Clay Pots (Short Story)

 

Clay Pots

By

Shahzad Aslam

(Translated from Punjabi)

 

 

As the day dawned, a clamor filled the house. It felt less like a home and more like a chicken coop, where even the adults contributed to the din, squabbling like children. Relatives and friends had gathered, drawn by the scent of joy. Guests continued to arrive until evening. No wedding had taken place, nor had anyone returned from the holy pilgrimage of Hajj. Yet, it felt like a festival. Beneath this effervescent happiness, a bitter taste of separation lay hidden.

Qasim moved through the house like a groom on his wedding day. His German visa had been granted, the ticket nestled in his pocket. Tomorrow, his airplane would take flight. To his mother, the bitterness of this impending separation clung to her tongue like the acrid milk of a poisonous plant. In the living room, Qasim sat with his friends, sometimes reminiscing about childhood, sometimes planning their futures.

"Qasim! Do you remember that palmist who read your hand?" his friend Javed asked.

"Oh, yes! He saw my hand and immediately declared that I would go abroad," Qasim replied, pleased, repeating the palmist’s prophecy.

"But I still don't understand his words about my own country's soil not suiting me," Qasim shared the palmist's puzzling remark with everyone, a hint of wonder in his voice.

"If our own country suited us, then we'd just be selling roasted chickpeas here!" interjected Hira, Qasim’s neighbor, whose shop shelves were perpetually bare. Hira’s comment turned the moment into a good joke, and everyone burst into laughter.

"Not everything a palmist says is true," Javed reassured his friend.

Just then, the small children gathered before Qasim, extending their palms. They were already asking for money, as if he were now the family’s earning son. Aunts and paternal aunts entered the living room, lovingly patting Qasim’s head and even kissing his forehead.

"Oh, Qasim! Don't forget us when you go to Germany!" an aunt from a distant village said, patting his shoulder.

"Auntie! How can one forget their own?" Qasim replied with a smile.

Qasim's friends not only considered him fortunate but also saw their own dreams reflected in his eyes. In their conversations, they even extracted promises from Qasim about their own visa processes. Before Qasim even reached Germany, they envisioned themselves dancing in German pubs. Today, dreams were sprouting throughout the house. Amidst these dreams, however, a weed of envy also grew. The rivals, the extended family, prayed for his capture at the airport.

When relatives ascend, their paths diverge from those left behind; otherwise, it doesn’t take long for bonds to fray. In a house where conversations once revolved around cows and crops, now the drums of German Marks beat. When German women were mentioned, the sisters and brothers would caution: "Qasim! Be careful of the white women." They were under the delusion that German women were eagerly awaiting Qasim's arrival in pubs. Conversations stretched past midnight. Sleep was far from anyone's mind. As the night wore on, a pang of separation began to prick Qasim’s friends and family. The sisters, whose excitement had been palpable that evening, had already wept multiple times. Their crying, like an alarm, would draw everyone's attention every hour. Time was slipping away, and Qasim still needed to catch some sleep. Finally, his friends, with heavy hearts, bid Qasim "Godspeed" and departed for their homes. The guests wished to spend the night in conversation. Qasim’s mother, however, chided them, urging them to sleep. She also told Qasim to rest, her voice filled with a lullaby's warmth. Qasim slept for a few hours, but his mother spent the entire night awake.

With the passing of Qasim's father, their land was transferred through inheritance to his mother, sisters, and brothers. Qasim had already sold his share of the land, along with his mother's portion. His brothers initially refused to hear of selling the land. But when Qasim mentioned the German visa, even they agreed. Before Qasim, a boy from the Arain village had gone to Germany, and now their three-story mansion, the largest in the village, was visible from afar. Every boy in the village now dreamed of Germany. Qasim’s brothers also began weaving dreams of grand houses. The sisters envisioned foreign goods for their dowries.

Before the sun rose, Qasim woke up and began packing his belongings into a large bag. Two rented cars had already pulled up outside the house. Qasim bathed and got ready, and his friends Javed and Asghar also arrived. Qasim’s elder brother, Feroz, was worried about the women getting ready quickly.

