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"Early
morning when the quilt still covered my face, and I was still
sleep-induced. I would hear Buddhan's heartsoothing call, 'Milk! Come
get your milk!' as though the voice, wrapped inside a
dream, wafted from some other world. The moment his voice reached our
window, my sister would come and shake me, 'Aye, haye, are you getting
up or not!? Go, get the milk!' and before I could barely
manage to turn on my side, she would pounce again, 'Arrey, have you
gotten up yet or not? I have never seen you reading or writing but going
to bed early in the evening. And there are those other
children too who remain glued to their books until midnight and still
manage to get up early in the dark to study like bookworms. But this
ill-fated wastrel has ruined every hope....'"
Intizar Husain is one of the foremost writers of the Indian
subcontinent. The stories included in this collection chart Intizar's __
as well as Pakistan's __ literary journey since 1947. His is a
perception of the rare artist, who can see and sense not only the
obvious turmoils of his time but the hidden aches
of ordinary people as well. His stories recall memories, which are both
personal and collective, traveling
back sometimes to the origin of a myth. He is always compassionate
towards his characters, taking a swipe
at the hypocrisy of power and status quo.
Intizar Husain is preoccupied with the moral decline of human beings in
the face of a changing urban landscape. A truly international writer, he
remains unvanquished by the tyranny of borders.
Excerpt
Journey-Mate
It took him a full moment to realise that he
was actually on the wrong bus. A skinny boy also had gotten on at the
same stop, holding a small suitcase; the boy sat in front of him now,
acting nervous repeatedly turning to the passengers around him with
worried eyes. “Does this bus go to Model Town?”
‘Yes, but where exactly do you have to go?’
‘Model Town, G Block, does it go there?’
‘It does,’ an aged, respectable-looking man with disheveled hair
answered distractedly; the aged man was seated beside him, and adjusting
his glasses he busied himself reading the newspaper.
This is the Model Town bus? Really? Why had he gotten on it then? It was
due partially to haste and partially to the darkness; he hadn’t bothered
to read the number on the bus. He’d simply assumed from distance that
the bus that was waiting was his bus, and he’d run; and when he’d
approached closer, the conductor, after shutting the door, had whistled
already. But the door had opened just as the bus had lurched into motion
like a wild horse, and he had managed, with a leap, to perch on the
footboard. Later he had made his way inside after immense struggle, and
when a passenger got off at the next stop, he had quickly pounced on his
seat only to find out that he was on the wrong bus. O hell, it’s only
seven paisas! I’ll get off at the next stop. He felt annoyed, however,
at the thought of getting off at the following stop and waiting again,
although he’d amassed a great deal of experience waiting for buses for
long hours. What followed every time was that the buses running on all
possible routes would come and leave. The strange thing was that the
buses going in the opposite direction-uptown-would stop and pull away
time and again as he waited for the bus going downtown, which would
never arrive. And when he was waiting to return from downtown, then the
buses coming from the direction of his home would stop across the street
in a never-ending procession of buses. Yet on his side the street would
be deserted, with not a single bus in sight. Oh, yes, there was another
frequent occurrence: he would be a short distance from the bus stop and
the bus would speed by him. Or the bus would be dozing at the stop, and
yet before he could get there it would drive off; and then the same
eternal wait would recommence. Eventually, he would lose heart and begin
to walk. But today he’d caught the bus right away, so he was really
happy. And now he’d realised that he was on the wrong bus....
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