Parda hilne ki aahat se jhoomte hain,
Uske wujood se behtar koi nasha nahi.
Translation:
Drunk at the sound of curtains stirring,
No wine tastes better than the hope you exist.
Context: Urdu poetry stems from a culture where shyness is the greatest virtue of a woman. Here stirring curtains stand for a shy beloved hiding just out of sight.
Why does chocolate taste sweeter when received, not bought?
Security was called
at the local mall
to remove a man
for disturbing peace.
He was crying openly
while holding a doll,
which said,
“I love you, Mommy.”
St. Valentine stayed a bachelor.
Passing the buck, are we?
Mere mehboob ki nazaro se bach ke rehna,
Wo janta hai dil kaha chhupa rakha hai.
Uski palko ke uthne aur girne ke beech;
Deewano ne afsana bana rakha hai.
Translation:
Beware of the eyes
of my beloved who
will find your heart
no matter where it hides.
Tales of love are told
mid the moment
she gazes at you
till she drops her eyes.
Context:
Urdu poetry developed in a culture where women did not speak to unrelated men at all. Poets have filled countless pages describing the language of eyes that existed between lovers; how just raising gaze to look at one could incite a love story told and retold around the fire.
Author’s note: This is second installment of the title story from my latest book: The Bracelet and the other short stories. I would recommend reading Part 1 once again to gather the momentum of memories that led you to this point. You can find it here: The Bracelet: Part 1.
He is here. But why has he brought so many others along? Has his family arrived for our marriage as he had promised? But their faces are not friendly. In fact, they are downright angry. Why are they carrying pitch forks?
My familiars rush to meet him at the door, but he scowls and pushes them back inside. He motions at me to come out with him. I comply.
As I step out, someone grabs my hands from behind and I cry in pain. My love…he speaks something that I can’t understand. It is English, but so different from the way he usually talks. He asks me about the father of our unborn child. Flustered at the implication, my voice shaking, I shout, “It’s you!”
“And that,” he says, “is my confession.”
I can’t understand where this is going. He had come to me two weeks back, and I told him about the baby. He was surprised, but he had never questioned the father of the baby. That day, I had reminded him of his promise to marry me as soon as his family comes, and he had agreed.
Now, he holds a book and quotes questions from it. He asks about witchcraft…I tell him he already knows I’m a healer. I had treated him when he was dying of fever. I say I love him. But he shouts me down and asks me to answer only in ‘Yes’ and ‘No’.
The questions blame me of witchcraft and of forcing him to impregnate me. No matter whether my answer is a ‘Yes’ or ‘No’, they incriminate me of being a witch either way. So, I try to remain silent, but it earns me his knee in the stomach, every time…
I writhe in pain, while my mind is on the baby. At this rate, he’ll kill our child! I beg him to have mercy on the unborn. For a second, I see guilt in his eyes. Then, he pushes me inside the cottage and closes the door.
Hope surges through me. Have I been spared?
I hear a lock click outside. Smoke fills my nostrils—they have set my cottage on fire! Out of the window, I see them waiting with pitchforks with bloodlust in their eyes. If I get out somehow, they will simply slice me in pieces and throw back in here. There is no hope for me.
My familiars are scared and freaking out—clawing down the door and the now‑closed windows, all on fire.
With shaking hands, I go to the miniscule back window meant for the pets to go out when needed. I hastily pull out the bracelet from my hand—the little effigies I had carved out of cat’s‑eye stone to tie the familiars to me. They don’t have to die with me. I try to throw my bracelet with all my strength out of the tiny hole. But the smoke has blinded me, and I can’t get a clear shot. It falls back in.
I am on all fours, gasping for breath and coughing. I order the cat to grab the bracelet and get out. I tell them all to leave. Ordinarily, they would have complied.
But they don’t. They have covered me from all sides the best they can. They are trying to protect me with their power, but they aren’t strong enough. I feel their frustration, their heartache, their loyalty, their friendship, their love…
…their never‑wavering devotion while the raging fire consumes us all. I can hear my familiars think of the man who deceived us into loving him; trusting him; giving him our all…
Their pain is my own as our lungs burn and hearts heave. How could death be so slow or so tormenting? I can’t find my knife to kill us. Someone had already removed it while they questioned me.