"By the time you ladies finish getting primped, the plane will have taken off," Feroz called out to his sisters and the other women from a distance. Feroz’s words had the desired effect, and all the women followed him. They knew of Feroz’s temper. When Qasim's mother looked at the village, her pride swelled at the thought of her son's visa. On the other hand, looking at her own home, her heart twisted. The thought of Qasim leaving made the house feel empty. She found solace by embracing Qasim, kissing his forehead, and shedding tears. Qasim, bearing the Himalayas of everyone's desires on his shoulders, sat with a heavy heart in the front seat of the car. He wore a Boski shalwar kameez and a black waistcoat. In the back seat of the car sat Feroz and two of Qasim's friends. The car left the village and headed towards Gujranwala. In the second car behind them sat his sisters and the third brother. The cars merged onto the GT Road from Gujranwala and sped towards Lahore. Their eyes were heavy with sleep; no one had slept for more than three hours.

Upon reaching the airport, everyone was joyful. It was their first time seeing an airport. To Qasim, the airport seemed like a wall beyond which lay a magical world. He was eager to enter. The airport staff were like angels standing on a narrow bridge, and only by navigating them could one proceed. The farewell with his siblings and friends brought tears to Qasim’s eyes. He lowered his face and wept as if a dam had burst. He tasted, for the first time, the autumn of separation from his own. The atmosphere at that part of the airport became mournful. Qasim embraced his own and then turned towards strangers. With his boarding pass in hand, he disappeared from the sight of his departing relatives. Those who had come to see him off also turned back silently, having lost a piece of themselves. This was a difficult time for Qasim. His heart longed to run back to his loved ones and join them. But those who sell their land cannot turn back, can they? Finally, he walked towards the airplane.

When Qasim sat on the airplane seat, his heart forgot its rhythm. Qasim feared that it might just stop altogether. He remembered the village streets, the fields, and even the common platform where everyone in the village gathered. He also recalled Bashira, the barber, who hadn't lasted even a month in Saudi Arabia and now cut the hair of young and old in the village.

"Once you sit on the airplane, all worries will leave you," he recalled the words of Khalid, who had settled in Germany. For this reason, Qasim had believed that village thoughts wouldn't be allowed inside the airport. But thoughts don’t need visas. Qasim couldn’t shake off the village thoughts, and he understood that these thoughts would only be "deported" once he reached Germany. For the first time, Qasim also felt afraid of air travel. As the airplane left the runway and soared into the air, Qasim felt like a lover who had left his beloved behind to go to war. He kept remembering his old village along with the unknown fears of a new world. This battle of thoughts ended only upon reaching Berlin. After a long journey, the plane landed at Berlin airport. Qasim exited the airport, and Khalid was there to receive him. It was evening. When Khalid embraced Qasim, it felt as if he had embraced his own country. They spent the night in Berlin with Younis from Gujarat, who drove a liquor delivery truck. Khalid and Younis had studied together at the Zamindar College. They had arrived in Germany one after another. Qasim kept asking them about life in Germany. Their answers spoke of alcohol, women, currency notes, and the greatness of German law. Perhaps the lack of these four things is hell itself! From Qasim's words, they seemed fed up with their own country's heaven, which lacked these four things. Qasim found this new world astonishing.

Morning came, and Younis left for work. Qasim and Khalid went to the railway station and boarded a train bound for Ulm. After a six-hour train journey, they reached Ulm, a city situated on the banks of the Danube. The Danube River, flowing past dark forests, sang praises of Europe and then merged into the magical waters of Asia. On the banks of this river, Qasim erected the walls of his dreams. Khalid lived with five friends in a two-room flat. Qasim rested for a day after his journey, and on the second day, Khalid dropped him off at a hotel near the river. There, he found a job washing dishes. Qasim disliked the work. He looked around and saw no one from his own country.

"Well, who from the village is going to come here to see you?" Qasim thought, comforting himself. For five or six months, he diligently washed dishes, but then he grew tired of the work. All the grime on his hands had washed away. Then he found a job in a brewery. Although his hands got dirty again, his inner self became as clean as glass. He also took a test and got his driving license. A year later, he was driving a taxi on the highways between cities. He would send some money to his brothers and also save some. Qasim’s first year had been difficult. Two or three times, he even thought of returning to his country, but the thought of having no land left back home made him lose courage. His siblings in Talwandi village counted the notes and felt as if Qasim had only gone to Germany a few days ago.

