-Mariam Dogar (’24)
Sometimes, strange things come to mind.
This is from the days when there used to be a department known as the Department for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. This department probably still exists today, but back then, as you walked down any street, you could suddenly become aware of its presence, often signaled by two bicycle-riding officers. They might have patrolled alone, but I always saw them in pairs, dressed in militia trousers and shirts, with khaki caps. Riding slowly on the extreme left of the road, either one behind the other or side by side, these officers, commonly referred to in layman’s terms as the cruelty guys, would provoke a single thought in my mind—or perhaps it was in my heart. These are the people who cannot tolerate cruelty to animals.
Strange things come to mind, and they do so in strange ways. Now, the day I am recalling, was it hot or cold? It’s hard for me to say for sure, but it definitely wasn’t an extremely hot or cold day, or else I would have remembered it. Anyway, it was a moderate day. But in a sense, it wasn’t a moderate day at all, and it is in this sense that I remember it well. And this memory manifests itself instantly inside me in the form of dust swirling on the streets with the wind. Suppose when you wake up one day and step outside under the sky’s canopy, you suddenly realize that the whole world is full of the possibilities of layers upon layers of a scant garbageness and that if you are a breathing organism there is no escape, at least not an immediate one, for you from this bitchy suffocation. If you can imagine all this, then you are quite close to the feeling of that day.
So, it was just such a day. Like other days, I was on my way to college. But the journey to college wasn’t ordinary by any means. During the twenty-five-minute walk, which spread across several large and small streets and a few alleys, extraordinary incidents never occurred, and I can’t say the incident I’m about to mention would be unusual or astonishing for anyone else. But I remember those twenty-five minutes were certainly bewildering for me. But why… Ah, I remember… actually, for the first time. For the first time in my life. A question had formed in my mind in very clear words, and that question was: What is cruelty? Just as students are asked, what is equator? What is democracy? What is gravity? Etc.
I was about to cross a major road to get to a smaller one when a gust of wind threw dust in my hair, a sandy scratching on the skin of my face, and a puzzling sense of self-degradation in my mind, and at that moment, I saw those two cruelty guys entering a fairly rundown market on the small road. That market was also on my route. Shortly after, when I moved a bit further, I saw them stopping a tonga, whose owner, as I later learned, was Mola Bakhsh. My steps halted right there. Actually, I had never really seen the cruelty guys perform their duty. The reason for stopping was that question about which I had never thought before.
Some shops around were opening. But the shopkeepers, forgetting the morning cleaning, came to the front of their stalls. Some pedestrians were also stopping. I remember thinking at that time that wherever nothing happens, if there’s even a slight hint that something is happening, people just stop… Strange things come to mind, and they come to mind in strange ways.
The cruelty guys had carefully placed their bicycles next to the stalls on stands. I saw the filthy pieces of newspapers and various scraps blown by the wind into the dirty gutters, floating in slate colored water. Then I thought I should pay attention to the real issue. Floating things in filthy water isn’t an important issue, therefore I carefully observed Mola Bakhsh. He was a frail old man, but what immediately became clear was that his horse was even more frail, old, and emaciated than he was. One of the cruelty officers was reading Mola Bakhsh his charges. “Cruelty to animals is happening… the horse is being oppressed…” while the other was gripping the bridle in the horse’s mouth. Light green foam was oozing out from both sides of the horse’s mouth. Mola Bakhsh was vehemently denying the allegations of cruelty to the horse. He claimed that the horse was stronger than he was. Even if he himself didn’t have anything to eat, he always made sure the horse had something to eat. Then another gust of wind came, and I paid no attention to it, but suddenly I saw the horse’s eye, big as a walnut, twitch violently and it shook the hand of the cruelty guy holding the bridle. Perhaps, this diverted the cruelty officer’s attention towards the horse’s eyes, and he started shouting.
“Oi, you haven’t even put the blinkers on. You’re running it around with bare eyes.” Mola Bakhsh’s face fell. He realized he would not be forgiven for this oversight. However, he still explained that the blinkers were given for repair, etc.
“The horse will go to the knacker’s yard. You people have no shame, no decency. It’s a voiceless animal. Think about it.What if you were in the horse’s place? Harnessed to the tonga. What would you do? Shameless…” Mola Bakhsh started pleading. “Sir, the horse is fine. It looks weak, but some breeds are like that… I’m telling you, the animal is stronger than me.” One of the cruelty officers started abusing, and the other began detaching the horse from the tonga. At this moment, some shopkeepers and one or two pedestrians signaled to resolve the matter. “Just impose a small fine, please… It’s about the poor man’s daily wage.”
