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.

Looking at the roads emerging from the waist of Azadi Chowk, it seems as if the chowk itself is an octopus. Like a mother of seven, Azadi Chowk burns under the sun. Tire marks of vehicles leave their impressions on its body. Around Azadi Chowk, old Lahore holds its inhabitants captive, much like a vexed woman's children cling to her shirt, preventing her departure. This old Lahore secretly smolders, watching the grassy expanses and tall buildings of new settlements. The people living around Azadi Chowk whisper, "These new settlements have forged a religion of wealth, a wealth that does not believe in hard work."

A group of nomads, with their belongings loaded on donkey carts, were making their way along the road between Minar-e-Pakistan and Badshahi Mosque. Children and women, seated on the carts, looked around, wondering, "Who lives in those minarets, anyway?"

Dogs, goats, men, and a monkey followed the carts. The men searched for a spot to set up their temporary shelters. Seeing the festive atmosphere in the Minar-e-Pakistan gardens, the children clamored to stop there. "We want to make the monkey dance here!"

The elders, no strangers to the children's protests, continued on their way. Near the Lahore Fort, a section of the fence alongside the road was broken. Between the fence and the fort wall was a long stretch of grass. The group's eyes fixed on this patch. In no time, pegs were driven into the ground, and huts sprang up. The children began to play as if it were their own backyard. Even the dogs joined in, acting like children themselves. The monkey sat off to the side, seemingly saying, "This isn't a place for play, it's a place for struggle."

In front of the huts, brick stoves were built, and fires lit up. As the sun set, lights flickered on inside the huts. A police vehicle, blaring its siren, passed by on the road. The children thought it was just musicians passing. The monkey was wiser; he knew these weren't musicians but rather those who straightened out the crooked. Some time passed, and the siren-blaring vehicle returned with a whole procession. The police surrounded the huts. The SHO spoke to the nomads, fearing they might settle permanently. The nomads, seeing the armed policemen, were scared. The SHO told them about an open space across the Ravi River, towards Shahdara. The nomads promised to dismantle their huts and vacate the spot before sunrise.

At dawn, the loudspeakers of Badshahi Mosque began chanting "Allah Akbar, Allah Akbar." The nomads pulled up their pegs and loaded their huts onto the carts. The children remained asleep in their mothers' laps, dreaming of making the monkey dance in the Minar-e-Pakistan grounds. The monkey, who feared cities, leaped and walked behind the cart. As the sun rose, they crossed the Ravi River and set up their huts on the bare land on the other bank. A line of other nomads' huts was already there. These nomads camped away from settlements, afraid of catching the "pot-filling" disease for their children. They still had to learn how to live among city people. No mingling, no permanent settling. That's why they stayed away from people. And who would allow those who asserted ownership to come close anyway?

Among all the children in these huts, Majhi and Daula were different. While the other nomadic children played in the dirt, Majhi and Daula would sit on the northern bank of the Ravi, gazing at the Lahore beyond the sand and water. On the southern bank, too, lamps glowed in the nomads' huts.

"Looking at the flow of the Indus River's water, my soul sinks; here, the water is submerged in drought," Daula said to Majhi, pointing towards the darkness between the two banks of the Ravi.

"Father says there's a border on this river, and the land on the other side drinks all the water," Majhi's words didn't make sense to Daula. He asked Majhi, "Then how does the thirst of this side's land quench?"

"This land fasts," Majhi replied instantly.

"Oh, let's forget these things. Someday, let's go see the city. Who knows when Father will pack up the hut?"

Daula affirmed Majhi's suggestion as he stood up. Both thought of the high walls of Lahore as they walked towards the huts.

Daula's father, Dari, had his bear confiscated by the police and wildlife authorities in a raid. With the bear gone, his work and dignity were also lost. The one who had a bear was considered the easiest person in the family. Dari couldn't understand what he would do now.

In Majhi's hut, the monkey roamed. He was the nomads' only monkey. Majhi's father, Sansi, would gather flour and rice by making the monkey perform. Majhi had an old harmonium, which he learned to play from a wandering performer. Sansi taught him songs. Majhi would play the harmonium and sing to the young and old of his family. Sansi once camped near Kahror Lal Esan with his family. There, the poet Ashu Lal came to meet the nomads. Sansi sang to them in his voice. Ashu Lal gave him a book of his poems. Since then, Sansi considered Ashu his spiritual guide and continued to sing his songs. Majhi also knew Ashu's songs by heart.