In his second year, he and Khalid opened a small restaurant. They also opened a liquor bar inside it. Their business thrived as if God himself was guiding their hands. Qasim continued to send money home. Now, his financial situation was comfortable. Sitting in Germany, he often thought of his village. When Feroz started building a large house in the village, people began to gossip.

"What kind of work does this Qasim do in Germany?" Ashraf Nambardar asked Feroz.

"By the grace of God, he has now built his own hotel. Money is simply in love with him," Feroz replied, teasing the Nambardar. In their conversation, Feroz also mentioned that Qasim sold all brands of liquor. The news of liquor sales spread from the Nambardar’s dera (guest house) throughout the village like wildfire. People began to vent their envy: "Money and wealth will remain in this world; one should only focus on their afterlife. Now Qasim is building mansions with liquor money? What good is such earnings to a person? This is ill-gotten wealth."

The villagers would wash away their envy in these conversations and carry it on their shoulders. The villagers' envy reared its head like a hooded snake when Feroz also started buying land. The land was registered in the names of the three brothers. When Qasim was studying in college, he would pass through Satellite Town on the road leading to the village, where Brigadier Iftikhar’s mansion stood.

"I also want to build my mansion on this road," Qasim would tell his friends, and they would mock him. Now, as his business flourished and money accumulated, his dream of a mansion came alive. He consulted with his brothers, and they too were pleased to hear it. Feroz went to the property dealer the very next day. Four houses away from Brigadier Iftikhar's mansion was an empty plot where garbage used to accumulate. The property dealer showed Feroz that one-kanal plot. Standing there, Feroz envisioned a two-story mansion rising from the plot, and a "Masha'Allah" (God has willed it) escaped his lips. He even thought of having "Masha'Allah" inscribed on the front of the mansion. After discussing the price, Feroz returned home. In the evening, Qasim called, and Feroz told him the location and price of the plot.

"Brother! Finalize the deal. I will send the money within a month," Qasim told his brother Feroz with enthusiasm. When desires soar, the mind also flies high. Feroz’s mind had also ascended. He barely acknowledged lesser people. Qasim sent the money, and Feroz bought the plot. Qasim started sending money every month to build the mansion. It took a full year for the blueprint on paper to materialize on the ground. When the mansion was complete, the "Masha'Allah" inscribed on its facade was visible from the road.

More than seven years had passed since Qasim went to Germany. The pace of good times, though swift, flows smoothly, without jolts, bringing moments of joy. Qasim’s entire family was basking in these joyful moments. Qasim was now a German citizen.

"Son! Come meet your mother once; life is unpredictable. Allah has given you so much wealth. You haven't left any stone unturned." Whenever his mother talked to him on the phone, she would use such words to persuade him to return. She also advised Qasim's brothers to arrange his marriage now. Feroz had never imagined that Qasim would return to live here. Feroz consulted with his wife and then urged Qasim to come back to his country.

Who wouldn't want to see their dream palace? Qasim also planned his return. When Qasim sat on the plane to meet his loved ones, he started remembering the village fields and all the people he had forgotten for seven years. When his plane landed at Lahore Airport, Feroz stood outside, waiting for Qasim to emerge. Qasim had brought three large suitcases filled with belongings. He stepped out of the airport looking like a Westerner. Fair skin, short hair, a half-sleeve shirt over jeans, a gold-colored watch on his left arm, a gold chain around his neck, and Ray-Ban sunglasses made him look handsome, like a film hero. He embraced his brother Feroz. In that embrace, seven years of distance melted away. Feroz put the luggage-filled suitcases into the car and drove off. It was afternoon, and Feroz was hungry. Qasim hadn't eaten homemade bread in seven years. They drove straight to Khan Baba Hotel near Chauburji. In the taste of small lamb cooked in local ghee, accompanied by lassi, Qasim also savored his Punjab.

"How does our Punjab feel after seven years?" Feroz asked his younger brother Qasim as they sat in the car.

"The taste of the food is the same, but Lahore has changed. There’s a constant clamor of people and vehicles everywhere," Qasim replied, looking at the traffic on the road.