“God! This old man is so frustrating. What does he even want to say? He’s just standing here repeating it over and over. So annoying. The horse is not being mistreated sir!”
“What’s the proof?” Mola Bakhsh suddenly asked, coughing violently, and I remember that at that time, a vendor of fried dough balls also stopped his work to watch the spectacle, and at that moment, the cruelty officer holding the bridle told the other,
“Yasin, hold this, come here, I’ll show him the proof of cruelty. He’s asking for proof.” After passing the bridle to the other, when he got close to the horse’s body, I remember his face was glowing with professional competence, and I was enveloped in a silence of reverence and respect, as happens to me whenever I see any knowledgeable or skilled person at work, but then, that gust of dusty, dirty air had entered the silence again. Strange things come to mind. He began to examine the horse’s body and then signaled Mola Bakhsh to come closer.
“Come here… Look, count the ribs? See here, wounds under the saddle… Blood oozing out.” Then he touched the horse’s blood with his finger and cleaned his finger on Mola Bakhsh’s kurta. Then he suddenly sat down next to the horse’s legs. “Ah… this… and see, wounds on the hooves. It is swelling… it is turning into gangrene”.
It is not gangrene, sir. It is a minor wound,” Mola Bakhsh protested. At that time, I remember thinking that this matter seems to be going to last a while. Anyway, I had seen the cruelty guys do their jobs and at that precise moment a bystander who was a spectator to the scene pushed the cruelty official’s cycle and the official had launched into a minor public protest.
“O… Is this a tamasha? Go on, go about your business.” I, too, was among the onlookers who heeded the advice of the cruelty officers to “go about your business.” I went about my business, namely towards higher education, but took those few questions with me. “What is cruelty? Is cruelty happening to the horse? How can it be proven that cruelty is happening to the horse?”
I was a few minutes late for the first period, but Professor Sahib, showing displeasure, allowed me to join the class as a punishment. In the end, there was a question period.
He asked, “Any questions?”
Now, I don’t know about those mental, physical, organic, emotional, psychological, chemical, etc., stimuli that collaborated to show something that made me suddenly ask or suddenly blurt out, “Sir, is the horse being mistreated?” Obviously, the core subject of the lecture had nothing to do with this question. The result was that I reached the canteen about ten minutes before my other friends.
And when they all arrived – Mushtaq the Bird… Sajid… Zarina… Saqib… Parveen the poor thing, I had to tell them the whole incident. The immediate reaction came from Parveen, the poor thing, “Poor horse,” she sighed. “Poor thing… Poor thing…” because she often used the word “poor” excessively, she was known as Parveen, the poor thing… And Suleman came very seriously. He didn’t expect that a hardworking student like me would joke with a professor like that. They had serious doubts about my poor mind, and when I told them that I hadn’t made any joke but it was a very serious question, their doubts became even more serious. Then, a poor thing was called. Mushtaq the Bird, who sometime during the conversation would move his elbows up as if he was about to fly away and was a student known for his limited fame in the realm of knowledge, said, “Really, mate… this question is strange. But its importance cannot be denied. Look, a human can tell when he’s being mistreated, but an animal… It’s difficult to understand for humans, let alone animals…” Zarina said, who had the habit of leaving every matter unfinished.
Suleman Shah laughed and said, “It means to find the answer to this question, we have to learn the language of animals.” When he laughed again, a gust of wind directly entered his mouth. “Man, what a disgrace. What’s happened to the weather today? There are gusts of wind. I remember thinking at that time that although Suleman had said the word ‘dust wind’ quite foolishly, what a wonderful thing he had said. The gust of wind that carries filth should indeed be called a ‘storm.’ Then, everyone unanimously decided that we should move inside the canteen.
Sajid was in deep thought. Eventually, he came out of his deep thought and said in a solemn tone, “Before searching for the answer to this question, a general theory of cruelty must be established, and to formulate this theory, guidance should be sought from the distinguished professors of this great educational institution. After all, this is the great furnace of knowledge from which people emerge as refined gold.” Saqib, who had been silent till then, expressed his concern that some continue to rot and never leave. And then I remember that we were all collectively seized with the obsession to find out, “Is the horse being oppressed?”
