“I know one thing,” Irfan said at last, “In the hands of the wrong people, even right becomes wrong.” And at once he rose.
“Are you going?”
“I’m on duty, after all.” He left immediately.
The Shiraz was very peaceful then. Most of the tables were empty. There was not much noise even from the occupied tables. So he thought he could sit in peace for a little while. He didn’t see any danger in the future; the crisis of Salamat had come and gone.
The manager, sitting at the counter, saw that he was alone. He rose and approached him.
“Zakir Sahib! What do you think, will there be war?” He asked as though it was a secret which he alone would know.
He was at a loss for an answer. “I don’t know what will happen.”
“You’re right! No one knows at all what’s going to happen. Everyone I ask gives the same answer, that no one knows what’s going to happen. But a lot of troop movements are taking place.”
He replied uninterestedly, in monosyllables; then, feeling fed up, he rose and left. As he walked out, he heaved a small sigh of relief.
•
Still the same walls, the same big posters on the walls. His gaze again wandered involuntarily among the posters. Now the evening shadows were lengthening, and the words on the posters were no longer so vivid. But still, as his eyes passed over the posters on the walls, he made some effort to read them. These are posters; what’s the handwriting on the wall? It’s often happened that one thing was written on the walls, while something else turned out to be the handwriting on the wall. But the walls are plastered with posters. People walk along in the spell of posters and slogans, ignorant of the handwriting on the wall. As though they’re oblivious. Do they walk? Who? Seeing a man pass by him, he hesitated. Several people passed nearby, before him and behind him. He couldn’t see their faces clearly, for it was dusk and the streetlight was some distance away. Is it because of the lack of light, or because in the dusk faces usually look strange, or are their faces really like that? Again someone passed by him. But this time either his eyes failed him, or the man walked very fast, for he couldn’t see the man’s face at all. Then he waited for a man to pass by him, so he could examine his face closely, but no one passed by. Today there are so few people! He was surprised. In the evening Mall Road is normally crowded. What’s happened today? And as he was thinking this, two glittering eyes suddenly held his gaze — a cat. Sitting among the trees near the sidewalk, the cat seemed to be staring at him. He passed by her, but she sat still, as though frozen in place. A silent and motionless cat. Her eyes, like sparks, stared at him. A man passed by. He couldn’t see the man’s face. He watched the man walk. How is this man walking? He had no sooner framed the thought than the man turned off onto another street, and vanished from sight. But after all, how was the man walking? As he passed by me, I couldn’t hear the sound of his footsteps. How are people walking today? With wonder he watched the rising and falling feet of a man walking towards him. Now he was watching not people’s faces, but their feet. He began trying seriously to watch the legs, the moving feet, of the various people walking near him. We don’t pay attention, but how strange people look, moving along on their two legs! Or perhaps they only look that way today. A man is recognized by his walk. Every man, every creature. But they’re walking as though they’ve lost their identities. And I? What if I should be walking the same way? No, he said to himself decisively, and at once began to examine his own walk. I never used to walk like this, he muttered, and tried to correct his walk. He lifted his feet with care, and put them down again with care, but his walk seemed to be getting worse and worse. What’s happened to my walk today? He hesitated, then reflected that before today he’d never even paid attention to his walk. We keep on walking, and never pay attention to how we walk. Here I am, walking along. Immediately he was brought up short. When he observed his own non-human walk, the strange thought came to him that it was not he who was walking, but someone else in his place. But who? He fell into perplexity. Gradually he controlled his doubt. He walked in measured paces, and listened to the sound of his footsteps. No, I’m myself all right. I’m walking here on a paved sidewalk in my city, and this is the sound of my footsteps. But while he was reassuring himself like this, a sudden impression came to him that the sound of his footsteps was gradually drawing away from his footsteps. It’s a strange thing. I’m walking along here, and the sound of my footsteps is coming from over there — from where—? Or perhaps I’m here, and I’m walking somewhere else—? Where—? Where am I walking? On what earth are my footsteps falling? He looked around him in surprise. Everything was silent and desolate. As though the town had emptied, the way a matchbox empties. “Houses and inns and places, all empty.”* No noise, no voice, no sound of footsteps, no nothing, only the sound of gnawing coming from all sides, as though many mice were gnawing something. Terrified, stupefied, from one lane to a second, from the second lane to a third. Walking along one lane, he found the road ahead closed. Now what was to be done? The gate of the mansion was closed. He knocked at the closed gate. “Is anyone there?” His cry echoed through the whole town — is anyone there, is anyone there. As though he had been standing at this closed gate from eternity, calling out “Is anyone there?” A cat standing up on her hind legs opened the door, looked at him intently, and closed the door. The light changed from green to red. He began to cross at the crosswalk, then hesitated. The waiting cars, scooter-cabs, and motorbikes suddenly rushed past him as though a dam in a river had burst.
SIX
Yar Zakir!
I first send you the usual salutations. I’m fine, and I hope everything’s well with you too.
You must be wondering at my foolishness: “What a time that wretch chose for writing a letter, what a time for him to send word that he’s well, and ask how I am!” I too realize how many years it’s been that I haven’t written, nor have you. And now, in this unsuitable time, I’ve suddenly thought of you, and am writing to you. Considering how disorganized the mails are, I’m not even sure that this letter will reach you. But nevertheless I’m writing. And after all, why? I’m about to tell you. First you should know that I’ve transferred myself once more into a new department. Now I’m with the Radio. One benefit of coming here is that I’ve pretty well escaped from the boring business of files. Here we deal with people, not with files. Compared to files, it’s more difficult work, but never boring.
Yar, since coming here I’ve met a strange girl. The thought never entered my head that I might run into her. A wheat-colored complexion, delicate features, slender figure, medium height, an honest and sincere manner; I always see her in a white cotton sari. She parts her hair in the middle and wears it in a plain braid, but sometimes a lock comes loose and falls forward over her face. Her behavior is always reserved. She’s quiet and melancholy. Yar, her simplicity and sadness together have ravished my heart. You don’t have to pause when you read those words. First hear the whole story.
From time to time I have to go to the newsroom. That’s where I encountered her. Previously, I’d seen her in passing, around the office. I knew she was an announcer. I’d heard her name too. But I still wasn’t especially curious about her. Simplicity at first says nothing to a man, then gradually sadness becomes a spell. She used to quietly come, find out the news from Dhaka, and go away. The news was usually disturbing, but not a trace of anxiety was permitted to show in her face. It was my guess that she was inwardly very worried by the news. One day I asked her, “Bibi, do you have some relatives in Dhaka?”