A Life of Stone (Short Story)

 

A Life of Stone

By

Shahzad Aslam

(Translated from Punjabi)

 

 

The first ten years were a blur, lost to memory, but George Masih spent his last forty as a laborer, tending to crops and livestock. His dark skin blended with the buffaloes he cared for, who, recognizing him as one of their own, would lick his hands. His days, year after year, were as monotonous as dry wood. Though there was no real chance for change, he feared it. He even dreaded the changing seasons, from winter to summer and back again. Beyond his work as a farmhand, he knew no other skill, and the thought of losing even that filled him with constant dread. This fear eclipsed all others.

Born in the village of Kabir Nagar, where his three children would also come into the world, George couldn't escape his ancestral profession. To break free from his father's and grandfather's path would have required a rebellion against his very existence, a rebellious word George didn't even understand. His youth was spent repaying his father's debt, a debt that was his inheritance and that he had grown old with. Life's other needs and wants had rooted this debt deep, like a tree whose roots now extended to his only son, Samuel. His son became his father's helping hands at an age when Muslim children are expected to pray, guided by their fathers' fingers to the mosque. For George Masih and his children, work itself was a form of worship, a worship that didn't require holding a child's hand but rather breaking through their deep sleep. His wife and two daughters were equally busy, cleaning homes and gathering firewood for the Jat families. The villagers themselves were like the sticks of firewood, working together as George's entire family did.

George's home was in a small settlement away from the main village, a cluster of fifteen or sixteen identical houses. Many young men from this settlement worked at the brick kilns, yet their own homes were made of mud bricks that crumbled in the rain. Between the village and the settlement lay a pond, its dark water often covered by a green film of plants. This pond served as a natural barrier, preventing the village and settlement from truly merging. The local liquor and the spirited young women of the settlement were seen as fair game by the village's young men. All the village's waste water flowed into the pond, which, like a gaping mouth, would swell with the foul liquid. The stench from this pond hung in the courtyards of the settlement's homes, unmoving like clouds in a painting. This was the scent that village residents associated with the people of the settlement.

Every morning, George would set out towards the sun as if to pull it down from the sky. His dark complexion suggested he had drunk the sun's fiery essence. The sun, too, seemed to enjoy playing with George. George's journey ended at the compound of his landlord, Rana Aurangzeb. The sun, having climbed high into the sky, would move away from George, casting down its heat.

Two or three acres from Rana Aurangzeb's compound was Chaudhry Ansar's compound, where Riasat Masih worked. Occasionally, Riasat Masih would join George on his way, and their journey would pass quickly with conversations about life's hardships. One day, as George was heading to the compound, he saw Riasat waiting for him halfway. Riasat was indeed waiting for George. George reached him and asked, "Riasat! Why are you standing here? Is everything alright?"

"I was waiting for you," Riasat replied, walking alongside him. A hopeful moon seemed to shine on Riasat's face.

"I need to talk to you about something," Riasat said to George with great pride.

George thought Riasat wanted to discuss his children's marriage.

"Tell me, what is it?" he asked Riasat, sounding like a leader.

"Brother George! Let's go to the city. There's more work there, and the money is good," Riasat suggested, tempting George to leave the village.

"Leaving the village isn't that easy. Our ancestors are buried here. Besides, I still have to repay Chaudhry Aurangzeb's debt. I can't leave before that," George said, disheartening Riasat. Though Riasat didn't expect George to leave the village, he still persisted in trying to convince him.

"Look, George! Even the village barber, cobbler, and potter are earning well in the city. Are we cursed to die working here?" Riasat's voice held a touch of anger as he spoke, trembling slightly. He needed a companion to make such a life-altering decision. Leaving the village wasn't easy, so he needed someone to lean on to fulfill his desire. Only George could be that support, as they both lived in similar circumstances. George Masih, however, was like a boatman who had grounded his boat and was now just sitting on the bank. How could he be Riasat's support?

"Rahma the cobbler and Gulzara the barber's trades are in demand in the city, so it suits them. We here pick up cow dung; in the city, will we clean people's human waste? We don't know any other work." With these words, George Masih also sank Riasat's boat. As he spoke, George Masih reached the compound. Riasat left him there and walked ahead. Riasat was angry at George. He left George behind and continued his journey, pulling his boat of new hopes and desires out of the water.

