone, ‘Someone, who is an old friend of yours.’    

‘Oh?’ The Turtle looked at me questioningly, ‘And who might be that?’

‘It was a strange, old man carrying a big wooden box. He called it a kaleidoscope.’ I pronounced the word with some difficulty.

‘Ah!’ The Turtle smiled with pleasure, ‘So you have finally met the Merchant of Dreams.’

‘The Merchant of Dreams?’ I asked as the name fascinated me so much. ‘What is a merchant of dreams?’

‘Not ‘a’ merchant, it is ‘the’ Merchant. He is an ever-vigilant sentinel, who jealously guards the threshold between reality and fantasy.’ The Turtle said with closed eyes, ‘His task is to preserve the most valuable of human dreams.’

 ‘Please use simple words.’ I requested the Turtle. ‘These are too big words for my understanding.’

‘Don’t worry about the words, son.’ The Turtle said, ‘You’ll meet the Merchant again, sooner than you expect. And remember son, once the time comes, hand over the most valuable of your dreams to the Merchant without any worry. He will keep it safe and will make it come true one day.’

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The Turtle was right. I met the Merchant of Dreams again after only a few days.

I was riding my bicycle with my pockets filled with stale bread, and was looking for stray dogs to feed. My attention was so much focused on my quest that I almost missed seeing him. And when I did see him, my first thought was that I was imagining him. He was standing at the same place, I left him that afternoon.  

By the time I realized that he was real and not a figment of my over-active imagination, I had nearly passed by him. I applied emergency brakes by firmly planting my sneaker between the tire and the axel and escaped crashing down by a very small margin. 

I approached him and his peculiar smell overwhelmed me. It was not an unpleasant smell at all. He smelt of old books, stacked and forgotten forever, and he smelt of memories, painful and sweet, but half-obscured by the fog swirling over the lands of nostalgia. Though I was unaware of the smell of memories back then, I was quite familiar with the smell of old books – courtesy of my late grandfather and his amazing library.

His outfit also looked somewhat different. I looked at him closely and detected a pair of cheap plastic-framed glasses, which were tied around his head with a piece of bright, blue ribbon. The lens were cloudy and thick but still failed to hide his piercing gaze. There was also a small gold earring, dangling from his left ear.

‘Who are you, really?’ I asked and then got embarrassed at the absurdity of my own question.

‘Who am I, really?’ He repeated my question to himself and seemed perplexed at first. But then raised his eyes towards the sky and chuckled softly, ‘I am the Merchant of Dreams, humbly at your service.’

‘I know that.’ I hurriedly replied, ‘The Turtle has already made introductions.’

‘How is my old friend?’ The old man asked with a kind smile. ‘Still fond of his siestas?’

‘Yes!’ I smiled back at first but then mustering up a serious expression, asked, ‘Why are you here?’

‘You are a dreamer.’ He peered at me closely. ‘I am here so that you can give me your most prized dream for safekeeping.’

I looked deep into his eyes and found them quite familiar. They looked just like the eyes of the Turtle.

‘My most prized dream?’ I asked thoughtfully, ‘Oh yes, I have dreams – millions and billions of dreams, each more precious than the last.’ I decided to humor the old man. ‘But what will you give me in return old man? Perhaps, your own dreams?’

‘Nah!’ The old man chuckled, ‘My dreams have been fulfilled since long. Instead, I will give you a promise – the promise of your dream coming true one day.’

‘And where will you keep my dream?’ I knew I was mocking him but I couldn’t control myself.

‘In here of course.’ He lovingly caressed the kaleidoscope, carefully unscrewed the lens cover and waved at me to peep inside. 

‘Don’t worry. It won’t cost a dime.’ He smiled at my worried expression.

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I looked closely at the kaleidoscope. It was a simple box of wood, painted in bright parrot green. The paint was peeling at several places. I looked around. There was nobody. I hesitated but then curiosity assumed control. I took a deep breath, bent down and fixed my right eye firmly to the lens.   

At first I saw nothing but mirrors. There was a cacophony of colored mirrors. Small and large, blue and red and green and yellow, oval and rectangular, triangular and round, there were mirrors everywhere. The light from some invisible source reflected off the surface of the mirrors and then entered my eye.

I tried to find some meaningful pattern, but failed. There was nothing but moving jolts of intense, bright and colored light. ‘There is nothing.’ I laughed at my own stupidity and tried to straighten up.

‘Have patience, child.’ The soft pressure of the old man’s hand on my shoulder did not let me get up, ‘Keep on looking. Search within the folds of light. Look for a vision, riding the shoulders of light beams.’

I suppressed the urge to straighten up and looked more closely. At first there was nothing but blinding flashes of light. But then….something – a small figure, visible in the far distance and growing larger by the minute. It was a young man with a head full of dark, unruly hair, quite like my own and he looked very familiar. He was walking tiredly on a rough thorny path. His lips were parched with thirst and his feet shuffled with exhaustion. But yet he walked on, his eyes fixed on a mountain in the far distance.

I felt myself being transformed into light and diffusing inside the kaleidoscope and found myself walking with the man. I could sense that there was a great burden on his soul. It was the burden of unanswered questions: ‘What is life? What is my purpose? What is universal conscience and how do I communicate with it?’ They were all difficult questions and the agony of carrying around the heavy burden of unanswered questions, was burning up his soul.

