Short stories, Videos by Zeenat Hussain (JR179MH09)
https://youtu.be/sCz2zSNPQao An ungrateful person is
never happy.
https://youtu.be/qjR-090dxjI , the evil Spirit
http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x1kac03_rescue-on-the-sea_lifestyle,
Rescue on the Sea
RESCUE ON THE
SEA
Very little has been written
about the ancient coastal people of Lyari – the irrepressible Makranis – who
take their name from the Makran coast of Sindh and, Balochistan, which also
indicates a common history of the two provinces; the Makran coast constitutes
the South-East of Iran and the South-West of Pakistan; a 1,000 km stretch along
the Gulf of Oman from RA’s (cape) Al-Kuh, Iran (West of Jask), to the Lasbela
District of Pakistan (near Karachi). The Makran coast is on the Arabian Sea, to
the North-West of Quetta in Balochistan.
The following is a story of
one such coastal village:
Children on bare - back camels, watch the
sea, its vastness spanning even
beyond the grasp of their eyes. Fishermen on the beach watch the sky, like the
city dwellers read their newspapers first thing in the morning. Through the
knots of their nets hanging on the line, they seem to predict the weather. This
exercise determines whether they should take a boat out or not on the deep sea,
for their daily expedition to catch fish. The air is filled with the smell of
rancid water that is due to the deposits of oil, resulting in decayed and dead
sea-life. Music, which is a part of their lives, plays in the background. The
sounds are a fusion of musical cultures from the Middle East, Indo-Pakistan and
Africa.
The shells on the beach look like the abandoned toenails
of the old fishermen, and they are more beautiful there, than on the foot. The
broken wings, the sand-logged crabs, a woman’s lonely shoe, a rusty toy damaged
beyond recognition, the plank or sail from a doomed boat, all lay sprawled on
the beach, each with a story behind it, cleansed and sterilized by the salt and
iodine in the great hospital of the sea. In the night, the light from the tower
was but a spot against the background of the sky and spectacular cliffs.
The weather beaten villager’s munched dates from the
interior while watching holidaymakers trying to teach their children to swim,
like fish to water, amidst the shouts and screams of the children who are
already submerged in the waters. The steps of the ladies faltered as they
approached the sea, clad in shalwar kameezes filled with the wind, the Shalwar
Kameez itself a deterrent for swimming.
The story told here is that of a
villager who because of his sharp sense of hearing helped in the rescue of a
drowning man. The villager was alone and as he had no family to fend for, hence
he had no responsibilities to drain his energy. Somehow he had also preserved
his youth, which he owed to mother nature. Religion that usually comes into the
house with the presence of a woman was lacking in his and he was quite
oblivious of it.
One evening when it was well after ten and the moon was
full with black clouds scudding in ordered masses across the sky, he was still
sitting on his wall, all alone. A cool wind suddenly sighed from an unexpected
quarter and in its wake was a noise like that from a distant cavalry charge.
His razor sharp ears picked up the sound. His brow creased up as his eyes
searched the distance. He hobbled to his neighbours house and banged on the
door of his traditional mud-hut – the two men, though natural life-guards, knew
thoroughly all that was written in the books about rescue on the seas. The
coastal blacks were descendants of imported slaves – the fishermen being known
as the Meds and the seamen as the Koras – when there was no response; he banged
on the door again. A groggy fellow soon appeared. He pointed towards the
horizon and mumbled something in the Makranic dialect. The man’s eyes tried to
see beyond the direction of the location being pointed at. A boat in trouble,
he thought aloud. Without wasting any time they woke the other men.
A rule of the sea states, that half the purchase price of
the vessel of the sea is given to the rescue party. This prize money was quite
a temptation, but since it was always dangerous the case required to be argued,
all hands knew that the proposed journey was perilous.
The village women all having gathered on the beach, saw
their men disappear, reappear, disappear, reappear and finally disappear into
the darkness. They were now a tiny speck in the vast vista of the sea – the
ocean that is open to all and merciful to none, that which threatens even when
it seems to yield, pitiless always to weakness.
Many of the Makrani women now worked as domestic servants
in Karachi; they were also experts in the art of massaging any mother and
child after birth.
Their traditional long
dresses with hand-woven
Embroidery gave them a
distinct ‘folk’ touch, separating them from the typical Karachiites. The
skirt-like look, with its wide circumference, and the loose shalwar could be
compared to the costumes of the pathan and Kabuli women.
The
men in the rescue boat changed sides, so as not to tip the balance of the boat
as the surf sprayed them from head to toe. The taste of salt lingered in their
mouths during the voyage. They were not bothered by their appearance. On the
contrary, they felt no different from when they started out dry.
Suddenly, a dark object was thrown at them on the crest
of a wave. It was a man. They held on to the poor fellow and eventually
succeeded in dragging him aboard. Nobody felt sorry that this time, there was
no prize. They rowed back to their village.
Couples fought with each other to offer hospitality to
this half dead man; and they almost came to blows in their struggle for this
visa to heaven.
They fetched a doctor from a nearby village, while the
women sat all around him wearing their beads. The doctor was a Karachiite who
had been sent to the village to serve them. The doctor prompted the man to
speak. The man said, “Mahganj” very faintly. Repeated attempts, received the
same response. The diagnosis stated that he was a victim of a traumatic shock
and was suffering from amnesia, which meant a loss of memory, if only
temporarily.
The Priest, who was also a member of the village council,
was also summoned, as was the case in other similar incidents. “What’s going on
here?” he asked one of the ladies. “A miracle” said all the ladies together.
The Makrani women are predominantly Muslim.
The Priest was briefed about the rescue and what
followed. Being
an elderly fellow, he recalled that a girl by
the name of ‘Mahganj’ had been registered in the mosque some eighteen years
ago.
Now, it was easy to put two and two together. The man
they found was associated with Mahganj and was discovered as belonging to the
same village as her’s. He was also
supposed to marry her.
Mahganj was the granddaughter of the village tailor. Thus
it was decided that the man be taken back to the same village that he
originated from. Similar surroundings would help to revive his memory, it was
hoped.
A therapist was hired from the city and surely, slowly
though, his memory came back in bits and pieces. Mahganj’s presence always
evoked a response in the man, so strong was the bond of love. His memory did
eventually return, which in turn led to their marriage. They led a happy
married life.
