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.
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)
Mustansar Hussain Tarar
Noise was routine but today it was greater and it is usually so when there are more people. They were going toward a jailhouse located on a main road of the city. Baba Bagloos, as usual, kept walking with lowered head. Many people were overtaking him, stung by uncertainty, pushing his aged body in the process. 2 pm was the time that had been broadcast and only three hours remained. Inayat and Sabir also accompanied the baba, walking like mechanical toys. They wanted to present as few hurdles as possible to the enjoyment of his annual or six-monthly excursion. The crowd swelled. Eventually, the baba had to stop as there were walls of bodies in front of him. He lifted his head for the first time and asked Inayat, ‘Is it Eid today?’
‘No Baba.’ Inayat smiled. ‘Wouldn’t they have served halva in the morning at the prison were it so?’
The three of them proceeded through the narrow crevices of the crowd with difficulty, as if in a trap.
The ice cream wallahs had no desire to call out their wares as their hands were tired, submerging and emerging from the cold storage of the rehris. Crates of drink bottles were sold, even while being lifted from the delivery trucks. The temporary khokhas of paan and cigarettes were emptying, even while being decorated on the footpaths. The crowd was lapping up the degs of haleem like hungry baraatis. Many families were picnicking under trees away from the crowd as they were wise and had brought their lunch with them. All the nearby shops were closed as even the shopkeepers were in a festive mood today. After all, how often does one get to see such a spectacle? Traffic had been forbidden on the road, so that more and more people could congregate. The field was already crowded with heads, but looking at the surrounding buildings, one might suspect that they were built of bodies rather than bricks. It was a crowd of millions and the rest of the city was deserted. The brave mothers were feeding infant children hidden in chadors but it wasn’t easy as they stood on their heels and looked over the top of the crowd. Nearby was the debris of a destroyed building and its contractor was giving out invitations to people to stand on the pile of debris at the rate of two rupees per person. The pile is obviously higher than the surface of the earth and one can get a clear view standing on it. The platforms and wooden doorframes affixed to them, erected in the last two days, could be seen clearly and nooses were hanging from the frames.
The sheet of silence was pierced at that moment and a section of the crowd, enlightened by pure feelings, raised the slogan of civilisation and people began to roar above the top of their voice and participate in the virtuous act, crying out Zindabad, Zindabad. They were mad with joy. Several had tears in their eyes for having witnessed this pure vision in their lifetimes
As is the custom in civilised countries, punctuality was adhered to and exactly at 2 pm, a jeep appeared from inside the jail. The murderers’ hands were tied behind their backs and there were black strips on their eyes. They were made to stand on the platforms, carefully positioned in front of their respective nooses, which had probably been fashioned according to the width of the neck. The crowd turned completely silent. Baba Bagloos was already silent. First, the veils were placed on the murderers’ faces. They were led to exactly below their respective nooses by grabbing their shoulders and then, with extreme respect, the nooses were tightened around their necks, turn by turn. There was a sheet of silence over the crowd. Suddenly, from under the feet of the murderers who had been known as humans just a few days earlier, the earth of the wooden boards slipped and they began to sway in the air. The sheet of silence was pierced at that moment and a section of the crowd, enlightened by pure feelings, raised the slogan of civilisation and people began to roar above the top of their voice and participate in the virtuous act, crying out Zindabad, Zindabad. They were mad with joy. Several had tears in their eyes for having witnessed this pure vision in their lifetimes. The murderers’ bodies juddered and then loosened as a goat’s freshly-sacrificed meat judders and ceases to move; as the tail of a fish trapped in the hook judders repeatedly. The waves of torture spreading in the atmosphere when their breath ceased at the point of death, they were winds of eternal life for the crowd, who smelt them, absorbed them in the pores of their body, and became more passionate. They had come to see a spectacle of justice, to be eyewitnesses to the beginning of a new system where the generation of murderers, dacoits and flesh-traders in the county would end. This was the salt which, when sprinkled on these earthworms, would dissolve them forever. After today, crime would be a word which would only be found in books (and then, who would know it wasn’t like that). That is why people had come, to see the last murderer. In addition to learning their lesson, they were raising slogans amidst laughter, and the bodies of murderers, the last murderers in the country’s history, were juddering. As the semi-dead lumps of flesh began to grow cold, the disappointment of the crowd increased. They wanted these bodies to judder forever; when they came tomorrow after having their breakfast, the bodies should still be juddering. When they returned from their offices or businesses in the evening, passing by here, the bodies should still be juddering like amateur dancers. When they came with their children for a stroll in the garden on a holiday, these hanging goats should still be in motion. Why were veils placed on their faces? Had they been unveiled, the people could see their tongues hanging out, like the long hanging tongues of thirsty dogs. Their eyes would boil out. Maybe an eyeball of one or two would fall out and they could pick it up for their children to play with. They wanted to see the bluish trembling of their lips at their final moments. Wanted to hear the croaking from their throats, and that would be possible if powerful mikes were fitted near them (in fact tied to their throats). The administration must not show such negligence next time, but what does next time even mean, for indeed there will be no murderer next time.