Riasat now began to avoid George, fearing that if he brought up going to the city, George would drag his feet. George remained steadfast in his belief that those who went to the city always returned to the village in the end, like a stubborn donkey eventually returning to the banyan tree.

That evening, George returned home and, while eating his bread on the cot, recounted Riasat's entire conversation to his wife. She, too, found her voice.

"Riasat is right to think so. Money is hard to come by here. Maybe things would be better in the city. Only those who dare to try succeed." She, like Riasat, began to encourage George. George's wife also longed to go to the city but was afraid to speak to George directly, as he would always respond, "If anyone mentions the city, I'll break their teeth."

George loved his village. He felt a sense of ownership when he told people its name. This village was his identity. His father had left him this village as an inheritance along with his debt. While he didn't own the land, the colors and scents of the crops were his. Though the grain went to Rana Aurangzeb's house, George found joy in growing and ripening the harvest. He couldn't understand how Riasat could even think of leaving the village.

"If going to the city could change one's fate, then why would anyone be born in this settlement?" George believed this like a religious tenet. He had never seen a Chaudhry become a common laborer, nor a common laborer exchange turbans with a Chaudhry. The division of fate had acquainted him with God's law, bringing him closer to it. George wondered how Riasat kept getting new ideas year after year.

It was only last year that Riasat had decided to convert to Islam, believing that by changing his religion and entering the mosque, he would become pure. Hearing this, George went to his house to reason with him. He tried hard to convince Riasat, but he wouldn't listen. Finally, George said, "Will you answer one question for me?"

"What question?" Riasat asked irritably.

"Tell me, how pure has Ramzan Muslim Sheikh become by changing his religion?" George's question silenced Riasat. Ramzan Muslim Sheikh had converted, but he still lived in the Christian settlement like a Christian. George's question had struck Riasat's mind, but he still clung to his decision. Seeing Riasat's silence, George delivered another blow that cut through him. "Do you even know that once you become a Muslim, you can't change your religion again? Muslims behead those who convert." Hearing George, Riasat turned his face towards him, seeing his own severed head in his eyes. At that moment, a silver glass fell from a child's hand in the courtyard, and its clang startled Riasat. This fright wasn't from the sound of the glass falling, but from the fear of being beheaded.

"Alright, I won't change my religion," Riasat said, then fell silent. Neither of them forgot that religion is the first chain that binds a child in its mother's womb. The food entering the mother's womb is guarded by the words of religion.

Regarding leaving the village, Riasat, though silenced by George's answer, still held onto his conviction inwardly. Eventually, one day, he left the village without telling George. When Riasat Masih had been gone for a month and a few days, a pain arose in George's heart. One evening, returning home from the compound, George saw Riasat's locked door. He stood before it, realizing that homes are not just shelters but also identities. Riasat had left, but he had left his identity behind. And the thought of leaving his own identity behind saddened George. Empty houses felt like graves to him, graves of the residents' identities. After dinner, when he went to the mound near the settlement, eight or ten men from the settlement were sitting on cots, smoking their hookahs. George's heart, which had been heavy earlier, brightened at the sight of the close-knit community. Their voices made the frogs beneath the pond's plants croak upwards. The stars in the sky were so dense it was as if they had spilled out of their knots from the heat. Crickets hummed their long, drawn-out songs.

"Heard anything? The election date has been announced," Shada Musalli spoke, his voice like a torn drum.

"Good, there'll be four days of fun," a young man said happily.

"This trouble is back again! Everyone descends on the settlement like a communal buffalo during elections," old Baba Gahna said sourly.

"Who all is submitting papers to run in the elections?" George asked, turning to Baba Gahna.

"If you ask me, let Baba Gahna run this time. My father was once put up by Rana Aurangzeb's family against the Jats," Shada Musalli said, laughing.

"Exactly! Let him run. His family's votes are sure to be found. And a few wrong stamps can always be added," George Masih said, teasing Baba Gahna.

