The Half-Death

 

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The Half-Death

Novel

By

Tipu Salman Makhdoom

(Translated from Punjabi)

Part 1: Right and Left

 At first, I observed from the void like a satellite. From such a height, not a living creature, let alone a human, was visible. Indeed, the Earth itself appeared as a mere speck, one among countless others—some small, some large, some dark, and some ablaze. Then, I descended, soaring like a sparrow to survey the scene. It was a street in Lahore's Johar Town. On either side stood two-story houses, each spanning ten marlas. Three or four homes boasted trees beyond their gates. One particular house had chairs, crimson rexine seats on steel frames, arranged in its lawn, driveway, and beyond the gate. A dozen or so cars and a scattering of motorcycles lined the street. Inside the house, twenty to twenty-five souls gathered, some standing, others seated on the red chairs. Then, I observed like a lizard, clinging upside down to the porch ceiling. People arrived in small groups. Men lingered outside while women entered. Finally, I slipped inside the house like a mosquito, flitting around hands, feet, ears, noses, legs, and arms. Women sat on white sheets. Amidst the scurrying children, a bier lay on a cot, draped in a white shroud. This was my bier.

And this house was also mine. That is to say, it was my home when I was alive.

For a while, I hovered above my corpse, then, growing bored, I settled on the curtain railing, gazing at my own funeral procession.

It had been scarcely four hours since my demise. I was riding my motorcycle on the road when a sudden jolt came from the right. It felt as if the entire world had tilted and plunged to the right. After that, I seemed to be flying like a sparrow. From above, I saw a car resting atop my motorcycle, and I lay sprawled by the roadside. My head, having struck the footpath, was shattered. I was drenched in blood. People gathered. I was near my home; a few individuals recognized me. They began calling my house. Then, they carried me home.

I mean, my corpse.

At least after death, there was the solace that emotions and feelings had ceased. I felt no anger towards the car driver, nor sorrow at the sight of my own body. Furthermore, even seeing my wife and children weeping and wailing upon my arrival home, no tears came to me. I simply hovered over my corpse and drifted home, much like the two or three flies buzzing over my body. My half-century of life now lay before me, as if condensed. Nothing was hidden or incomplete. Thus, I would sometimes become a satellite, then a sparrow, a lizard, or a mosquito.

I could travel back in time wherever I wished. I could even freeze time. I had plunged into the well of time. Like a soaring robin, I surveyed my life. Born into a clerk's humble abode, I attended government schools. When I achieved a first division in matriculation, my father hosted a feast. Then, when I passed my MA in History, there were more feasts. What was the point of all that happiness? I had passed merely by memorizing guides; I hadn't plumbed the depths of the ocean of knowledge. Besides, if I had failed my MA, what difference would it have made? Passing hadn't led me to eating sushi or spending summer holidays in America. I still subsisted on moong masoor dal and parathas cooked in Dalda ghee, and I dared not take leave from school for fear of being transferred to some distant, undesirable posting. Even if I had failed, the outcome would have been the same. What was the worst that could happen? My increment might have been slightly less, or my rivals would burn a little less with envy. I was still destined to die here, by falling off a motorcycle. Yes, it would have made a difference if my father and grandfather had ushered in a red revolution. If they hadn't cowered like goats, trembling from fear of beatings, prisons, and starvation back then. Then, it could have made a difference. If I couldn't partake of sushi, then no one else would have either. And if I didn't possess a car, then no one else would have had one either.

What a life I had. Even wild beasts live better lives. At that moment, I saw only one distinction between my life and that of an ox grinding at the oil press. Its press was one, and mine was another, that was all. Nay, there was one more difference. Its masters had affixed blinders to its eyes, whilst society had kept blinders on my eyes for the entirety of my existence.

Floating in the air, I drifted out to the porch, and I heard a sharp voice, "What are you doing here?"

This voice was meant for me, for its timbre was clear and resonant, unlike the muffled voices of the living, which sounded as if emerging from a well. At that instant, I noticed that on every person's shoulders sat two diminutive figures: one on the Right and one on the Left. Small, yet perfectly formed and radiant, like auras of light. I looked at my own shoulders; no one was there.

I saw that the figure on the right shoulder of a twenty-four- or twenty-five-year-old young man was addressing me.