Daula's mother knew how to make toys from reeds, winnowing fans, and wheat stalks. Dari also made beautiful, colorful paper birds, flowers, and Shiva's tridents. He would sell them to make ends meet for a week or ten days. Then hunger began. Dari would collect plastic bottles, tin cans, and other broken items from the rubbish heaps and fill sacks. He would sell this material to the scrap dealer to buy household necessities. Still, it wasn't enough.

The Ravi had dried up, its banks now dusty. Sansi and Dari remained busy with their work.

One day, some men in starched white clothes stood in the midst of the huts. They had parked their black Honda car behind them, by the road. They called the men from the huts and told them they made carpets. They needed small children for the work and offered an advance. They also said they would teach them the work themselves.

"My name is Hamdullah. If you understand what I'm saying, let me know. I'll come back in two days."

Hamdullah walked towards his car after saying this. The other two men followed him.

Sansi's monkey, with its performances, kept grains from running out in the house. So, there wasn't a great need to stop Majhi from idly wandering. He played his instrument and sang songs.

Daula's father, Dari, had decided. He was ready to take the advance and hand his son over to Hamdullah.

Two days later, Hamdullah again parked his car near the huts. The women hid their children. Dogs barked from a distance. Only Dari was waiting. He took the fifty thousand advance and put Daula's arm in Hamdullah's hand. Daula struggled to free his hand and tried to run, but Hamdullah clutched his wrist so tightly that Daula screamed. The cries of Daula had no effect on his parents standing in front. All the dogs gathered in one place, barking sometimes at Hamdullah and sometimes at Dari. The monkey also started chattering, thinking Hamdullah was after him.

"The day of judgment has come, the day of judgment!" Sansi's wife said to her neighbor, standing in front of her hut.

"Friend, what fire has broken out?" she asked Sansi's wife.

"Does anyone sell their children for money?" Sansi's wife said, touching her ears in disbelief.

In all the huts, Dari's name was being cursed. Would Dari escape hunger or the nomads' taunts? In the end, hunger always wins. Hamdullah took Daula in the car towards Muridke.

Majhi was now alone. He had no friend to talk about the Lahore on the other side of the Ravi with. He befriended his harmonium so closely that he would sing Ashu Lal's songs to it, and it would return the melodies. One day, he sat by the black flowing waters of the Ravi and began to sing. Boys and girls from Lahore, returning from Kamran's Baradari in a boat, stopped to listen to Majhi's singing. They sat with Majhi and took pictures. Majhi was very happy. When Majhi returned to his hut, his pocket was full of notes. That day, his destiny took a new turn.

The car stopped in front of a house in Muridke. It was an old neighborhood. Hamdullah entered the house with Daula. On one side of the courtyard, Hamdullah lived with his children, and on the other side, carpets were laid out. Small children would weave carpets all day. Hamdullah would lock the children inside from outside. The children were happy to see Daula. They had a new companion who brought news from the outside. In a prisoner's life, besides freedom, this is the greatest joy: that their company grows.

Daula remained silent on the first day, watching the others. His mind was on the open field around the huts, where no one's permission was needed to run. He spent the night awake. He was angry with his parents who hadn't seen his tears. The next day, a comb was in his hand. His small hands learned to tie knots in colorful threads within a few days. He was amazed to see flowers and plants in the carpet. He mingled with the children. The children told him that their parents had also taken money and that they would have to work here until that money was repaid.

From the very first day, Daula's heart wasn't in it. He kept thinking about escaping from there. At first, he thought it would be difficult to get out. He started to consider this imprisonment in life as his destiny. One day, Gami, a boy of twelve or thirteen, told him the story of Iqbal Masih, who worked in a nearby carpet factory, escaping and liberating the factory workers with Ehsanullah's union. Iqbal Masih had become a hero. Iqbal Masih, who had become a hero, ultimately died a hero's death from a stray bullet.

"Whether it's your own freedom or that of others, sacrifice is required."

Hearing this story, Daula also felt he could become Iqbal Masih. He now thought day and night about escaping from there. About six months passed, and one day, guests came to Hamdullah's house. He was busy with the guests' food. Daula slipped away unnoticed. Passing through narrow alleys, he reached the GT Road. He had no money in his pocket, so he started walking towards Shahdara. He was also afraid that Hamdullah might come after him in his car. He hid and managed to reach Shahdara. How would the parents who had sold him stand against Hamdullah, holding his hand? This thought drove Daula away from the nomads' huts on the banks of the Ravi.

