Saturn's Torment (Short Story)

 

Saturn's Torment

By

Shahzad Aslam

Translated from Punjabi

 

 

Khayyam sat huddled inside his quilt in his room. Perhaps it was the chill, or perhaps a fear. If it was fear, then it lay frozen like ice amidst the room's silence and solitude. A stark, white fear. The sound of Khayyam's own weary breaths was no less than a clamor in his ears. His ears wished to hear nothing. In a world full of noise, there was nothing left worth hearing. The sounds pained his ears. The distinct fear of each of Khayyam's body parts coalesced, taking control of his mind.

How can each body part have a different fear?

I had forgotten. In truth, his mind had distributed its fear among every part of his body.

Khayyam is an artist by profession. Gradually, this passion became his means of livelihood. Whenever he reached out to do any work, brushes appeared in his hands. His feet simply wouldn't move towards any other task. When not working, his feet would wander like those of an Arabian horse, tireless. One day, Khayyam set off on the Grand Trunk Road, heading towards Delhi. If not for the border ahead, he would have only stopped upon reaching Delhi. When his brush moved across the canvas, it seemed as if he were encapsulating all galaxies within a single drop of water. In contrast to Edvard Munch's "The Scream," he began the work of painting silence. He had been painting silence for many years. He would transfer silence onto the canvas, and then another form of it would appear in his mind. Countless paintings of silence lay in his room's storage, yet the images of silence in his mind were inexhaustible. His silence had become a prolonged scream. Canvas, brushes, and paints, along with his clothes, lay scattered in his room. Still, this clutter was less than the clutter of his mind. The mingled scent of old books and clothes, combined with his body odor, resembled the unique aroma inside Bradlaugh Hall.

Huddled within the quilt, Khayyam began to feel as though he had fallen from the sky or sprung from a tree. He had heard such stories in childhood. Now, these stories seemed real. His blood relations had peeled away like a shroud. Last year, in a single day, his entire family had perished in a bomb blast. He couldn't even identify his enemy. The grief of losing his family slowly turned into anger, and when this anger found no outlet, it coiled and settled within Khayyam. This anger gnawed at him from within. Just as broken shackles prevent movement, Khayyam's anger held him captive. The internal turmoil within Khayyam severed him from the outside world.

This night of December 25th continued to transform Khayyam's solitude into a monster. This hideous and terrifying form of the monster was slowly emerging fully from the cave of time. It seemed as though by morning, this monster would escape the room, seize control of the air, and every living thing would become light with fear, floating in the wind. Khayyam lay like a statue on his bed. He had spent most of the night awake. As the darkness of night melted away, turning white like water, the fear too dissolved. Khayyam's eyes closed, and he fell asleep.

His open eyes had kept the changing fear hidden behind the knot of his eyelids, but sleep loosened those knots, and the monster entered his dream.

Before Khayyam, in the bright sunlight of the frozen day, people of various colors, religions, and races, big and small, laughed and played, their faces adorned with the joy of flowers blooming on the green grass. Suddenly, some heads began to fly in the air as if fireworks were going off. The brains of these flying heads commanded the arms to seek support.

But what could the arms do? They were still attached to the lifeless torsos on the ground. Unable to find their arms, the fear-filled eyes of the flying heads saw another flying head. That flying head was laughing and saying: "Laugh more!"

Then all those heads fell to the ground with a thump like ripe mangoes, and after rolling a little, they stopped, staring at each other with wide eyes.

With that, Khayyam's eyes opened. His two hands came up to cover his eyes, blocking the light streaming from the window. Here, the arms had obeyed the fear-filled mind.

