SHAN

The first thing to kiss the sole of my beige-shaded leather sandals was the deserted landscape of Nalwari, a small village located on the peripheries of Pishin district, a renowned district in Quetta.

"Shukriya Lala (thanks brother)"

I waved at Zargul, driver of an artistically eye-catching traditional bus, which was the only transportation to get people towards and away from Nalwari. Bus-art of Pakistan had always been fascinating and surprising for me. One could find all sorts of colors, quotes, Quranic verses, poetry, public service messages, abstract art, driver's very own wisdom and much more. On the rear end of Zargul's bus, he had a public service message written with some modifications of his own. It said,

'Keep some distance or else you'll fall in love'

I grinned as I saw the rump of his vehicle while it was departing away.

In the haze of dust dispersed by the scratching wheels of Zargul's vehicle, I started heading towards my not-so-densely-populated neighborhood. It was the beginning of June, happy-scorching time for sun. Every inch of that rocky path was lecturing me about the unpleasant summer heat. The only admirable thing about semester break was the family reunion with my Babu Saheb (Respected Father) and Mua Jaan (Dear Mother). Otherwise, Quetta's city center was more tolerable for me than Nalwari.

I reached the gateway of village after walking for fifteen minutes under the melting heat. A pair of crooked bamboo shafts were held by the rows of red bricks, outlined in stacking fashion around the shaft to hold it within the core. An archetypal dirt-filled navy blue shawl, held in-between by the two arms of bamboo represented the door to Nalwari. It swung joyfully to the stroke of wind to welcome me. I too offered a generous greeting in return by shoving it aside.

The village was barricaded by dried shrub piled up to seven feet. This was one of those few regions in Pakistan where people were more afraid of wild animals than robbers and thieves. So shrub fence made it an inaccessible fortress to four-legged creatures.

I poked my way in to witness not even a slightest change in the configuration of that locality. Same old flock of cows, a bit more older maybe, tied to a broken cartwheel. Ladies laboring to fetch water to fulfill their aquatic needs, from a bore-holed well. Kids were chasing each other because... well, it never occurred to me to uncover the mystery behind that hot pursuit anyway.

Like any other off-the-map region of country, our village too had more flesh than fortune. On an average, around ten to twelve people shared the living in three rooms residence. The fortune we owned as a community was as scarce as the treasures of sewer. A motorbike and few bicycles, one television fixed in the only restaurant which we called Dhaba, a suction motor connected to the water-main to preserve water for dry-out days and a radio which was the proud property of my own.

I stepped on the porch of my place. My house-front was decorated with a kitchen garden. The rivalry I had with the garden was as ancient as Athens and as intense as Trojan war. When I was little, Mua Jaan used to say with a smirk on her face, "You're not the only child I have."

Getting teased by a bunch of cauliflower, parsley and onions that bloomed in her garden under her parenting was utterly sinister, an ominous torture by my mother on me. It did worked back then as out of pure jealousy, I attempted to sabotage that garden once when I was in preschool. I piled up the area with Rani's poop, our next-door neighbor's cow. It eventually didn't turned out in my favor as I lacked the knowledge in preschool about the fact that animal excreta is a natural fertilizer. My teacher should've had taught me that.

I knocked on the wooden door in hope that Mua Jaan won't be somewhere in the neighborhood paying a visit to sick, pregnant or newborns and Babu Saheb isn't glued to the screen-front of Dhaba's television, watching cricket match. Through the cracks between the timber stakes fixed in the ledges of spruce wood framework, I saw a shadow approaching. Mujeeb, my only friend in that town, opened the door to gasp in disbelief as if I had grown two giant horns on my head.

"Shan! It's you!"

He took hold of my shoulders only to vigorously shake the alignment of my joints.

"It's really you!" He repeated with better intensity and pulled my into something that definitely didn't felt like a friendly embrace. It was more of a 'I'll squeez you to the fit of tin-can' kind of hold.

With much strength, I managed to deliver few words out of my compressed lungs. "Are you... planning to crush my bones? Ah! Loo-se... your grip man!"

He backed up a bit, half apologetic for his bursting enthusiasm, to give me some room to breathe.

"Wow! You've gained some pounds." He commented after glancing at my physique.

"And you've gained some destructive knowledge on how to choke people." I returned the compliments.

He chuckled and went on bantering about how glad he was to see me. Beyond his six feet tall, rock-solid stature, I saw the face I was longing for since the last time, I had wiped the tears off her face a year back before leaving for another semester at Balochistan University of Information and Technology. Every time I left for or returned from the city, Mua Jaan did received me with tears. She again with the hint of moisture around the corner of her almond shaped deep-brown eyes, was pacing in my direction to hug me. I did let go off my luggage bags and a suitcase to embrace her in my arms. She was in tears again, sobbing silently into my chest. When I tried to console her by reassuring my presence, it broken her into a loud-pitched cry. That wasn't the usual response I get everytime I come home. Something was different that time. She never cried out loud. Not that I could remember a single occasion where she cried this badly.