My heart grew heavy at his plight. I did not know him but somehow I knew he deserved kindness and understanding. I tried to hold his hand but my hand passed through his. He was oblivious of my presence. We walked on and the mountain loomed closer. We walked some more and reached the foot of the mountain. He started climbing up and I climbed up with him.

From time to time, he stopped and looked across the valley, receding under our feet. I looked across the valley too, which was filled with abstract patterns of yellow and green – indistinguishable and intermingling. Somehow, the abstractness of the patterns troubled me greatly. I could feel the same abstractness intensifying the young man’s anguish and frustration.  

We climbed up some more and something strange started happening. There was a subtle transformation. With each step up the slope of the mountain, the abstractness of the patterns changed into definite and precise geometrical shapes. Chaos was slowly giving birth to order.

It was a strange place – away from the confines of time and space. In a few moments, we had reached the mountain top. The young man took out a beautifully carved wooden pipe, filled it with tobacco and lit it with a match. Smoke rose out of the pipe’s bowl and was dispersed by the soft breeze. He took a deep puff and once again, looked across the valley.

The patterns had all settled into definite shapes. Each color and every shape had started making sense. The puzzle was finally solved.

‘Ah! So that is what everything really means.’ The man smiled and breathed a sigh of relief.

I looked at him and found him smiling. His eyes were no more troubled and his brow was no more knitted in worry. But strangely, his hair had turned all white and silver. He was no more a young man, but had grown old. Old, but happy and satisfied.  

He sucked onto the stem of the pipe and then exhaled thick rings of smoke. The rings swirled and rose up into the air and started forming words. They were simple yet beautiful words. I tried to read them but could not. They were strange words yet familiar in an inexplicable way. The wind grew stronger and tried to blow away the words. They danced but held firm and gradually descended over the valley. I could sense the man’s happiness and my heart was filled with joy.

‘I can see him. I can see him.’ I straightened up and looked at the Merchant. My throat had gone hoarse with tears of excitement.

‘Oh yes child! You saw him, didn’t you?’ He smiled at me kindly and screwed the cap over the lens again.

‘Who was he?’ I wiped my tears and asked the old man.

‘Why child? He was you of course. He is your future and your most valuable dream.’

‘But how can I see my own future? How can I see a dream while being awake? And what did it all mean?’ I had a lot of questions as my young mind was unable to grasp the meaning of the strange vision.

‘With time, will come understanding. For now, it is enough for you that your most valuable dream is safe with me.’

The old man picked up the kaleidoscope and placed the tripod carefully over his shoulder.

‘Run along now. It’s getting late.’ The old man waved a final goodbye and vanished into the swirling fog.

________________________________________

‘I met him again. I met the Merchant of Dreams.’ I announced excitedly.

The afternoon was almost over, when I found the Turtle lounging idly in the sun under the rose bushes. The sunlight, being filtered by the leaves, was drawing interesting patterns across his mottled back.

‘You did eh?’ The Turtle smiled without opening his eyes. ‘And what did he tell you?’

‘He showed me my dream and it was marvelous. But I couldn’t understand it.’ I informed him, expecting a detailed explanation. But the Turtle remained quiet. 

‘Dreams! Dreams! For God’s sake, Turtle, tell the boy about the dreams.’ The Raven screeched from atop the Banyan tree. But the Turtle still remained quiet.

‘What are dreams, old friend?’ Getting tired of his silence and closed eyes, I finally asked, while lightly prodding his neck with a twig.

‘Huh! What?’ Startled, he opened up his eyes and looked at me.

‘I am asking you about dreams. What are dreams?’ I chewed my words deliberately.

‘Oh yes! Dreams!’ The Turtle smiled at my impatience, ‘Well dreams can either be the most terrible or the most wonderful of all experiences, God has ever created.’

‘Why terrible?’ I was taken aback at the turtle’s response. I thought he was a dreamer like me.

‘All dreams are questions. Dreams become terrible when the question remains unanswered. The questions try hard to survive by raising their delicate heads and breathing in the air of imagination and wisdom. But a time comes when they fail to find their answers. Then, these dreams become nightmares and turn into the grey dust of regret.’ The turtle said, sadly poking the dry leaves littering the pale grass.

‘But I always thought that dreams are wonderful.’ I felt my legs weakening and I sat down on the pale grass besides the turtle.

‘Yes, sometimes, dreams can be wonderful too. They are wonderful once they evolve into something meaningful. They are wonderful when the question is answered and the answer is cherished and finally becomes a legacy.’ The Turtle tried to console me.

‘So, what about my dream?’ I asked him anxiously, ‘Is it wonderful or terrible?’

‘Well, that choice belongs to you alone.’ The Turtle smiled again, ‘If you do not seek answers, your dreams will become terrible nightmares. But if you do seek answers and find them, your dreams will become a legacy carved in wisdom.’

‘What do you mean?’ I pleaded, ‘You know I don’t like difficult words. I cannot understand what you are saying.’

‘With time, will come understanding. For now, it is enough for you that your dream is safe with the Merchant of Dreams. He won’t let it die.’ The turtle said softly and closed his eyes again.

______________________________________________________________

‘Baba!’ My daughter comes along, running excitedly.

I stop typing and look up. She is growing into a beautiful woman, my little one. I grab her arm softly and gently pull her into my lap. She laughs and hides her face in my neck. I smell her thick luxurious hair and my world turns into a beautiful place.

‘Tell me what’s bothering you?’ I ask while running my fingers through her beautiful hair.

‘I dream of becoming a singer one day but I am afraid my dream won’t come true.’ She growled into my neck frustratingly. ‘Will I ever become a singer?’

