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Tales of the Ancient Turtle: Resurrection of the White Chrysanthemums (Previously, the Three White Chrysanthemums)

Posted in Short Stories English by

What if the man in the mental hospital who hears trees screaming isn’t mad—what if he’s the only one sane enough to hear what the rest of us have forgotten how to listen to?

A poignant narrative about a mental health patient who claims to hear everything in nature speak—trees, mountains, rivers, and a childhood friend, the ancient Turtle, who taught him that “everything carries wisdom within.”

‘Tell me, my dear…’ The old Doctor said while peering at me closely from behind his thick pebbled glasses. His kind face resembled a map of rugged terrain, marked with jagged lines and twisting contours. ‘Tell me, what do the voices ask you to do?’

We were both sitting on a concrete bench under the shade of a big banyan tree. A beautiful world, painted with liquid gold by the March sun, surrounded us. It was a small and private mental health facility being run by the good old Doctor, and I was one of its few selected residents.

‘The voices do not ask me to do anything. They just want me to listen.’ I replied.

‘Listen?’ The Doctor asked and scratched his bald head. ‘Listen to what exactly?’

‘Listen to everything — the trees, the mountains, the rivers, and the streams.’ I tried to name all my friends.

‘I see.’ The good Doctor removed his glasses and started polishing the lenses with unusual vigor. ‘And are you able to listen to all those things?’ He asked me when the ritual was complete. ‘The trees, mountains, rivers and……….’

‘…and the streams.’ I completed his sentence.

‘Yes, yes…the streams.’ He eagerly nodded his head.

‘Oh yes, I do!’ I replied with a smile. ‘I like to listen to them. They tell me about life and God, and of His grand system and scheme. They tell me that our universe is just His dream. They tell me of the past, and they tell me of the future. They tell me what is possible and what is not. But the most important thing that they tell me is that happiness is only a momentary lapse of reason and that it is the only wisdom that matters; while sadness is the eternal reality, and is the key to all wisdom.’

‘And when did this all start? This listening to…umm! Well…the things?’ The Doctor asked while getting up and started examining a dried-up chrysanthemum bush very closely.

‘It all started with the Turtle — the ancient Turtle living in our backyard.’ I said while smiling at the warm memory of my long-lost friend.

‘The Turtle is actually right.’ The old Banyan tree told me in his deep, throaty voice. He stood in the exact center of the courtyard and looked all wise and elderly.

‘Everything is alive, my little friend. Everything carries wisdom within, and everything speaks. You just have to learn to listen.’

‘What do you mean? How can everything be alive?’ I asked the tree, growing confused.

‘I am alive. Isn’t this so?’ The Banyan tree asked and chuckled softly. ‘I eat minerals from the soil and sip water through my roots. And we all can speak.’ He said while spreading his rustling branches around. ‘We all can speak — the trees and the flowers, the mountains and the springs, the sky and the moon, and even the stones and the soil.’

‘But why have I never heard them speak?’ I protested.

‘You are hearing me speak.’ The Banyan tree replied and smiled at me kindly. ‘You talk to the old Turtle all the time.’

‘Yes, but…’ I couldn’t find words to express myself.

‘Everything speaks, my friend, but everyone cannot hear the words. There are only a very few who care to make an effort. But anybody who makes an effort can hear the whispers of the universal consciousness.’ The Banyan tree explained.

‘What is that — the universal consciousness?’ The words were too big for my limited childhood understanding.

‘Be silent, you pompous ass! Do not confuse the little one.’ A familiar voice grunted from behind me.

I looked back and there stood my old friend — the ancient Turtle. Half-hidden in the overgrown and moist green grass, he was looking at me affectionately and smiling his kind, toothless smile.

‘Hey, you are finally back.’ I stated the obvious as an excited greeting. He had left for some important task a few days ago, and I missed his company badly.

‘It certainly looks like it, and you look perfectly fine.’ He sounded a bit tired. ‘Anyway, what’s going on here?’

‘I was just telling our little friend that everything is alive and everything speaks.’ The Banyan tree explained politely.

‘Yeah, yeah.’ The Turtle silenced him impatiently with a wave of its arm. ‘I wasn’t here and you thought you could go on and confuse my young friend in my absence.’

‘Oh please, Mr. Turtle, please don’t say anything to the Banyan tree.’ I ran and hugged the tree’s trunk. ‘He is my friend and he didn’t mean any harm.’

It was true. The Banyan tree was one of my many friends. Most of my summer afternoons were spent playing under its cool shade and digging for earthworms. I hugged the old gnarled tree trunk closely and could almost feel a warm and throbbing response, deep under the rough bark.

‘Little one…’ The Turtle admonished me, ‘If you choose to play with the giants, you’ve got to learn their secret little jokes too.’

He sounded pretty serious, but I could see that he was trying his best not to laugh.

‘Yes, I remember the Turtle. He was your childhood friend.’ The good Doctor was trying to flatter me, but I knew the truth.

‘You really don’t believe in the Turtle. Isn’t that so?’ I asked him with a defensive smile.

‘It does not matter what I believe in.’ He smiled back at me. ‘It is your beliefs that we are discussing. So you were saying that the Turtle told you that everything in this universe speaks?’

‘So is it true that everything in this universe speaks?’ I asked the Turtle.

It was the very next afternoon, and I was too curious about what the Banyan tree had told me. Besides, everyone else was busy taking a siesta, while I was free to roam the lonely wilderness of the backyard.

‘Oh yes, certainly, everything speaks.’ The ancient Turtle nodded his head. I could see he very much wanted to take a nap under the shade of the rose bushes, but he loved my company far more than his afternoon naps.

‘And what does everything speak of?’ I asked while tickling his old wrinkled head — a naughty but affectionate gesture.

‘Everything speaks with one voice what the universal consciousness wants it to speak of — wisdom and future.’ The Turtle answered while turning his head and looking at me with his soft, grey eyes, and then started singing:

‘Of wisdom and future and of what the universal conscience has in store for you,

of your life and the life of all others, and also of the flow of the river of time

Of what lies ahead, your life is a rose and optimism — a few drops of dew,

while pain and pleasure and sadness and joy, dance their eternal mime’

‘Hmm!’ I was a bit confused. ‘What does the universal consciousness say about me?’

‘What would you like her to say about you, little one?’ He asked with a twinkle in his eyes.