Majhi now sang at bazaars and weddings. Ashu Lal's songs, in his voice, would fall upon people's hearts. The nomads living in the huts would give examples of Majhi to their children. He had also taken on two or three boys as apprentices. The children and women from the huts started begging on the Ravi bridge. They also set up camps for begging in Shahdara Chowk. Those above fifteen or sixteen years old started selling and consuming alcohol and hashish. The work of those living in these huts suggested they had now decided to stay here.

When Majhi went to sing at weddings in Shahdara with his apprentices, boys and girls from Gadvi Mohalla would also arrive with their gadvi and dholki. They would clash with each other like soldiers from Pakistan and India. At one wedding, when food was served, both groups filled their own plates with curry, bread, and rice from the large pot. They kept taunting each other while eating. When the meat was finished, they poured the gravy on each other. Just as the fight started, it ended too. Majhi's clothes were stained with gravy. He was most saddened by the fact that his harmonium had also tasted salt and spices. Majhi now avoided weddings where people from Gadvi Mohalla were present.

When Daula escaped from Hamdullah's factory and reached Shahdara, he saw the huts from a distance and turned his face away. He had decided he wouldn't go where his freedom was traded. When life becomes bondage, a person perishes. The Indus River had told him this. He crossed the Ravi bridge and walked towards Lahore. "Where would Ehsanullah live?" This thought clung to his mind. He would now do Iqbal Masih's work himself. Daula wandered the city streets, but he couldn't figure out where to find Ehsanullah. On top of that, hunger gnawed at him like an untamed bull. He saw a hotel by the road and went and sat on the mat spread there. Seeing Daula, a boy placed a plate of meat and two rotis in front of him. Daula began to eat comfortably as if his pocket was full of money. Other people were also finishing their meals and leaving. No one asked them for money. A middle-aged man sitting next to Daula wiped his hands with his shawl after eating and immediately began to pray for Malik Mushtaq.

"Who is this Malik Mushtaq?" Daula asked him.

"You don't know?"

"Malik Sahib is a very God-fearing person. Who else fills the bellies of the poor in these times? This soup kitchen is his."

Hearing that man's words, Daula wanted to kiss Malik Sahib's hands.

"Does anyone named Ehsanullah also live here?" Daula asked the man.

"What does he do?" the man asked Daula.

"He's against child labor and frees children," Daula explained.

"The Brick Kiln Labor Front has its office on the adjacent Lawrence Road. They have constant friction with Malik Sahib. Perhaps you'll find Ehsanullah there." Hearing that man's words, a light gleamed in Daula's eyes.

Daula, asking for directions, reached the office of the Brick Kiln Labor Front in an old house on Lawrence Road. There, he met a woman named Fatima and a man named Darshan Masih. Ehsanullah was out of town for some work. Daula didn't know what to do now. Finally, he told his story to Fatima and Darshan. Fatima and Darshan Masih took Daula to the Muridke police station. There, they told the entire story to the SHO. The SHO, with his force, raided the carpet factory. Daula pointed to the door where the small children were weaving carpets. Two policemen grabbed Hamdullah from inside the house and brought him out into the courtyard. The SHO started swearing at him as soon as he saw him. Hamdullah, head bowed, listened to the SHO's curses. "Come on, hand over the lock keys! You bastard, you lock up kids and make them work!" the inspector yelled, slapping Hamdullah.

Hamdullah took out a bunch of keys from his pocket and handed them to the inspector. Hamdullah's own children stood at the house door, watching their father and crying. The policemen loaded Hamdullah and the enslaved children into a vehicle and took them to the police station. Daula was happy to have freed the children but was also scared seeing the redness in Hamdullah's eyes. With the children's parents arriving, Fatima, Daula, and Darshan Masih got into a Suzuki Mehran and returned to Lahore.

Majhi's demand at weddings and celebrations had now increased. His voice would become a part of every joy in life. People from far and wide would book him to sing at weddings. His fees had also become good. Sansi was the first nomad to build a proper house near the huts. Other nomads would come to his house and wouldn't want to leave. The young girls of the nomads would wait for Majhi. Majhi's dreams now resided far from the nomads' huts. How could he bother with these girls now?

