Mustansar Hussain Tarar (b. 1939) is one of Pakistan’s most illustrious and important writers, and one of the greatest living Urdu writers. He made his name as a pathbreaking travelogue-writer in the 1950s, and then began writing novels in the early 1990s on themes as varied as the importance of rivers in the sustenance of ancient civilisations, the changing social and cultural fabric of Punjab over the years, forbidden romance, the downfall of the Soviet Union and how it affected a whole generation of idealists in South Asia, the Taliban phenomenon, days and nights of COVID–19, and even a Punjabi novel, acclaimed as the first modern one in the language.
In terms of sheer variety of topics, his closest associate is perhaps the equally iconic Urdu writer Quratulain Hyder. What has perhaps prevented the work of Tarar from receiving its due globally is a lack of translations into English. However, one of his novels Lenin for Sale: Ay Ghazaal-i-Shab has just been published in translation, and three others are in the process of being translated.
Mustansar Hussain Tarar
March 1 this year marked Tarar’s 82nd birthday while April 4 last month marked the 42nd anniversary of Zulfikar Ali Bhutto’s execution, and to mark the occasion, here is an exclusive translation of one of his earliest – and perhaps longest – stories, published as part of a short-story collection in the late 1970s or early ‘80s. The writer expressed a wish to have this story translated into English. Tarar told me in a recent conversation that this story was a metaphor for Pakistan’s worst military dictatorship, the Gen Zia-ul-Haq regime, which overthrew the democratically-elected government of Bhutto and executed him. As the reader will find out, the story offers a compelling argument against capital punishment. (RN)
Baba Bagloos had been here since the beginning: he was a prisoner, also not a prisoner. He was like a wedding garland the bridegroom had worn, that had grown old. This garland lies in some corner of the cellar, it cannot be discarded. But no one can recall when the wedding took place.
Why and wherefrom had Baba Bagloos come to this prison? And why was he still here? Neither Bari Sarkar nor the officials had an answer to these questions, and the reason was extremely simple; the Bari Sarkar and officials who were present in the prison at the time had passed on, or retired or were performing important services in other prisons of the country. Whenever a new sarkar arrived and inspection was begun on day one, the first question asked was why this baba was here and the answer was, ‘Don’t know, Sarkar.’
‘When did he arrive?’
‘When we arrived here, he was already here.’
‘Why is he still here?’
‘The order for his release never came, Sir.’
‘Why not?’ The answer to that was also very easy. Attached to the office of the Bari Sarkar was a record room and Baba Bagloos’ crime record was not there. Upon observing his fibre-infested body, every new Bari Sarkar ordered that his file be found; which sin was this saintly man imprisoned for, after all? But that file never became available and nobody knew where it had gone. Now, since the law is the king in every civilised country, and as per the law no person can be released until orders for his release are issued, Baba Bagloos could not be released on lawful grounds (and if we do not respect the law what would be the difference between us and animals?). So, he was here from the beginning. There was no restriction on his movement within the limits of the prison. He could come and go where he pleased, he could talk to everybody. All the prison inhabitants treated him like a member of the family. But this absolutely did not mean that he had never been out of the prison. Sometimes, after a year or six months.
Baba Bagloos actually wasn’t his real name, which because of the loss of the file was not known to anyone except himself. Initially he was referred to simply as ‘baba’. Then one day, some official, upon observing his white head and white beard crouched in a corner, said, ‘Baba you look like a heron from a distance.’ So he began to be known as Baba Bagla, which was corrupted to Baba Bagloos! As I was saying, sometimes after a year or so, Baba Bagloos would become silent, totally silent, feeding the roti which he received for a meal to the sparrows and crows while sitting in the courtyard, hungry; at night he would constantly stroll in his storeroom. Early in the morning, the officials would see that his white beard was drenched in tears and they would know that this was the day when Baba Bagloos would quietly come up to them, his moist beard would touch their cheeks and he would say, a bit abashed, ‘Take me outside.’
The members of the security staff, additional officials and the Bari Sarkar had a great desire for Baba Bagloos to be released but the lost file always came in the way. Suppose tomorrow the file appeared somewhere and the government of the day inquired as to where so-and-so baba had gone?
So, merely to complete the formality, two soldiers would be assigned to him, and they would take Baba out of the historic building into the city. Baba would go around, silent as a dampened gong, head bowed, in a mourning state in the noise of the bustling city and never raise his head to look at what was happening in the four directions around him.
After exactly an hour, Baba would, in a similar manner, quietly whisper in the soldier’s ear, ‘Take me back.’ And they would take him back.
The members of the security staff, additional officials and the Bari Sarkar had a great desire for Baba Bagloos to be released but the lost file always came in the way. Suppose tomorrow the file appeared somewhere and the government of the day inquired as to where so-and-so baba had gone? What would happen then? So, by a silent conspiracy, it had been decided not to guard the baba and provide him all opportunities to escape. But Baba always disappointed them. A few years earlier, during Baba Bagloos’ annual or six-monthly ‘Take me outside’ city excursion, the sepoy Inayat implored, ‘Baba! Why don’t you run away?’