The murderers were swaying from the nooses and the spectators were mad with joy. Had they got their way, they would have grabbed the feet of the hanging bodies and swung them with greater force. And now, the bodies had ceased writhing. How foolish they appeared, like hanging parcels. The jail doctor looked at his watch and groping the parcels, pronounced them dead. Their bodies were separated from the nooses. The canvas of the spectacle was devoid of the portrait of admonition. The crowd dispersed, muttering.
‘Yaar, the space was insufficient. One couldn’t get a clear view. They should have arranged it in the stadium, maybe even put a ticket on it and some welfare institution could have been created with the income. The easiest recipe to create a welfare state.’ Most of the people were cursing the swift speed of the deaths
‘Yaar, the space was insufficient. One couldn’t get a clear view. They should have arranged it in the stadium, maybe even put a ticket on it and some welfare institution could have been created with the income. The easiest recipe to create a welfare state.’
Most of the people were cursing the swift speed of the deaths.
‘Just three or four minutes of fluttering and that’s it. If a cricket match can be shown on television, why couldn’t the death of these murderers be telecast?’
‘Haan, like this billions of people would have been alerted. At least the spectacle would have been seen in close up. We would have seen their faces close, enlarged. In fact these three or four minutes should also have been shown on television like the uprooting of a batsman’s wicket is shown again, in slow motion.’
‘There should have been at least six or seven cameras. One camera would have focused on their eyes, the second on the nostrils, the third on the lips; the fourth would have taken the shot of the whole body, and the most important, the fifth, would only take a big, big close up of the necks; and in this way, how slowly the eyes would open in slow motion and an eyeball might also come out. Then, the scene could be shown again in extremely slow motion. The camera focused on the nostrils would also have a fine picture to show, slowly expanding and contracting nostrils. They say that prior to death, blood issues from the nose too. That, at least, could be conclusively established, and how the lips flutter slowly in slow motion, as if flowers are blooming. In the final moments, they turn blue.’
‘Haan, but yar how can it be known on television that the lips are turning blue?’
‘By the grace of Allah we too have colour broadcasts in our country. All these enjoyable scenes, but the real climax would have to be the scene of the necks. The slowly lengthening necks, like rubber. Make up is also very important before appearing on television – it could be done while they stood on the platform. I have heard that the picture is made more clear by the make up. Well, next time, but next time err…’
The crowd dispersed. The khokhas of paan and cigarettes were picked up. The rehris of ice cream began moving towards the city. The haleem wallahs were having their empty degs loaded onto the rehras, hands placed on their full pockets. The road at the front had once again been open for traffic. Life went back to normal….
Baba Bagloos, as usual, kept his head lowered the whole time. Inayat and Sabir had become tired, standing at the same spot for three hours. They looked towards the Baba, who appeared lost, his shoulders relaxed.
‘Baba should we go back now?’ Inayat asked in an easy way.
The baba stood silent, as if he hadn’t heard.
After something amounting to a pause, Inayat placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Baba Bagloos, should we go back now?’
The beard hanging from the baba’s bent face was drenched in tears. He didn’t raise his head, merely saying slowly, ‘No, now the season outside and inside has become the same.’
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