That night, it wasn't the moon but the sun of Majhi's destiny that rose when Majhi's voice played on the deck at Shahdara's MNA Dhillon's gathering, and people from nearby villages came running themselves. Majhi had learned songs by other poets along with Ashu Lal's songs. He sang many songs at the wedding. At the end, he sang this song:

How can we forget the way to their house?

Two will be all forests,

Three will be all rivers.

After listening to the song, a man came and stood by him. He looked at Majhi as if he had forged a friendship. The man was speaking Urdu. His hair was combed back, he was clean-shaven, and his suit fit him well. He looked like a big officer or a nobleman. The song ended, and he asked Majhi, "Will you sing at my mansion?"

Majhi didn't know what to answer. Just then, Dhillon also came and stood in front of Majhi. He said to Majhi, "What are you thinking? Your luck has opened up!"

"Chaudhary Ji, take me wherever you want, we only have to sing songs." Majhi had a smile on his face as he said this.

Two or three months after the wedding, Majhi was playing football with other boys on the river sand. He heard Sansi's voice. He turned and saw that the Babu he had met at the wedding was standing with Sansi. Majhi left the game and came to his father, who seemed very happy. Majhi greeted the Babu. The Babu returned the greeting and immediately said to Majhi, "Come on, get ready quickly. Today is your program. This program will be aired on TV." Hearing this, Majhi felt like shouting in his loud voice to everyone, "Look! I've become a big singer!"

Majhi was still looking at the boys playing football when the Babu told him, "Hurry up, everyone at the mansion is waiting for us."

The Babu handed Sansi a bundle of new notes, and seeing this, Majhi rushed towards his house. He put on new clothes and, with his harmonium slung around his neck, walked with the Babu. When he sat in the Babu's big car, he started sweating. Majhi had never seen such a big and beautiful car before. Crossing the Ravi bridge, the car reached near Minar-e-Pakistan, and Majhi remembered the day when the nomads had camped there. This side of Lahore still seemed like a dream to him today. Passing by tall and long walls, the car stopped at a mansion. There, boys and girls were also wearing pants. The Babu brought Majhi into the house's courtyard and introduced him to many other people. In the courtyard, where carpets were laid, some chairs were also placed. Around the courtyard, trees fluttered their leaves. As evening fell, darkness began to spread, and cameramen also arrived. Meanwhile, the Babu came wearing a kurta shalwar with a shawl draped over his chest and began giving instructions to the cameramen. The boys and girls, who were standing separately from the older people, now sat on the carpets laid in the courtyard. The lights of the cameras penetrated even the crevices and corners of the stage. The Babu took Majhi aside from the noise and began to explain the program. He asked Majhi again, "Can you speak in Urdu?"

"Yes, I'll manage something."

"A BBC interviewer will ask you questions about your life, answer them, and make sure to sing the songs well."

"Don't worry, Babu Ji," Majhi replied confidently.

Cameras were set, the stage was decorated, and people sat in their places. The Babu and a woman held microphones and sat on the sofas on the stage, and Majhi sat on the carpet in front of them. The program began, and the woman asked Majhi, "Tell us about yourself?"

"My name is Majhi, and according to my father, the Indus River is our father and the earth is our mother. We have no home, so all villages and cities are ours."

"Where did you learn music?" the woman asked Majhi.

"I learned singing from my father and a wanderer. The wanderer used to say that he learned music from the birds of the jungle. My father says some tunes in it also come from the waters of the river."

At the request of the woman and the Babu, Majhi first sang songs of the desert (Rohi) and then of the fields. The dreams residing in the eyes of the people living by the riverbanks, through Majhi's voice, would strike against the walls of the fort. With Majhi's voice, new worlds would open up for the boys and girls sitting in front. The women of the Royal Quarter (Shahi Mohalla) were moved, and the jingle of anklets, striking against the nearby minarets, would fall like rain into the traffic's din.

That night, Majhi's life was enveloped in the light of the moon and stars. Majhi felt as if everything old had died, and something new had also been born. Stepping into the city of Lahore had suited him well. To be honest, this courtesan had indeed ensnared Majhi with her legs.

On his way from the mansion to the huts, Lahore kept pulling Majhi. As he approached the huts, the joy inside him began to dance. Majhi's feet would rise in the air. Today, the ground had become rubber. Even before Majhi arrived, the news had spread in the huts that Majhi would be singing on TV. That night and day belonged to Majhi, solely Majhi.