Khayyam's room was above the shops on the west side of the road that passed by Moon Market. A short distance to the west of those shops was the park whose green grass had turned red from a bomb blast just one day before. The fragments of bodies scattered like burnt wood on this red color created images in Khayyam's mind that neither let him sleep nor stay awake. He now felt as if a fog of fear outside had formed a wall before the sun. He gathered courage and stepped out of his room. He stood near the road outside. The sun shone with full force, mocking Khayyam. Khayyam couldn't believe it. Where had the fog of his thoughts gone? Traffic was rushing on the road as usual. Khayyam ran and crossed the road. He was still afraid that another blast might occur. Seeing the crowds in the surrounding shops, Khayyam began to doubt himself, wondering if the bomb had perhaps exploded in his own mind. After crossing the road, he went straight into the lane of Moon Market. Songs were playing in the shops. People were passing by, laughing. Khayyam passed by a tea shop and heard the loud voice of a Mashriq Channel anchor from the TV inside. His voice suggested that another blast had occurred somewhere. Khayyam stopped dead upon hearing the voice, and then his feet automatically turned back into the shop. Sitting on a wooden chair in the shop, he rested his arms on the table. "Hey, kid! Listen." He called out to the boy working at the tea shop. The boy ran up and started asking for his order.

"Bring one cup of tea." He told the boy. The boy turned to get the tea, and Khayyam called him back again.

"Tell me! Do you know about the blast that happened in the park the day before yesterday?" Khayyam asked the young boy.

"The whole country knows about that blast, many people died." The boy replied.

Khayyam was convinced that everyone knew. He began to think, and the young boy asked him a question: "Don't you know about the blast?"

What could Khayyam answer when he himself had seen the heads rolling on the ground? He remained silent. The boy, surprised to see him silent, left to get the tea. After two or three commercials on TV, the news started. Three or four other people were also drinking tea in the shop. No new blast had occurred; the news anchors were still reporting on the previous one. The number of dead and the names of the injured were being broadcast. There was no trace of the names of the dead. The people sitting inside the shop were making their own comments. After listening to the news for two days, their attention was no longer fixed on the TV.

"Dude! It's scary to leave home, but what can we do, we have to earn for the children's food too." A fat man in his fifties or sixties with thick glasses, sitting inside the shop, was telling the person sitting opposite him.

"Dude! Fear does come, but when death is destined to come, it will come, even if we hide behind seven curtains. You should pray to God for well-being." The second person replied to the man with thick glasses. Hearing their conversation, Khayyam said in a low voice: "If the time of death is fixed, then is God an accomplice of those who cause blasts?"

Khayyam was only angry at those who caused the blasts. They, too, were invisible to the eyes, like God. The young boy placed the cup of tea in front of Khayyam. Khayyam's tongue had turned bitter while waiting for the tea. Taking one sip, the sweet taste of the tea dissolved the bitterness of waiting. Suddenly, another news item appeared on the TV, and the attention of the people sitting inside the shop turned towards it.

"Big news! The fate of the country is about to change. Now cars will run on water. The need for petrol is over. An indigenous engineer has made a car run on water. See for yourselves." The famous anchor was shouting while showing the running car. Along with that, he also started trying to portray the government as bad.

All the people sitting at the tea shop started speaking in unison. The voices grew louder.

"Our government will never let this experiment succeed. They will make this engineer disappear too." The person cleaning the tables blurted out.

With this announcement, the tea maker also jumped into their conversation.

"Once, a nuclear scientist had found a formula to generate electricity from jinns, but no one paid any attention to him. That's why today we are still looking for electricity." The owner of the tea shop said while pouring tea into cups. Hearing this, the person sitting opposite him broke wind, and Khayyam put his hand over his nose. Khayyam felt that if he stayed there any longer, they would thoroughly dissect all of science. Khayyam paid the tea bill and left through the last lane of the market. He felt soothed by the warmth of the sun. His attention fell on a building in the market whose bricks had turned black with smoke. The market committee had tried hard to suppress the smoke by painting, but it still seeped through. This was the color of the screams of the hundred and twenty people who were killed in the bomb blast in Moon Market last year. Before Khayyam's eyes, these smoke stains turned into bleeding heads. Khayyam began to be tormented by the thought that what he was seeing, others couldn't see. Khayyam left there and walked towards his room. On the way, he met a Pathan who was selling dry fruit on a cart. He bought almonds and walnuts from that Pathan. For a moment, he found this Pathan unpleasant. The fear of death seeks fear from someone else, someone who is not like us. Khayyam walked quickly onward.