We burn together and I feel the crippling pain inch by inch…our hair, our fur, our feather…
Burning rage fills me as I feel my babies of magic die one by one just as clearly as I feel my unborn baby die within me…
My hollowed‑out heart lets go of that thread that ties me to life. I wish to die here and now. I beg the Gods for death…
Too slowly, I feel life leave me… Deep down, I know that when they find my body tomorrow in the museum, I’ll have one burn scar—on the wrist that now wears the bracelet…
END
Photo by Manpreet Kaur
If you would rather read it all together in the book, The Bracelet and other short stories is available for free download here: Link
Author’s note: This is first installment of the title story from my latest book: The Bracelet and the other short stories. You can find the second part here: The Bracelet: Part 2
I pick up the bracelet in my gloved hands gingerly and try to brush off the weirdness that fills me.
Yes, this is a museum. Yes, it houses curios from across the history. But these are just things, not people…
Then why am I getting goosebumps?
All summer, I have been working behind the scenes in this small museum to restore old artifacts. Most people would consider it charity work, considering the payment in peanuts, but the experience would help me secure a job in a bigger and better museum once I get my degree. So far, I had worked during the day. It is my first night at the museum, thanks to the set of recently acquired medieval jewellery I am restoring. It goes on display tomorrow on the first day of holidays.
It is a small place in a safe community, and lock and key are considered enough security—so, there are no guards. Since it would take a couple of hours, I have locked the place from inside. It should make me feel secure, but I am rather queasy instead…
Museums are rather stuffy at night since it is filled with so many lost memories—children’s playthings, items used for life and magic, ritual sacrifices buried alongside the bones of long‑dead people (hopefully, not my ancestors) and the likes. During the day, open doors and windows, the din of the staff and visitors keeps away the prickly feeling. But at night, without these sounds and sights to distract me, the sensation of not being alone is overwhelming.
I had been putting off working on this bracelet for similar reasons. Up close, it makes me feel uncomfortable. It was donated by a rich old family with a history of housing curios. While its origin is unclear, it is famed that it originally belonged to a ‘witch’. According to the legend, she was a tribal woman accused of using witchcraft to allure the local priest, ‘forcing’ him to impregnate her. The woman was burnt alive. The priest was, of course, absolved of all charges. He had picked the bracelet from her ashes and worn it. He died the same night of unknown causes with just a slight burn mark around his wrist. His successor at the church declared that the bracelet is cursed and kills the wearer. Later, he sold the same cursed item to a private collector at an exorbitant price to raise money for God’s work.
Not that I believe any of it. Anyone working in the restoration field in museums would know better. But it is such a waste because no one would wear it—and the bracelet is breathtaking…
I stroke the bracelet delicately…reverentially…
The delicate silver chains are intertwined to form a couple of entwined snakes who kiss each other when the clasp is done. The intricate dangling animal figurines, famous as witch’s familiars, are carved out of Cat’s‑eye stones—a crow, a cat, a toad, an owl, a bat and a spider. They look so real that my fingers itch to touch them…
Not sure when I took my gloves off…
Stroking the owl, I could clearly imagine a barn owl sitting on the windowsill of my cottage against the dark night outside. The wooden walls were adorned with herbs collected from the forest. The cauldron in the fireplace was cooking cough medicine for the villagers. The air was thick with the incense of the cooking flowers and burning candles…
Where did that come from? I don’t have a cottage, I live in an apartment…but the owl looks so real, its feathers are ruffling in the wind.
The toad sitting atop the work‑table croaks, asking for his treat, and moves close to the crystal jar in which my spider is weaving her web as usual. I tell the toad to leave her alone. There are plenty of other insects to eat around the many candles…
But I own no toad nor spider…The little bat remains unbothered by them, flying around the roof to tease the cat who is now tired of chasing him around and jumps on my lap to take her rightful place.
I sit on the floor cross‑legged stitching the beaver skin together to form another set of little shoes for the soon‑to‑arrive. I blush and smile at the thought as I stroke the cat and remind her that she only has five more months until someone else claims my lap. The old crow sleeps on his perch, oblivious to it all.
Suddenly, the door of the cottage opens with a loud thud.
Author’s note: To be continued…
Photo by Manpreet Kaur
If you would rather read it all together in the book, The Bracelet and other short stories is available for free download here: Link
Why is it that the unrequited love stays with you throughout life as a bitter-sweet memory, while “requited” love is just… well… marriage?
Is there a reason why people I bear with do not, in turn, bear with me?
Naadan sanam ki masoomiyat se haar jate hain.
Salaam kar ke milte hain, seena chaak kar ke jate hain.
Translated into a Lantern poetry
Naive
Stony heart;
Blessed my life;
And left, ripping me
apart!
Context: This piece points out the irony of “Salam” as greeting between parting lovers (a blessing for a long life).
Short Stories | Fish-eye Perspective 