In the huts, there was no electricity or TV — where would they watch Majhi? For two days, discussions happened, and finally, all the nomads, young and old, gathered in front of Gudo Pathan's hotel TV in Shahdara Chowk. The only one guarding the women inside the huts was the monkey. It was around seven in the evening, one could ask Majhi and his father Sansi. The nomads believed that it wasn't just Majhi, but the entire tribe that would be singing on TV. At seven o'clock, the "Virasat" program began, and Majhi was seen sitting on the carpet. The small children would sometimes look at Majhi on TV and sometimes point at Majhi and laugh. Majhi, sitting on the ground, also felt shy seeing himself on TV. Sansi told all the older nomads, "Today, my son is being watched by the whole country."

When Majhi declared, "My father says there are also some melodies from the waters," tears welled in Sansi's eyes. His heart yearned to spread his arms wide and embrace his son. But the wish remained unspoken, for he had never witnessed a father embrace his child. Majhi, too, longed to embrace his father's waist, but his yearning, too, stayed locked within, for he had never seen a son embrace his father.

Guddu Pathan, watching Majhi sing on TV, picked up his chair and placed it before Majhi, proclaiming, "My boy, you are an artist; your place isn't below, it's above!" Guddu Pathan lifted Majhi onto the chair. The little children clapped, their applause meant for both Pathan and Majhi, for Majhi was now singing Ashu Lal's song on TV:

"River, oh river, your waters are deep,

You are our father, we are your children, small and meek."

The "Virasat" program continued, and Sansi opened a basket of sweets, placing it on the ground before everyone. He asked Gulu Pathan to make tea for all. Meanwhile, in the huts, Majhi's mother was distributing sweets. When the program ended, all the nomads returned to their huts by the Ravi's edge. On the other side of the Ravi, nomads were also dancing under bright lamps. Perhaps, there too, a boy like Majhi had managed to break through the high walls of Lahore and carve out his place.

When Ehsanullah returned, he was happy to see Daula. Darshan had already told him Daula's entire story. Daula now began to live in the office. Fatima started teaching him. He immersed himself in his studies, completing years of learning in months. He would join Darshan Masih to visit factories where children worked. They would file complaints with the police, and those children would be freed from forced labor. Ever since Darshan Masih had written to the Supreme Court, the police listened to him and carried out raids on his word. Their attention turned to the brick kilns, and troubles erupted everywhere. The kilns, spewing smoke into the air, were visible from afar. It was also easy to see the children making mud bricks there, as they worked outside in the sun, near the road. With police raids, these dark-skinned children would be freed, only to find work at another kiln, driven by hunger.

Daula remained so engrossed in his books, as if he had very little time. Along with learning to read and write, he also handled small tasks in the office. Writing letters to departments or newspapers was also his responsibility. Fatima had taught him everything. Four years later, Daula took and passed his tenth-grade examination. Ehsanullah got him admitted to college. Many times, on his way to Wahdat Road College, Daula wanted to go to his parents across the Ravi, but his feet would not move forward, for he was afraid of going from light to darkness.

At the office, Ehsanullah and Darshan Masih faced a new challenge. Factory and brick kiln owners had united. Armed guards now stood outside factories, refusing Darshan Masih entry. If Ehsanullah went to the kilns with his team, they would retaliate violently. Ehsanullah and Darshan's work was becoming increasingly difficult. Fatima and Daula came up with a new plan. They started working with newspaper reporters to get news published in newspapers. Whenever Daula had free time from college, he would go with Fatima to prepare reports. The two of them investigated factories and brick kilns, found all the true facts, and prepared a report with photographs. They sent this report to newspapers, but there was no response. Finally, Ehsanullah and Darshan took the report to the editor of a famous Urdu newspaper. This editor had known them ever since the Supreme Court began hearing the child labor case based on Darshan's letter. The editor was very happy to see Darshan. He also promised to publish the report. When the editor asked Darshan who had prepared the report, Darshan took the names of Fatima and Daula. "Send them to me," the editor told Darshan.

"I will send them, and they will also tell you the whole story orally." Saying this, Darshan took leave from the editor. Outside the newspaper office, Darshan and Ehsanullah were happy.

Time was now running out. The kiln and factory owners began to tempt Ehsanullah and his team with money. When they refused to be bought, these factory owners became enemies. They issued threats and sent thugs, but Ehsanullah's companions did not waver. They preferred counting the freed children to counting notes. The money-worshippers were surprised and would ultimately comfort themselves by calling them crazy.