‘Hmm!’ I caress her neck. ‘Why don’t you give your dream to me?’

‘Where will you keep it?’ She giggled mischievously, ‘And what will you do with it?’

‘I will keep it safe…here.’ I place her tiny hand on my heart. ‘I will make sure that it never dies. I will ensure that one day it evolves into something meaningful, something which can be cherished and something, which can become a legacy.’   

‘Baba! Would you please talk in simple words? I don’t understand what you are saying.’ She asks confusedly. ‘With time, will come understanding. For now, it is enough for you that your dream is safe with the Merchant of Dreams. He won’t let them die.’ I whisper into her ear and see the Turtle wink at me from across the thresholds of time.

Tales of the Ancient Turtle – Dreaming of God

Posted in Short Stories English by

“I slipped out of my mother’s sleeping arms that summer afternoon and wandered into a backyard full of anacondas, deserts, and a talking turtle who had been waiting centuries to teach me about God.”

Introduction

A tender story capturing the magical world of childhood through the eyes of four-year-old Tipu, who befriends a wise ancient turtle in his backyard. This enchanting tale explores profound spiritual questions through innocent wonder, as the turtle gently guides the child to understand that God can be seen and felt through love, dreams, and the beauty of everyday life. Blending magical realism with philosophical depth, the story celebrates the unique perspective of dreamers who can perceive divine presence in nature’s smallest details - from squirrels and “anaconda” earthworms to warm maternal embraces. A beautiful exploration of how children naturally connect with spirituality and the sacred wisdom found in simple conversations between generations.

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When I was very young, probably four or five, I was friends with a very ancient turtle. He lived in our backyard and talked to me. He told me many stories of times, long past and people, long dead. He was wise, very wise and the mind of a child was no match to his wisdom. But he talked to me because he loved me. And he loved me because I could listen to him for long with my pupils enlarged in astonishment and my brow knitted in curiosity.

___________________________________________________

It was a quiet summer afternoon when we first met. My mother was fast asleep, and I slipped out of her arms very quietly. I missed her warm, sweet smell, but outside, the adventures were waiting for me. Adventures have always waited for me.

It must have been a large house. But to me, it looked enormous. There were rainforests hidden deep within the rose bushes, and anacondas wriggled freely in the moist soil. My mother called them earthworms, but I knew they were anacondas. There was a desert in one corner of the backyard - my very own Sahara. My mother thought it was just construction sand, which was left behind by the workers. Adults can be so wrong sometimes. To me, it was a desert, complete with dunes, and when I planted some saplings, there was an oasis too.

___________________________________________________

I looked up and peeked at the golden sun from under the shadow of my palm. He was furious with the world but was smiling down at me. His golden rays kissed my cheeks and whispered in my ears, ‘Go ahead, son. The adventure is waiting for you.’

‘But it is so hot and you are ferocious today.’ I replied while readjusting my palm.

‘Not for you. You are a dreamer. For you, I will always be kind.’ The sun crackled a deep-throated laughter.

Reassured, I started looking around for adventure.

Suddenly, a squirrel hiding in the mango tree caught my attention. ‘Come down little one. I want to play with your soft bushy tail.’ I called her down kindly.

‘Always be kind. Kindness goes a long way.’ My grandfather said to me often.

The squirrel came down. I called her Sweetie, and we had always been on friendly terms. She shared her nuts with me, and in return, I brushed her soft tail. It was softer than my father’s shaving brush and was of a most marvelous silver-grey color.

‘Hey, have you heard the news? The turtle has woken up.’ She sat on my shoulder and squeaked into my ear.

‘Huh! Turtle? Which turtle?’ I was surprised.

‘The turtle in the backyard, silly.’ Sweetie informed me while breaking a nut and offering me half of it.

‘There is a turtle in our backyard? Wow!’ It was marvelous news to me.

‘There has always been a turtle in the backyard. But he had been asleep for the last few hundred years or so.’ She chattered on, ‘Go meet him. Pay your respects. He would certainly like that.’

So I ran to the backyard, but I couldn’t see any turtle.

___________________________________________________

‘Mr Turtle! Mr Turtle! Where are you?’ I hesitatingly called.

I could hear nothing in response. All was silent, and the brick floor was shimmering in the bright sunlight.

‘Look closely son. He is having his siesta under the rose bushes.’ The sun whispered to me.

‘Where? I cannot see him.’ I desperately searched under the bushes.

The sun laughed quietly and shifted a little. The shadows changed, and I started to see something that was never there before. There was a mottled, hard, and curved shell - all dark green and grey. I poked at it with a small stick, and it moved.

‘Who disturbs me?’ A strange, low voice inquired.

‘I am sorry, sir. I just wanted to meet you and say hi!’ I said very, very respectfully. Turtles were serious business, and I knew my manners.

‘Hmm! Once you grow old, you will realize something very important.’ The turtle said in a tired voice, gradually opening up his small, deep eyes and looking at me. ‘Nothing in this life is more delicious than a siesta in summer afternoons.’

‘I apologize for disturbing your siesta. I am really sorry. You can go back to sleep. We will chat some other time.’ I tried to withdraw.

‘There is something else you will realize once you grow old. No time is better than now.’ He smiled at me kindly. ‘Sit down and let me have a closer look at you.’

___________________________________________________

I sat down with turtle under the rose bushes. It was very pleasant there. The dark soil was wet, and the anacondas were squirming happily. I prodded one with my finger. It was all moist and soft.

