Fiction: An Indian man and Afghani woman fall in love in 1920s’ Kabul, but a tragic fate awaits them

The night, suffused in a half sleep-half awake-dreams-imagining state, ended long after the sunrise. The previous night, I could not comprehend what exactly was happening. I failed to do so in the morning too. Was it a beginning or an end! Would it light up the horizon as the rising of the moon does on a dark night, or would it simply vanish, mocking my fortune, like lightning flashes momentarily across the sky?

In a trance, I stood by the table next to the window and noticed that there was a long strand of hair on the shoulder of my coat that was hanging on the chair.

How did it land there? Who knows how such miracles happen in this world?

Or was it an age-old normal occurrence? The God who provides food to the smallest of insects, also creates the unexpected oasis for the thirsty soul. For them, it would be a miracle.

It will not be a miracle for the richest of the rich acquiring millions in wealth but it would be one for a starving man when he is doled one handful of rice. Or I will say, getting the company of Krishna is a miracle for the simple milk maids but entering the court of Indra in Heaven is just normal for Krishna.

Would this lottery-luck stop my heartbeat? Would the deep anxiety turn my black hair white overnight?

What should I do? What?

Looking out of the window I noticed there was a drizzle. I wanted to embrace this rain the previous night with so much love. Now it was causing nothing but annoyance because I would not be able to go out in search of what I wanted.

But where should I look?

I should be able to find the house of Sardar Aurangzeb Khan. If I had reached Kabul from far Bengal, I might manage to do this easily. But what next? I could not simply march in and say, “I’ve come to meet Shabnam Banu.” A man from this land would not be able to accomplish that feat, and I was a mere foreigner. I was no pot of gold that people look for even if it was buried under the earth. Rather Shabnam was the pot of gold. I was a pauper; the Sardar would behead me if I even looked at her.

Let him take it. The king had one head, so did I. But strangely if the king lost his head, it would rile up the whole world – no such thing would happen if I lost mine. So why involve that maiden?

This was the brain talking – rational and with common sense. But the heart too had its own logic. Like a beggar, it did not beseech reasoning from the brain. Raindrops that fall from the sky and tears that flow down from the eyes – they do not follow similar reasons and rhymes.

Abdur Rahman brought the news that they would serve fish in the hotel for lunch. For the first time since I arrived in this country, I heard about fish. Had it been any other day, I would have given him a good tip. Today, I looked at him pensively.

When I went to have lunch, I did not cast my eyes in any direction, because women did not come to a restaurant for lunch in Kabul or in Pagman. Many Sardars had come to eat; possibly Sardar Aurangzeb Khan was there too.

Suddenly there was a buzz. Everyone stood up hurriedly leaving their knives and forks. What was happening? “Badshah! Badshah is coming.”

A chill ran through my spine. Did the king of the land go out to look for the criminals or the majnun – the madman?

No. This was a government-run hotel. Hearing that it was not making a profit, the king himself had come to patronise the establishment. The commoners would follow the king. If one accompanied the king, there would not be any expenses, and even some cash would be doled out to the needy.

Many courses were served that day. A trader from Peshawar who had just returned from India distributed lime to everyone. Like in many cold countries, citrus fruits do not grow in Afghanistan. I put mine in the depths of my pocket. I could at least get the smell of my homeland by scratching its skin. I missed the scent of home. The fish was good but it did not have the same aroma like one would get back home.

The king got up. But he did not belch the way the Kabulis do. We too stood up. My lunch was over a long time ago but I had been pretending to eat as long as the king was at the table. The king could not gorge on the food; so the subjects needed to gorge even more.

Those were not my own chain of thoughts. Three Indian businessmen were sharing the table with me. They were elaborating on these theories, speaking in Urdu with each other.

Stepping out, I saw that it had stopped raining and the sun was out. The wet leaves of the trees were dazzling.

I could venture out now. But where? The first sign of madness is that one says the same word repeatedly, and one keeps on chewing the same bite without swallowing.

Excerpted with permission from Shabnam, Syed Mujtaba Ali, translated from the Bengali by Nazes Afroz, Speaking Tiger Books.