Wealth has only one increase: it snatches away all other sights and thoughts from the eyes and mind. What can be more envious than wealth? It burns all loves, relationships, emotions, and thoughts. Darshan Masih had named wealth a "tandoor" (oven). Daula had learned this same lesson.

Majhi now stopped going to small weddings. At large weddings, people would themselves pick him up. Invitations would come from prominent and famous places in Lahore, and Majhi would rush there, even if the money was less. He had a passion for singing within the city. He felt as if only here lived those who truly understood melody. Daula, too, now began to consider this city his own. Life had taken such a turn that Majhi felt as if the nomads' journey had ended. He saved some money and bought a motorcycle. Whenever the motorcycle passed a hut, children would run out as if Majhi had come to give them candy. The hearts of the young girls living in the huts would beat upon hearing the sound of the motorcycle. Majhi had crossed the age when nomadic boys and girls would get married. Girls would crane their necks to see him, but his eyes remained fixed on the Lahore across the Ravi.

The nomads daily saw the high houses, cars, and motorcycles of Shahdara, but their hearts never truly formed a picture of them. Seeing Majhi's motorcycle, everyone wanted to kick a motorcycle. Seeing Majhi's motorcycle, their desires also awakened. One day, the elders of the nomad group, smoking a hookah, began to talk about Majhi and his father Sansi's lives. The oldest man, taking Majhi's name, said, "This child has brought the dreams of city people into the nomads' huts. These dreams will act as termites in our lives." Another nomad sitting nearby, puffing on the hookah, said, "The whole family is happy with the arrival of sustenance, and what more does one need?" Hearing this, the old man began to tell a story.

"Nawab Sarang of Multan was a handsome young man. The joys and festivities of life would not let him go anywhere. He had no worries about wealth. Rivers of wealth flowed towards him as if he were an ocean. If the river of wealth was blocked, Nawab Sarang, like the ocean, would surge and swirl towards the river's paths. When his heart desired, Sarang would travel to Cholistan. To the people living in separate huts amidst the sands of Cholistan, he would ask one question: How do you live here by the ponds, under the sun's fire?

They would reply, "Just as you live in the cities." Sarang would not believe this answer. He felt they were lying or hiding something. How could the days and nights of the desert be like the city? he asked himself.

A brick fell from the wall of years, year by year, and finally, one autumn, Sarang set off towards the mountains. In the mountains, he saw the nomads' huts and remembered the huts of Cholistan. Fearfully, he went and sat by the men sunning themselves near the huts. He cast off the shell of his past thoughts. Sitting there, he forgot himself. Now he himself had become a nomad. Living and wandering with the nomads, he saw rivers, springs, forests, valleys, and plants. He saw stone mountains, grassy mountains, sheep, goats, horses, lions, leopards, monkeys, elephants, and markhor. He saw rivers, snow, and lakes. Under the sky filled with the moon and stars, he saw birds flying and chirping. He heard new languages, dialects, sounds, and songs. If he hadn't seen anything, it was hunger and greed. He hadn't seen the ownership and hoarding of things. He hadn't seen the burning, subtle fear that comes from other people. The counting of time had ended. Sarang had completely changed. He felt that life would now proceed on this path. When the winter snows accumulated, the nomads turned back. Descending from the mountain, they reached the place where Sarang had joined them. The shell of past thoughts began to re-cover Sarang's head. He separated from the nomads and returned to Multan. Behind him, his lands had been seized by his brothers. He couldn't believe his eyes. The dispute escalated through arguments. There was a fight over the possession of his land. The decision was now in the hands of guns. Sarang's elder brother died from a gunshot wound. Sarang himself died in jail, accused of his murder.

"A hermit flees to the forest, away from trodden paths, while a worldly man builds cities. Everyone is a slave to their circumstances and conditions. A deer does not abandon the jungle, even if death stalks all around it."

Now, a young nomad spoke, having heard the old nomad's words. "I will tell you a story that a holy man told me."

"Which story?" everyone present asked.

"A hunter set a net to catch birds in the jungle. Two large birds got caught in the net. They flew towards the sky, taking the net with them. Seeing this, the hunter ran after them. A renunciate, seeing him run, said, 'It seems strange for one who walks on the ground to chase those who fly in the sky.' Hearing this, the hunter said, 'These birds have united and flown away with my net, but when they fight, they will fall down.' Just a little time had passed, and the birds began to fight. When they fell, the hunter caught them and butchered them."