‘Now don’t do that. He doesn’t like it.’ The turtle admonished me softly. I withdrew my finger. But the turtle was wrong. The anaconda didn’t care.

‘What are you doing outside, at this ungodly hour?’ The turtle asked me gently.

‘What is wrong with this hour? This is the hour of adventure.’ I was confused.

‘You should get out at another time. It is hot.’ He looked up at the bright sun.

‘No time is better than now.’ I repeated his words, and the turtle laughed. It was a deep rattling sound, pleasant to hear. It was a warm laughter coming straight from his belly.

‘My mother is asleep and I am free. There are lions to hunt and desert gypsies to dance with.’ I explained politely after his laughter died down.

‘Aha!’ he grinned. ‘We have a dreamer here.’

‘Is it bad being a dreamer?’ I asked him. My grandfather always said it was better to act than dream.

‘Bad? Absolutely not. Being a dreamer is rather marvelous.’ The turtle winked at me, ‘It is the dreamers who change the world.’

‘Change the world? But how?’ I found his comment very strange.

‘Dreamers can see things that others can’t, and dreamers can sense things that others can’t. Dreamers can hear things that others can’,t and dreamers can do things that others can’t.’ The turtle said slowly.

It was more of a song than a statement. I loved songs. They were simple, yet meaningful.

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‘Can dreamers see God?’ I asked him. It was a very important question, as my father always said that God was invisible.

‘Oh yes! They can. You can.’ The turtle raised an eyebrow.

‘Nope, I cannot see Him. Nobody can.’ I pursed my lips determinedly.

‘Hmm! What do you think God looks like?’ He asked an easy question.

‘He is big - bigger than everything. He must be a giant because He is all mighty and powerful. He moves His finger and the earth moves and the mountains crumble.’ I could go on and on, but the strange expression in the turtle’s eyes halted me.

‘Now who told you that?’ He asked concernedly.

‘My teacher has told me that.’ I said while visualizing my teacher’s deep green eyes and golden hair, which made a halo around her lovely oval face. She was probably my very first crush.

‘But she didn’t say what God looked like. I added the giant part myself.’ I said proudly.

‘Of course, you did because you are a dreamer.’ The turtle laughed again.

‘Can I feel your belly when you laugh?’ I asked the turtle hesitatingly. Touching somebody’s belly was not something I normally did. But I wanted to feel the warm vibrations.

‘Oh yes, you can, my boy. You can do anything that makes you happy.’ He answered with a jolly laugh, and I gently placed my palm against his belly. Those were good vibrations. They traveled up my arm and reached my heart. They tickled my heart, and I laughed too.

‘God is somebody you can easily see and feel.’ The turtle finally said after we both finished laughing.

‘How come?’ I was all ears.

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‘How do you feel about your mother? I mean, what if she gets up when your eyes are closed? Can you feel her leaving?’ He asked.

The turtle had asked a very strange question. I had never thought about it. So I closed my eyes and imagined myself lying in my mother’s embrace. And then the answer came to me, as clear as sunlight kissing a brilliant red rose.

‘I know, I know.’ I answered excitedly. ‘When she gets up and leaves, her warmth and fragrance leave too.’

‘Exactly!’ The turtle nodded with satisfaction. ‘Now tell me, what makes your mother, your mother?’

He saw the confusion dancing in my eyes and so repeated his question. ‘What special quality makes her your mother?’

‘She gave birth to me. I came out of her tummy.’ I was wise, way beyond my years.

‘Yes, true. That is basic. But what quality makes her your mother?’ He asked again.

‘I guess that would be her love. She loves me no matter what. She loves me even when I break a glass. Of course, she is unhappy for a while and frowns, but she still loves me.’ I answered after really thinking hard.

‘Yes!’ the turtle sounded jubilant. ‘Her love makes her your mother. You see the love in her and sense it.’

‘So? What’s that got to do with God?’ I was a bit perplexed.

‘That’s got to do everything with God.’ He said matter-of-factly. ‘He created you, me, your mother, and everything that exists around us. And He loves us all unconditionally.’

‘So my mother is God too?’ I thought I was finally drawing a connection.

‘Hmm! Let’s just say that God is greater than her and different from her.’ The turtle was alert now. He was very alert and was looking at me with eyes sparkling with ancient wisdom.

‘Different how?’ I was mentally ready to start a comparison.

‘Different because, unlike your mother and mine, He runs through us and through everything around us. He makes you sense your mother’s warmth, and He makes you smell her warm fragrance. He makes you move, and He makes you stop. We are alive when He breathes inside us, and we fall dead when He leaves us. He is the sun, the moon, and the stars, and He is the rain forest, the desert, and the earthworms.’

‘Not earthworms. They are anacondas.’ I rudely interrupted him.

‘Yes, I am sorry. He is the Anacondas and not the earthworms.’ The turtle corrected himself with a kind and affectionate smile. ‘And most importantly, God makes you dream. He makes you dream so that you can see Him and sense Him in all His glory and warmth.’

‘Tipu? Tipu? Where are you?’ My mother’s voice echoed in the distance.

‘Oh shit! She is awake.’ I cursed and then suddenly stopped. Cursing was bad, and it was especially bad in front of a grown-up. You could get spanked for that.

‘No problem. You can always curse in front of me.’ The turtle winked at me knowingly.

‘Will I see you again?’ I asked while brushing off the seat of my shorts.