"I don't need to fear anyone else in my city." He told himself. He would have understood if his fear had ended. Finally, upon reaching his room, he breathed normally.

Khayyam had been entangled in this dilemma for three or four days: how to forget everything and live his life like other people. Finally, he had one last resort, which he began to use. He decided to spread his inner torment onto the canvas and find liberation. The next morning, he got up, straightened the canvas, and began to paint. He brushed a blue sky onto the upper part of the canvas. It seemed as if a piece of the sky had been cut out and placed on the canvas. Beneath this sky, he created green ground, from which fountains of blood erupted. Between this ground and sky, he then painted heads flying separate from their torsos, in whose eyes the fear of another shone like sunlight. All those heads were looking at a smiling head.

Although Khayyam was tired, the restlessness of his mind placed him before another canvas. He wanted to empty his mind by imprinting his thoughts on the canvas. He painted a king sitting on a throne before people sitting in a circle. While painting this, he began to recite Martin Niemöller's poem:

First they came for the Communists, and I did not speak out—

Because I was not a Communist.

In the center of the circle, he painted a man with a sword in his right hand and a severed head dangling below the hair in his left.

Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out—

Because I was not a trade unionist.

Before the man with the sword, a headless torso danced Kathak.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—

Because I was not a Jew.

Seeing that dancing torso, laughter erupted on the faces of the people sitting in the circle.

Then they came for me—

And there was no one left to speak for me.

As the paintings were created, the sorrow and suffering on Khayyam's soul also diminished. After the expression of pain, the lava within begins to cool. Slowly, Khayyam piled up stacks of paintings of severed heads. Each head was cut so expertly that it seemed as if a butcher's lifetime of experience had gone into it. Blood appeared to drip so vividly that it seemed the room's floor would turn red any moment. The mouths of all these heads were open, as if screaming. These screams would be drowned out by the noise of traffic, becoming silent like "silence." Khayyam wanted to build a mountain of severed heads. He had heard of the mountains of Genghis Khan and Hulagu Khan since childhood.

Khayyam had created a world of solitude in his room. He would capture the vastness of the world in his colors on canvas. The expanse of the entire world was merely a station on the journey of his thoughts.

Khayyam was engrossed in his work when his room door knocked. He opened the door, and outside stood his friend, Professor Ramish. Khayyam smiled upon seeing him and then embraced him. Professor Ramish was Khayyam's classmate. Both had studied at the National College of Arts in Lahore. Ramish had established his art gallery in Dayal Singh Mansion on Mall Road. Once, many exhibitions were held there, but now only occasionally. Ramish now taught at the same college where he himself had studied. Ramish was very happy in his life. He did whatever he wanted. He would visit Khayyam for recreation. Seeing Khayyam's paintings gave him new ideas. He considered Khayyam a source of inspiration for himself. Khayyam found his art by unraveling the knots of his own life.

Khayyam, talking with Professor Ramish, got up and opened the window facing the street, calling down to the hotel employee. The employee stood beneath the window and looked up, and Khayyam asked him to bring two cups of tea. Khayyam closed the window and sat back down in his place. Professor Ramish began to look at Khayyam's paintings.

"What new work is happening these days?" Ramish asked Khayyam.

"Everything is before you. Art is dying its own death." Khayyam replied, rolling up his shirt sleeves.

"What will become of art?" The professor asked, echoing Khayyam's despair.

"What will become of art? Where music is mere noise, dance separates from classical to become mere jumping and hopping, and art, instead of being mutual love, becomes mere obscenity, there can be no future for art." Khayyam said this, indicating that there was no longer any need for art here. Khayyam had seen beauty peeling away from lines and words like skin.

The hotel boy appeared at the door with a teapot and two cups. Khayyam took the teapot and cups, placed them on the table, and began pouring tea into the cups. Professor Ramish's attention fell on a dusty canvas that stood on an easel in the corner of the room. He picked up a piece of cloth, wiped away the dust, and began to scrutinize the painting on the canvas. In the painting, a boy sat on a rug, leaning against a pillow. Five beautiful boys sat near him, smiling. Their bodies were plump. The boy leaning against the pillow watched those boys with lust-filled eyes. A little distance away, behind a thin curtain, an older woman dressed in silk clothes watched them with contented eyes. Seeing this painting, Ramish suspected a hidden story in the eyes of the woman standing behind the curtain.