"I am dead. My funeral is laid out inside," I could think of nothing else to say.

"Yes. But why haven't you gone up?" the one on the right shoulder asked.

"I don't know, it's my first time dying," the words slipped out involuntarily, and I immediately found myself laughing at my own remark. "I mean, I'm new to this," I clarified.

"Alright, then take a stroll. Sometimes, due to technical issues, there can be a delay. These people cannot perceive you; only we, the Right and the Left, are capable of seeing you." The Right spoke, extending its right hand. I shook its hand. And then shook the Left's hand of the same young man.

"How long does it usually take to ascend?" I inquired of the Right.

"No idea, a few seconds or a few centuries," the Right said nonchalantly, looking around.

The young man walked forward, and I floated alongside him. "Who are you?" I asked the Right.

"Don't know," it said, then pulled out a small register and began to write something in it.

"Do you reside with this young man?" I had nothing else to occupy myself with.

"Yes, we are born with a person, and we ascend with them," it said while writing.

"What lies above?" I asked.

"We don't know. We'll find out when we go up. We just perform our duty." It closed the register and put it back. I couldn't discern where it had come from or where it had been placed. The young man went out through the gate and lit a cigarette. "Here we go again," the Left declared, pulling out its register and beginning to write something. I saw a girl stepping out of a blue car. She was clad in light yellow attire and draped in a white shawl. The young man was intently staring at her. I rewound the scene to observe. When the girl was exiting the car, she first placed her right foot on the road, causing her trousers to rise above her ankle. Her calf, white as milk and plump as barfi paste, truly appeared beautiful. And then, as she stood outside and unwrapped and re-wrapped her shawl tightly, her full breasts sweetened the entire vista. That young man, Amjad, was observing all of this.

I paused time. The Left looked at me and put its register away.

"What is it that you do?" I inquired.

“This is our duty. We must record everything about our person,” this time the Left replied.

“Oh, that I observe. But who are you, and why do you inscribe all this?”

"Ajju ji," the Left spoke again, and hearing my own name from its lips struck me as strange. "As much as you have come to know after dying, we too know but that much. Our eyes opened, and we were here, and we knew this was our task, which we must perform. And so we continue to do it. The rest, we too shall discover only when we ascend."

I looked around in surprise. Everything seemed cinematic. Nothing appeared certain. I looked at myself and saw an aura, a being of light. "I've only found out this much after dying?" I thought. The Maulvi Sahib used to say that after dying, everything would become clear. The ultimate truth would shine before a person like the rising sun. But here, deeper shadows had fallen. I knew nothing about myself, the world, or what lay beyond. I looked towards the heavens, but they seemed beyond my grasp. All around was just pitch-black void. Neither the sky nor paradise or perdition was visible. "This must be Alam-e-Barzakh (the intermediate realm)," I thought. But Maulvi Sahib used to paint a different picture, I mused. Then it occurred to me, they hadn't actually died and seen it. They too had simply created a film in their minds based on hearsay. "I have become a strange entity," I thought. "Neither among the dead nor among the living. I am half-dead because I can no longer die. And I am half-alive because I still cannot tell whether Maulvi Sahib was right or wrong." I laughed. "Oh well," I dismissed it, "I'll find out everything when I go up."

"But what is this work of yours?" I asked the Left.

"We are to record the good and ill deeds of our person, so that after death, their reckoning may be made," the Left replied.

I considered that Maulvi Sahib, then, was not entirely without knowledge. He used to say that God keeps a watchful eye on your every word and every action. He used to say that you can deceive mortals, but not God. At times, I used to feel that Maulvi Sahib was not greatly learned. He knew nothing of history or philosophy. He had read neither literature nor psychology. He would conflate metaphors with materialism, crafting a mythological tale of philosophy. And then he would embrace it with faith. I also used to feel that the wise merely referred to conscience as 'God.' That is why they used to say that God is closer to a person than their jugular vein. And believing in God meant awakening one's conscience, so that conscience would constantly prick a person. This was God's accounting, that one would find no peace after committing an ill deed. Sometimes, faith seemed like this to me. Death also seemed to me like an endless slumber, devoid of dreams. Just as there was a dark void before birth, so too it would be after death. A dark void. But this feeling came only occasionally. And whenever such infidel thoughts arose, I would immediately repent.