‘What will I become and what will become of me?’ I asked after thinking for a while.

‘Aha!’ The Turtle breathed a sigh of understanding and then started singing again:

‘She says that you will grow and your heart will grow even more,

and you will be wise and generous and kind to all, that’s for sure

She says that you will learn and evolve, with a light in your core,

you will walk the path and the others’ pains, you will certainly cure

She says you will love and understand all if only you find the door,

the door that opens with patience, and then shuts down no more

And she says this will all happen if you learn not to judge and ignore,

what the others say and what the others do — the pious and the whore’

‘But I don’t understand this at all.’ I said, feeling both confused and flustered.

‘Yes, you do not understand yet.’ The Turtle nodded his head wisely. ‘But you will one day. Till the day of understanding dawns upon you, just be patient and wait for the universal consciousness to work its eternal magic.’

‘But what if I fail to walk the path and what if I get lost?’ Suddenly, the fear of some strange possibility in the future gripped my heart with its cold fingers.

‘It doesn’t matter, little one.’ The Turtle said and closed his eyes drowsily. ‘It doesn’t matter what path we walk or whether we get lost. The only thing that matters is that we see, that we observe, and that we learn, while we are walking the path.’

‘Do you remember why you were brought here?’ The Doctor asked me after taking his due time to understand what I said about the Turtle and the universal conscience.

‘Oh yes, I do.’ I thought with bitterness about that cruel, summer morning.

I was on a trip to the hilly areas of the North, and I saw hundreds of trees being cut down. They were all crying with pain while the electric saws cut them into pieces. Their blood was flowing down the mountain slope, but no one but me could see it.

I sat down on my knees and touched the warm blood with my fingers. I listened to the weeping trees and felt their pain vibrating within each nerve and fiber of my own body. It became personal when the trees recognized me and started shouting my name, asking me for help.

‘You can’t do it.’ I approached the foreman of the woodcutters.

‘I can’t do what?’ He asked me, surprised at the welled-up tears in my eyes.

‘You can’t cut the trees. It’s murder.’ I said while trying to muster up some badly needed courage.

‘Trees? Murder?’ He stood there for a moment, confused by what I was saying. But then he suddenly looked up and started laughing hysterically.

‘It is no laughing matter. You are murdering the trees.’ I pleaded again while trying to ignore his insulting laughter.

‘I carry a permit. I can do whatever I want.’ He stopped laughing and replied to me sternly.

‘But they are screaming with pain and their blood is flowing in the valley.’ I begged him.

‘Who is screaming and what blood?’ He was flabbergasted. ‘Are you mad?’

I couldn’t speak as frustration and helplessness boiled up inside me.

‘Go away, son.’ The old mountain whispered in my ears. ‘They can’t see what you see, and they can’t hear what you hear. You cannot stop them.’

‘I will stop them.’ I told the mountain determinedly and then tried to snatch away the electric saw from the foreman’s hands.

‘Hey!’ The foreman was startled. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

But it was too late. Before he could move, I had already smashed the saw on a stone boulder.

‘Yes, I remember it all.’ I said while bitter tears misted up my eyes. ‘I remember the trees crying with anguish and pain, and I remember the smell of their warm, flowing blood. The memory of that massacre still haunts me.’

‘Have you considered the possibility that the trees were not crying, that there was no blood, and that the mountain was silent as he was supposed to be?’ The Doctor asked me while facing the dried-up chrysanthemum bush.

‘Have you considered the possibility that the trees were really crying, that their blood was staining the slopes, and that the mountain did try to deter me?’ I challenged his assumptions softly, with a sad smile.

‘It was all in your head, son.’ The Doctor said without turning back. ‘It was all your imagination. Only we, us humans, can talk. No one else can and no one else does.’

‘Imagination?’ I chuckled. ‘Why is that so bad? Aren’t we all the product of God’s imagination? Can’t you see that in that context, all imagination is reality?’

The Doctor did not reply and continued with his scrutiny of the almost-dead plant.

‘No, it was not my imagination. I really heard them cry and speak. As I told you earlier, everything speaks — the trees, the mountains, the rivers, and the streams. But not everyone can hear them.’

‘Hmm!’ The Doctor exclaimed and turned towards me with a tired smile. ‘This chrysanthemum plant was planted by my late wife. In her life, the plant gave us such beautiful white chrysanthemums — three flowers each morning and each one perfect in its purity, beauty, and delicacy.’

‘What happened to it?’ I asked while looking at the plant. ‘What went wrong?’

‘I do not know what went wrong. What I only know is that the day my wife died, the white chrysanthemums stopped blooming.’ He said while looking sadly at the plant. ‘But since you claim that you can talk to everything, I want you to ask this plant what went wrong.’

‘Hmm!’ I smiled at the Doctor and then looked at the chrysanthemum plant.

I asked her what went wrong, and she whispered back the truth to me. And the truth made me sad.

‘She says…’ I wiped my tears. ‘She says that your wife loved her and cared for her every day, and her love and care manifested in the beauty of the white chrysanthemums. She says that she is not being loved anymore. Instead, her roots are only watered by your bitter tears of loss and anger. And bitterness can never produce any beauty.’

‘I think it is time for you to go back to your room.’ The Doctor looked at the setting sun and waved at the two white-clad male nurses. ‘It is getting late. We will talk some other time.’

‘Think about it, my good Doctor.’ I smiled at him. ‘Please think about what I have told you.’

After the nurses took away the patient, the Doctor really did think about what the patient had told him. He stood looking at the plant for a while and then smiled and started walking away. But after walking only a few steps, he suddenly turned back. He went to the plant and then sat down cross-legged on the grass.

He thought of his departed wife, and he thought of all the love that she had given him. He also thought of his anger in believing that by dying, she had unjustly betrayed him of her presence. He smiled fondly at her happy memories. He let regret and anger flow out of his heart, and then he started whispering to the plant:

‘I know you miss her because I miss her too,

she had her love for all, not only for me and you

I miss her with longing — a dark and bitter brew,

I miss her for her sweetness, nectar of the morning dew

I treasure you and want to care for you,

but I do not know how, I swear, this is true

I want to love you because she loved you,

but I do not know how — this confession is true too’

The good Doctor sat there for a long time. His tears of sadness and love slipped down his cheeks and fell on the ground, right near the roots of the dried-up chrysanthemum plant. But when his tears dried up, he still did not get up. There was a strange solace in the company of the dead plant. He could almost smell the sweet fragrance of his long-lost wife, and he didn’t want to lose that fragrance ever again.

