The Fan (Short Story)

The Fan

By

Tipu Salman Makhdoom 

(Translated from Punjabi)

 

Hung upside down from the ceiling, it endlessly spins.

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

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

The true marvel lies within the fan's motor. A motor so intricately wound with coils that merely trying to comprehend it can leave one dizzy. If the motor were to reverse, the leaders would become followers, and the followers, leaders.

At a slow speed, they move gently, as if on a leisurely stroll in a garden, chatting, carrying their hidden ailments and burdens within them. One might carry hemorrhoids in his backside, another cholesterol in his heart; one might be seeking relief from joint pain, another from a languid member. They smile outwardly, yet inwardly, they tremble, dreaming of shedding their internal curses, walking slowly, slowly. In gardens, dreams are invariably of paradise. In their dreams, they see youth, bodies brimming with vigor, and the radiant forms of women, as they walk on, slowly, slowly.

At full speed, it’s as if they are playing a frantic game of hide-and-seek. When this game of kokla chhapaki continues relentlessly, it no longer seems like a game, but a struggle to achieve a greater purpose; spinning endlessly in high winds to make one's life successful. So high up, spinning so fast, and upside down at that, who can remember what they are doing, and why? In that situation, running becomes less a race for progress and more a race for existence. Even if you don't wish to advance, you must run, lest those behind you overtake you.

Why, one wonders, do we say it "runs"? Perhaps because in older times, fans didn't have speed settings. A fan either ran or it didn't. These luxuries of fast and slow speeds are but recent innovations. Speeds are not only controlled for fans but for humans too. Before this regulated speed, a person was either fortunate or unfortunate, but now, so much happens, and it happens constantly. Sometimes one surges ahead, sometimes one falls behind, sometimes one ascends, and sometimes one plummets. A fan, too, once either ran or remained still; now it runs fast, and slow, very fast, and very slow. It spins as fast as its gear regulator allows. A tiny gear, if you ever look closely, appears like a miniature, wingless fan; how this delicate contraption dances and makes the mighty fan dance.

Once, this gear wasn't so small. This marvel, too, we owe to science.

This button-operated fan is also a form of magic. Fans existed even before the invention of electricity, though the system was somewhat different. Machines existed then too, but instead of motors, they were powered by humans. Those old fans weren't very efficient. They ran slowly, and sometimes, after you fell asleep, the "motor" would fall asleep too; often, the "motor" was simply exhausted. Moreover, these fans usually had only one blade, and there was no gear attached to the "motor." Increasing the speed wasn't a luxury of turning a knob; it required considerable effort. First, you had to shout at the "motor," and if the "motor" had dozed off, you'd have to get out of bed, go outside the room, grab the fan's rope, and kick the sleeping "motor" in the stomach. Sometimes, these kicks would rupture the "motor's" spleen, and it would vomit blood and die.

Even in the past, the speeds of fans killed people, and they still do. Now, however, nothing is visible—no kicks, no vomiting blood. Only a corpse is seen, hanging from the fan, a straight body, dangling from the inverted fan!