Rivers' Companions (Short Story)

 

 

Rivers' Companions

By

Shahzad Aslam

(Translated from Punjabi)

 

Clusters of people, searching for their lost destinies across long distances, would pour into this city like ants and settle as if it were their ultimate destination. Setting up camp, they'd become masters of this beautiful courtesan. With time, this courtesan would ensnare the new inhabitants with her magic, making them forget their past. A powerful horseman would arrive, and open the courtesan's legs just as Moses parted the Red Sea with his staff. This city of Lahore continues to bear the scars of Arabic, Urdu, and English words on its walls. Even Durga Maa, leaving her abode, sings songs of separation in her forgotten tongue, far from the five rivers.

شفعہ: ایک چلتا پھرتا مردہ قانون

 

 

شفعہ: ایک چلتا پھرتا مردہ قانون

از

ٹیپو سلمان مخدوم

(انگریزی سے ترجمہ)

 

ہم کون ہیں؟

ہم مردہ نہیں ہیں، لیکن میرے اس آزاد خیال عقیدے پر بہت سے لوگ سنجیدگی سے بحث کرتے ہیں۔ ناقدین کا دعویٰ ہے کہ ہم بے جان مادّہ ہیں، حیاتیاتی طور پر نہیں بلکہ فکری اور ثقافتی لحاظ سے۔ وہ کہتے ہیں کہ ایک زندہ ثقافت کی بنیادی خصوصیت یہ ہے کہ وہ بدلتے ہوئے حالات کے ساتھ جوش و خروش سے ہم آہنگ ہوتی ہے، اور ایک زندہ شعور ہمیشہ بدلتی ہوئی حقیقت کے ساتھ پروان چڑھتا ہے اور اسی کے مطابق نئے خیالات، نظریات اور عالمی نظریات پیدا کرتا ہے۔ اور یہ کہ ہم میں زندہ ہونے کی یہ لازمی اہلیت یقیناً نہیں ہے۔ اس طرح یہ ثابت ہوتا ہے کہ ہم مردہ ہیں۔

دولت اور نظریہ Thomas Piketty

 

CAPITAL AND IDEOLOGY

by

Thomas Piketty

Introduction

انگریزی سے اردو

---

تعارف-آسان زبان میں

ہر انسانی معاشرے کو یہ جواز پیش کرنے کی ضرورت ہے کہ کچھ لوگوں کے پاس دوسروں سے زیادہ کیوں ہے۔ اگر وہ ان اختلافات کی کوئی معقول وجہ نہیں تلاش کر سکتے تو پورا سماجی اور سیاسی ڈھانچہ گرنے کے خطرے میں پڑ جاتا ہے۔ لہٰذا، تاریخ کے ہر دور میں، معاشروں نے موجودہ عدم مساوات کو منصفانہ ظاہر کرنے یا یہ دلیل دینے کے لیے کہ بعض عدم مساوات کا کیوں وجود ہونا چاہیے، مختلف متضاد خیالات اور نظریات کو پروان چڑھایا ہے۔ پھر یہ خیالات مخصوص اقتصادی، سماجی اور سیاسی قواعد کو جنم دیتے ہیں جنہیں لوگ اپنے معاشرے کو سمجھنے کے لیے استعمال کرتے ہیں۔ ان مختلف خیالات کے تصادم سے—ایک ایسا تصادم جو بیک وقت اقتصادی، سماجی اور سیاسی ہوتا ہے—ایک غالب نظریات کا مجموعہ ابھرتا ہے جو عدم مساوات کے موجودہ نظام کو تقویت دیتا ہے۔

دولت کی تقسیم Thomas Piketty

 

 

CAPITAL IN THE TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY

By

Thomas Piketty

 

Introduction

 

 

انگریزی سے اردو

تعارف: دولت کی تقسیم پر بڑی بحث  (آسان زبان میں)

فرانسیسی "اعلانِ حقوقِ انسانی" جو 1789 میں ہوا تھا، یہ کہتا ہے کہ سماجی فرق تب ہی ہونا چاہیے جب اس سے سب کو فائدہ ہو۔ یہ ہمیں ایک بہت بڑی، جاری بحث کی طرف لے جاتا ہے: معاشرے میں دولت کیسے تقسیم ہوتی ہے؟

ایک لمبے عرصے سے لوگ اس پر بحث کرتے رہے ہیں۔ کیا 19ویں صدی کے کارل مارکس کا یہ خیال درست تھا کہ نجی دولت جمع ہونے سے قدرتی طور پر دولت چند ہی ہاتھوں میں سمٹ جاتی ہے؟ یا 20ویں صدی کے سائمن کزنیٹس سچ کے زیادہ قریب تھے، یہ تجویز کرتے ہوئے کہ اقتصادی ترقی، مقابلہ، اور نئی ٹیکنالوجیز بالآخر عدم مساوات کو کم کرتی ہیں اور طبقات کے درمیان زیادہ ہم آہنگی پیدا کرتی ہیں؟

بارٹر کا افسانہ (The Myth of Barter) DAVID GRAEBER

 

DEBT: THE FIRST 5,000 YEARS

By

DAVID GRAEBER

 

Ø Winner of 2012 Bread and Roses Award for Radical Publishing,

 

Ø Winner of 2012 Gregory Bateson book prize, awarded by the Society for Cultural Anthropology

 

.Chapter-2

The Myth of Barter

انگریزی سے اردو

---

باٹر کا افسانہ (The Myth of Barter) آسان زبان میں

اس کتاب کا دوسرا باب، جس کا عنوان "باٹر کا افسانہ" ہے، اس عام خیال کو چیلنج کرتا ہے کہ پیسہ اور قرض کیسے وجود میں آئے۔ جیسا کہ ایچ ایل مینکن نے ذہانت سے کہا، اکثر ایک پیچیدہ سوال کا سب سے آسان جواب غلط ہوتا ہے۔

مصنف سب سے پہلے کسی کے لیے محض احساسِ ذمہ داری اور حقیقی قرض میں فرق واضح کرتے ہیں۔ جواب سیدھا ہے: پیسہ۔ قرض ایک مخصوص رقم ہوتی ہے جو آپ پر واجب الادا ہوتی ہے، اور اس رقم کو صحیح طریقے سے ناپنے کے لیے آپ کو پیسے کی ضرورت ہوتی ہے۔

A Return to Roots (Short Story)

A Return to Roots

By

Tipu Salman Makhdoom

(Translated from Urdu)

Even though jet bridges are now common at Pakistani airports, the American plane didn't get one. If this had happened in America, there'd be an uproar. But after twenty years as an American citizen, with America deeply ingrained in him, he considered it normal for a developing country like Pakistan, despite returning after twenty-five years. He hadn't planned on coming back, but his young nephew's sudden death compelled him to offer support to his brother, even if only for a few days. Missing the funeral wasn't ideal, but arriving four days later was still something. To top it off, the plane landed in Lahore at four in the morning.

The Cloudburst (Short Story)

 The Cloudburst

By

Tipu Salman Makhdoom

(Translated from Punjabi)

 

 

That day, everyone feared that Lahore would surely experience a monsoon cloudburst. The forecast predicted a deluge. All waited for the thunder from the sky, but it came instead over the phone: the bell announcing Uncle’s death.

Through song, they extolled her slenderness, proclaiming it the very essence of her beauty, "Twenty-eight waist, forty-seven weight, that lovely girl has," and they call me an insect! Is my slender waist not beautiful to them? They say I bite, yet they cannot love without biting. For these two-legged gods, a two-foot beating is enough, but for my six legs, the journey is long. Their stomachs, these granaries, are so vast, never truly filled. One might ask, when they will let us devour the corpse us in the earth, letting us feed here brings death? Let me quickly gnaw off a piece; they'll take it somewhere else to bury anyway.

The Child (Short Story)

 The Child

By

Tipu Salman Makhdoom

(Translated from Punjabi)

His heart swelled with joy as he gazed at the air hostess’s form, her slender waist seeming on the verge of tearing under the voluptuous curves above and below. All his anxieties, the emotional torment of seeing his dying mother, vanished instantly. He eyed her with a potter's discerning gaze. From the front, she was a graceful urn with two plump pots beneath her neck; from behind, it seemed two earthen jars of vinegar swayed beneath her waist. Since when did PIA recruit such eye candies? Fifteen years ago, it was all veiled aunties, hidden in their cloaks and scarves.

Morning (Short Story)

Morning

By

Tipu Salman Makhdoom 

(Translated from Punjabi)

 

I shivered, chilled to the bone.

I quickly filled the tub with hot water, stripped off my clothes, and immediately froze, again, from the cold. The electric geyser had given up. Its red light on, it was now peeing cold water into the pipe. I turned off the tap and dipped my hand into the water; it was hot. I glared at the little, white, egg-shaped object, hanging two feet above the shower head, no bigger than a small bucket. Damn it, trying to act like a big geyser.

