Morning (Short Story)

Morning

By

Tipu Salman Makhdoom 

(Translated from Punjabi)

 

I shivered, chilled to the bone.

I quickly filled the tub with hot water, stripped off my clothes, and immediately froze, again, from the cold. The electric geyser had given up. Its red light on, it was now peeing cold water into the pipe. I turned off the tap and dipped my hand into the water; it was hot. I glared at the little, white, egg-shaped object, hanging two feet above the shower head, no bigger than a small bucket. Damn it, trying to act like a big geyser.

“It's a bit too hot, might scald me. Should I add some cold water?” he mused, reaching for the tap.

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 Blind Girl (Short Story)

 The Blind Girl

By

Tipu Salman Makhdoom

(Translated from Punjabi)

Death is not of this world; it is the path to the next. In this world, nothing truly dies. Not homes, nor the rooms within them. Every room lives, a world unto itself, a realm of enchanting wonder. So profound that one cannot perceive all its layers with mere eyes. Within every single thing, a world resides.

Afi Baji’s brother was telling me this. He often engages me in such conversations. He’s a neighbor, and he makes an effort to humor me, which I tolerate with tight lips. But that day, my tongue broke free from the prison of my teeth.

Father's House (Short Story)

Father's House

By

Tipu Salman Makhdoom

(Translated from Punjabi)

Only the humble build homes: sparrows, ants, and the middle class. Have wild beasts ever built palaces?

I was nearly swallowed by walls, sprouting from the earth, and a scene from that time remains etched in my mind to this day. Perhaps it's a true memory, or maybe a film formed from countless retellings. My father, burdened by debt, would bring me every other day to witness the house taking shape. "This will be our home," he'd repeat, "This will be our home." He'd say it over and over, like street vendors flaunting a new trinket. He was overjoyed. For his economic class, building a home is like giving birth, a process that rattles one to the core from within. The rest of one's life is spent nurturing and raising it, only to eventually end up in a six-foot grave oneself.

The Corpse (Short Story)

 The Corpse

By 

Tipu Salman Makhdoom 

(Translated from Punjabi) 

He was alone in the house, and the night was to be spent with Tara’s corpse.

Tara had died just that afternoon. Sixty-year-old Tara was a gardener, a watchman, and when needed, he could drive too. He had worked here for ten years and lived in the quarter beside the house. His family was in the village. They had been informed of his death and said they would arrive at dawn to take the body.

The Day (Short Story)

 The Day

By 

Tipu Salman Makhdoom

(Translated from Punjabi) 

He cinched his tie around his neck, and before knotting it, he grabbed his phone and hailed an Uber. The app estimated the fare between four hundred and four hundred and fifty rupees. The journey from Johar Town to Mall Road would be some thirteen or fourteen miles. A comfortable, air-conditioned car was to pick him up from home and deliver him precisely where he wished, with utmost deference. He, the master, in the back, and the driver, respectfully in front. Four hundred rupees for such an excursion was hardly excessive. The app indicated the car would arrive in three minutes. He placed his phone on the table, quickly tied his knot, slipped on his socks and shoes, donned his coat, tucked his wallet into one pocket and his phone into the other, and stepped out. The moment he emerged, he encountered the gardener.

The Objectives Resolution (Short Story)

 The Objectives Resolution

By 

Tipu Salman Makhdoom

(Translated from Punjabi) 

When people shriek that I was born in 712 AD, I'm simply bewildered. I was born on the shores of the Arabian Sea in 1949; how could they be dragging me back over twelve hundred years? But people turn red and yellow, drooling, their eyes bulging so fiercely that I, myself, grow anxious. I only know what has happened since my own eyes first opened. Before that, I've merely heard tales. And we are not like humans, where the elders recount history to the young. People are the ones who tell me where my lineage begins. They say I was merely born in my present form on March 12, 1949, in the Assembly Chamber in Karachi. My essence was born on the coast of Debal when Muhammad bin Qasim the Arab attacked in 712 AD, overthrowing the local Sindhi ruler, Dahir, and then the Sindhi people began to shift from being Hindu to Muslim. They say tribes are bound by blood, but nations are forged by ideas. So when the Sindhis embraced Islam, their tribe remained Sindhi, but their nation transformed from Sindhi to Muslim. And so, the Sindhi nation was divided, cleaved by the power of an idea... Now, Sindh no longer held Sindhi and Arab nations. Nor it held anymore the Buddhist, Jain, Hindu, and Muslim nations. Only two nations were there now: the Muslim nation and the infidel nation.