Hearing the story, the old nomad spoke, "A Hindu pandit from Sindh also told me this."

Majhi returned after singing at a show in Lahore, an newspaper in his hand. He was searching for Daula's father, Dari. Dari was sitting in his hut, smoking a hashish-filled cigarette. Majhi placed a piece of the newspaper in front of him. Dari slowly opened his eyes. All the intoxication of his body was moving in his eyes. He was swaying like a worm. His gaze fell on the colorful pictures in the newspaper. He suspected one picture was of his son, Daula. Looking closely, his suspicion began to turn into certainty. He put the cigarette aside, held the newspaper in both hands, and brought it close to his eyes. His half-closed eyes opened fully. He looked at Majhi as if asking, "Is this Daula?"

Majhi understood his unspoken question and immediately said, "This is our Daula." Dari got up and embraced Majhi.

"You found my son. Today, you too take a puff of hashish." Dari offered the cigarette to Majhi. Dari showed the newspaper to his wife, and she cried, saying, "My son is alive?"

Dari kept showing the newspaper to all the nomads in the huts. No one could read. How could anyone tell what was written? To find an educated person, he ran towards the Ravi bank as Bibi Hajra ran on the Safa and Marwa hills. Finally, he saw a man riding a bicycle coming towards him. His hope surged. The cyclist came closer, and Dari signaled him to stop. He was a postman and was going to deliver mail. Dari showed him the page of the newspaper with Daula's photo.

"This is my son, Daula!" Dari said, pointing to a photo with his finger. The postman looked at him with questioning eyes.

"Read this to me, what does it say?" A plea squeezed from Dari's voice. The postman took the newspaper and began to read. Hearing his son's story, Dari kept getting happier. When the postman finished reading and handed the newspaper back to Dari, he started walking rapidly towards the huts as if to announce the news of victory to everyone. His thoughts took a sudden turn, and it was as if a cry from within Dari was suppressed internally.

"Do sons ever leave their parents to weep alone?" This question opened the door of his heart and came out. He would argue and sulk with Daula in his thoughts. Then he suddenly remembered the fakir's words: "The day the bear leaves your hands, your son will also go far from you."

Dari now began to curse the SHO and the wildlife officials. The day all the nomads watched Majhi sing on TV at Gulu Pathan's hotel, Dari remembered his son and the bear intensely. He returned home and played the drum for a long time. There was no bear to dance in front of him. He himself kept weeping and dancing.

He wanted to celebrate his son's happiness in the same way Sansi had celebrated his son Majhi's. Sansi had Majhi to show people, Dari had only a piece of newspaper. He hung this piece of newspaper at the entrance of his hut with a stick. It rained that night, and the newspaper got wet and fell down with the wind. Dari woke up in the morning and came out of his hut. His happiness lay soiled in the mud.

Majhi's name would be printed on posters for music programs in Lahore. His dholay, mahiya, and songs gradually became Sufi. He did not sing qawwali. He began to sing shlok and kafiyan. What could he do? Everyone was scared. At places of singing and playing, young men with beards would arrive, banging their drums, and issue threats. They would shout in loud voices, "Music is forbidden, it distances you from Allah!"

The drummers began to change their tunes, trying to get closer to Allah. Majhi's ragas and melodies, like other singers, chanted the name of Data. Majhi's work started to dwindle. Music programs began to be held in closed rooms and halls. In the city, posters of instruments, drums, harmoniums, and pictures of smiling singers stopped appearing.

There was a gathering of folk singers at Alhamra. Majhi had also received an invitation. Majhi took one of his apprentices and set off towards Alhamra in a rickshaw. From the Ravi bridge to Mall Road, posters of turbaned clerics covered every wall. Some were new, some old. Majhi felt as if the walls had fallen in love with them. Majhi felt scared today. He was traveling hidden in the rickshaw because of this fear. Upon reaching Alhamra, he felt as if the program had been canceled. There were no singers or listeners outside. Inside the hall, the religious storytellers (Dhaadis) held sway. Few listeners had come. All chairs were empty except for four rows. The program had been on for only half an hour when talks of the Data Darbar blast began everywhere. Some people, who had come to Data for a long life, children, and wealth, had lost their lives. After this blast, all musical instruments were confined to homes, and the drum of fear-born chaos began to beat on the streets. Majhi once again stood at a place where no one was there to listen to his voice. He became as silent as the Ravi around the huts.