“It's a bit too hot, might scald me. Should I add some cold water?” he mused, reaching for the tap.

The Fan (Short Story)

The Fan

By

Tipu Salman Makhdoom 

(Translated from Punjabi)

 

Hung upside down from the ceiling, it endlessly spins.

When it's running, it seems as though its three blades are chasing each other. But when it's still, no one pursues anyone. Without electricity, they remain docile, like dutiful children, resting peacefully in their appointed places. Yet, at the push of a button, they are thrown into a frantic whirl.

A stopped fan cannot tell you who is behind whom. Only its motion reveals who will lead and who will trail. Perhaps the blades believe they surge ahead through sheer effort and dedication. Little do they know, they are mere mechanical parts, powerless to do anything but spin.

The Blind Girl (Short Story)

 The Blind Girl

By

Tipu Salman Makhdoom

(Translated from Punjabi)

Death is not of this world; it is the path to the next. In this world, nothing truly dies. Not homes, nor the rooms within them. Every room lives, a world unto itself, a realm of enchanting wonder. So profound that one cannot perceive all its layers with mere eyes. Within every single thing, a world resides.

Afi Baji’s brother was telling me this. He often engages me in such conversations. He’s a neighbor, and he makes an effort to humor me, which I tolerate with tight lips. But that day, my tongue broke free from the prison of my teeth.

Father's House (Short Story)

Father's House

By

Tipu Salman Makhdoom

(Translated from Punjabi)

Only the humble build homes: sparrows, ants, and the middle class. Have wild beasts ever built palaces?

I was nearly swallowed by walls, sprouting from the earth, and a scene from that time remains etched in my mind to this day. Perhaps it's a true memory, or maybe a film formed from countless retellings. My father, burdened by debt, would bring me every other day to witness the house taking shape. "This will be our home," he'd repeat, "This will be our home." He'd say it over and over, like street vendors flaunting a new trinket. He was overjoyed. For his economic class, building a home is like giving birth, a process that rattles one to the core from within. The rest of one's life is spent nurturing and raising it, only to eventually end up in a six-foot grave oneself.

The Corpse (Short Story)

 The Corpse

By 

Tipu Salman Makhdoom 

(Translated from Punjabi) 

He was alone in the house, and the night was to be spent with Tara’s corpse.

Tara had died just that afternoon. Sixty-year-old Tara was a gardener, a watchman, and when needed, he could drive too. He had worked here for ten years and lived in the quarter beside the house. His family was in the village. They had been informed of his death and said they would arrive at dawn to take the body.

The Day (Short Story)

 The Day

By 

Tipu Salman Makhdoom

(Translated from Punjabi) 

He cinched his tie around his neck, and before knotting it, he grabbed his phone and hailed an Uber. The app estimated the fare between four hundred and four hundred and fifty rupees. The journey from Johar Town to Mall Road would be some thirteen or fourteen miles. A comfortable, air-conditioned car was to pick him up from home and deliver him precisely where he wished, with utmost deference. He, the master, in the back, and the driver, respectfully in front. Four hundred rupees for such an excursion was hardly excessive. The app indicated the car would arrive in three minutes. He placed his phone on the table, quickly tied his knot, slipped on his socks and shoes, donned his coat, tucked his wallet into one pocket and his phone into the other, and stepped out. The moment he emerged, he encountered the gardener.

The Objectives Resolution (Short Story)

 The Objectives Resolution

By 

Tipu Salman Makhdoom

(Translated from Punjabi) 

When people shriek that I was born in 712 AD, I'm simply bewildered. I was born on the shores of the Arabian Sea in 1949; how could they be dragging me back over twelve hundred years? But people turn red and yellow, drooling, their eyes bulging so fiercely that I, myself, grow anxious. I only know what has happened since my own eyes first opened. Before that, I've merely heard tales. And we are not like humans, where the elders recount history to the young. People are the ones who tell me where my lineage begins. They say I was merely born in my present form on March 12, 1949, in the Assembly Chamber in Karachi. My essence was born on the coast of Debal when Muhammad bin Qasim the Arab attacked in 712 AD, overthrowing the local Sindhi ruler, Dahir, and then the Sindhi people began to shift from being Hindu to Muslim. They say tribes are bound by blood, but nations are forged by ideas. So when the Sindhis embraced Islam, their tribe remained Sindhi, but their nation transformed from Sindhi to Muslim. And so, the Sindhi nation was divided, cleaved by the power of an idea... Now, Sindh no longer held Sindhi and Arab nations. Nor it held anymore the Buddhist, Jain, Hindu, and Muslim nations. Only two nations were there now: the Muslim nation and the infidel nation.

