Written by Murad Sahir
Translation by Fazal Baloch

Kenagi sold the whole camel-load of unripe dates for eighty rupees, wrapped the money in his handkerchief and slipped it under his loincloth. Then he tethered his camel and strolled to the bazaar. He needed to buy some essentials. The shop in his village didn’t stock such a variety of goods. He returned from the bazaar before sunset, packed the foodstuffs and other things he had bought in the saddlebags, saddled the camel, untethered its knees, balanced and tied the load, and set out for his village. Once he was out of the bazaar he made the camel kneel and mounted its back. Now dusk had fallen, and the camel, ruminating and indifferent to the surroundings, strode along narrow and meandering trails.

When a man is alone, he often slips into thoughts. Kenagi too walked the paths of memory and had now reached the happy moments of bygone days. These fond memories carried him to a paradise for a short time. But this paradise of the imagination did not last for long, and soon he found himself back on the camel, crossing a dark plain all by himself. He looked up towards the stars. They caught his attention, and he kept his eyes fixeد on them for a while. He was thinking “see how they twinkle in the darkness of the night. Is there anyone who remembers when they were born? These stars remember many things. Age will never creep upon them. Why are they so bright?” All of a sudden he heard someone chanting a poem. He noticed a camel train was coming the other way. The camel-driver was chanting a sorrowful and melancholic poem. The refrain of the poem was:

Come! Your memories leave me no peace
Maidens come, group by group, to fetch water
Like a gentle morning breeze
Of you, nobody gives me a clue
Come! Your memories leave me no peace

He had barely finished chanting these lines when a light-hearted man from the caravan yelled out: “Don’t stop. Keep reciting, my broken-hearted buddy! These dark nights and long roads can’t be traveled in silence.”

Kenagi’s attention turned from the stars to the hubbub. As if someone had plucked the strings of his own heart, he too felt like chanting. He had a melodious and strong tenor voice. This voice of his had caused him great heartache. So in response to the camel-driver’s song, Kenagi began to chant:

Of gardens, O sweet-voiced pigeon
In silence plod your days forth
There is no fidelity in the world
Come! Your memories leave me no peace

These few words pouring from Kenagi’s troubled heart tore through the darkness of the night and reached the ears of the camel-drivers. Silence engulfed both sides for a while, until the caravan drew close.

Someone asked Kenagi: “Hey sir, whose clan do you belong to?”

“Kahoda Shahsawar’s,” Kenagi replied.

“Are you coming from the coast?”

“Yes.”

“How much do unripe dates go for?” he inquired.

“Eighty rupees per load,” came Kenagi’s reply.

“Do you have any fish on you? We need a few.”

Kenagi bartered some fish for dates and they all resumed their journeys. But the poem Kenagi had just chanted opened up his old wounds again.

A happy memory of the old days flashed through his mind, and tore at his heart. He recalled Mahan, his childhood friend. Two years back she was given in marriage to a wealthy man. She was his childhood frienد. They grew up in the same village. After the wedding Mahan’s husband took her to his village. Now Kenagi’s path would pass through Mahan’s village. Once before, deep down in his heart, he had desperately wanted to visit her, but he hadn’t paid any attention to his heart.

Now he was helpless before his fervent heart. He was thinking about Mahan. He wondered how she was doing, how she was getting on, if she still thought of him, if she still loved him. This was a question he asked himself. But his wounded heart didn’t reply. Then he himself replied that Mahan could never forget him. He would visit her at any cost. At dawn Kenagi’s camel was approaching Mahan’s village.

Mahan, too, desperately loved Kenagi but things don’t always turn out as they should in this world. Today, two years later, Kenagi was on his way to her village. At breakfast time he reached the village and asked a man for her address.

The man told him: “See the tent on that rocky field? It’s where Mahan lives.”

Following the man’s instructions, Kenagi reached Mahan’s place. He tethered his camel to a wooden post from which a water bag hung. Mahan was churning milk in a goatskin. When she saw Kenagi, she left the goatskin, pulled out a mat and rolled it out in front of the wool tent. She greeted Kenagi from a distance. She got up, filled a plate with dates, poured a glass of milk from the goatskin and placed it in front of Kenagi. She herself went and sat down at a distance. Kenagi took a mouthful of the dates with a gulp of the milk. He raised his eyes to cast a glance at Mahan. He fixed his eyes on her, as if he was looking for something in her face. Mahan raised her head. Their eyes met. Kenagi regained his senses and asked her: “Do you recognize me?”

It was as if Mahan was jolted out of a deep sleep. They looked at each other as if they were trying to recognize one another. Silence prevailed for quite some time. Then Mahan replied: “No.”

To Kenagi this “no” was not an answer. Instead he felt as if someone had stabbed him in the heart with a dagger. The date tasted bitter in his mouth and his hand went limp on the plate. With great effort he pulled his hands from the plate and wiped them with the corner of his shawl. He got up, slipped into his footwear and untied the camel.

Mahan turned to him: “Oh! You didn’t even touch the breakfast. Stay a little and help yourself to the breakfast. My husband will be back from tending the flock in a while. In the meantime you had better wait out the midday heat before resuming your journey.”

Kenagi’s voice broke as he answered: “If you don’t recognize me, then this cool shade is nothing less than scorching heat to me. After all, one’s own burning sun is better than a stranger’s cool shade. Your shade is no longer cool for me.”

He held the rein of the camel in his hand and strolled off. But his feet were heavy. Though he was walking forward, his spirit was jumping about on the rocky field, crying out in search of his lost partner like an wild deer.

Published: Abdol Hakim (1970), Gechin Azmank

Courtesy: Unheard Voices