Crossing the Ravi River bridge and heading towards Gujranwala, Qasim saw large billboards of housing societies erected everywhere. It seemed as if this was the only business happening throughout Punjab. Seeing the pictures on the tall, grand billboards, everyone's heart yearned to live there.

"Brother! There are so many new housing society billboards here. Have the old cities not fallen down somewhere?" Qasim asked Feroz.

"This is the business these days. People have left factories and joined this work," Feroz replied.

Looking at the large, solitary gates of the societies built along the road, Qasim felt as if they were prisons, and the billboards on the roads were lures, like films tempting people into these prisons. Qasim began to think of his friends, whom he had promised to call to Germany seven years ago.

Upon reaching the village, Qasim met everyone. The family was as happy as they had been seven years ago when Qasim’s visa was granted. The only difference was that his mother’s tongue no longer held the bitter taste of the milk of ak. There was no limit to her joy. Qasim was tired from the journey. He lay down to rest and fell into a deep sleep. He slept for fifteen hours, and when he woke up in the morning, his friends were waiting for him in the living room. Qasim washed his face and joined them. Embracing his friends, he forgot all the years of separation and reconnected with his time spent in the village. Qasim sat among them. Qasim truly looked like a Westerner with his fair complexion. Anyone with fair skin, no matter where they're from, seems like a Westerner to us.

"It was just yesterday that we saw you off to Germany. For us, time stood still after you left," Javed's words struck Qasim. Qasim hadn’t even bothered to check on anyone after going to Germany. In his efforts to stand on his own feet, he had forgotten his friends. When good times arrive, they don’t allow one to remember the less fortunate. Qasim silently got up and went inside. When he returned, he had a small bag in his hand. He gave Javed a mobile phone and others watches and perfumes. The seven-year-old cracks between friends were now beginning to mend. Javed, who had been a bit resentful just moments ago, was happy holding the brand-new mobile phone box in his hand.

"Alright, then, tell us something about Germany," Javed said to Qasim with a smile.

"We’ll talk about other things later, but I'll tell you one thing now. The heaven that Imam Maulvi Taj used to describe in our mosque, that's probably Germany," Qasim's words left everyone's mouths agape, and their hearts yearned to hear everything. Qasim wasn't going to reveal everything so quickly; he put them off.

Qasim’s friends left content, but a problem arose among the relatives regarding the distribution of gifts. Qasim extricated himself and left this task to his mother and Feroz. The gifts were divided among uncles, aunts, maternal aunts, and paternal uncles, who then called each other, seeking information. Stories of unfair distribution got lost on the way before reaching Qasim’s ears.

At home, the topic of Qasim's marriage came up, and both brothers separately retreated behind screens to consult with their wives. It took one night for these consultations to turn into a Cold War. Feroz wanted Qasim to marry his sister-in-law, while the other brother was eager to offer his own sister-in-law’s hand. The mother liked Feroz’s sister-in-law, Aalia. She was not only beautiful but also educated. The mother chose Aalia. Where else would Aalia's parents find such an earning son? They also agreed. Qasim's sisters had already been engaged to the Warkas from a village near Kamoke. Their weddings were also planned after Qasim's return. Within two months, Qasim and Aalia were married. The sisters' wedding processions also arrived simultaneously. The sisters received so much in dowry that the entire village talked only of Qasim.

The swiftness of Qasim's marriage was due to his plan to return to Germany. After staying in the village for about a month, Qasim took his wife, Aalia, to the mansion built on Brigadier Iftikhar’s road in Gujranwala city. Feroz had already moved there before Qasim's marriage. The elder sister lived on the ground floor, and the younger on the upper floor. Qasim had been in Germany for six months when one night, Khalid called. He couldn't manage the business alone and asked Qasim to come to Germany. After his marriage, Qasim had forgotten about his plan to return to Germany. Khalid’s call shattered the wall of his good days. He consulted with his mother and Feroz. Both supported the idea that Qasim should not disregard his business. Qasim, setting aside his own desires, made the difficult decision to go to Germany. He was comforted by the thought that Aalia would live with her elder sister. Qasim, facing Aalia’s tearful eyes, stitched up his broken spirit and flew to Germany. Sitting on the plane, he kept thinking of Aalia.