‘Oh yes. I will always be here. We will talk more and then some more. We will keep on talking till it is your time to move on.’ The turtle said while settling back down comfortably in the moist soil.

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‘Hey, there you are. How many times have I told you not to play outside at this hour?’ My mother asked with a frown.

I ran to her and hugged her legs. She smiled and hugged me back. We started walking towards the cool shade under the verandah. I looked back and waved at the turtle. I could not see him because the sun had shifted again. But I was sure he could see me.

‘Who are you waving at?’ My mother looked back but couldn’t see anybody.

‘I made a new friend today. I was waving at him.’ I smiled at her.

‘A new friend? Who is he?’ She sounded a bit worried.

‘A turtle!’ I happily informed her.

‘A turtle?’ She looked surprised for a moment. But then she bent down and kissed my sweaty forehead. ‘You are a dreamer, my son. You will always be a dreamer.’ She had seen the happiness in my eyes, and she was happy that I was happy. I was happy because I was a dreamer and I could see God.

شہر کا آخری خواب فروش

Posted in Short Stories Urdu by

‘چاچا جی؟’ میں نے کھنکار کر پوچھا. ‘آپ چپ کیوں ہوگئے؟’

.کہتے ہیں……….’ انہوں نے بدستور گردن جھکائے کہا’

‘جب دور کسی گھنے جنگل کے بیچوں بیچ، کوئی بوڑھا درخت ٹوٹ کر گرتا ہے تو کوئی آواز نہیں گونجتی’

‘کوئی آواز نہیں گونجتی؟’ میں نے حیرانگی سے پوچھا. ‘یہ کیسے ہوسکتا ہے؟’

.جب کوئی آواز سننے والا یا پرواہ کرنے والا نا ہو تو آوازیں نہیں گونجتی.’ انہوں نے میری آنکھوں میں جھانک کر جواب دیا’

.میں ہوں نا چاچا جی!’ میں نے محبت سے ان کے جھریوں بھرے کمزور ہاتھ پر اپنا ہاتھ رکھتے ہوئے کہا’

‘میں ہوں نا سننے اور پرواہ کرنے والا’

Read more: شہر کا آخری خواب فروش

وہ سردیوں کی ایک دھندلکی سپہر تھی اور میں اپنا کیمرہ کندھے پر لٹکائے اندرون شہر کی گنجان آباد گلیوں میں چکر لگا رہا تھا. بہت سے خوبصورت چہرے بھی نظر آئے؛ بہت حسین نقش و نگار والے دروازوں پر بھی نظر پڑی؛ کچھ مسکراہٹوں نے دل موہ لینے کی کوشش بھی کی؛ اور کچھ آنسوؤں نے قدم بھی تھامے. لیکن پتہ نہیں کیا بات تھی کہ میں اپنے کیمرے کا بٹن نہیں دبا سکا. دل پر عجیب اداسی چھائی ہوئی تھی

پھر موچی گیٹ کی بغل میں ایک نسبتاً تاریک اور تنگ سی گلی سے گزرتے ہوئے میری نظر اس بوڑھے کھلونا فروش پر پڑی. وہ ایک بند دروازے سے ٹیک لگائے نجانے کس گہری سوچ میں گم تھا

جس چیز نے مجھے زیادہ متوجوہ کیا وہ تھا اس بوڑھے کھلونا فروش کے پاس ہی دیوار سے ٹکا بانس سے بنا اسٹینڈ. ایک مرکزی عمودی بانس سے جڑے لکڑی کی کئ چھوٹی بڑی پھٹیاں تھیں جن سے پلاسٹک کے چھوٹے چھوٹے کھلونے لٹک رہے تھے

ایسے کھلونا فروش میں نے اپنے بچپن میں ہی دیکھے تھے. چھٹی والے دن اور خاص طور پر عید والے دنوں میں چکر لگاتے تھے. ان میں سے چاچا خیرو مجھے خوب یاد ہے جو مجھے پیار سے بیجو بابرا کہا کرتا تھا

.یہ تم ہر وقت کیا گنگناتے رہتے ہو کاکے؟’ ایک دن چاچا خیرو نے مجھ سے پوچھ ہی لیا’

مجھے دراصل بچپن ہی سے اپنے ہم عصروں سے مختلف نظر آنے کا شوق تھا. لہٰذا ان دنوں میں چھ سات سال کا ہونے کے باوجود کلاسیکی موسیقی میں دلچسپی لے رہا تھا

.جی راگ درگا چاچا جی.’ میں نے بے ساختہ جواب دیا تو وہ ایک دم ہنس پڑا’

‘راگ درگا؟ تم بچے ہو کہ بیجو بابرا؟’

اس دن سے میرا نام ہی چاچا خیرو نے بیجو بابرا رکھ دیا اور میں اس کا مستقل گاہک بن گیا. رنگ برنگی چیزیں ہوتی تھیں اس کے پاس. پلاسٹک کے باجے اور بانس کی پیپنیاں؛ ہلکی سی باریک باریک پہیوں والی چھوٹی چھوٹی گاڑیاں؛ سستی گڑیاں؛ پلاسٹک کے خوفناک ماسک؛ اور سفید سوتی ٹوپیاں جن کے ساتھ مصنوعی سفید داڑھی مونچھیں جڑی ہوتی تھیں. اب چاچا خیرو جیسے لوگ ڈھونڈنے سے بھی نظر نہیں آتے

میں ان کے پاس جا کر بیٹھ گیا

.چاچا جی؟’ میں نے ہلکے سے ان کو مخاطب کیا’

