December 11, 2001

This is the concluding chapter of Shaukat Siddiqi’s epic novel Khuda ki basti, translated into English. It is a story of a poor but respectable family which has fallen on hard times

The next day, Salman arrived in town and made his way at once to the Skylarks’ headquarters. The streets he knew so well were cold but sunny; he recognized the low-roofed houses, at whose doors women were hanging, gossiping to their neighbours. Nothing had changed.

He reached the headquarters, where not a sound was to be heard. He made his way to the library, where a woman was sitting, her back turned to him, reading a newspaper. As he entered, she heard his footsteps and turned round in surprise. Their eyes met, and there could be no mistaking that it was Sultana — the very same Sultana, fresh, beautiful and simple in her dress, who somehow or other had given her endeavours to the society Salman had served so long ago.

At that moment so many things flashed through his mind. He and Sultana were on the same road together, but they lost each other at every turning. They met like ships in the night and departed from each other in the darkness, but now they were together once more. Like her he had suffered from life, but this chance meeting had changed all that. As they talked, suddenly he though of Niyaz, the only obstacle in his way. ‘He died a few months ago,’ Sultana told him.

Ali Ahmed came into the library at that moment, and seeing Salman standing there rushed up to embrace him. He could not conceal his joy. ‘Salman,’ he cried. ‘I knew you would return one day.’

‘I’m sorry I never wrote to you,’ replied Salman, ‘but recently I’ve been in such a mess. Anyway I’ll tell you about it later.’

Ali Ahmad, patting his back, smiled: ‘Yes, you were deceived by the glitter of a life that was not yours to have. It is like the golden mountain. The nearer you try to approach it, the further off it stands.’

He was beginning to expand on his philosophy of life, when little Ayaz, missing his mother, who had gone out of the room, tugged at the hem of his coat, and started to cry. Ali Ahmed picked the child up, and, cradling him in his arms, kissed him tenderly. He turned to Salman: ‘Let me introduce you to the youngest member of the Skylarks,’ he laughed.

‘But whose child is it?’ enquired Salman.

‘Well, for the moment he’s mine.’ Hearing the baby crying, Sultana came back into the room, and relieved Ali Ahmed of his charge. She nursed the child in her arms, looking at Salman with the same bright, innocent eyes that he had never forgotten, and would never forget until the day he died.

‘I am sorry, I did not introduce you,’ said Ali Ahmed. ‘This is Sultana, my wife.’

Salman, hearing these words, reeled under the blow. Sensing his consternation, Ali Ahmed looked embarrassed. ‘I married her last month.’ He was obviously delighted with his wife, and the professor, who had always been so serious and dedicated to his cause, now had the air of a simple young man with a future.

It was with great difficulty that Salman stammered the words: ‘Well ... then, I must congratulate you.’

‘Thank you,’ replied Ali Ahmed. ‘But you must be tired after your journey. Go and rest in the other room and we’ll talk later. I have to go to court to attend a case.’

‘Not the case over what happened here that night? It still can’t be going on.’

‘No, no,’ said Ali Ahmed. ‘That’s been over for ages, and there was hardly any point in contesting it. This is something else.’ Then turning to Sultana, he asked: ‘Will you come as well?’

‘I’ve been ready for a long time,’ replied Sultana. ‘Do you want a cup of tea before we go? There’s just enough time for me to make you one. But these days, you’re drinking far too much tea. It’s bad for your health, you know.’

‘Very well, my dear,’ said Ali Ahmed, smiling. ‘I’ll do my best to cut down.’

The care with which she spoke to him bore witness to the love and affection which had grown up between them.

Salman could bear it no longer and picking up his things went to the room where he had been told to stay.

Exhausted, sad and frustrated he sank onto his bed, and as he thought of the miserable hand that life had dealt him, he fell asleep. It was for Ali Ahmed that he had joined the society in which he had worked with such great enthusiasm; it was for Sultana that he had left it. And now that his two most important influences were together, he seemed to have nowhere to go. Once more his world had collapsed around him.

By evening his spirits revived. His old friends welcomed him back to the fold with joy, and Salman was reinstated to his former position. What else could he do but donate the five thousand rupees he had saved to the cause in which he still believed?

During the following days he immersed himself in his work, rejoined his old class, read until late in the evening, trying to forget Sultana whose constant presence bothered him. But he reasoned with himself. She was no longer the girl who once attracted him with her bright, innocent eyes; she was the wife of his old friend and mentor, the mother of a young child. No longer the same girl whom he had loved.

Salman soon became appraised of all that had passed; how Nausha had murdered Niyaz, whose baby Ali Ahmad had adopted; how Khan Bahadur had used his thugs to take over Sultana’s house and put her out on the street. That wretched man had become chairman of the Municipality and, having acquired the directorship of several companies, now had aspirations to become a minister in the government. His sons were doing well. One had a very comfortable position with the Colombo Plan; the other was in higher education in the States. The Skylark society had become a thorn in Khan Bahadur’s side, and he was now threatening to have the whole lot of them jailed under the Security Act.

‘What a society!’ though Salman. ‘On the National Day of Independence, our ministers and intelligentsia, well trained in foreign universities, take out their handkerchiefs and shed tears for the poor like Nausha, Raja, Shami and Annu. Perhaps it was destiny that made them what they have become — a murderer standing trial in a corrupt court; a leper, who has no more to do than wait for death to visit him; a rickshaw-driver, who spits blood from his lungs at every turn; a promising young boy, now in the pay of the eunuchs, who amuse those who piously condemn them!

‘Allahu Akbar! God is Great! Praise your Creator, and let Him hear the shout from the minaret, as we prostrate ourselves before the Beneficent and the Merciful!’

Nausha’s trial was witnessed by Sultana, Ali Ahmed and Salman, who sat with bated breath to hear the decision. The police seemed to take hours over their account, and there could be no doubt that in the eyes of the law Nausha was guilty. But since Nausha was a minor, he was given a life sentence. And as he was led away by the constable, his hands, which at one time had wielded a pen, were now firmly handcuffed. Nausha finally broke down, and smashing the iron handcuffs over his head, screamed pathetically: ‘Hang me, hang me. I’ve had enough of this life!’

The blood streamed down his forehead, and the police had to restrain him. The last words he heard were the sobs of his sister, Sultana, who clung to Ali Ahmad in despair: ‘Nausha, my little brother. Nausha, please don’t leave me. Nausha, I’ll die. Nausha, Nausha!’

Salman, wiping the tears from his eyes, walked silently out of the court.

Excerpts from
God’s own land: a novel of Pakistan
By Shaukat Siddiqi
Translated by David Mathews
Alhamra Publishing, Saudi Pak Tower, Jinnah Avenue, Islamabad
Tel: 051-2823862. 
Email: alhamra@isb.paknet.com.pk 
Website: www.alhamra.com
ISBN 969-516-033-6
350pp. Rs295

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