The next morning, the nursing staff and the gardeners found the Doctor, all curled up beside the chrysanthemum plant. At first, they thought he was just asleep, but when they tried to wake him up, he didn’t respond. He had already left.

Unlike the departed Doctor, the plant was very much alive once again, and there were three white chrysanthemums, smiling and gently swaying in the morning breeze.

ٹوٹے کھلونوں کا المیہ

Posted in Short Stories Urdu by

میرا نام ڈاکٹرعبدل الرحمان ہے اور میں فلسطین کے علاقے غزہ کا رہنے والا ہوں. میں اپنی جوانی اور ادھیڑعمری میں ایک ماہر سرجن جانا اور مانا جاتا تھا. لوگ دور دور سے میرے ہسپتال میں آپریشن کروانے آتے تھے. ان کو لگتا تھا کہ جیسے خدا نے میرے ہاتھ میں شفاء رکھی ہو

خیر یہ سب تو گزرے دنوں کا قصّہ ہے. اب تو میں تقریباً اسی سال کا بوڑھا آدمی ہوں جس کے ہاتھوں پر ہر وقت رعشہ طاری رہتا ہے. اس لئے اب میں آپریشن نہیں کرتا؛ اب میں صرف اپنے پرانے گراموفون پر موسیقی سنتا ہوں اور کھلونے مرمت کرتا ہوں

Read more: ٹوٹے کھلونوں کا المیہ

مجھے کھلونے ہمیشہ سے اچھے لگتے ہیں. ان کے دلفریب رنگ اور مخصوص بناوٹ، مجھے بہت بھاتی ہے. جب میں چھوٹا تھا تو میرے باپ کے پاس اتنے پیسے نہیں ہوتے تھے کہ وہ مجھے اچھے اور مہنگے کھلونے خرید کر دے سکتا. چونکہ مجھے اس سے بہت محبت تھی اور میں کسی حد تک اس کی مشکلات کو سمجھ سکتا تھا تو ضد نہیں کرتا تھا. یوں میرا سارا بچپن حسرت اور تشنگی کے درمیان کا سفر تہہ کرتا گزر گیا

جب میں جوان ہوگیا اور ڈاکٹری کا امتحان پاس کر لیا تو جیسا کہ اکثر ہوتا ہے، مجھے محبت ہو گئ. عبیر بہت خوبصورت تھی. اب جب کہ میں بوڑھا ہو چکا ہوں تو مجھے اچھی طرح سے یہ بات سمجھ میں آ چکی ہے کہ جن سے ہم محبت کرتے ہیں، وہ عموماً اتنے خوبصورت اور اتنے اچھے قطعی نہیں ہوتے، جتنا کہ ہم ان کو سمجھتے ہیں. لیکن جب ہماری محبت کی گرم ہوا ان کی شخصیت کے غبارے میں بھرتی ہے تو ان سے اچھا اور ان سے بلند اور کوئی نظر نہیں آتا

لیکن آپ میرا یقین کریں کہ عبیر واقعی بہت خوبصورت اور بہت اچھی تھی اور مجھ سے بےانتہاء محبت کرتی تھی. وہ میرے سب خوبصورت خوابوں اور حسرتوں کی تعبیر تھی. میں اس کو دیکھ دیکھ کرجیتا تھا اور وہ میرے بغیر سانس نہیں لیتی تھی. بہرحال زندگی کا ایک دستور ہے کہ کبھی بھی اور کوئی بھی چیز یا رشتہ مکمل نہیں ہوتا. تو ہمارے رشتے اور محبت میں جو ایک کسر رہتی تھی وہ اولاد کی کمی تھی

ہم دونوں نے بہت کوشش کی. علاج بھی کروایا لیکن اولاد نہیں ہوسکی. پھر میں نے عبیر کو بہت سمجھانے کی کوشش کی کہ ہم کوئی یتیم بچہ لے کر پال لیتے ہیں، لیکن وہ نہیں مانی. اسی طرح ہماری ادھوری سی مگر محبت بھری زندگی کو پچاس سال بیت گئے

ابھی کچھ سال پہلے ہی عبیر دنیا سے رخصت ہوگئ. اب میں بھی اس انتظار میں ہوں کہ کب موت کا فرشتہ آتا ہے اور میں اپنی عبیر کے پاس پہنچ جاتا ہوں. لیکن جب تک وہ نہیں آتا، میں ٹوٹے کھلونوں کی مرمت کرتا رہوں گا کیونکہ مجھے کھلونے اچھے لگتے ہیں

میں چونکہ خود کھلونوں سے بہت محبت کرتا ہوں تو مجھے اس بات کا احساس ہے کہ یہ کھلونے اپنے مالکوں کو کس قدر عزیز ہوتے ہیں. وہ اپنے کھلونوں کو سجا سنوار کر رکھتے ہیں؛ ان کا خیال رکھتے ہیں اور ان کو زمانے کی گرم ہوا اور ہر نقصان سے بچانے کی کوشش کرتے ہیں. لیکن بہرحال کھلونے تو نازک ہوتے ہیں، معمولی سی ضرب سے بھی ٹکڑے ٹکڑے ہو جاتے ہیں

آپ سب کو ایک بات سمجھنے کی ضرورت ہے. وہ یہ کہ دنیا کے جس حصے میں، میں رہتا ہوں، وہ امن و سکون سے بہت دور ہے. ہم تقریباً پچھلے ساٹھ ستر سال سے اسرائیلی غاصبوں کے خلاف مسلسل حالت جنگ میں ہیں. جب جنگ ہو رہی ہو اور گولہ باری ہوتی رہے تو کھلونوں جیسی نازک چیزیں اتنی تباہی کی متحمل نہیں ہو سکتیں. دوسری طرف کھلونے جب ٹوٹ جایئں تو ان کو ایسے پھینکا بھی نہیں جا سکتا. کھلونے تو جنگ میں بھی کھلونے ہی رہتے ہیں. ان کی اہمیت اور خوبصورتی اپنی جگہ قائم رہتی ہے