‘ہاں……کون؟’ انہوں نے آنکھیں کھول کر حیرانگی سے میری طرف دیکھا اور پھر مسکرا دیئے. ‘کہو بیٹے کیا چاہئے؟’

‘چاہئے تو کچھ نہیں….’ میں نے سر کھجاتے جواب دیا. ‘بس آپ پر نظر پڑی تو آپ سے بات کرنے کا دل کیا’

‘ضرور کرو بات بیٹے’

‘آپ کون ہیں چاچا جی؟’

.میں؟’ انہوں نے اپنے سینے کی طرف مسکرا کر انگلی سے اشارہ کیا’

‘میں ہوں اس شہر کا آخری خواب فروش’

.خواب فروش؟ آخری خواب فروش؟’ میں نے چونک کر پوچھا’

ہاں کھلونے خواب ہی تو ہوتے ہیں…چھوٹے چھوٹے معصوم اور رنگین خواب. میں یہ خواب بڑی محنت سے بنتا تھا اور پھر انہیں چاہنے والوں کے حوالے کر دیتا تھا

ان کی آنکھوں میں ایک عجیب سی یاسیت اتر آئ

.اب نا خواب دیکھنے والے رہے اور نا ان کھلونوں کو چاہنے والے.’ انہوں نے بےبسی سے ہاتھ ملتے ہوئے کہا’

‘جب خواب دیکھنے والے خواب ہی نا دیکھنا چاہیں، خوابوں میں یقین ہی نا رکھنا چاہیں تو ان کے رنگ بے معںی ہو جاتے ہیں’

.لیکن خواب تو ہمیشہ اہم ہی رہتے ہیں.’ میں نے حیرت سے پوچھا’

.یقین خواب کی روح ہوتی ہے بیٹے.’ چاچا جی نے میرے کندھے پر ہاتھ رکھ کر کہا’

‘یقین چلا جائے تو خوابوں کی کوئی اہمیت باقی نہیں رہتی’

ہم دونوں کچھ دیر خاموش بیٹھے رہے. وہ گلی بڑی عجیب تھی. جب سے میں آ کر وہاں بیٹھا تھا ویران پڑی تھی. دھوپ کا گزر غالباً بالکل ہی نہیں ہوتا تھا وہاں. اسلئے عجیب سبزی مائل پیلا سا رنگ تھا ماحول کا جیسے میں کسی پرانی تصویر کے اندر زندہ تھا اور سانس لے رہا تھا. پھر گلی کے بیچوں بیچ ایک نالی ضرور بہ رہی تھی لیکن بدبو کا دور دور تک کوئی شائبہ تک نہیں تھا. بلکہ میرے نتھنوں میں تو لکڑی کے فرنیچر کی، پنسلوں کی اور مہنگے ربڑوں کی خوشبو مہک رہی تھی. یوں لگتا تھا کہ میں پھر سے اپنے بچھڑے بچپن کے کسی ایک ثانیے میں سانس لے رہا تھا. رنگ بھی وہ ہی تھے اور خوشبویئں بھی وہ ہی، بس ماحول مختلف تھا

.یہ جادو کی چھڑی یاد ہے تمھیں؟’ چاچا جی نے ایک پلاسٹک کی چھڑی میری طرف بڑھاتے ہوئے پوچھا’

.نہیں.’ میں نے چھڑی دیکھ کر نفی میں سر ہلایا’

وہ سرخ رنگ کے پلاسٹک سے بنی تقریباً ایک فٹ لمبی چھڑی تھی جس کے ایک کونے پر چاندی رنگ کے پترے سے بنا پانچ کونوں والا ستارہ لگا ہوا تھا

.یاد کرو بیجو بابرا!’ چاچا جی نے مسکراتے ہوئے کہا’

‘جب تم چھوٹے تھے تو تمھیں یقین تھا کہ چھڑی کو اپنے ہاتھ میں پکڑ کر ہلانے سے تم کچھ بھی کر سکتے ہو’

.بیجو بابرا….؟’ میں بری طرح سے چونک گیا’

.گھبراؤ نہیں…’ بوڑھے خواب فروش نے میرا ہاتھ شفقت سے تھپتھپایا’

ہم خواب فروشوں کا اپنا قبیلہ ہے اور اس قبیلے کی یادیں اور خواب مشترک ہوتے ہیں. خیردین اور میں، ہم دونوں اسی قبیلے سے تعلق رکھتے ہیں

‘ہاں شاید …..’ میں نے سر جھٹکتے ہوئے کہا. ‘اس وقت مجھے یقین تھا کہ یہ جادو کی چھڑی ہے’

لیکن اب اس خواب میں تمھیں یقین نہیں ہے نا. لہٰذا اب نا خواب بننے کی ضرورت رہی نا بیچنے کی. اب مجھے چلے ہی جانا چاہئے

چاچا جی نے رندھی ہوئی آواز میں کہا تو میں بےچین ہوگیا

.نہیں چاچا جی، میں اب بھی خواب دیکھتا ہوں.’ میں نے ان کا ہاتھ پکڑتے ہوئے کہا’

مجھے اب بھی اپنے خوابوں میں یقین ہے. اور میرے خوابوں کی ابتداء انہی کھلونوں سے تو ہوئی تھی. اگر آپ نے خواب فروشی چھوڑ دی تو میری تو خوابوں کی اساس ہی ختم ہوجائے گی