Baba Gahna angrily turned the hookah pipe away and said, "Shadu! Your father stood against the Jats on the Rana's instigation, but it seems you've forgotten the garland of shoes the Jat boys put around your father's neck."

Having said this, Baba Gahna spat his anger onto Shada's face.

"Uncle Gahna! You're my father's age. If I had no shame, I'd show you what a garland of shoes really is!" Shada said and angrily got up. George called out to him, but he didn't even look back.

"Baba Gahna! You've reminded the settlement of old wounds. The village people don't consider those from the settlement to be human. The Jats won the election, but Shadu's father standing against them certainly tarnished their honor," Francis also spoke sagely. Francis had recently opened a shop in the settlement and was no longer anyone's farmhand.

The government had announced local elections, and preparations had begun in the village. But no one yet knew about the new local government law. This time, after a long gap, Christians were also to vote for Muslim candidates. Christians also had to elect their own separate member. No one talked about the election of people from other religions besides Muslims. Everywhere, only the Muslim candidates were discussed. Family gatherings began. Everyone knew that the Rajput community would field their candidate against the Jats. To inform the people about the elections, the government sent teams to the villages. Officials would gather people, explain how to vote, and at the end, invariably add that these votes would change the fate of both the people and the country. George began to miss Riasat. "If he were here today, his desires would have been fulfilled." As George thought this, he also began to think about his own fate changing. This election pushed George onto the path Riasat had wanted him to take.

As election day drew nearer, Rana Aurangzeb and Chaudhry Ansar's compounds became livelier. Rana Nasir, Rana Aurangzeb's cousin, stood against Chaudhry Ansar, the Jat candidate. Both candidates went door-to-door, pleading for votes. Much effort was put into securing the Christian votes, as they would decide the outcome of the election. There were only two candidates for the position of head of the local council. The smell of the pond between the settlement and the village seemed to disappear for the villagers. They began to frequent the settlement as if a treasure were buried there. The doors of the settlement's houses had never seen such guests. The doors opened with joyful laughter, and the residents inside felt like royal courtiers. Rana Nasir had submitted his papers against Chaudhry Ansar. From a young age, the entire village called Rana Nasir "Anboo" (mango). The villagers were not yet ready to forget this name. Whenever someone asked who was running against Chaudhry Ansar, the villagers would say "Anboo." Anboo worked as a commission agent and had amassed a lot of wealth by exploiting farmers. Only Ranas could compete with Jats. Families gathered to ensure their respective candidates won. The Jats and Ranas each had their own laborers. The buzz was about the Christians, who were voting for the first time. Their votes were common, so this time the settlement was the election arena. Ten days before the elections, Rana Aurangzeb and Rana Nasir arrived at the settlement and stood in front of George Masih's house. Rana Aurangzeb knocked, and George's wife opened the door.

"Where is George?" Aurangzeb asked.

"He went to the mound," George's wife replied.

"We came to meet him," Aurangzeb informed her.

"Come inside," George's wife said, stepping back, and Rana Aurangzeb and Rana Nasir entered.

"Samuel! Go call your father, tell him guests have arrived," George's wife called out to her son. She had spread two cots, placing pillows at the head and patterned quilts at the foot. Samuel ran barefoot to call his father. George's wife gathered the scattered dishes in the courtyard and placed them on the chicken coop. She kept herself busy cleaning the house until George arrived. George followed his son Samuel home and was happy to see Rana Aurangzeb.

He now believed that through these votes, the settlement's fate would change. His master had come to his house and was showing him respect. Before, only a servant would come and hurl insults. George didn't know how to serve his guests. The thought of tea reminded him of his utensils, which, like him, were considered impure. He couldn't serve tea to his Muslim masters in these utensils. He thought of Pepsi Cola and asked his son to bring bottles from the shop. Despite Rana Aurangzeb's protests, the boy darted past the outer door. George knew that the glass bottles wouldn't have any Christian name written on them. Even Samuel's touch wouldn't affect their purity. The guests drank the bottles and placed them on the ground.