تو جب میں نے اتنے بہت سارے کھلونوں کو گولہ باری کی وجہ سے ٹوٹتے ہوئے دیکھا اور ان کے مالکوں کو اپنے ٹوٹے کھلونوں پر روتے ہوئے دیکھا تو مجھ سے برداشت نہیں ہوسکا. ڈاکٹر تو میں تھا ہی، میکینک بھی بن گیا. اب میرے پاس دور دور سے ٹوٹے ہوئے کھلونے مرمت کیلئے آتے ہیں

میرے لئے ہر کھلونا ایک جیسا خوبصورت ہوتا ہے. میں بڑے پیار سے اس کو صاف کرتا ہوں. ایک ایک ٹکڑے اور ایک ایک کرچی کی بڑی احتیاط اور باریک بینی سے جانچ پڑتال کرتا ہوں. اس کے اوپر لگی خراشوں کو صاف کرتا ہوں. اور پھر اس کو جوڑنے بیٹھ جاتا ہوں

اکثر اوقات میرے پاس بہت سے ٹوٹے کھلونے اکٹھے آ جاتے ہیں. بہت سوں کے حصے اور کرچیاں بھی مکمل نہیں ہوتیں. لیکن میں ہمت نہیں ہارتا. میں محنت اور لگن سے ہر کھلونے کے حصے تلاش کرتا ہوں. لیکن اکثر پوری طرح جڑنے کے بعد بھی بہت سے کھلونے نامکمل رہ جاتے ہیں. میں پھر بھی اپنی پوری کوشش کرتا ہوں کہ ان کے مالکوں کو ان کی خوبصورتی میں کمی کا احساس نا ہو

بیشک میں کھلونوں کو جوڑ سکتا ہوں اور بعض اوقات تو میرے مرمت کئے کھلونوں کو دیکھ کر پتہ ہی نہیں چلتا کہ وہ کبھی ٹوٹے بھی تھے. لیکن پھر بھی ان کھلونوں میں وہ پہلی جیسی بات نہیں رہتی. وہ چل پھر نہیں سکتے، وہ گا نہیں سکتے اور وہ تالیاں بھی نہیں بجا سکتے. اسلئے میرے دل میں اکثر خواہش پیدا ہوتی ہے کہ کاش میں خدا ہوتا اور اپنے مرمت کئے کھلونوں میں جان بھر سکتا

معاف کیجئے گا. غالباً دروازے پر کوئی ہے. میں دیکھ کر واپس آتا ہوں. ابھی کھلونوں کا بہت سا ذکر باقی ہے

.ڈاکٹر صاحب! ڈاکٹر صاحب!’ وہ عورت کافی دیر سے دروازہ بجا رہی تھی’

.ہاں کہو کیا بات ہے؟’ بوڑھے ڈاکٹر نے دروازہ کھول کر پوچھا’

‘ابھی تھوڑی دیر پہلے ہی ظالم اسرئیلیوں نے اسکول کی عمارت پر راکٹ برسائے ہیں’

اس نے آنسوؤں بھری آواز میں بتایا

‘بے شمار بچے شہید ہوئے ہیں. آپ کی بہت ضرورت ہے. ان معصوموں کے جسم ٹکڑے ٹکڑے ہو گئے ہیں’

ڈاکٹر عبدل رحمان نے کوئی جواب نہیں دیا. اپنا کالا بیگ اٹھایا اور تھکے تھکے قدموں سے اس عورت کے پیچھے چل پڑا. اس کو کھلونوں سے بہت محبت تھی اور وہ ان کو ٹوٹا ہوا نہیں دیکھ سکتا تھا

#Urdu #fiction #story #Palestine #Gaza #doctor #toys #Israel #war #violence #children #peace

سانتا آنا کا پادری

Posted in Short Stories Urdu by

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یہ سخت گرمیوں کے دنوں کی بات ہے کہ جب سانتاآنا گاؤں کے اکلوتے گرجے کے، اکلوتے پادری کا، انتقال تو گرمیاں اپنے پورے عروج پر تھیں؛ اور پورا گاؤں نئے پادری کے آنے کا بےصبری سے انتظار کر رہا تھا

Read more: سانتا آنا کا پادری

بہت سے بچے پیدا ہوچکے تھے لیکن بپتسمہ نا دیئے جانے کی وجہ سے گمنامی کی زندگی بسر کرنے پر مجبور تھے. بیشمار محبت کرنے والے جوڑے تھے، جو کہ شادی کے بندھن میں بندھنے کیلئے اتنے بیتاب تھے کہ ہر رات کا نیا چاند، نا چاہتے ہوئے بھی ان کے گناہوں کا گواہ بن جاتا تھا. لیکن گرجے میں پادری کی عدم موجودگی کے باعث ان کی شادی نہیں ہوسکتی تھی

پھر بہت سے ایسے گناہ گار تھے جو اعتراف کے لئے بے چین تھے تاکہ صاف دل کے ساتھ، ایک دفعہ پھر سے گناہوں کے راستے پر چلا جا سکے. اور بہت سے ایسے لوگ تھے جو مر چکے تھے اور دفنائے بھی جا چکے تھے لیکن ان کی روحیں، اپنی آخری رسومات کے انتظار میں، زمین اور آسمان کے درمیان معلق تھیں

پھر ایک دوپہر، جب سورج عین سوا نیزے پر بےرحمی سے دہک رہا تھا تو گاؤں کی کچی فصیل کے ٹوٹے دروازے سے، ایک گھڑسوار اندر داخل ہوا. گھوڑا لاغرسا تھا اور تیز سنہری دھوپ اور بہتے پسینے سے اس کا کالا سیاہ جسم، چمک رہا تھا. گھڑسوار بھی کالے لباس میں ملبوس تھا اور اس کے سر پر چوڑے چھتے والے سیاہ ہیٹ کے نیچے، اس کے خدوخال، واضح نہیں تھے

سانتا آنا، قریبی شہر سے قریباً دو سو کلومیٹر دور اور صحرا کے بیچوں بیچ واقع، ایک چھوٹا سا اور نامعلوم غریب گاؤں تھا. بہت کم ہی کوئی بھولا بھٹکا مسافر، گاؤں میں قدم رنجہ فرماتا تھا. بلکہ مسافروں کی تعداد اس قدر کم تھی کہ بڑھے بوڑھے اب تک، گاؤں میں آنے والے تمام مسافروں کو، دو ہاتھوں کی انگلیوں پرباآسانی گن سکتے تھے؛ اور گننے کے بعد بھی دو ایک انگلیاں بچ رہتی تھیں