"What is this woman thinking behind the curtain?" Ramish asked Khayyam.

"Baghdad's Caliph Harun al-Rashid's eldest son, Amin, was 'gay.' He wouldn't look at girls. His mother, Zubaidah, was very wise. She was worried about an heir. She cut the hair of beautiful girls in the harem short and dressed them in boys' clothes. The boys surrounding Amin in the painting are actually girls. The woman watching from behind the curtain is Amin's mother, Zubaidah." Khayyam unveiled the story of this painting to Ramish.

"In Proust's France, this could not even be imagined." Khayyam added to emphasize his point. Professor Ramish would visit Khayyam specifically to hear such stories.

"Come, I'll show you another painting." Saying this, Khayyam got up from the chair and took out a painting from the cupboard, presenting it to Professor Ramish. In that painting, Empress Nur Jahan held a rifle, her foot placed on the back of a dead lion. Dressed in masculine attire, she looked like a man. On her face was the same beauty that had captivated Emperor Jahangir.

"You've become like the painter Abul Hasan." Professor Ramish said, looking at the book "Muslim Harem in Art" lying before him. Khayyam had a deep fascination with the harems of Caliph Harun al-Rashid and Emperor Jahangir. He had liked Abul Hasan's paintings while studying at the National College of Arts.

"Khayyam! I want your permission to exhibit your paintings in my gallery." Professor Ramish asked Khayyam.

"Dude, you know, I don't hold my own exhibitions." Khayyam replied to him.

"Come, if not for yourself, then come to the exhibition for me." Professor Ramish pleaded to persuade him. Hearing this, Khayyam fell silent. As if Khayyam had found pleasure in the solitude of his room, he didn't want to give his name any recognition. He believed that whoever rode the horse of recognition could never dismount. When Professor Ramish insisted too much, Khayyam also gave up his stubbornness. Professor Ramish got up to leave, and Khayyam began to say to him: "Let's go eat at some hotel. You can find good fish and barbecue in the market. We'll eat whatever you like."

Professor Ramish was in a hurry; he had to go somewhere else too.

"Not today! Maybe some other time." He said, holding Khayyam's arm.

"Alright, as you wish." Khayyam said this and walked towards the door. Khayyam and Ramish went down the stairs. Ramish embraced Khayyam before getting into his car. He drove the car onto the road leading to Punjab University.

A week later, an exhibition of Khayyam's paintings was held in Professor Ramish's art gallery. Professor Ramish had made excellent arrangements. Artists, art college professors, students, and thirty to forty prominent men and women from the city came to see the exhibition. Khayyam stood in a corner of the gallery, wearing a loose kurta over jeans, near the painting of heads flying in the air. Girls and boys from the National College of Arts surrounded him. One question's answer hadn't even finished when another student would pose a new question to Khayyam.

"What a disgusting painting!" This remark reached Khayyam's ears. Khayyam paused his conversation for a moment and glanced at the woman who had commented on his painting, standing near the paintings hanging on the wall. The woman was wearing pants and a shirt, and her long coat touched her knees. Khayyam smiled upon seeing her. He then became engrossed in conversation with the young boys and girls again. Professor Ramish, meeting other guests, also came and stood near the woman who had described Khayyam's painting. Ramish talked to her for some time, laughing, and then came to Khayyam to introduce her. Ramish's students stepped aside, and Ramish began to introduce the woman to Khayyam: "Meet our creative artist! Mr. Khayyam. He is perhaps the last soldier of our tribe."

Khayyam felt somewhat awkward hearing this introduction of himself. He had never seen such colors in his own being.

"Professor Sahib! It seems you don't like me walking around, that's why you've made me the last sentry." Khayyam replied to him, laughing. The professor also laughed along.

"I forgot to introduce her." The professor said, gesturing towards the woman and addressing Khayyam, "Meet my friend! Ms. Saira Naqvi. She is the conscience of Lahore. She runs 'Samaj'—the famous NGO of Lahore." Ramish introduced the woman to Khayyam.