"It's okay Mua, I'm home now. Shss... It's okay."

I gently pressed her to sit on Mura, a hand-carved wood cane desi stool placed right beside where we were standing. She then tried to took some control over her flooding emotions. When I asked if everything was fine, she replied with a pretentious smile,

"Of course! It's just I haven't seen your face in a while. Let's get you some dry clothes. You're dripping down in sweat from head to toe."

She swept the tear-trails off her wrinkled cheeks with the embroidered dupatta she was wearing and headed towards my room to get it done for me. I straightened from the squatting posture to face Mujeeb again.

"Mujji, is everything okay? Where is Babu Saheb? Is he fine too?"

I asked him in hope not to hear something that I couldn't bear. He replied with a pat on my back,

"Yes Shan, of course! Everything is just the way you left. Fazal Uncle is at Masjid (Mosque) to offer Dhuh'r prayer. He'll be back soon."

I ran my hand through my light auburn coloured pompadour styled hair. Mujeeb must've had recognised the unspoken anxiety in me, he offered me to get some rest.

"I'll check on you at dinner. Your Mua Jaan is planning to cook your favourite dish, Sajji for you."

He started leaving with a hearty smile glowing on his face.

"Ah! And one more thing." He turned around as he was about to push the door open. "You owe me fifty Rupees. You better clear your debts tonight."

I laughed at him. He remembered me owning him fifty rupees which I lost to him in a Ludo game last year.

"Forget it Mr. Miser! You won't be getting a penny from my side", I replied.

"We'll see about that." He punched his fist over the palm of his other hand to convey a threatening signal.

I sang my reply in Opera style to tease him, "Not! Impressed... Not! Impressed! At all..."

He left, shaking his head with a suppressed laugh. Rest of the day had passed by performing different chores like showering, napping, roaming around the neighborhood and chit-chatting with Babu Saheb. Around 8pm, Mua Jaan called me and Babu Saheb on dinning table.

We entered the dimly illuminated kitchen, lit by a couple of gas lamps. It had been a popular trend in Pakistan that electric supply companies tend to shed the load of power generators by cutting out the electricity of particular area. It wasn't something that bothered us after all those years. We adapted to live under the radiance of flaming gas lamps in dark hours. It was part of our routine then. I took the chair right in front of Mua Jaan. Aroma of that Sajji was mesmerizing. Scent of all the spices diffused in each corner of that kitchen. I smiled at it, faced Mua Jaan, and said,

"That's it!"

Mua Jaan raised an eyebrow with a simper around the corner of her lips as she was busy distributing the food equally into plates. She placed a plate of rice with two pieces of roasted-lamb in front of me and replied,

"You never eat more than a single serving and yet you always complain of insufficient food."

I chuckled at it and started consuming the mouth-watering cuisine. As I was about to dump the spoon full of Sajji in my mouth, a bashing-knock on the door intruded us all.

I signaled them about not to worry as I was certain, that must be Mujeeb on the door, too eager for his share in our platter.

Pushing the chair back, I trod towards the door rather lazily, with an intent to tease the famished individual on the other side of that door. As I was nearby, another loud series of bashes, harsher than the first one shuddered the entrance gate.

I shouted out loud while unhooking the fetter that was holding the lock,

"Oh come on Mujji! Can't you just suppress your enormous appetite for few more seconds?"

It was certainly Mujeeb, but anxious as hell. Intensity of his expressions was troubling me.

"What's wrong Mujji?" I inquired.

He skipped the answering part and asked, "Where is Fazal Uncle?"

As I turned to call Babu Saheb. He was already behind me.

"Is everything okay son?" he inquired while extending his arm to hold Mujeeb's shoulder as he sensed the panic in him too. Worried sick, he looked directly into my father's eyes and said,

"You need to come with me. We've found another one."

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Referenced Vocabulary:

Dhaba: A term commonly used for street restaurants in subcontinent region.

Sajji: Sajji is a traditional dish of Balochistan. It's a simple lamb or chicken or skewers, seasoned with salt, covered with animal fats and roasted on fire or coals. It's the most popular cuisine of Balochi culture.

Dupatta: A piece of cloth usually wore by Asian ladies as an accessory to their attire or for the purpose of covering themselves.

Ludo: A popular board game, especially famous in Asian region. Maximum of four players can participate in this board game at a time.

Rupees: Pakistan and India's currency name.