وہ نیا آنے والا گھڑ سوار کوئی مسافر نہیں بلکہ فادر آندرے بارتولو تھا – سانتاآنا گاؤں کے اکلوتے گرجے کا نیا پادری. گاؤں میں داخل ہوتے  ہی اس نے مرکزی چوک کے کنویں سے جی بھر کر پانی پیا اور کسی سے کوئی فالتو بات کئے بغیر، سیدھا گرجے گھر پر پہنچ کر، اپنی ذمہ داریاں سنبھال لیں

جیسے جیسے وقت گزرتا گیا، گاؤں کے لوگوں کو احساس ہوتا چلا گیا کہ فادر آندرے کوئی معمولی پادری نہیں تھا بلکہ شاید انسان کے روپ میں کوئی فرشتہ یا پھر ولی تھا جو خداوند نے سانتا آنا گاؤں پر ترس کھا کر بھیجا تھا

پچھلا پادری کھانے پینے کا انتہائی شوقین تھا اور حد درجہ کا بلانوش بھی تھا. کئ دفعہ تو اتوار کے دن دعا کے موقعے پر، گرجے کی سستی وایئن کی بوتل بھی خالی ملتی تھی؛ اور پادری صاحب کے الفاظ اور قدم، دونوں ڈگمگا رہے ہوتے تھے

لوگ فادرآندرے کو فرشتہ یا ولی الله اسلئے سمجھتے تھے کیونکہ وہ پچھلے پادری کے برعکس صحیح معنوں میں ایک درویش صفت آدمی تھا. نا کھانے پینے کا شوق تھا اور نا ہی پینے پلانے کا. خواتین کی طرف تو دیکھنے سے بھی گریز کرتا تھا. تمام خواہشات سے پرہیز کرتا تھا اور یوں لگتا تھا کہ جیسے خداوند نے اسے پیدا ہی پرہیزگاری کیلئے کیا تھا

حقیقت کیا تھی، وہ فادر آندرے سے زیادہ بہتر کوئی اور نہیں جانتا تھا. جب بھی لوگ اس کی پرہیزگاری سے متاثر ہو کر اس کے ہاتھ چومتے تھے تو وہ زیرلب ضرور مسکراتا تھا

دراصل بہت بچپن سے ہی فادرآندرے کو پادری بننے کا شوق تھا. اسلئے کہ یہ وہ واحد پیشہ تھا کہ جس میں لوگوں پر برتری پانے کیلئے، کسی دولت یا دنیاوی تعلقات کی ضرورت نہیں تھی. پھر اس کا یہ بھی دل چاہتا تھا کہ شاید اس کے مرنے کے بعد یا اس سے پہلے ہی لوگ اسے کوئی سینٹ سمجھیں اور فرط عقیدت سے اس کے ہاتھ چومتے رہیں اور آس پاس منڈلاتے رہیں

لیکن پادری بننے کے بعد اس کو احساس ہوا کہ پرہیزگاری کی راہ پر چلنا کوئی خالہ جی کا گھر نہیں تھا. ہر قدم پر دل کو مارنا پڑتا تھا؛ اور یہ اس کیلئے بیحد مشکل ثابت ہورہا تھا

چونکہ فادر آندرے کا تعلق ایک بہت غریب خاندان سے تھا اور بچپن بہت محرومی اور بھوک میں گزرا تھا تو جب بھی کسی دعوت میں شریک ہوتا، تو ہاتھ اور منہ روکنا مشکل ہوجاتا. اور پھر کون صحیح الدماغ انسان اچھی سرخ وایئن کو ٹھکرا سکتا تھا. جب پیٹ مرغن غذاؤں اور شراب سے بھرجاتا تو پھر نظر حسین چہروں اور صحت مند نسوانی جسموں پر بھٹکنا شروع کر دیتی

آہستہ آہستہ ان حرکات کی وجہ سے اس کا مزاق اڑنا شروع ہوگیا. یہاں تک کہ مَیکسکن چرچ کی طرف سے دو تین انتباہی مراسلے بھی موصول ہوگئے تو فادرآندرے کو اپنے مقدس خواب مٹی میں ملتے نظر آئے. لیکن باوجود بھرپور کوشش کے وہ اپنی خواہشات پر قابو پانے میں کامیاب نہیں ہوسکا تھا

پھر ایک شام شیطان فادر آندرے بارتولو سے ملنے چلا آیا اور اسے ایک ایسی پیشکش کی کہ فادرآندرے اسے قبول کرنے پر مجبور ہوگیا

‘مرنے کے بعد اپنی روح مجھے سونپ دینے کا وعدہ کرو تو میں تمھاری سب خواہشات ایک پل میں پوری کر دوں گا.’ شیطان نے مسکراتے ہوئے کہا

یہ ہی تو سارا مسلہء ہے.’ فادر آندرے نے ہاتھ ملتے ہوئے جواب دیا. ‘میں اپنی تمام نفسانی خواہشات سے ہی تو جان چھڑانا چاہتا ہوں

‘ہیں؟’ شیطان چونک کر کھڑا ہوگیا. ‘یہ کیسی خواہش ہے؟’

بس یہ ہی میری خواہش ہے’، نوجوان پادری نے کہا. ‘میں چاہتا ہوں کہ میری ساری خواہشات ختم ہو جایئں، میرا نفس مر جائے اور میں اپنی زندگی میں ہی سینٹ کا رتبہ پا جاؤں

‘ٹھیک ہوگیا!’ شیطان نے جیب سے معاہدہ نکالتے ہوئے کہا. ‘اس پر اپنے خون سے دستخط کر دو’

فادرآندرے شیطان کے ساتھ معاہدہ کر کے بہت خوش تھا. اس کو پوری امید تھی کہ چونکہ وہ خواہشات سے جان چھڑا چکا ہے تو روزمحشر وہ کوئی گناہ نا ہونے کے بائث سیدھا جنت میں جائے گا اور شیطان کچھ بھی نہیں کر سکے گا