But now, it seemed that Maulvi Sahib was indeed wise.

Hearing about the reckoning, I felt fear for the first time.

I let time flow, but I began to inquire of them in detail about what they recorded and how. And also why both of them recorded. They told me that they recorded their own respective tasks. The Right recorded good deeds, and the Left recorded a person's bad deeds. They had heard that a person's accounting would be based on their writings when they ascended.

After a while, my funeral was lifted. By now, tents and lights had also been erected. Sheets and mats were spread inside and outside. Orders for feasts had been placed: chicken curry and plain naan, with yogurt raita and salad also to arrive. All guests were being requested to return after burying the deceased and partake of the meal before departing. Hearing the word "deceased" for myself felt strange. As soon as the Maulvi Sahib led the funeral prayer, he also announced that my Qul (prayers for the deceased) would be held the next day between Asr and Maghrib prayers. My family members were already discussing which flowers should adorn my Qul.

I looked at the funeral like a crow. There were many people, many cars. My funeral was being taken with great pomp. I had always yearned for my funeral to be grand. Countless people should be present. There should be large, impressive cars. When the funeral is lifted, people should weep, and women should wail. The funeral meal should be excellent. People should always remember my funeral. Now I was witnessing my wish being fulfilled with my half-living eyes. It felt futile. Most people had come merely to mark their presence. For they knew that if they failed to appear, tomorrow, all those who had attended would surely inquire upon meeting them, "Were you not at Ajju's funeral?" And then, those inclined to gossip about the absent one would whisper in another's ear, "This person is utterly self-serving. Look, as long as Ajju lived, he hovered around him, his tongue never tiring of calling him 'my brother, my brother.' But behold, the moment Ajju's eyes closed, he wasted no minute in turning his eyes away. Didn't even attend the funeral? Heavens, what a disgrace." To avoid such whispers and gossip, many had come reluctantly, simply to mark their attendance. Now, observing the throng at the funeral, I mused, what benefit is there in these people attending my funeral? Wouldn't it have been better had they not come at all? At the very least, my family's expenses would have been lessened. Besides, what benefit is there in attending the funeral of one they never cared to inquire after in life?

Well, they all did inquire after me, in truth. Some would ask questions they knew would vex me. And some would ask so that tomorrow they could sit among people and declare, "Indeed, I always used to ask after Ajju. You can surely ask him yourself."

There were other people at the funeral who were genuinely saddened by my death. These included relatives and acquaintances. These were the people who would lend a hand to my wife in setting things right, things that would now become topsy-turvy due to my death. How much help would they even provide? No one can give another person bread, can they? They would offer some aid and assistance during the initial struggles. To transfer the small amount of property in my name to my wife and children's names, and to withdraw money from bank accounts, and court visits. To get my pension files made, and office visits.

In Lahore, both living and dying had become difficult. A burial plot was exceedingly hard to find, in a distant graveyard. That's why an ambulance was parked at the street corner. The funeral was to proceed by car. Now, who would carry my corpse on their shoulders all that way?

It hadn't even been twelve hours since my death, and my family had already removed me from the house. They wept, they wailed, yet they were not prepared to keep me for two days. Perhaps they had realized that I was no longer contained within that sack of bone and flesh. But no, how could they have known that? I know them well. Just like the proverb: a boy returned from his maternal grandparents' house and began to lavish praise upon them before his mother. For a while, the mother listened, then, exasperated, she said, "Enough, son, I know them; they are my kin."

They were intent on removing me because I would decompose. Before I began to smell, they desired to bury me in the earth. What else could they do? Human intellect and emotions function only during life. Not before birth, nor after death. Before and after life, the laws of nature prevail. And nature is indifferent.

Upon reaching the graveyard, I soared again like an eagle. What was this desire to behold my own grave with my own eyes, I wondered? Or perhaps the curiosity to see where my loved ones were burying me? The grave was prepared, but the graveyard was a wilderness. No matter, aside from the military-style graveyards of DHA, all of Lahore's graveyards were like this. Uneven, unpaved, with weeds and wild grass everywhere. I saw the grave; it appeared deep and dark. I had heard that graves evoked great fear. But I felt no fear at all. It didn't even feel like my own grave. It felt like someone else's. And indeed, it was someone else's.

It was the grave of my corpse.

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