"What do you think about life? Is it not disgusting?" Khayyam asked Saira.

Hearing this question, Saira's color began to fade. She was convinced that Khayyam had heard her comment about his painting.

"But life is also beautiful!" She said, gesturing with her hands in her coat pockets. Khayyam understood that those living in the posh area of Gulberg hated ugliness from within but also became famous by naming this ugliness.

"Life is not only disgusting but also the vomited stuff of the universe." This phrase began to echo within Khayyam.

Khayyam's paintings had settled into the eyes of those who understood art. Journalists heard the praise from artists, and they too moved closer to see the paintings, and at the same time, they questioned Professor Ramish to understand the hidden symbols within them.

The exhibition ended, and Khayyam again closed his room door and began painting as before. A feature about Khayyam's painting was published in the Lahore Chronicle newspaper. Along with praising his art, it also openly discussed the disillusionment of the common people.

Ten days had passed since the exhibition. Khayyam was in his room looking at a painting of hell in a book about the Dutch painter Bosch's art. A knock at the door startled him. He unlatched the door, and two boys stood outside. One held a diary, and the other a tape recorder. From their appearance, they seemed polite and educated. In Khayyam's vision of hell, they appeared to be two attending angels.

"We are from the Lahore Chronicle newspaper office." The one with the diary introduced himself.

"Yes, tell me!" Khayyam asked them the reason for their visit. They held out the newspaper page on which the feature about Khayyam was published. Khayyam took the newspaper and asked them to come inside. They sat on chairs. Khayyam thought they had come for some expenses, but they announced that they had come for an interview. It was the first time anyone had asked Khayyam for an interview.

"There is no such art in me for which you should interview me." Khayyam told them. Even before they could ask their questions, Khayyam began to answer. From his words, the reporters inferred that Khayyam had no objection to giving an interview.

---

"Why does a person express their inner thoughts?" the reporter asked Khayyam.

"Notes, from which sound bursts forth; letters, from which words are formed; and colors, from which images emerge—each brings everything out from the crevices of the mind. Notes, words, and colors flow like waves. No matter how much humanity progresses, it will still depend on notes, words, and colors to understand itself," Khayyam replied, then began wiping the paint from his hands.

"What is the language and color of truth?" another reporter pressed Khayyam.

"When a person is close to death, they try to speak the truth. This truth they speak in their own language. Facing death is easier and more natural in one's native tongue. There's no need for other languages. Our situation is different. When we are near death, we forget all languages and begin chanting in Arabic. Does God not understand our mother tongue? I believe He understands our mother tongue too. Notes, words, and colors are the languages that reveal truth. The truth painted on canvas continues to speak its language until someone tears it down. That truth then sets off to find its time and canvas again." Khayyam answered, then took out dry fruit from the cupboard and placed it before the reporters. The reporters' desire to know more about Khayyam grew. Khayyam spoke with them about his family. Talking about his lost family, more than just saddening him, made him like a drowning person, flailing to get out of the water and find dry land.

"Why have you given so much space to severed heads and the color of blood in your art?" the reporter asked Khayyam.

"When an artist feels the darkness spread outside within themselves, they then illuminate it with colors," Khayyam answered.

"Have you read the poem 'Football'?" Khayyam now asked them.

"No!" said the boy with the diary.

"Listen to the poem by Kurdish poet Abdullah Peshew:

'News agencies announced A football match Teams are the Kremlin and the White House The ball is Kurdistan's head The goal is Kurdistan The spectators, the world, silent as a grave.'

After reciting the poem, Khayyam fell silent for a while. Then he broke the silence himself and said: "They are playing a World Cup with our heads."