وقت گزرتا چلا گیا. سانتا آنا گاؤں میں دس سال بتانے کے بعد، فادرآندرے پہلے بشپ اور پھر کارڈینل بن گیا. تھوڑے عرصے میں ہی اس کی پرہیزگاری سے متاثر ہو کر لوگوں نے اسے سینٹ کا درجہ دے دیا اور دور دور سے اس کی زیارت کو آنے لگے

پھر ایک دن وہ مر گیا اور فرشتوں نے اس کی روح کو لے جا کر بارگاہ الہی میں پیش کر دیا

‘اس کو گھسیٹ کر لے جو اور سیدھا جہنم کی دہکتی آگ میں لے جا کر پھینک دو.’ خداوند نے حکم دیا

رحم خداوند! رحم! کیا مجھے اسلئے جہنم میں پھینکا جا رہا ہے کیونکہ میں نے شیطان سے معاہدہ کیا تھا؟’ فادرآندرے نے گڑگڑا کر پوچھا

‘نہیں!’ خداوند نے بے اعتنائی سے جواب دیا’

تمھیں اسلئے جہنم میں پھینکا جا رہا ہے کیونکہ تم نے خواہشات سے انکار کیا. کیونکہ تم یہ بھول گئے کہ خواہشات بھی میں نے کسی مقصد سے بنائی ہیں. انسان خواہش کرتا ہے؛ پھر گناہ کرتا ہے؛ پھر گناہ پر پچھتاتا ہے؛ اور پھر توبہ کر کہ پرہیزگاری کے رستے پر چلتا ہے. جب تم نے خواہش سے ہی انکار کر دیا تو پھر پرہیزگاری کیسی؟

#Urdu #story #fiction #God #devil #church #saint #desires #denial #contract #sensuality #selfcontrol

Saudade – The Melancholic Longing

Posted in Short Stories English by

‘Tell me why you are here?’ I caressed the back of her delicate ivory hand. It was smooth and cold but with a subtle warmth pulsating just under the fragile skin.  

‘Tell me why you are here? Tell me why you are with me at this very moment?’

‘I really do not know.’ A tiny smile danced around the corners of her lips. She peered into my eyes, looking for an answer or perhaps solace. And then she suddenly broke the magic and looked away.

Read more: Saudade – The Melancholic Longing

Vienna was the usual evening chaos. Desires were following desires in an endless pursuit. The lights of some old Gothic palace, reflected in and danced along the soft waves of the Danube. The river was the cauldron of silence and the moist evening breeze heightened our senses.

Across the cobbled yard, stood a couple of street musicians. The tall and graceful woman was playing a sad symphony on her old violin, while her companion, an old man, was plucking bits of joy from the keys of his weather-beaten accordion. I listened to them closely and recognized loss and love – singing their eternal duet.

She looked back at me.

‘Why don’t you tell me; why you are here?’ A challenge flashed briefly in her smiling eyes. ‘Why are you here in Vienna?’

For a single and brief moment, she became what she was a half-decade ago – a beautiful golden dragon that breathed the fire of unspoken desires. An unpredictable dragon and an independent dragon – free to roam the wide blue skies.

‘Why am I here?’ I asked myself looking down at the lines mapping the palms of my hands. Then I raised my head and looked back at her with an answering smile.

‘Perhaps I am lost or perhaps I am here for the love that remains.’

When I first met her, I was not as young as I once used to be, but I was as restless as the branches of a tall pine tree. She was the strong wind, blowing through my branches after a very long time. Slim and charming with soft brown hair, cascading all around her lovely face; and a taut sensuous body. Her strange and unnameable seduction weaved its magic wand and I fell under her spell.

I remembered looking at her for the first time. She reminded me of the dark mysterious forests, smelling heavily of the tropical rains. She reminded me of the moist green moss, climbing and curving along the tree trunks. And she reminded me of the rain-drenched soil, emitting wisps of a fragrant mist. Whenever I try to remember what I felt on first seeing her, someone always whispers a one-word answer in my ears – desire.

But it was not an utterly sensuous desire. More than sensuality, my desire spoke of unconditional love.

She looked like a goddess. From behind her dark unsmiling eyes, peeked a bright light of brilliance. Sometimes, when I looked at her face closely, under my worshipping gaze, her chiseled features gradually melted into a soft and malleable kindness. She was a goddess who demanded to be loved while hiding behind tradition and humility. I fell in love with her because the possibility of losing her in the whirling sands of time frightened me.    

‘I think I am in love.’ I excitedly spilled out my secret to the old banyan tree. Both of us were the only two souls in the courtyard of the Tomb of the Lonely Saint. The saint was long dead but his spirit, as I felt, was residing within the tree.

‘And when did you realize this?’ The tree asked in a deep, old, and rusty voice – its texture as rough as his bark.

‘The realization came slowly – almost like the hesitant monsoon rain. But now that it is here, I feel as if struck by a thunderbolt I said, sitting down with my back to the trunk.

‘I can feel the lightening tingling along my spine and nerves.’

‘Beware son!’ The old tree whispered back.

‘Love is a banshee disguised as a butterfly. It may be kind to some – mostly fools. But to those who recognize and understand her and submit to her power willingly, she is always cruel beyond words.’

‘She is not a banshee. She is a golden butterfly and her wings reflect all the colors of this world.’ I protested.

The tree felt silent and thought for a moment.

‘Perhaps it is yet not love. Perhaps it is desire – a desire that does not dissolve with the waning moon. But a desire that is capable of evolving into love one day.’

‘What if it always remains a desire?’ My heart trembled with the fear of loss.

‘Hmm….!’ The tree rustled its many branches and legions of tired pigeons flew out, scared of the sudden movement.

‘Remember son! Desire is one of the most powerful of all forces of nature. It is the force that makes the world go around in circles. Desire takes birth, deep within the warm recesses of our ever-hungry hearts. It climbs our souls like a vine climbs up a tree, entrapping and teasing the branches. It starts with an almost erotic touch and then embeds its tentacles deep below our skin And then it starts sucking. It hungrily sucks in our soul and our ego and our character and our self-control; and it leaves us empty and dry.’

The tree said it all deliberately and in his usual sing-song style. His wisdom was like an old wine – each sip to be savored and treasured.

‘How do I ensure that this doesn’t just remain a desire?’ The fear was growing stronger.  

‘Whenever two souls come across each other, floating along the river of time; it is always for a higher purpose. And the purpose is always love.’ The tree said.