Mushtaq the Bird warned everyone that to involve the teachers in this question could have very serious consequences, and as later events proved, his warning wasn’t entirely wrong. The day of gusts of wind in the college became the day of the question, “Is the horse being oppressed?” We became petitioners in front of every branch of knowledge, but I remember (strange things come to mind, and they come to mind in strange ways) that the majority of scholars and intellectuals considered this question extremely unreasonable, silly, absurd, rude, not a question at all… Perhaps one reason was that we never explained the background of the question and that incident. Teachers who had a policy of frankness with students often mockingly responded, “What’s the deal? Whose leg are you pulling?… I understand who you’re calling a horse. I expected this from your group… ” etc., etc.
However, a professor of zoology took this question very seriously. Probably because the question was related to an animal. He said if cruelty at the animal level is a synonym for pain, then it is a Psycho Motor Event. which produces an Avoidance Response necessary for survival. Having obtained this answer when we were exiting that branch of knowledge, I remember Sajid was again deep in thought, and he remained that way all day. In the end, we turned to philosophy. We received two responses from there,one was that cruelty, mercy, mercilessness are all relative things, subjective reactions, and objectively meaningless. The second response, which was very objective, was a secret message by the college administration that a group of students in the college was carrying out disruptive activities. A proper arrangement should be made to manage them. A proper arrangement would certainly have been made if we hadn’t scattered. Before scattering, however, Saqib had definitely said in his detailed manner that a horse and a man never grow old. The majority of teachers are men… Then he tried to steer the conversation towards some aspects of zoology that were at least extremely unacceptable for women. One reason for everyone running in every direction immediately was also this.
On the way back from college, I took the usual route. I remember when I was passing through that market from the same spot where the signs of cruelty to Mola Bakhsh’s horse were proven that day, …..”Is something happening here?” once again, woke within me with full intensity. I stopped for a moment near that stall, and then I heard that voice. It was a shopkeeper. I used to buy some pencils and paper from him in the morning. “Bao Ji, listen to me.” I stopped. “Sorry for stopping you… But you were here in the morning, right?… When those cruelty guys caught that poor Mola Bakhsh’s horse… I saw you,” he said.
“Yes, yes. I was here… Exactly. What happened then?” “They let him go… His horse. Mola Bakhsh’s horse.” The expressions on the shopkeeper’s face were something I had never seen before… “They let go of Everything… Mola Bakhsh died”.
I felt as if someone had thrown a huge block of ice over my entire body. Although I remember it wasn’t a hot day or a cold day…”It just takes no time to die. They were just untying his horse. Mola Bakhsh fell… and didn’t take another breath”
I, however, took a long and deep breath. Looked at the shopkeeper and walked on. The gusts were still strong, and I remember that at that moment, a strange, mad desire had seized me. I wanted to open my mouth wide, open my lungs fully, open my entire body and fill every particle of dirty, polluted, filthy air inside me…
Strange things come to mind.
Strange things come to mind… And they come to mind in strange ways. All this is a very old story. I am now a fairly high-ranking officer, and all this strangely came to mind today. There’s a file in front of me. In it, some people from somewhere have made a lot of complaints and have repeatedly used the phrase that they are being subjected to cruelty. The repetition of the word cruelty is still incomprehensible to me today, so I’m sending this file to another section. And it’s strange that today is also such a day. A day with polluting gusts… Although air conditioning is preventing the layers of filth from reaching my skin, I can still see through the window panes… It’s just such a day. Strange things come to mind.
Translator’s Commentary
I have translated the short story, “Kia Ghoray Par Zulam Horaha Hai” by contemporary Pakistani writer Mirza Athar Baig, who has written numerous novels, short stories and dramas for theater and television. This piece is part of his collection called Bay Afsana (non-story) published in 2008. Bay Afsana is an experimental collection of short stories which many literary critics called a postmodern work. However, Baig does not like his work to be categorized as modern or post-modern. In one of his interviews, Baig, for being called a Postmodern writer remarks:
“Generally, I don’t say much when labelled as ‘post-modern’ because I consider it as a naïve and simplistic categorization. The ‘ modernity’ we have in our parts of the world is a vastly different socio-historical process than western modernity, out of which the so-called post-modernity evolved. What sort of ‘post-modernity’ would bloom out of our ‘modernity’?[i]”
One of the main aesthetic aims behind the translation of this story was that I convey the modern Urdu aesthetics, which have largely been influenced by colonial and western forms and aesthetics. For example, the form of the short story in Urdu did not exist prior to the colonial era. Short story writers like Rashid Ul Khairi emerged after colonization[ii]. Since then, Urdu has developed a strong tradition of Afsana Nigaari in Pakistan, India and diaspora.