The Thai Ladyboy (Short Story)

 The Thai Ladyboy

By 

Tipu Salman Makhdoom

(Translated from Punjabi) 

He was a ladyboy from Thailand, but he was truly beautiful. Whenever he comes to mind, two things flash before my eyes: his luscious lips and his weeping eyes.

The last time our gazes met, his eyes welled up with tears. He probably still believes that only he cried that day. But I cried too.

The Tomato in the Fridge (Short Story)

 The Tomato in the Fridge

By 

Tipu Salman Makhdoom 

(Translated from Punjabi) 

I tell no one. If I do, they’ll tie me up and take me to the mad doctor, who’ll numb my senses with medicines. A doctor, after all, for the insane.

That's why I don't tell them I've recovered. They're all mad, you see. If they find out, they'll drive me mad again.

I had already begun to feel they suspected something. Sometimes, two or three of them would be whispering, and as soon as they saw me, they'd fall silent. And if I looked closely, they'd stare back intently.

A.I. Tears (Short Story)

 

A.I. Tears

By 

Tipu Salman Makhdoom

(Translated from Punjabi)

A gentle stir, and a soft whisper pulled him from sleep. It was his Barbie Doll, his robotic girlfriend, standing over him with a steaming cup of tea. "It's January 1st, 2079," she chimed, her voice a perfect, soothing melody. He took the cup, and Barbie leaned in, her flawless lips brushing his. "Happy New Year," she smiled, a picture of effortless warmth.

A familiar annoyance pricked at him, still tangled in sleep. If this were a human girlfriend, he'd be forced to craft a smile, offer a hug, and return the greeting, even if his heart wasn't in it. Otherwise, she'd read it as anger. The best thing about his robot partner was escaping those fake displays of affection. If love stirred within him, he showed it; if not, he simply didn't, and she never seemed to mind. No anger, no arguments. That's why he liked his Barbie so much.

Pure (Short Story)

 

Pure

By

Tipu Salman Makhdoom

(Translated from Punjabi)

 

The glittering cutting edge of the steel blade, emerging from the yellow cheerful grip, was razor-sharp. A feather-light brush was enough to send the apple slice tumbling. Amidst the relentless rhythm of the blade, a dark chuckle escaped him as he instinctively shielded his fingers—though what purpose did they serve now? With the precision born of habit, he nudged the glistening apple slices aside, his hands, unlined yet bearing the silver frost of age on the wrists, gathering the discarded cores into a small mound. Two full kilograms of small, crimson mountain apples lay dismembered, their stems cast off. He then drew a bowl closer, meticulously extracting the liver-hued, fish-shaped seeds from the cores, accumulating them until the bowl held just under half its capacity. He shook it, a quiet assessment in his eyes. Not half, no, but decidedly more than a quarter. A faint smile touched his lips, "What was all this fuss about these paltry seeds?" he mused. They were merely a macabre flourish, a splash of color for what was to come. The true architects of his final peace awaited: the two strips of sleeping pills.

His retirement, a quiet shadow, had not yet stretched to its second full year.

Masterpiece (Short Story)

 

 

Masterpiece

By

Tipu Salman Makhdoom

(Translated from Punjabi)

 

 

 

The cigarette held between his two fingers looked like a cannon that had just fired. Just as a cannon, after shooting its ball, leaves behind only the thick smoke of curses, so too from the cigarette's tip, the smoke curled and danced, swirling around like Rumi's white-robed dervishes. Before he started the day's difficult work, the Lawyer Sahib was trying to relax after all the day's hard work. It was as if all the noise from the courts and the tough legal fights had flowed from his brain into his blood, then into his lungs. From there, with each breath of cigarette smoke, he seemed to be pushing out all those bad thoughts. His clerk had neatly stacked piles of case files on the table. Most of them were torn, old, and well-used, but there were some new envelopes too. This had been his routine for forty years; it was nothing unusual. All the cases were ready; he just needed a quick look to refresh his memory. Lighting another cigarette, he opened the files. He took puff after puff, turning the pages, and moving the completed files aside one by one.