‘Don’t worry son!’ A few dry leaves floated down and caressed my shoulders kindly. ‘If it is meant to be, it will be.’

‘You have always had the habit of talking in riddles.’ She took a sip and closed her dark beautiful eyes for a moment.

‘Well, that is just me.’ I smiled at her. ‘Anyway, why are you here in Vienna?’

‘New York troubles my soul sometimes.’ She stared back into my eyes. ‘The chaos disturbs the quest for inner peace. And Vienna always attracted me with its old architecture and good music.’

We grew quiet for a moment. The musicians had stopped but the notes of their strange sad-happy symphony were still whispering beyond the edges of silence.

I looked at her face. I was wrong. She did not look as young as I had initially thought. There were lines on her face – very fine lines. I peered at them closely. Under my careful gaze, each line became a crack and the crack widened into a gorge and within that gorge, there flowed the river of time.

‘Why are you here?’ She suddenly broke the fragile silence hovering around and between us.

‘I curate a small museum of antiquities along the Bräunerstraße. And in the evening I come here. I listen to the music and I write.’

‘Do you find it strange?’ She hesitated – her delicate mouth quivering like a bow stretched in full. ‘Do you find it strange – us meeting here in Vienna?’

‘I haven’t been able to understand something.’ I tried to change the subject.

‘And what is that, my son?’ The tree asked kindly.

‘Why doesn’t she ever smile?’

‘And why do you want her to smile?’ He chucked softly.

‘I want to see her face breaking into a smile;, and I want to see the light of happiness shining through. I want to see the smiling lines appear around the corners of her mouth and eyes, and I want those lines to become an intricate treasure map. And then I want to trace those lines with my lips and find the treasure.’

‘It is definitely desire.’ The tree commented. ‘But don’t worry, she will smile one day.’

‘And when will that be?’ I was growing skeptical

‘Remember son! An oyster lies deep within the ocean and awaits the arrival of a single grain of sand. And once that grain enters the oyster, it takes years and years to coat that grain with nacre. With patience and with time, that grain of sand becomes a lustrous pearl. The oyster remains patient. It keeps that pearl secure within its shell – hiding it from greedy eyes. But one day, when and if the true seeker of the pearl arrives, the oyster opens up willingly and offers the pearl.’

‘So she is the oyster and one day she may offer love with a smile if I remain true.’ I had understood what the tree wanted to tell me.

‘I would like an answer to my question.’ Her voice broke my reverie.

‘Huh! What question is that?’ I looked at her while thinking fondly of my old friend – the old banyan tree.

‘I asked you if you find it strange – us meeting here in Vienna out of the blue?’

‘Nothing is out of the blue.’ I smiled at her. ‘Whenever two souls come across each other, floating along the river of time; it is always for a higher purpose.’

We didn’t speak any more words. We just sat there beside the Danube – two silent shadows lost in their own thoughts. Then her hand moved and covered mine. It was warm and soft. I looked up at her and witnessed a slow and subtle transformation. Her eyes crinkled a little and the lines around the corners of her lips formed a smile. It was the loveliest of all the smiles in the whole world.

We reached across the table and my lips found hers. I delicately and carefully traced the lines and finally found the treasure.  

#English #fiction #story #saudade #longing #melancholia #love #desire #quest #patience #pearl #oyster #wisdom  

Past, Present & Future – The Sacred Triangle

Posted in Short Stories English by

‘Did you hear the dead man’s words?’ Maga asked me.

‘Yes, I did.’

‘And what have you understood?’

‘That past was a dream, the future is a fantasy, and the present is all that ever matters.’

Read more: Past, Present & Future – The Sacred Triangle

‘Jawdat! Please listen to me, son.’ My old father used to request me, while we sat on the sand dunes, watching the long lines of caravans leaving and entering Damascus.

‘Jawdat my darling son! Everything in the universe speaks. The mountains, the deserts, the oceans, and the clouds – they all speak. But in order to understand them, you have to first learn their sacred language.’

He was a strange man – my father. He was a priest once, but not anymore. Once he started questioning the power of the gods, he was soon ousted from the ranks of the holy. The other priests thought him mad and I shared their opinion. But strangely, his ousting from the temple did bring us two closer. We started sitting together and eating together and taking long walks in the golden desert surrounding the ancient city of Damascus.

It was only when I started listening to him with attention that I realized something. He was not mad. Instead, he was blessed with a miraculous ability to see the invisible and look beyond the horizon. He had seen the true light and his wise words vibrated with the rationale of his beliefs.

‘What about the light father?’ I asked him.

‘What about it?’ He looked at me with confusion.

‘Does the light speak too?’

‘Yes it does and so does the darkness.’ He nodded his head and his eyes reflected the expanse of the clear blue sky.

‘The darkness?’ I was confused. ‘Darkness is nothing – even pure darkness is the absolute absence of light.’

‘Not at all, Jawdat.’ He smiled knowingly.

‘Where light is all energy, darkness carries neither matter nor energy. But still, it exists. And its independence from energy ensures that darkness travels through time without any transformation. This intactness of darkness makes it wiser than the light.’

‘But what do they say? What do they tell us – the light and the darkness?’ I asked without completely understanding his line of reasoning.   

‘The light tells us that life is a sacred triangle.’ He bent down and drew a triangle in the sand with his brass-tipped staff.

‘One corner of this triangle is survival; the second corner is love; and the third corner is desire.’ He drew the ancient symbols for each of these elements – a smaller baseless triangle within a circle for survival; a crowned heart for love; and a snake for desire.

‘And where does this triangle reside? Does it remain suspended within the confines of the soul?’ I asked him. To me, the soul encompassed all.

‘No, my son!’ My father said, drawing a circle enclosing the sacred triangle and the three symbols within.

‘The scared triangle with its elements of survival, love, and desire, exists within a real moment of time.’

‘All moments of time are real Father.’ I laughed.

‘No, Jawdat!’ he looked at me sternly.

‘The past is obscured in the dust of time, and the future is just a possibility. Only the present is real. So it is in the present that the scared triangle hangs and resides. And that is something that the darkness tells us.’

I scooped up some sand in my palm and looked at it closely. The grains were all together, yet separate and individual. Some shone with a sparkling brilliance, while others were just grey and black speckles. I clenched my fist and the sand slipped out. I tried to hold it in but it all drained out.   