"Look, George! Rana Nasir is standing against the Jats in the election. It's a matter of honor and dishonor. Rana Nasir himself has come to your house. You must ensure that your votes and the other votes of the settlement go to Rana Nasir," Rana Aurangzeb said to George with great affection. George listened in silence. Rana Nasir also spoke before Aurangzeb finished, "George! Your father and mine had a great bond. They spent many good days together. They lived like one family. Our bond will continue to the next generation." Rana Nasir's words made it seem as if George was his family brother. In Rana Nasir's words, George even began to forget the day when he was ill and Rana Nasir had asked him to send his son to feed the animals at his well. George's son was attending school then. Though George was Rana Nasir's laborer, he insisted on not sending his son. George's dreams stood before him. He wanted his son to be educated and sent to the city. But Rana Nasir's words had shattered his dreams: "If Christian children get educated, then who will herd our animals? Your son isn't going to become a tax collector by studying. Send the boy to the well soon, I'm going there too."

That day passed, and his son never went to school again. Rana Nasir still remembered this. He was afraid that George might bring this up when asking for votes. But Rana Aurangzeb's debt had made him forget about it.

On election day, the entire village gathered in front of the school building, which served as the polling station. George stayed close to Rana Aurangzeb and Nasir that day. They consulted George and gave him all the important tasks. George's treatment made him forget that he was a laborer. On election day, voters ate the bread he had counted and used the utensils he had handled. George had shaken hands and embraced so many Muslims that day that purity should have entered his veins too. George had sent a message through Gulzara the barber, trying hard to convince Riasat to come to the village and vote, but he refused. He had left the village as if saying goodbye, telling it he would only see it again when he died. George still thought today that if Riasat had come, he would have seen that the differences between the village and the settlement were gone. The compounds of the Ranas and Jats were bustling with festivities. Among them, Christians were receiving the most respect. Words like "uncle" and "mama" echoed in their ears. They were common guests at both compounds. George barely had time to leave the Rana's compound and go elsewhere. Time was passing quickly. Rana Aurangzeb would worry and ask George, "Are you sure the settlement's votes are coming to us?"

"My Lord! Why worry? Your honor is our honor." George's answer would ease Rana Aurangzeb's worries. At six in the evening, voting ended, and drummers stood outside the school. Whoever won, they would beat their drums the moment the announcement was made. Firecrackers also waited in the rooms of both compounds, ready to be lit. The election staff picked up the ballot boxes and entered the schoolroom, locking the doors from inside. Agents from the candidates' factions were also inside. The counting would happen in front of them. Outside, boys pressed against the windows of the room, trying to see inside, but nothing was visible. The windowpanes were so dirty with rain and dust that only shadows could be seen through them. That time was heavy for everyone standing outside. Every person in the village held their breath, their hearts pounding with hope for their candidate's victory. When half an hour passed, the sound of the lock opening from inside made the people outside rush towards it. A staff member, holding a paper in his hand, announced the results. Rana Nasir had won by eight votes.

Chaudhry Ansar's family, hearing the result, quickly gathered their things and went home.

Outside, the drums began to beat. The Jats who had joined the Ranas started doing bhangra. Simultaneously, the sky above the Rana's compound lit up with fireworks, and booming sounds filled the air. Dancing also began in the school courtyard. Everyone was hugging each other and congratulating one another. George was happy too. He stood aside, watching it all. But no one came to hug him and congratulate him.

After standing there for a while, George felt increasingly separated from the joyful crowd. A tension grew between the happy people and George. George felt as if impurity had re-entered him. In terms of votes, George might have been equal to them, but in terms of identity, he was still incomplete in the count of words.

Rana Aurangzeb noticed George and approached him. George was happy to see him. He had a strong hope that Rana Aurangzeb would hug him and congratulate him. But Rana Aurangzeb came closer and said, "George! The animals have been hungry since morning. Go to the well quickly and get some fodder for them, and give them water too." Aurangzeb's voice carried all the authority of a master.

Watching the people dancing to the drums, George walked towards the well. These drums, more than announcing someone's victory, were announcing George's servitude. George bowed his head and dragged his feet. On the way, he forgot about the election and, thinking about Riasat Masih, reached the well. With his dreams shattered, his belief in God's division of fate grew even stronger.