Throughout the text, I have used ellipses, question marks, inverted commas, when I wanted to convey the stutter, stammer or thought processes of different characters as Baig used them in the original text.
One of the other technical facets I had in my mind while translating the story was to keep the words used in English as they were used in the original because those scenes take place in an academic setting where English is the medium of instruction and English words are often used in everyday conversations. For instance, Baig uses words directly borrowed from English like ‘Involve’ and ‘policy’. Furthermore, the scientific jargon, even though the Urdu equivalents exist, they are used in colloquial Urdu. For instance, words like ‘Avoidance Response’. I have used these words in italics to bring out the nuances of the everyday use of the Urdu language in Pakistan.
Since I studied and worked under Baig during my time at Government College University, Lahore, I was able to show him my translation of his work. The exchange took place via email and WhatsApp. He highlighted a few words, sentences and paragraphs and sent the following feedback:
It is only a matter of fine tuning. Reconsider the highlighted words in the light of the original. And yes, make conversation of the student group more lively and fluent. Translation of dialogue is always more difficult. And, also the narrator repeatedly refers to the weather of that day in past, and he has coined a word “Jhakere”- for its depiction: some funny substitute should be coined here like the gusties or something like that
It was hard for me to find an equivalent of the word ‘Jhakere’. It is used in a sense that whenever the narrator thought about that day, or a memory, there would be gusts of wind bringing back memory. I do use the word “gusts” but, I do not think it passes on the sense as used in the original even though the writer prefers its use.
Additionally, I really found it very difficult to translate humor in the story. For instance, the following paragraph that I translated from Urdu:
“And when they all arrived – Mushtaq the Bird… Sajid… Zarina… Saqib… Parveen the poor thing, I had to tell them the whole incident. The immediate reaction came from Parveen, the poor thing, “Poor horse,” she sighed. “Poor thing… Poor thing…” because she often used the word “poor” excessively, she was known as Parveen, the poor thing… And Suleman came very seriously. He didn’t expect that a hardworking student like me would joke with a professor like that. They had serious doubts about my poor mind, and when I told them that I hadn’t made any joke but it was a very serious question, their doubts became even more serious. Then, a poor thing was called. Mushtaq the Bird, who sometime during the conversation would move his elbows up as if he was about to fly away and was a student known for his limited fame in the realm of knowledge, said, “Really, mate… this question is strange. But its importance cannot be denied. Look, a human can tell when he’s being mistreated, but an animal… It’s difficult to understand for humans, let alone animals…” Zarina said, who had the habit of leaving every matter unfinished.”
I tried to bring through the humor, but I was worried if the humor comes across as offensive specifically regarding the use of the word ‘poor’. I have used the word ‘poor’ for the word ‘baychara’ in Urdu here. The word ‘poor’ does not mean someone who is financially poor, or is in an unfortunate state. Rather, it has been used in a sense to make fun of Zarina, who likes to patronize everyone and everything.
The second problem I encountered while translating this passage was to create a funny visual of Mushtaq the Bird. In the “Letter to Pammachius,” sections V and VI, Saint Jerome prefers translating the ‘sense’ rather than a word from word, and writes about how many omissions, additions, and changes are made in the process. So, the name in the original text was Mushtaq Parinda. Mushtaq is a common name, but the surname Parinda is an unusual choice as Parinda in Urdu means Bird. The surname Parinda appears to have been used by the writer specifically to create a humorous visual afterwards. I had considered three possible translations for this surname. First, to keep it as it is. Mushtaq Parinda, but then I felt that it did not gel well with the visual later in the paragraph if the reader (who is not familiar with Urdu) does not realize that it is an unusual and funny name in the original language. The second translation that I had in my mind was a literal translation of the name Parinda- Mushtaq Bird. However, I still felt that even if it could have worked fine, Mushtaq the Bird better convey the writer’s sense in the original as it was intended to create an image where the character has bird-like qualities.
Notes
[i]Waqar, Arif. “I am an outsider, standing on the edge, trying to watch and enjoy the show”. The
News on Sunday, June 1, 2014.
https://www.thenews.com.pk/tns/detail/556382-interview-with-mirza-athar-baig-author-ghulam-bagh
[ii] Ali, Sarwat. “The Origin of the Afsana”. The News on Sunday, February 25, 2018.
https://www.thenews.com.pk/tns/detail/565010-origin-afsana
Mariam Dogar (’24) is a student in the MAPH program at the University of Chicago. Her work has appeared in the Pleiades; Literature in context, Everyday Fiction and TNS.a