Basti by Intizar Husain & Frances W. Pritchett & Asif Farrukhi

Author:Intizar Husain & Frances W. Pritchett & Asif Farrukhi
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9781590175828
Publisher: NYRB Classics
Published: 2012-12-26T05:00:00+00:00

SIX

YAR ZAKIR!

I first send you the usual salutations. I’m fine, and I hope everything’s well with you too.

You must be wondering at my foolishness: “What a time that wretch chose for writing a letter, what a time for him to send word that he’s well, and ask how I am!” I too realize how many years it’s been that I haven’t written, nor have you. And now, in this unsuitable time, I’ve suddenly thought of you, and am writing to you. Considering how disorganized the mails are, I’m not even sure that this letter will reach you. But nevertheless I’m writing. And after all, why? I’m about to tell you. First you should know that I’ve transferred myself once more into a new department. Now I’m with the Radio. One benefit of coming here is that I’ve pretty well escaped from the boring business of files. Here we deal with people, not with files. Compared to files, it’s more difficult work, but never boring.

Yar, since coming here I’ve met a strange girl. The thought never entered my head that I might run into her. A wheat-colored complexion, delicate features, slender figure, medium height, an honest and sincere manner; I always see her in a white cotton sari. She parts her hair in the middle and wears it in a plain braid, but sometimes a lock comes loose and falls forward over her face. Her behavior is always reserved. She’s quiet and melancholy. Yar, her simplicity and sadness together have ravished my heart. You don’t have to pause when you read those words. First hear the whole story.

From time to time I have to go to the newsroom. That’s where I encountered her. Previously, I’d seen her in passing, around the office. I knew she was an announcer. I’d heard her name too. But I still wasn’t especially curious about her. Simplicity at first says nothing to a man, then gradually sadness becomes a spell. She used to quietly come, find out the news from Dhaka, and go away. The news was usually disturbing, but not a trace of anxiety was permitted to show in her face. It was my guess that she was inwardly very worried by the news. One day I asked her, “Bibi, do you have some relatives in Dhaka?”

“Yes, my mother and sister are there.”

“Are you getting letters?”

“The last letter came two weeks ago. Since then I’ve written two letters. I’ve sent a wire too, but no answer has come.”

“But what will you learn from the news on the radio?”

“At least I can get an idea how things are in the city.”

“Then please come to my office. All the Dhaka newspapers come to my desk.”

After this, she began to come to my office. She came regularly every day, looked through all the Dhaka newspapers, and went away.

“Where are the rest of your family?” I asked one day.

“Some in Karachi, some in Lahore, some in Islamabad.”

“And here?”

“There’s no one here any longer.”

“You’re the only one here?”

“Yes, I’m alone in India.

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