Khayyam's interview was published a few days later. The newspaper of that day found a place for Khayyam in its archives. When Khayyam now went to the market, he was no longer stung by the fear that had poisoned every part of his body a few days earlier. Fear, too, dilutes in the waters of time and eventually settles at the bottom of time, flowing like glass. The laughter of the roaming heads in Moon Market also buried Khayyam's fear beneath the earth. Still, he wouldn't face the park. Besides, the park's main gate had been sealed off. Khayyam's room was usually messy, but whenever he returned to his room after wandering, the clutter seemed overwhelming. After a few days, he also began to suspect that shadows were following him. One day, these shadows stood before him. Khayyam was strolling in the evening on the road behind his room, leading to the park, when a motorcycle stopped in front of him. Two men grabbed Khayyam's arms and dragged him into a High-Lux pickup truck waiting behind them. The soldiers inside pulled him by the legs, as if he were a sacrificial goat. Khayyam didn't understand what had happened to him. Butchers don't let the goat know either. The High-Lux stopped inside the Iqbal Town police station, and the soldiers threw Khayyam out of the vehicle like a sack of grain. The soldiers jumped out of the back of the vehicle. Khayyam, lying on the ground, was picked up by his arms like a sack of cotton and locked into a cell-like room by the soldiers. Khayyam thought hard but couldn't recall what crime he had committed. His anxiety quickly turned into what is called 'resolve.' He asked a soldier about his crime, but received no satisfactory answer.

"Just keep quiet and wait for the SHO to arrive. Pray that you are not found guilty." The soldier advised Khayyam, also hinting at what lay ahead. The SHO returned to the station two hours later. The SP had called him to his office for information on the bomb blast investigation. Anyone looking at the SHO's face could guess that this was his last chance to save his position as station house officer. When the clerk informed him about the arrest of a suspicious person, a sparkle, associated with success, lit up in his eyes.

"Take the suspect to the interrogation room," the SHO told the clerk. The SHO also called the station's most experienced sub-inspector, Muhammad Khan. Muhammad Khan, through his experience, could identify criminals from their words. Both went into the interrogation room, where Khayyam sat on a wooden plank, handcuffed.

"What's your name?" the SHO asked Khayyam.

"Khayyam!" he said carelessly.

"Where are your parents?" the SHO asked Khayyam again.

"They're dead," Khayyam replied, looking down.

"Any other relatives?"

"No! None."

Hearing this, the SHO became convinced that Khayyam was suspicious.

"If you want to be saved, then don't lie. Answer directly," Sub-Inspector Muhammad Khan also spoke up.

"Were you in the park on the day of the bomb blast?" the SHO asked Khayyam.

"Yes! I was," Khayyam replied, and with fear, his body began to tremble. He understood that the police suspected him of the bomb blast.

"You kept visiting the park even after the bomb blast. Why?" The SHO asked, hitting the wooden plank with a stick. Hearing this question, Khayyam started thinking. He didn't understand what to answer. Any wrong answer could trap him. But before he could answer, Sub-Inspector Muhammad Khan spoke up:

"Leave it! What will he answer? My twenty-five years of experience tells me that the suspect always visits the place where he committed the crime. He wants to see what people are saying. People want to find the criminal, but the criminal enjoys being among the people. In every crime story, the criminal also finds a story. Even a story doesn't let its characters settle in one place to find its end. This character of the bomb blast also kept visiting the park for this reason."

Hearing this, Khayyam angrily spoke loudly: "I am an artist! Not a terrorist."

"Artists don't paint pictures of flying heads. You have pictures of blood spilled in the park. We understand your entire plan." The SHO's belief was evident in his answer. Nothing Khayyam said could break that conviction. Khayyam saw the police's hand behind the mess in his room.

"Chaudhry Sahib! He won't agree like this. The stick will extract the truth from him and also fix him." Sub-Inspector Muhammad Khan explained to the SHO. Hearing this, Khayyam swallowed hard.

"In this country, every stick sees only the back of another." The echo of this phrase resonated repeatedly within Khayyam.

That night, inside the police station, sticks rained down like hailstones, and Khayyam's back began narrating stories of pain. Morning came, and perhaps the police officer felt pity for Khayyam. He took Khayyam out of the cell and made him sit on a chair opposite him in his office. The officer gave him permission to go home but made his presence at the station compulsory every Sunday. Khayyam hadn't expected to be released so quickly. Even with his release, the pain of the blow to his existence didn't lessen. Khayyam understood in one night that unrest and blasts don't just take lives; they also devour fundamental rights that have existed for centuries. And even after these rights are trampled under the state's feet, no one speaks up. Everyone becomes concerned for their own lives.