مگر چاچا جی کا ہاتھ میری مٹھی سے ریت کی طرح بہ گیا. میں نے آنسو پونچھتے ہوئے ان کی طرف دیکھا مگر وہاں کوئی نہیں تھا

میں گھبرا کر اٹھ کھڑا ہوا. سامنے دو برقعہ پوش عورتیں کھڑی میری ہی طرف سہم کر دیکھ رہی تھیں. میں شرمندہ ہوا اور اپنے تخیّل کو کوستا کیمرہ اٹھانے کیلئے جھکا اور پھر ٹھٹھک کر رک گیا. وہاں جہاں تھوڑی دیر پہلے شہر کا آخری خواب فروش بیٹھا تھا، وہیں اسی جگہ، سرخ پلاسٹک کی جادو کی چھڑی پڑی میرا منہ چڑا رہی تھی

#Urdu #story #fiction #dream #imagination #toys #oldcity #Lahore #street #nostalgia #memories #past #magic

Last Dance of the Golden Butterflies

Posted in Short Stories English by
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‘Golden butterflies are the people you love but whom you lose,’ the grandfather told his granddaughter, not knowing she was about to see her very first one. A poignant story exploring the profound relationship between a wise grandfather and his curious granddaughter as they wait together for rain on a stormy evening. Through their tender conversation about the “golden butterflies” – the old man’s metaphor for departed loved ones who return with each rainfall – the narrative delves into themes of mortality, memory, and the cycle of life and death. The grandfather’s gentle explanations about sadness, understanding, and the beauty found in loss create a touching meditation on grief and remembrance. This bittersweet tale captures the innocent wisdom of childhood confronting the reality of death, culminating in a deeply moving conclusion that transforms the granddaughter’s understanding of love and loss forever.

The sky was intermittently dark. Each period of darkness ended with a lightning flash. Each flash was succeeded by a deep growl up above in the belly of the clouds. The light breeze smelled of a subtle promise of rain.

The old man with his head full of bushy, silver hair, stood quietly in the verandah. His cloudy, brown eyes were open, but looked at nothing in particular. Instead, they were filled with the grey shadows of memories.

‘Grandpa! What are you doing outside?’ The little girl walked out in search of her old friend.

‘I am waiting for the rain, child.’ He looked at her, smiling with affection.

‘Why are you waiting for the rain, Grandpa?’ She was one curious child.

‘Because that is what old men do. They look at the grey skies and wait for the rains.’ He answered softly.

‘But it had been raining. It has just stopped.’ The girl motioned at the wet grass.

‘Yes, the rain has stopped, but it will come again.’ The old man said while looking up at the heavy clouds, ‘The giants are still here with their great bellies heavy with rain.’

The little girl looked up and scratched her head. Sometimes she failed to understand the apparently simple words of her loving grandfather. But still she loved him.

She loved his old man smell - the Old Spice aftershave and the bittersweet smell of pipe tobacco. She loved his old man face, with its countless deep lines and the bushy hair in bad need of thorough brushing. And she loved his old man talk, which was always full of memories and stories, and nostalgia.

‘Why do you love rain, Grandpa?’ She persisted.

‘Hmm!’ He thought for a while and then answered kindly, ‘Because they smell good, my dearest. They smell of wet earth and they smell of the circle of life.’

‘Yeah! They do smell of wet earth.’ She inhaled deeply. ‘But what do you mean by the circle of life?’

‘Once, many million years ago, the elements made love and water was born. The warmth of the sun killed the water, and its soul became the vapors. The vapors float upwards and finally reach the clouds. Then the clouds growl and breathe new life into the vapors, and the raindrops start falling. They fall, and the earth appears larger and larger with each yard that they fall. The drops fall onto the parched earth, and they form happy puddles. And finally, they wait for the rising sun to die and become vapors again. This is the circle of life.’ The old man narrated the tale slowly and deliberately, choosing the simplest possible words.

‘That’s sad, Grandpa. I don’t like death.’ The little one was quite sensitive for her age.

‘Death is not the end, child. It is the beginning of a new circle of life.’ He smiled. ‘The puddles evaporate. The vapors float back above and form clouds. Then it rains again. The circle is repeated.’

‘So they come back……….the raindrops?’ She asked excitedly, ‘They always come back. Don’t they?’

‘Oh yes, they do. They always do, child.’ He breathed with obvious relief at her happy excitement.

 

Both the old man and the little girl sat down on the wooden stairs and started waiting for the return of rain. He placed his hand protectively around his granddaughter’s delicate shoulders and drew her nearer.

‘Grandpa?’ She asked after a while.

‘Yes, child!’ He knew the question-and-answer session was not over. In fact, it was never over. But he knew she loved asking questions, and he loved answering her questions.

‘Do you love rains only because they smell of wet earth and the circle of life?’ She asked.

‘No.’ The old man smiled, ‘I also love rain because it brings along the golden butterflies.’

‘Golden butterflies?’ The little girl’s eyes started shining with interest. ‘What are golden butterflies? I have never seen one.’

‘Golden butterflies are the people you love but whom you lose somewhere on the path of life.’ The old man told her while caressing her shoulder softly. ‘Whenever it rains, the golden butterflies come flying along with the thick drops of rain. They play and dance in the rain, their golden wings gleaming with the moisture. And I watch them. In fact, I love the golden butterflies more than the rains.’

‘Why can’t I see them, Grandpa?’ She so wanted to see those magnificent creatures.