Upon reaching Germany, he worked as if he had to complete a ten-year journey in one year. Qasim continued to send money to his brother Feroz every month and also asked him to start a scrap business. Feroz did start the work, but how could he understand iron and copper? He suffered losses. One learns from losses. Eventually, he understood the work, and the losses began to recover. Feroz soon learned one thing from this business: nothing is trash. Machines whose movement is caused by the friction of broken relationships eventually rust. Only a junk dealer knows the value of the parts of idle factories in wealthy homes. Feroz had become that junk dealer who found his profit in the fissures of relationships. This profit was more than he could have imagined.

One day, his clerk Naseer called and informed him that Shaukat Butt, the elder son of the owner of a large and famous textile factory in the city, wanted to meet him.

"Why would Shaukat Butt want to meet me?" Feroz asked his clerk Naseer, surprised.

"When factory owners start looking for junk dealers, then the matter is usually significant," Naseer also speculated. Feroz, the son of a farmer, felt insulted being called a junk dealer. He wanted to curse Naseer, but he swallowed his anger. But if one doesn't call a junk dealer a junk dealer, what else would they call him?

"Alright, tell him to come to my office in Trust Plaza in the evening," Feroz told Naseer and hung up the phone.

In the evening, Feroz was sitting in his office when Shaukat Butt stopped his Toyota Camry in front of Trust Plaza. Naseer brought Shaukat Butt to the office. Shaukat Butt began talking about his textile factory, and Feroz started to understand everything. Feroz had sold goods to many such people before. Shaukat Butt’s father, Haji Muneer, had worked hard and risen from poverty to become the owner of mills. His sons had never worked. Those who find everything ready-made and buttered do not need to work. As soon as the father closed his eyes, the mill shut down, and the sons rushed to court with their respective lawyers. Whoever got their hands on anything started selling it. Shaukat Butt had possession of the textile factory. He started selling the machinery bit by bit as scrap. Feroz had now become an eagle preying on hunters of meat. He disliked anything that was running smoothly. He wished he could turn everything into scrap and sell it. After his conversation with Shaukat Butt concluded, Feroz went to dismantle the factory. The deal was big, so he had to ask Qasim for money. He sold this scrap to a Memon from Karachi as machine parts and gears. Feroz made a lot of money.

Feroz now started looking for families where rifts had appeared, where love had rusted. He disliked loving relationships. In a place of love and affection, nothing becomes scrap. Feroz’s belly had protruded beyond his chest. The flesh around his thick face hung like a vulture’s dewlap. Feroz had accumulated a lot of "flesh and soil" in the scrap business. His needs had ended, but the spring of greed had burst forth from within him. He bought and registered plots in his and his wife’s names.

Qasim’s wife, Aalia, was looked after by Feroz’s wife. They were real sisters. When Aalia gave birth to a son, her elder sister truly acted like an elder. She cared for Aalia more like her own daughter than her sister. Qasim would hear his son crying on the phone, and his heart yearned to pick him up and play with him. His joy was eclipsed when Aalia told him about his mother-in-law’s liver cancer. Qasim began to think about returning to his country. Leaving him consumed by these thoughts, his mother found relief from all pain. When Qasim received the news of his mother's death, the distance intensified the grief of this loss. The sorrow of a loved one's death in a foreign land makes one weep and also makes one restless. The frame of his mother’s photograph was etched in Qasim’s eyes. In the tears, the picture in the frame seemed to drown.

"If I had gone earlier, I would have massaged my living mother's feet," Qasim kept blaming himself, caught in this thought. In a foreign country, the grief of a loved one's death is understood even by strangers, because everyone experiences this sorrow at some point. Qasim's friend Khalid arranged a ticket for him the same day, rushing to do so. When Qasim's plane landed at Lahore Airport, the time spent in checking caused him anxiety. His heart yearned to cry out, "Let me go! My mother's funeral is waiting for me!"

Stepping out of the airport, his heart desired to run to his village. He saw a taxi standing in front. He told the driver to take him to Gujranwala and, opening the door, sat inside. He even forgot to pay the fare. The driver drove so fast that they reached Talwandi village in an hour. As soon as Qasim stepped into the house, his tears flowed uncontrollably. Women sitting around his mother's cot were wailing. Seeing Qasim, the wails of his sisters grew louder. Qasim embraced his brothers and shared tears of sorrow. After consigning his mother to the grave, Qasim felt as if the chain connecting the house had broken.