Released from the police station, Khayyam went straight to his room. The wounds on his face and back caused pain and helplessness. Under the bathroom shower, tears silently flowed into the drain. Khayyam had imprisoned himself within his room. For a moment, he thought of meeting Professor Ramish and telling him everything, but then he kept silent, thinking that what had happened had already happened, and there was no benefit in telling it now. He was afraid to go outside. He was convinced that people standing outside would point at his back and laugh as soon as they saw him. Khayyam knew only one way to release his inner fear, anger, and helplessness: he would dip his brush into the colors of his thoughts and draw lines on the canvas.

After that single night at the police station, Khayyam began painting animals alongside messy, distorted, and intricate trees. The demon of fear that had seized control of the air had disfigured the appearance of every breathing creature. Khayyam had only one last canvas left, on which he began to paint not with colors, but with the ink of his fear. He would dip the brush in fear, and his hands would tremble. Before him, the scattered clouds on the canvas drew closer, forming a colossal snake. Behind the belly of this snake, the setting sun was hidden. Red sparks from the snake's belly made it seem as if the snake had swallowed the entire sun. Beneath this snake of clouds, birds, in fear, had even changed their forms. A stork flew, hiding its small neck within its long legs. Crows sat with open mouths on the edge of the wind, as if they had news of some great calamity. Only owls flew with complete freedom and joy in the canvas sky alongside the snake-like clouds, their eyes glaring at the earth. On the ground, colorless and crooked ancient trees appeared as if the entire earth had become a graveyard.

It had been one and a half to two months since Professor Ramish had met Khayyam. On his day off, he was bored at home. He took out his car and headed towards Moon Market. Upon reaching there, he parked his car in front of the hotel below Khayyam's room building and began climbing the stairs. A unique joy of meeting Khayyam was visible on his face. He knocked on Khayyam's room door, but no sound came from inside. Khayyam also didn't have a mobile phone. Professor Ramish assumed Khayyam must have gone to the market. He heard footsteps climbing the stairs behind him, and the professor turned back to look. A man was approaching him with two soldiers.

They also stopped in front of Khayyam's room.

"Whom do you want to meet?" the man asked the professor. The professor didn't like his questioning.

"I want to meet Khayyam," the professor replied sternly.

"Any relation to Khayyam?" the man asked the professor again.

"We studied together in college," the professor replied.

"But who are you?" Professor Ramish asked the man.

"I am the owner of this room, and Khayyam was my tenant," the man replied.

"What does 'was' mean? Not now?" Professor Ramish asked the room owner in surprise.

"Khayyam has been missing for two months. He hasn't paid rent either. Who knows where he went," hearing this from the room owner, Professor Ramish became worried about Khayyam. The room owner opened the room with his key and went inside with the soldiers. They began piling up the room's belongings in one place. The professor's worry about Khayyam's disappearance had not yet subsided, and now there was also a risk of his belongings being looted.

"Where are you taking this stuff?" the professor asked the room owner.

"We have to make a list of the belongings and keep it with us," the owner replied.

"If Khayyam returns, he will be upset to see an empty room," the professor tried to explain to the owner.

"Teacher! Don't worry. He won't be coming back." There was conviction in the owner's reply. The professor was sure that the room owner knew the whole story but didn't want to reveal it. The professor thought that he should save whatever paintings he could from this idiot. The soldiers were counting the items and writing them down in a list, and the professor took out ten paintings and set them aside. The room owner initially objected, but when the professor said that these paintings were his, the owner believed this lie. Anyway, these paintings were of no use to him.

"Do you have any idea where Khayyam is?" Professor Ramish asked the soldier when the room owner went out to get empty boxes to pack the belongings.

"Some people say he was abducted. It's also possible he ran away somewhere himself due to fear of the police." The soldier's answer began to reveal the situation. With the professor's persistence, the soldier told him everything that had happened to Khayyam at the police station. Hearing this, the professor also felt a bit scared that he might also be suspected. He tucked the paintings under his arm and descended the stairs. He placed the paintings in the car's trunk, started the engine, and left before the room owner returned.