Baba kept his lowered head unmoved and kept walking.
The second soldier agreed with Inayat, ‘Look, if you run away we will say, Ji, the Baba has escaped, and your case will finish by itself.’
Baba kept his head lowered.
‘It’s not as if you are a burden on us. We love you like a saintly man, but Baba, is this the right age for you to be rotting away in prison? Run away!’
Baba raised his head and began to smile.
‘Run away?’
‘Yes, yes,’ they both encouraged.
‘Okay,’ Baba said, his mouth open. ‘But how do we run away?’
Hearing this question, both soldiers became lost in thought and then suddenly Inayat said, brightening, ‘There was that political prisoner who we had stripped naked and beaten dry. Bus, just like he used to run to save himself from our arse-whippers.’
Baba revived the picture of that naked, scared trembling body, stroked his head and said, ‘I am old. I don’t have the energy to run like that.’
‘Baba it’s not necessary that you run like that. We will turn our face that way instead of this, and you can disappear into that lane in the front, walking slow and relaxed. We will not follow you, we will return from right here.’
Baba jerked his beard a bit by pressing it in his fist, as if making a decision, walked two or three steps, but stood still.
‘Now what?’ Sabir asked.
‘If indeed I run away, what will happen … meaning what will happen to me?’
‘You will be free Baba, free.’
‘Okay.’ Baba again opened his mouth. ‘What does a man become, after becoming free?’
The sepoy Sabir looked at Inayat as if pleading with him to at least answer this question. At this, Inayat coughed forcefully without covering his mouth and went close to the Baba. ‘What does he become? He becomes free, that’s it.’
Sabir did not expect such dull-headedness from Inayat. So he grabbed him by the shoulder, pushed him aside and said to the Baba, ‘There are great delights in freedom, Baba. One can eat murgh-cholas, cone ice creams, watch the mandva, and then, a free man, can go wherever he pleases.’
‘And if he doesn’t want to go, then what?’ Baba asked.
‘Then he won’t.
‘I can do the same in the prison too.’ Baba began to smile.
‘Not only that, Baba Bagloos, in addition to that, freedom holds many delights – one can meet whoever one wants. You, too, must have relatives?
Baba again lowered his head.
‘Whatever, Baba for God’s sake run away,’ they implored, helpless.
Baba contracted his shoulders and began to walk slowly with the same speed. Inayat and Sabir began to look at each other after assuming very serious countenances.
After a pause of about ten minutes, when they turned to look, Baba Bagloos was not present. Both sighed a bit more deeply with relief and began to laugh. Then Inayat spoke, ‘Well yaar Sabir! Without the baba the prison will look deserted. Let’s go back now? We will write a report that Baba Bagloos ran away. The Bari Sarkar can only be happy with this news.’
‘No let’s not return, let’s stroll around. We will go after a couple of hours, so that the report can also record, as a formality, that we tried to find him.’
That evening when Inayat and Sabir were ascending the steps of the historical building, they heard a ‘huff huff’ that sounded as if it came from the open mouth of a tired old bulldog. Baba Bagloos was following them, head lowered, barely able to control his stumbling legs. His beard was wet with tears.
‘If indeed I run away, what will happen … meaning what will happen to me?’ ‘You will be free Baba, free.’ ‘Okay.’ Baba again opened his mouth. ‘What does a man become, after becoming free?’
After the failure of this great escape plan, Bari Sarkar and the officials left the Baba to his own devices and following his routine, he spent the day in his storeroom staring at the ceiling and in the evening sitting in a corner of the courtyard staring at the sky. Until that corner of the courtyard was wrested from him. Because the twentieth step was there, and with a start of nineteen steps the crackling whip could not be waved in such a way so as to transform the meat of a naked backside into finely-chopped lumps of flesh.
A few weeks after being divested of his favourite sitting place, Baba Bagloos once again became silent. Whatever roti he received for meals he fed to the sparrows and crows. At night, he paced in the storeroom and in the early morning, his beard, wet with tears, touched Inayat’s cheeks. ‘Take me outside.’
That day there was noise in the city.
(to be continued)
Raza Naeem is a Pakistani social scientist, book critic and an award-winning translator and dramatic reader living in Lahore, where he is the President of the Progressive Writers Association. His most recent work is a contribution to ‘Out of Print Ten Years: An Anthology’ edited by Indira Chandrasekhar (Context, Westland Books, 2020).He can be reached at: razanaeem@hotmail.com
Raza Naeem is a Pakistani social scientist, book critic and award-winning translator and dramatic reader based in Lahore, where he is also the president of the Progressive Writers Association. He can be reached via email: razanaeem@hotmail.com and on Twitter: @raza_naeem1979