I looked up and found the old woman watching me intently.

‘Tell me O’ Maga, the wise one!’ I asked her, watching her silver hair blowing with the night wind.

‘What is the most significant of these three: the past, the present or the future?’

‘Hmm!’ She raised both her hands and tied her hair in a loose bun with her ringed fingers. The red and greens of the rubies and emeralds flashed from within the silver threads.

‘What do you think child? What do you believe, is the most significant of these three?’

I looked up at her. She was silent but there was a subtle smile dancing at the corners of her mouth.

She was strange – the old woman. Maga – that’s what she told me her name was. And I was beginning to believe that Maga was the embodiment of the sacred triangle for me.

I found her in the desert. Rather it was she who found me. My caravan was attacked by the robbers two nights out of Balkh. I was deeply wounded and was left for dead by the other survivors. How many days and nights I spent in the cold mountains, I do not know. Each sunrise brought along a new intensity of misery and thirst; while each night burnt me with her cold freezing fingers.

Then one evening, something cold and wet was pressed against my blackened and dry lips. Slowly, a few drops of water trickled onto my thorny tongue and down my parched throat. I slowly opened my eyes. My head was resting on her folded thigh and her kind face was smiling down at me. She had drenched her black scarf in water and was wetting my lips.

Gradually, I came back to life. She had snatched me away from the clutches of death. At first, I thought she was just a vision – an illusion and product of my deranged mind. But the revival of my strength assured me of the reality of her existence.

We were inseparable thereafter. Maga did not need my company at all. She was old but still wild enough to carry a curved dagger, hidden within the folds of her black robe. She apparently needed neither food nor water. I had never seen her eating anything except sometimes I saw her chewing on some dried roots and mushrooms.

Maga was my scared triangle – in that there was no doubt. She was my survival when I needed to cling to life. She was my warmth when I was tortured by my loneliness. And one night she became my desire when my senses were heavy with lust and my body was craving human touch. I expected myself to be disgusted in the morning. But when the sun rose, I found my heart filled with only love for her. So yes, she had become my sacred triangle.  

‘So what do you think child? Maga asked breaking my reverie.

‘Huh?’ I looked at her questioningly.

‘What is the most significant of these three: the past, the present or the future?’

I thought hard before presenting an answer.

‘My past has made me what I am and my future is pulling me into itself. But I am breathing in the present. So perhaps, the present is the most significant of all.’ I brushed off the dust on my hands and looked up at her.

‘Yes!’ She smiled with her kohl-lined eyes. I peered into them and the reflection of the bright moon peered back at me.

The past is only a dream and the future is a fantasy. Only the present is real – as real as it can be.’

‘But what if the present is also a dream?’ I asked.

‘That is possible too of course.’ She smiled at me. ‘But you are living this dream…aren’t you?’

‘Yes! I am.’

‘Past is important because it started with your birth, and the future is important because it will end with your death.’ She spread her hands and the night wind blew her long robe in a trail of grey shadows.

‘But what is enclosed in between these two absolute realities, is a series of moments. Each of these moments becomes the future, present, and then past. But it is only when the moment exists in the present that it matters the most. Because it encompasses the entirety of your existence.’

‘Maga?’ I asked her. ‘Do the dead regret not living in the moment?’

‘That is something only the dead can tell you, child!’

‘Hmm!’ I sat down on the cold sand and she rested her head on my shoulder.

I smelt the sandalwood smell of her silver hair and closed my eyes peacefully. The night was melting fast around us and the moon was diving below the horizon. Soon it became just a yellow shadow in the West.

‘Jawdat!’ Maga whispered in my ear and I opened my eyes.

The dark night had enveloped us completely and the desert was all silent. The wind had died down and the lonely stars were sparkling silently – witnessing our present.

I looked at her and she directed my gaze towards a few stars lining the horizon. Some of them gradually detached from the others and slowly crept nearer until they became a short trail of moving lanterns. The dead night air sighed again and brought the murmuring of the wavering wails to our ears. 

There were shadows hiding behind the lanterns. Slowly, the shadows started assuming a human form. It looked like a funeral procession, creeping along the soft sand with deliberate steps. By then, the wail had become a rich mixture of grief and tears, the heralds of some unspoken tragedy.

I saw the wooden box, solemn in its quiet grace, riding the shoulders of wailing mourners. Though it jerked and rolled with each step, its occupant was very much dead and lifeless.

‘Jawdat!’ Maga again whispered my name and then muttered some words under her breath.

I felt my body dissolving into the darkness. I became the night wind and caressed the wet cheeks of the tired mourners. I tasted the bitterness of tragedy and then stole into the dark coffin. I became the darkness itself and crawled beneath the dead eyelids. And the dead spoke to me:

‘Touch my lips, which have kissed a hundred beauties;

and caress my eyes, which have dreamt a million dreams

Feel my heart, that preferred passion over duties;

and trace my veins, which once pulsated with extremes

But no more, my friend; no more.

Now I am a lonesome traveler, walking a dark path;

my fate is unsure, my end is all vague

There is no light in my eyes, neither joy nor wrath;

my heart silently suffers – loneliness the deadliest plague

I was a man once, but now am just a bundle of flesh;

the flesh that is beginning to rot and stink

I wish I could start my whole life afresh;

I wish I had more time, to ponder and think

Look at my wife, beating her chest in grief;

but her tears are drying up really fast

Tomorrow she will live again, for this tragedy was brief;

I was her joy in the present, but now I am her past

Listen to the shuffling steps that belong to my weary sons;

they are burdened with sorrow, but their hearts are filled with hope

Tomorrow they will rise again, for death only momentarily stuns;

for their future is bright as they will slowly climb the rope

Listen my friend…….and listen very carefully;

my time has come and yours will come soon

Listen my friend…….and listen very carefully;

I am now dead and you too will die soon

Life is the dew drops, evaporating fast once kissed by the sun;

dust on the wings of a moth, turning to ash once kissed by the flame

So live your life, live it to the full; have all the joy, have all the fun;

for, in the end, you will be forever alone with your own regrets and shame’

‘Did you hear the dead man’s words?’ Maga asked me.

‘Yes, I did.’

‘And what have you understood?’

‘That past was a dream, the future is a fantasy and the present is all that ever matters.’

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