Professor Ramish kept those paintings at his home for a few days, and when there was no sign of Khayyam's return in his shattered hope, he moved these paintings to his art gallery in the Dayal Singh Building on Mall Road. On the walls of the art gallery, photographs of other artists were hung alongside Professor Ramish's own. Khayyam's paintings also joined them on a wall, staring with surprise at the other hanging photographs.

One day, after giving a lecture to his class of boys and girls, Professor Ramish walked out of the college gate. The entire class followed him. Walking on the Mall Road footpath, they crossed the GPO Chowk. Looking at the traffic, it seemed as if a circus of death was going on. Everyone was in a hurry. No one would stop and listen. The professor's students were also walking fast, as if fearing something falling from the sky. Walking alongside the High Court building, they reached Dayal Singh Mansion. Inside the gallery, everyone felt as if they had found refuge. Alongside Ramish's own paintings, pictures by other artists adorned the walls. Khayyam's paintings were placed near Amrita Sher-Gil's paintings. Professor Ramish went and stood in front of a painting. Two girls stood behind him, trying to identify the girl hidden behind the leaves in that painting. The painting was of a tree whose thick trunk stood splitting the earth. The leaves of that tree formed the image of a beautiful girl. The tendrils of a parasitic vine coiled around the tree trunk like a snake and reached up to the beautiful girl's face. Below her face, a fringe of delicate tendrils hung like a beard. The tendrils seemed to have taken over the entire tree.

After seeing the paintings in the art gallery, Professor Ramish was also supposed to show his students Amrita's house. They were still inside the art gallery when loud voices of women began to sound from the loudspeakers outside. On Mall Road, next to Dayal Singh Mansion, a police contingent stood with helmets on their heads and bamboo sticks in their hands. It was a time of war all around. Professor Ramish wanted to quickly get out of this noise. The police contingent was praying to Allah for their protection. The contingent was still unsure whether they had come to protect the women or to stop them. The soldiers had left the task of protecting themselves to Allah. The soldiers' minds were filled with bombs. They had collected charred flesh fragments many times after blasts. The smell of those burnt fragments had painted a picture of fear on the soldiers' brains. Professor Ramish, standing on Mall Road with his students, began to watch the women's procession from a distance. His attention fell on a tree on the Hall Road side, and he mistook it for the girl in Khayyam's painting. As the women walked towards Hall Road, the fringe of the parasitic plant kept falling, and the trunk was freeing itself from its coils. The women protesting on Mall Road held photographs of their missing loved ones in their hands and waved them in the air, shouting slogans. The names of the missing people were written in red on the photographs. Cameramen walked alongside these women. Live news of this procession was also being broadcast on TV. All these photographs, with their silence, told the whole world the names of the people who had lost them. Everyone walking on the road was silent, hearing those names. The voice of silence is very powerful. The pain of its sound also affects like a bomb. Professor Ramish saw all the photos swaying in the air but couldn't find Khayyam's photo anywhere. There was no hand left to hold Khayyam's photo. Ramish felt as if these women had come from their homes, having decided to perform Sati. To burn and die in the pyre of their household deities, they had smeared their faces with mud and set out to chase away the entire world. In this world of fire, one needs companions to burn. The smoke of the pyre of lost companions hides the fire. The women run from east to west and north to south, carrying flags, to find the pyre in the smoke. On the other side of Mall Road, Saira Naqvi from the Samaj NGO, along with some other women, carried placards. These women were shouting slogans for equal rights. Police soldiers stood around them, forming a circle for their protection. In the black glasses of the women standing with Saira, the world appeared beautiful. The cameramen saw them and rushed across the road as if Saira Naqvi had a clue to the missing people. Those journalists were not looking for silence, but for noise.

Now, Saira herself was seen speaking live on TV. Professor Ramish also walked with his students towards Anarkali, because Sati is the fate of women, and even in this age of burning, they do not let the fire of the pyre extinguish.