After the tenth-day rituals, Qasim announced to his brothers that he would shut down his business in Germany and return to his country. Hearing this, Feroz felt a shock and looked at Qasim in surprise. Feroz, even sitting close to Qasim, forgot to extract his blood. Feroz foresaw the time when Qasim would demand an accounting. Feroz had acquired a taste for the profit found in broken relationships. He hadn’t yet tasted the blood of his own kin. The taste of drinking one's own blood is appealing to every animal. This taste surpasses all others. Perhaps the ancestors forbade drinking one’s own blood to preserve the family.

The third brother, who lived in the ancestral house in the village, also found an opportunity to fulfill his role. He informed Qasim about Feroz's plots and business. Qasim regarded his elder brother Feroz as a father figure. Why would he demand an account from Feroz? It was a different matter that Feroz was worried about the accounting. Feroz had witnessed families breaking apart in the scrap business. He had bought steel beams and girders as scrap from brothers living under the same roof. Now, he was seeing the division approaching his own home. Qasim asked Feroz about the business in the Satellite Town house. Aalia, along with Qasim’s sister-in-law, was also sitting there. Feroz interpreted the business question as a demand for accounts. Feroz neither intended to answer Qasim's question, nor did he. Instead, he began to lecture Qasim:

"You have a thriving business in Germany. No wise person would call it sensible to leave it and come to live in your own city."

Aalia didn't like Feroz's words. What good was money in the lonely nights? Aalia's competition was with her sister, who lived with her children and husband. By sending Qasim to Germany, Aalia did not want to lose this competition with her own hands. She had already told Qasim to work in his own country.

Qasim listened to his elder brother’s words in silence. He had spent many years abroad thinking about his family. His earnings had transformed the family. No one talked about Qasim’s own aspirations. If anyone cared, they would have spoken.

Ultimately, the matter reached a point where division was the only solution. When love drains from blood, it becomes mere chaff, flying aimlessly. Feroz was ready for the division of the village land but was unwilling to share the house and plots in the city. He told Qasim directly to take his share of the little money he had sent. Qasim felt as if all his earnings had gone down the drain. The brothers stopped speaking to each other. Their wives, who were real sisters, saw their relationship change like shifting clouds. They began to avoid each other. Qasim couldn't believe it. He became angry with his brother. From childhood, this was the only way he knew how to express anger towards his loved ones. Qasim took his wife and son and rented a house in WAPDA Town, where they began to live. He was certain that Feroz would surely come to appease him. A month passed, but Feroz still didn’t come. His absence intensified the dispute.

One day, Qasim went to the WAPDA Town market to buy groceries. There, he met Javed. Javed had opened a cement and steel shop in the market. A deep shadow of worry lay on Qasim's face.

"Are you alright?" Javed asked Qasim. Qasim wanted to narrate the story of the blow fate had dealt him. Javed’s words made him break down, and he told him the entire story. "Don't worry! We'll figure something out," Javed said, patting Qasim’s hand.

"How can I not worry? Brother Feroz hasn't even come to check on me," Qasim said, his face contorted as if about to cry. Javed remembered the palmist's words and said in his heart: "If your own country's soil doesn't suit you, even your own brothers won't care."

"Be ready this evening; we'll go to a lawyer I know. He'll find a way," Javed said, ready to accompany his friend, treating Qasim's sorrow as his own. Qasim saw a glimmer of hope in Javed's words. In the evening, Javed came to Qasim's house, and they both went to the house of Advocate Daud Barlas. Mr. Barlas was sitting and milking his buffalo, wearing a dhoti. Seeing Javed and Qasim, the lawyer felt like splashing them with the buffalo's milk. The lawyer asked them to sit on a nearby cot and continued milking. After filling the milk bucket, he stood up, handed it to his wife inside, and returned. The lawyer led them into the drawing-room. Javed narrated Qasim's entire story to him.

"Don't worry! Your brother will come running," the lawyer said, as if a spiritual guide giving a charm to make a beloved fall at one's feet. A lawyer’s job is to file cases and draw out the snake. He took a wad of notes from Qasim and declared that he would file a case.