MNA Dhillon had strong influence in the government. The Minister of Housing was his good friend. The two decided to build an entertainment park along the Ravi River. The minister promised to lease government land. Hotels, swings, parks, zoos, cinemas, and who knows what other things were planned to be built there. MNA Dhillon, the minister, and the Housing Secretary came with police vehicles to see the site where the park was to be built. The station house officer who had pushed the nomads from the fort to this spot was also with them. Seeing the nomads' huts in such a vast open space, the secretary exclaimed, "What are we going to do with these nomads?"

"What is there to do? We'll push them somewhere else," Dhillon showed his assertiveness.

The government land was leased in Dhillon's nephew's name, and it was time to dismantle the nomads' huts. The SHO was clever; instead of using force, he planted a mosque sign near the huts. A van full of clerics arrived from Muridke. All the clerics gathered and stood at the spot where the mosque sign was placed. Three or four clerics even had Kalashnikovs in their hands. What invitation did the nomads have for guns? They were already ready to leave this place themselves. The twists of fate are incomprehensible. Majhi's singing and playing work stopped, and he roamed around the huts, jingling. There was no one to explain things to Sansi either. The monkey, who guarded the huts, had also been gone for more than a month. The nomads began to remember the waters of the Indus River and the bright, cool nights of the desert. It was difficult for the nomads to live on memories. One day, bulldozers were seen approaching the nomads' huts in a line. Seeing the SHO, an elder said to the other nomads, "It seems this uniformed man's duty is to dismantle our huts. He didn't even let us camp across the Ravi."

The bulldozers slowly leveled the ground, approaching the huts. Where would the hut dwellers make noise? This land wasn't theirs anyway. Even the dogs of the huts weren't barking at these bulldozers. They had placed the entire burden of guardianship on the nomads. The nomads themselves were ready to pull up their pegs. Dari was waiting for his son, Daula. Little did he know, Lahore had devoured Daula.

Daula would visit factories and brick kilns, and after meeting the laborers, he would file a habeas corpus petition in the High Court. The owners had also become clever now. The police officers at the station would inform them, and they, in turn, would coerce the laborers. The laborers would then appear before the High Court and the station officer, giving the same statement: "No one has forced us to work." Ehsanullah and his companions started receiving threats. Their work became harder. One day, someone informed Daula that forty children were working in a factory in Gajumata. Daula left the office and waited for a van near Malik's soup kitchen. Two mustachioed men emerged from the soup kitchen. Approaching Daula, they took pistols from their pockets and shot Daula directly. Both men ran towards the settlement behind the soup kitchen. Daula's breath left him, but his blood kept flowing. The eyes of the people standing on the road fixated on this flowing blood. Some other people shot at Ehsanullah's office and also smashed all the equipment.

People say that Ehsanullah left Lahore and went towards the river ports.

Before dawn, the nomads had already pulled up the pegs of their huts. This place had not suited the nomads. They felt it was haunted. Dari had spent the night meditating, believing that his son would return before sunrise. He had even vowed to lay a sheet at Sehwan Sharif. Deceased people never return. Daula did not come, but the hope of his return was still alive in Dari's heart even when the caravan of nomads left the bank of the Ravi and moved westward. Now, neither a bear nor a monkey followed the carts. It seemed as if a displaced caravan was leaving the city. The group of nomads crossed the Chenab River near Chiniot and continued their journey towards Jhang. They camped near Head Trimmu, where the Chenab and Jhelum rivers merged, signifying their existence to the nomads. After a few days, they started traveling again. The Indus River flowed in their eyes. As they got closer, the nomads would forget all their destitutions. The sand dunes of the desert, passed under moonlight, looked like a mother lying naked and long to feed her children. Finally, they embraced the winds of the Indus River near Kahror Lal Esan. On a high dune near the river, they built their huts, opening their doors towards the Indus River. Majhi, seeing his friend Daula's father, Dari, in distress, descended from the dune and sat by the riverbank. His hands began to play the harmonium, and he closed his eyes and began to sing:

"Be it the love of Kech and Punhal,

Or the throne of Hazara,

No mansion is ours by name,

Nor any palace or minaret.

We are the dust of the path, oh beloved,

We are mud and clay.

No flute in hand,

No end to the shore.

The path is our Lord,

The path is Kech Hazara."