‘Hmm……!’ The old man searched for an answer, ‘Because you haven’t lost anyone yet, my love. But no matter how much I detest the fact, you will lose those whom you love. And they will all become golden butterflies.’

‘Does it make you sad or happy - looking at the golden butterflies?’ She asked.

‘A little bit of both, I guess. It makes me sad when I think of my loss. But it makes me happy when I think of the sweet memories we once made.’

 ________________________________________________________________________

 

For a few moments, they sat together in silence. Both were thinking of the golden butterflies and listening to the silence of the rainy night. The silence was thick. It was as thick as a slab of invisible butter. One could almost slice it with a blunt-edged knife.

‘Grandpa?’ The child gently pulled on his gnarled hand again after a while.

‘Yes, child!’ He patted her hand in return.

‘Have you ever observed that it grows very silent just after a rain?’ She looked up into his face and asked. ‘I mean, before the crickets start singing and before the fireflies begin their magic dance of lanterns?’

‘Yes, it always grows silent just after a rain.’ The old man looked far into the night. ‘Legend says that it rains when the gods weep up above in the skies. Maybe, silence is a mark of respect for the suffering of the gods.’

‘Do you really believe that, Grandpa?’ She smiled naughtily, and the old man chuckled softly in return.

‘No! Of course not, child. The gods never suffer. That is why they are gods.’

‘Then why does it fall silent just after a rain?’ She repeated her question.

‘I believe the silence is the world’s acknowledgement of the sadness of life.’ The old man said.

The little girl remained quiet. She did not understand the sentence, but she did understand sadness. She understood it through her grandfather. In her happy world, he was the only sad entity. But still she loved him because, despite his sadness, the old man never failed to love her.

‘Why are you sad, Grandpa?’ She asked him hesitatingly.

‘Because I have spent so much of my life, little one.’ The old man ran his fingers lovingly through her silky hair. ‘I have found out that life is sad. And with time, I have learnt to love sadness.’

‘Why do you love sadness?’ She asked, and her grandfather smiled. He was expecting this question.

‘Because sadness brings along understanding - the understanding of life and the purpose of life.’ He answered thoughtfully.

‘Why don’t you like happiness?’ She was always ready with another question.

‘I don’t like it because it dulls my senses and makes me numb to the pain of others, around me.’ He replied.

‘I don’t like happiness too.’ The little girl announced firmly.

‘Ha! Ha!’ The old man laughed and then grew serious, ‘First, you get all the happiness you deserve.’ He waved his index finger in front of her tiny nose. ‘Only then do you have the right to like or dislike it.’

 

 

Suddenly, a thick drop fell on the little girl’s forehead. She looked up. Rain was starting to fall again. She looked at her grandfather. He was looking up too. The lightning flashed and the thunder cracked. She moved closer to him for comfort. Thunder frightened her.

‘Grandpa?’ She asked in a small voice.

‘Yes, child!’ He answered while patting her little hand reassuringly.

‘Can you see the golden butterflies?’ She searched the rain-filled sky.

‘Oh yes! I can see them. I can see them all. They are all floating down, riding the thick raindrops and dancing in the rain.’ The old man said dreamily.

‘Is Grandma one of those butterflies?’ She asked.

‘Oh yes! She is the biggest golden butterfly of all - the shiniest and the most magnificent of all of them.’ He smiled sadly.

‘Say hi to Grandma from my side.’ She so wanted to see her,  the most magnificent of all golden butterflies.

‘I will, child. I will.’ The old man said affectionately. ‘Now run back inside. Leave me alone with my golden butterflies.’

The little girl kissed the rough cheek of her grandfather and ran back inside. But before entering the door, she looked back at the old man. There he was, sitting under the pouring rain. The rain plastered his hair to his forehead, and the drops slid down his cheeks in torrents.

‘Grandpa?’ She shouted over the din of the falling rain.

‘Yeah?’ He answered without looking at her.

‘You know, I find rain very sad.’ She shouted, her eyes filling up with tears.

‘And why is that, little one?’ The old man’s question was almost drowned in the noise of the falling rain.

‘It is because rain hides your tears very well.’ She brushed her cheeks with the back of her hand and ran back inside.

 

 

It rained all through the night. For a while, the little girl watched her grandfather from the window. He kept sitting in the rain motionless. But he was smiling. She was almost sure of it. And she knew why he was smiling. He was watching his golden butterflies dancing in the rain. Then sleep came over, and she slept, dreaming of the love of her grandfather and the golden butterflies.

Morning came, and it was still raining. The little girl got up and looked outside her window. Her grandfather was still sitting where he was, the previous night. She hurriedly climbed down the stairs and ran outside.

The old man was almost sprawled on the stairs. His eyes were closed, but there was a most wonderful smile on his sleeping face.

‘Good morning, Grandpa!’ She lightly kissed his wet forehead. It was cold as ice.

‘Wake up, Grandpa!’ She shook his shoulder, and the lifeless body of the old man slid to one side.

The little girl knew something was horribly wrong. She thought of calling her mother. But something caught the corner of her eyes. It was floating above the rose bushes, gleaming in the rain. She looked closely and couldn’t believe her eyes. It was a golden butterfly - her first golden butterfly.

But the old man was wrong. The sight of the golden butterfly did not make her happy at all. Instead, it made her sad.

Songs of Innocence

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When you are two, the world is a big fat rainbow circling your cot. Your pleasures are limited to a warm bottle of milk and your troubles hardly ever exceed a wet diaper or two. But when you are four that is when the magic truly starts.

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