When Qasim came home, Aalia saw his happiness. Qasim, brimming with hope, told his wife everything. Aalia was happy just knowing her husband was with her. Her husband’s happiness made her happy too.

"Now you'll see! Brother Feroz will come to us himself and bring us home after persuading us," Qasim told his wife and lit a cigarette. Qasim's lawyer filed a civil case against Feroz in the civil court. Qasim waited, but Feroz didn't come even after a month. Qasim's hope began to wane. When Qasim's friend Javed talked to lawyer Barlas, he remained silent for a while and then, turning to Javed, said: "This civil case is like a toy snake. If the opposing party gets scared, fine; otherwise, it has no bite." The lawyer explained everything clearly to Javed.

Qasim’s anxiety grew. He kept making rounds of the courthouse. No matter how much he ran around, the case remained stuck in one place. On every date, there was the same hope that something would happen today, but he would return home only carrying the burden of the next date. He was counting the days. Another year passed in these dates. Qasim was now fed up and began to think of ways to reconcile with his brother. One day, he himself went and stood in front of Feroz's house. This house was a temple of his hopes. Seeing it, Qasim remembered his college days. The laughter of his friends echoed in his ears. This was the same laughter, now turned to tears, that his friends had shared when Qasim spoke of building a house on this very road. He pressed the doorbell. No sound came from inside, so he pressed the bell again. His sister-in-law opened the door and, seeing Qasim, looked at him in surprise. She wondered whether to let Qasim inside or send him away from the doorstep. Finally, she asked Qasim to come in, and Qasim, like a good child, went inside the house. He was worried about Feroz's taunts. His sister-in-law seated Qasim in the drawing-room and went to get tea. When she returned to the drawing-room with a tray, she began to tell Qasim, without being asked, that Feroz was about to return from the market.

"Feroz is very upset that his younger brother made him go through the hassle of court," hearing his sister-in-law’s words, Qasim also felt bad and lowered his eyes. He regretted that he had listened to Javed and gone to court, staining the family’s honor. Feroz returned home some time later, carrying a few files under his arm. Qasim had come thinking that whatever his brother gave him, he would accept it without complaint. On the other hand, Feroz had also decided that he would not give any share with his own hands; Qasim should get his share from the court. The two brothers met like passing strangers. After asking about each other's well-being, both brothers fell silent. Qasim lacked the courage to speak. Finally, Feroz himself asked him the reason for his visit.

"Give whatever you wish. I ask for nothing from you," Qasim's words conveyed that he had left the matter to his elder brother. He was confident that a blood brother, even if he beats you, will still throw you into the shade. Qasim returned home after the conversation and told his wife everything. Aalia was enraged to hear why Qasim had left everything to Feroz! She hadn't forgotten the habits of her sister and brother-in-law.

"How can a decision be left to someone who doesn't bear the burden of its consequences?" Aalia tried to explain to Qasim through a question, but he remained silent. A voice from within him kept saying that his elder brother would not be unjust. In seven or eight days, whatever Feroz gave, Qasim held it in his lap and watched. He wasn't looking at money; he was watching a relationship as strong as iron rusting and breaking at the hands of greed. As he gazed intently, he himself began to break.

Qasim now began to find a way to mend his frayed life. Finally, he decided to go to Germany. Aalia also no longer wished to live where relationships had become subservient to money. Qasim got his visa stamped, and also had his son’s passport made and applied for their visas. Each day was now difficult for Qasim. The day he received the passports with the visas, he began preparations to go to Germany. A week later, Qasim had sold off his rented house's furniture and other belongings to a junk dealer and was free.

One day, Qasim, Aalia, and their son arrived at the airport without telling anyone. That day, Qasim was not wearing his Ray-Ban sunglasses, nor did he have a gold chain around his neck. Entering the airport, Qasim looked back. No one had come to see him off. Qasim was leaving behind as much land as he and his mother had sold when he first went to Germany. This was the only share of land he had received from Feroz. Qasim donated this piece of land to his poor brother, the heir to his mother's grave in the village. The little money he had received from Feroz was all he had. As Qasim sat on the airplane, he remembered the palmist's words: "Your own country's soil will not suit you."

From the window of the ascending airplane, he saw the color of his soil for the last time, and then he closed his eyes and began to see the waves of the Danube River, now flowing through his very eyes.