A.I. Tears (Short Story)

 

A.I. Tears

By 

Tipu Salman Makhdoom

(Translated from Punjabi)

A gentle stir, and a soft whisper pulled him from sleep. It was his Barbie Doll, his robotic girlfriend, standing over him with a steaming cup of tea. "It's January 1st, 2079," she chimed, her voice a perfect, soothing melody. He took the cup, and Barbie leaned in, her flawless lips brushing his. "Happy New Year," she smiled, a picture of effortless warmth.

A familiar annoyance pricked at him, still tangled in sleep. If this were a human girlfriend, he'd be forced to craft a smile, offer a hug, and return the greeting, even if his heart wasn't in it. Otherwise, she'd read it as anger. The best thing about his robot partner was escaping those fake displays of affection. If love stirred within him, he showed it; if not, he simply didn't, and she never seemed to mind. No anger, no arguments. That's why he liked his Barbie so much.

Pure (Short Story)

 

Pure

By

Tipu Salman Makhdoom

(Translated from Punjabi)

 

The glittering cutting edge of the steel blade, emerging from the yellow cheerful grip, was razor-sharp. A feather-light brush was enough to send the apple slice tumbling. Amidst the relentless rhythm of the blade, a dark chuckle escaped him as he instinctively shielded his fingers—though what purpose did they serve now? With the precision born of habit, he nudged the glistening apple slices aside, his hands, unlined yet bearing the silver frost of age on the wrists, gathering the discarded cores into a small mound. Two full kilograms of small, crimson mountain apples lay dismembered, their stems cast off. He then drew a bowl closer, meticulously extracting the liver-hued, fish-shaped seeds from the cores, accumulating them until the bowl held just under half its capacity. He shook it, a quiet assessment in his eyes. Not half, no, but decidedly more than a quarter. A faint smile touched his lips, "What was all this fuss about these paltry seeds?" he mused. They were merely a macabre flourish, a splash of color for what was to come. The true architects of his final peace awaited: the two strips of sleeping pills.

His retirement, a quiet shadow, had not yet stretched to its second full year.

ਅਦਾਲਤਾਂ ਦੀ proceedings ਦੀ ਮਿੱਖ

 ਅਦਾਲਤਾਂ ਦੀ proceedings ਦੀ ਮਿੱਖ

ਲੇਖਕ

ਮਖ਼ਦੂਮ ਟੀਪੂ ਸਲਮਾਨ (ਲਹੌਰ)

Benjamin Nathan Cardozo ਬੈਂਜਾਮਿਨ ਨਾਥਨ ਕੋਰਡੋਵਜ਼ੋ, 1938 - 1880، ਅਮਰੀਕਾ ਦੀ ਸੁਪਰੀਮ ਕੋਰਟ ਦੇ ਯਹੂਦੀ ਜੱਜ ਸਨ। ਯੇਲ ਯੂਨੀਵਰਸਿਟੀ ਵਿਚ ਉਨ੍ਹਾਂ ਨੇ ਲੈਕਚਰ ਦਿੱਤੇ ਜਿਹੜੇ ਨੇਚਰ ਔਫ਼ ਜੁਡੀਸ਼ਲ ਪ੍ਰੋਸੈਸ ਦੇ ਨਾਂ ਤੋਂ ਕਿਤਾਬੀ ਸ਼ਕਲ ਵਿਚ ਛਪੇ ਤੇ ਬਹੁਤ ਮਸ਼ਹੂਰ ਹੋਏ। ਇਸ ਕਿਤਾਬ ਵਿਚ ਉਨ੍ਹਾਂ ਨੇ ਇਸ ਕਾਰਰਿਵਾਈ ਤੇ ਗਲ ਬਾਤ ਕੀਤੀ ਏ ਜਿਹੜਾ ਜੱਜ ਦੀ ਕੁਰਸੀ ਤੇ ਬਹਿ ਕੇ ਜੱਜ ਕਰਦਾ ਏ। ਆਪਣੇ ਇੱਕ ਲੈਕਚਰ ਵਿਚ ਜੱਜ ਸਾਹਿਬ ਕੁਝ ਇਸ ਤਰ੍ਹਾਂ ਫ਼ਰਮਾਂਦੇ ਨੇਂ: