Editor’s Note: This is the first time a full length short story is being published in the translation section. And hence the original is not given with the main text as it is the custom for this magazine. To read the original text please click here.
In the Dark
During one night, at 12 ‘o’ clock, a young man got off the train. At the station, the people had formed a queue and weren’t present in large numbers. That’s the reason he didn’t face much trouble in getting down from his train. The station was powered with electricity, but it could not pierce through the profound darkness of the night, and this is why it felt as though the night, with its dense velvety blackness, had turned into a tent – shaped house illuminated with electrified earthen lamps. No sooner had he gotten off when the familiar smell of the platform – in which a mixture of warm smoke and the frigid gusts of winds, the aroma of hot tea, and the strange pungent smell emanating from the porters’ lanterns encased in thick glass with black iron frames etc. – along with all the familiar sounds and smells, greeted his senses. Within the young man’s heart, it seemed as though a door had opened with a reverberation. As if that sound meant to say – he has arrived, our very own has arrived…
The youth got down hurriedly. He wasn’t carrying any luggage. He walked with a comb in his hand, moving it through his long hair, composed as though, of coal particles. Five years ago, he used to live right here. The world had changed a lot within the span of those five years, however, change didn’t prefer to visit that train station. The young man accepted the pleasure of having a cup of tea in his once beloved town, and standing right there at the stall, clinking with the sound of cups and saucers, he began to look around. Everything was the same old. However, having spent twenty years in the neighborhood of this town, this youth of twenty-five had not remained the same old. His soul was perceiving this station through a fine new lens.
After giving his ticket at the station when he walked ahead, he saw that the horse-carriages, much like waterless lethargic clouds, devoid of life and speed, were trudging along half- asleep. From this, the youth gathered that this quality was specific to this town.
All the shops were closed – near them, on the road below – people were sleeping sequentially. Their companions and an exiled breed of dogs; beasts who were as civil as them, were huddled together here and there. The young man took a step forward. The hazy halo of electricity was spreading on the crooked black road riddled with tar. The shops were situated in one direction, followed by inns, followed by opium- dens , then a petty bourgeois municipal park, then a small intersection where there was a shop advertising Dunlop tires and a red pump in front of it, and then after that, a college. In this manner, dwarfed edifices and the fake modernity of this small town had moved alongside the corners of this very road, in a single direction. The railway area was in the opposite direction where right now, the work of shunting lay dormant for an hour or two.
The young man found this night-time extremely pleasant. The days were summery. Even then, the wind that blew was very cold. In the open section of the road into which the railway wires went, the leaves of Neem and Peepal trees were fluttering. On the other side of the railway tracks, a small plateau of rubble began, where dense, enormous mango trees were visible even from a distance. On that same ground, on one side , a new neighborhood – a colony comprising of the city’s rich elite folk, businessmen and officers had contracted.
Everything was peaceful. There was the deep silence of the night. In the ordinary, work-oriented life of the young man there was a fixed time for sleeping every night , and the time to wake up every morning was post eight- thirty.
Comparable to the hymns composed by Vedic sages in the praise of dawn; the modernist vision of Chhayavad1 poets of “ O look! the spent night is awakening, Dawn’s maiden is dipping pails of stars into the reservoir of the morning sky”2 – the young man had encountered very little of it in these past five years.
Akin to the human being who leaves behind his complex sphere of toil and exertion in order to avoid distasteful memories – this young man was discovering that in this night, along with the exuberant and sweet freshness of the wind rising from the high and the lowlands, it seems as if the dormant souls of humans, in their profound silence, have become more melodious, blending with the fragrance of the forest and the rustling of the trees.
Across the railway tracks – inside the railway yard itself – quarters for the middle-class employees of that area were situated. Outside, that can be called its courtyard; two cots were laid parallel to each other, between which a small table was kept. On top of it, a modern lamp was casting its investigative light. On one cot, a young man was reading a book and on the other someone was fast asleep. In the faint light of the lamp, a black half-open door on the front side of the house and the rectangular corners of the locked verandah made of out bamboo sticks, were clearly visible. In the very same row of that house, many more quarters could be seen, in that same manner, the rows of cots were neatly lined up in their designated spots.
The young man’s heart swelled with love. These houses appeared very intimate to him, as if they were the inseparable parts of his body.
He could not understand this feeling. This strange , blissful emotion began to shake the balanced scales of his heart. He wasn’t acclimated to his emotions to the extent that he could idealise them. The arduous, dull routine of daily life gave him a certain kind of self-confidence. However… today…
He wasn’t an idle creature. His feet were moving on the road. His heart was lost somewhere. Moreover, he hadn’t found couldn’t track the directions that deeply intimate solitude – where his natural tendencies could freely and playfully express themselves – in a very long time.
He began to wonder as to why this odd, pure feeling, like a multitude of crystal-clear springs, had entered in his heart.
He couldn’t find the way to the place where he wanted to go. Firstly, after a gap of five years he had forgotten the city streets. Secondly, the place he was meant to go to seemed particularly unappealing to him. This is why the notion of his destination disappeared from his mind.
It is not possible to determine whether his feet were moving or the road was shifting from under his feet, but it is certain that some dogs were standing like ever vigilant guards and barking.
From a strange unknown corner of his heart, the map of a place emerged. Its verandah too was made of bamboo sticks in the same manner. There too, during the spring nights, cots would be placed underneath the gentle rustling of the Neem tree. The young man recalls a blurry face- of his sister – and as quickly as it comes, it disappears. That’s all there is to the portrait. Do not assume that his mother and father have passed away! He has brothers, he has parents too. They all stay in the same city in which he lives.
The young man begins to laugh. He understood why looking at the quarters evoked an intimate feeling in him. In the slums of the labourers, where he goes daily, or in the clean and beautiful houses of his wealthy friends, where he collects donations, drinks tea, engages in debates, and quietly feels his own importance— no whisper of intimacy was experienced over there. This young man of ours started to laugh at himself. A subtle, sweet and bitter kind of laughter.
Far away in a shop, a sixty watt Belgian bulb is lit. The chairs have been set on the road with a table in the middle. On a comfortable chair, a tongawallah3 wearing a red Bhairogarhi4 dhoti was sitting and eating biscuits. On the other chair, an extremely filthy boy, wearing an underwear torn from behind, with his body uncovered, was sitting, sometimes looking at the biscuit crumbs or at the steam rising from the tea cup kept on the table. On the other chair, another Muslim gentleman was eating roti with some slim dish of meat and appeared to be very content. The hotel owner stood with most of his weight on one leg, as if anchored in place, smoking a cigarette, and making some supposedly wise remarks. As he spoke, the Muslim gentleman, who was using both hands to eat the thin piece of bread and meat, would support him with emotionally charged exclamations like “Allahu Akbar” and “May Allah have mercy,” among others. He took such long intense drags of his cigarette that the burning butt-end of it glowed even in the light of the electricity. His hand was casually moving around his thighs.
Inside the shop, the movement of the broom expelling the water out, created a harsh, grating sound of the broom like that of teeth grinding, combined with the soft sound of water being swept away. Additionally, small droplets of water, like tiny pebbles, were continuously moving outside in an upward-curved trajectory. The electric bulb was hanging way below the cover placed above the door, where the constantly falling splashes of water were drying up, leaving stains behind.
Just then, a patrolling policeman, wearing a red turban and khaki uniform, came and sat down. He too, was a Muslim. His beard barely had six strands of hair and above his lips there were none. He had reached the age of forty but in the matters of hair he hadn’t been shown any mercy. His nose was more prominent than his intellect, and shone bright like the knot of a black cord. A quiet sense of misery peeked through his eyes. He seemed to be a troubled soul—perhaps he had gonorrhea, or his wife had run away with someone else. Or maybe he was the offspring of an unfortunate, unattractive prostitute. Who knows what aggrieved him that couldn’t be expressed in front of other people. His pain and suffering would quietly sparkle in his deep eyes when he saw others enjoying themselves and laughing freely. Even now, his eyes were shining, but no one paid attention to him. The tea was served in front of him, one after the other, and he began sipping it with a soft, slurping sound.
The carriage of the tongawallah was standing on the other side of the street, right in front of the shop. The horse was as temperamental and irritable as its owner. On the one hand, it ate the lush green grass that sparkled under the electric light like a king, while on the other, it would kick the carriage once in every half hour. The sound of its grazing was constant, and its majestic white, solemn face kept looking at the hotel with an expectant gaze.
The tongawallah began to sip his tea. He had a strong jaw. A straight blemish-free nose and fair complexion. The elegant pearl-white turban was still neatly tied. His speech was extremely refined and full of grace. There was a gentle expression on his face, the kind that only a tough, brave soldier can have. He had earned quite a bit during the day, which is why he seemed particularly eager to stay awake through the night.
Inside the shop, the grating sound of the broom and the splashing sound of the water had ceased. A fifteen-year-old boy, blind in one eye, holding the dirty broom dripping small drops, stood in the doorway. Wearing a filthy undershirt, and gathering the torn pajamas that he pulled from his knee to his waist; he stood waiting for his employer’s next command. However, there was an assembly gathered outside. The policeman in the red turban was listening to them with great interest. He wanted to say something as well…
Just then these people saw a shadow emerge from a distance. Everyone thought this wasn’t worth paying attention to! But gradually, only the pants of that approaching shadow became visible, along with a somewhat weary gait. The young man quietly moved towards their direction and asked in a soft voice, “Is there any tea?” Receiving a “yes” in answer and finding a comfortable chair to sit on, he appeared pleased. When people saw that he didn’t seem particularly attractive or unusual, they breathed a sigh of relief and resumed their conversation.
The pitiable creature in the red turban wanted to say something. Just then two of his companions emerged from a distance. Upon seeing them he reluctantly started to get up. He thought that perhaps someone would ask him to keep sitting. But the people didn’t even realize that someone had come and was about to leave.
“In the time of monarch Madhav, tongawallas didn’t have this trouble with the police, Molvi 5 sahib! I have witnessed many eras. Many superintendents came and went, kotwals came and left. But nowadays the policeman will sit in the tonga for free, and also note down the number…,” said the tonga driver.
The hotel owner, who had been engaging in a somewhat intellectual conversation with Molvi sahib until now, began to talk loudly. He was a very thin, short, middle-aged, and cheerful man, in a tightly wrapped dhoti. He seemed to be a very talkative, good-natured man particularly averse to obscene talk – especially cultured and hardworking.
He said, "Molvi sahib, the world will keep going in this manner. I have tried many businesses. I’ve seen that all of them are full of deceit. In the eyes of a businessman, deceit is just another name for worldliness. Policemen are deceitful too—and tonga drivers are no less. Of that Zain-ul Abedin, the one who lived in Mirzawadi … have you heard of that affair?”
Molvi sahib burst into peals of laughter. He muttered “Ya Allah,” while stroking his beard twice, and tried to hide his boredom — since he needed to mooch a cup of tea and some biscuits for free or on credit — filling his eyes with wondrous curiosity he began to listen to the hotel owner’s words.
The hotel owner, afraid of revealing too much about his life, changed the subject, “Let me tell you a story. There’s wickedness in the world, indecency. It exists, but what is to be done? Abusing doesn’t solve a thing, right Rahimbaksh?” ( he gestured towards the tonga driver), “Tonga drivers curse a ton! Moreover ,when they see women passing by on the street—even if they’re Marwari6 women with loose-fitting clothes—they instantly start thinking about Layla. Seeing this makes my soul tremble. Molvi sahib , my heart is the heart of a true Sayyid7. Once upon a time, Hazrat Ali sat in his palace, overseeing royal affairs, when the doorman informed him that some Egyptian merchants had come and wished to meet him. One of those merchants was a scholar."
The Molvi was merely staring at his face which was brimming with multiple emotions, making his sticky dark face seem all the more distorted. Secondly, he was experiencing that he was just being a smart aleck whereas he had the authority on scholarly matters. Thirdly, he felt this was the apt time to say, “ Brother, order me another cup of tea.”
Upon hearing the word tea , the young man sitting on the chair spoke, “One cup here as well.”
At the back, the dirty boy in the torn shorts was feeling drowsy. Drowsily, he brought the tea. Rahimbaksh, the tongawallah, was listening to the discussion attentively. He wanted to know how this story related to tongawallahs.
The hotel owner began to speak, “One of those merchants was a scholar. He had heard of Hazrat Ali’s reputation as the greatest protector of the poor. He was someone who never liked luxury. But just then, what did he see? The palace walls are made of marble, in which legendary diamonds are embedded into the arches of the doors and the platform is made of polished smooth, black onyx. There are lush green gardens with fountains flowing. The merchant smiled to himself. It was hot, and sweat was dripping from his head, which was wrapped in a cloth.”
“After the price of the goods had been agreed upon in front of Hazrat Ali, the merchant, drawn by his gracious demeanor, spoke, ‘Your Majesty! I had heard that Hazrat Ali is a servant of the poor. However , I have seen something quite different. It’s possible what I have witnessed may be wrong.’”
“’The merchant was speaking while tying up his bundle. A flash of lightning seemed to shoot from Hazrat Ali’s eyes. The merchant didn’t see it, as his back was turned and he was busy tying up his bundle of goods.
‘Hazrat Ali said, “I don’t wish to say much to you. You see me in this palace right now, but I don’t always stay here. No one has seen me lifting sacks of grain in the market.” Hazrat Ali’s eyes were shining with a particular kind of restlessness
‘He was wearing a long royal silk robe. Hazrat Ali opened its buttons. The merchant looked on in astonishment as he saw that Hazrat Ali was wearing coarse sack-cloth underneath.
The merchant lowered his head in shame.’”
Tears welled up in the eyes of Saed, the hotel owner. Molvi sahib lowered his head, as though he had been battered by a hundred shoes. The warmth of the tea had completely faded. The tonga driver didn’t find much pleasure in all this. The young man, seated on his chair, was listening attentively.
The hotel owner said, “That’s what you call true faith. Muslim League8 members come to me asking for donations. They claim that the Muslim community is extremely poor! They don’t ask me for Pakistan. They do not even talk about Pakistan with me. I believe in Hindu-Muslim unity.
But I do positively give. Have you seen the Qaumi Jang9 newspaper? I like its policy. It belongs to the Red ideologues. I also donate to them. My cousin works at the Birla Mill and is the secretary of the accounts’ committee. He collects the donations from me.”
Now the young man didn’t want to stay there. But still, he wished to hear Saed sahib’s words till the end. It seemed that they were out there to enjoy themselves tonight. The night had advanced quite significantly. Right in front of the hotel, the large trees of the municipal garden seemed to be dozing in the depths of the night, behind which the half-moon looked like an ornament hanging on the forehead of a Muslim bride.
When the youth got up and began to walk, it seemed someone was walking behind him. The sound of their footsteps was echoing. Facing the moon (its black background carried a hint of the reddish glow of dawn; comparable to the pinkish glow of an enchantingly beautiful face) which was now rising behind the thick dense trees; that young man was staring ahead with his chin up. The vast, deep black sky, illuminated with the glow of Venus and the tranquil silence below, which was disturbed only by the playful rustling of the wind among the leaves of the trees.
In this long, solitary night, as the young man wandered in the semi-familiar city, it felt as if the bare sky, the wide expanse (like the excitement of the solitary dream traveler, akin to the impersonal carefree intoxicated stream of consciousness) and the ever-new moon were channeling countless streams of energy into his heart. Naked, cold as stone, like the sky and the moon, his heart has also turned naked and pure, cool. The flowing, liquid current is all that is running through his heart. Just as stone is an inseparable part of nature; Man, even when he has supremacy over it, is by his very form still an inseparable part of nature.
The moon was slowly climbing above the sky. The rustling of the trees was moving like a dream in the desolate darkness of the night , like a confluence of strangely disjointed rhythms.
The shadow that had been lagging two steps behind, caught up to the young man. The young man noticed that the light of the moon was dancing on the white , delicate , swaying triangle of the cane, a piece of the moon was shining on the delicate edge of his long, straight nose, casting almost half of his face in shadow. And two deep, small eyes were illuminated with the moonlight and joy. That old Molvi’s face reminded the young man of the face of D.H. Lawrence!
As soon as the middle-aged man arrived, he eagerly asked in his typical manner, “Where do you live?”
The old man’s face was beaming with a natural kindness. In the unfamiliarity of this new city ( although five years ago, the young man had lived in this very city), he found the Molvi’s face beaming with its natural kindness, quite endearing. He replied, ‘I am not very familiar with this city. I’m staying at an inn. I was unable to sleep, so I decided to take a walk.’ This old Molvi, sitting in the hotel, had been defeated by Saed, as if his intellect had also been defeated. He wanted to calm the void and the inner jealousy that had arisen from this defeat. “Saed is a very good man. He has been extremely generous towards us.”
The young man cut him off and asked, “Where do you work?”
“I teach the school situated inside the mosque. That’s right, it is enough to sustain oneself.” Suddenly, he eyes became downcast and he fell silent, and lowered his head to look downward. Then he said, “Yes, I got married ten years ago. I had no idea she would take the jewelry and run away . . .Since then, I have been at this mosque.”
The young man felt that the middle – aged man had said something that probably shouldn’t be revealed to a stranger. The old man hadn’t said much. But hearing such a intimate matter unlocked the doors of sympathy within the young man’s heart. He intercepted many things from the old man’s appearance alone – the same sorrow, that in one form or another, stands gaping in the life of every oppressed middle-class individual.
“ Yes, I have spent five years in the mosque, I get fifteen rupees, it is enough to get by. But my heart’s no longer in it. However, this struggle has brought about another thing – curiosity! I never skip listening to the radio. Yes, a new curiosity. I do have a habit of reading books. But I am not learned. That’s why I am unable to interpret the meaning.”
The old man was talking in his soft, silky voice, reverberating like the faint strings of a sitar. The conversations were ordinary and factual but they were surrounded by a halo of emotions. The unreasonable power of wounded feelings in his life added an extraordinary personal color to the simplicity of his words.
The young found this pleasing. He found it endearing. In a moment, he discerned through his sympathetic magical eye that there must be an alienated ( strange) mosque where everyday in silence, people prayed mechanically in a queue. And on its vacant , desolate second floor, this dissatisfied and vibrant middle-aged man would teach little filthy unkempt boys and girls in the afternoon. Parents, troubled by their children’s mischief, would likely send them to the school to keep them occupied, and he would teach them with indifference and his life, the world, and the entire dreariness of the afternoon must stir a restlessness within him that would torment his heart.
He asked the Molvi, “ How old are you?”
The young man observed that the old man liked this question. His face began to soften even more. He said , “ Merely forty. However, I appear to be above fifty years. Ah, these last five years have hollowed me out. Still I am not weak. I am quite healthy.”
The Molvi wanted to prove that he was still young. The natural, independent, and unrestrained aspirations of life filled his entire being with vitality. In his movements and speech, there was none of the finality found in lethargy and sadness that imparted a sense of maturity. He had spoken accurately, and the young man felt no desire to disbelieve him.
“ Oh, then you are young.” The young man paused in between to say, “ Then your mind must be occupied with war.”
“ Arey, don’t ask me anything. Mr. Saed is annoyed with me.”
“ Do you read Qaumi Jang? I saw it just now in your hotel.”
“We get Qaumi Jang even in out mosque! Our chief Molvi is a member of the Prajamandal Movement10. He is an honorable member of Jamiat Ulama-e-Hind11. They are the Ulama12. They purchase all kinds of newspapers. Here, they have established the Muslim Forward Bloc.
The young man didn’t feel the need to get entangled in local politics. But he also didn’t have any particular desire to stay detached from it. Just then they reached a lane that the Molvi was eager to turn to. The young man simply said, “ We will help you with the books. I am around these parts for a few days now. Where can I meet you?”
“ In Saed sahib’s hotel. Yes, day and night!”
The young man had been able to spend some good time with the Molvi. He was grateful. He didn’t say his thanks. Throughout his life, countless people had come to him who had naturally trusted him, bestowed his life with a cordial warmth. Whenever the young man thinks of them, he feels indebted to them for his own growth and development. Their waterfalls cascaded into his life transforming it into a river . Not all of them were same. Nor did he bestow his personality to all of them. However, he did not wrinkle his nose at the dark shadows of their personalities, their thorns, or their burning molten phosphoric fluids, nor at their flaws. If sometimes he wounded his own self, then after blowing off his steam just once, he would get ready to kiss their wounds and squeeze out their poison. While magnifying the tiniest details of their personalities through the microscope of empathy; he derived the same joy as a doctor would. And his intent was also that of a doctor’s. The doctor within him was a uncomplicated, straightforward physician, who instead of mixing up with world – class patented medicines; advised his patients to wake up each morning, exercise, keep their minds calm, and take his plain two-penny packets of two pills with honey. He knew how significant a ray of empathy and a natural, healthy, serene, smile could be for a crippled, empathy- parched world! Therefore, he used to escape from the disputes and the particular bitterness arising from mutual disagreements. He was aware of them and had no need of them. There was no such malice in the world that would make him nauseous – except for the widespread social exploitations and the hypocrisies born from them , the blind injustices committed in the name of idealism, the rigid beliefs, and the tyrannies of immaterial pride. He had silently endured many of the ills suffered by the middle-class people of the world and was merely waiting for the power of revolution. However, this had also caused a loss to him. The individual was not important for him, rather , character was even when that character was ordinary – and that too, only as long as the reservoir of his curiosity and enthusiasm had not dried up. His perspective on enthusiasm was also quite intangible, because the goal of his personality was intangible. Therefore, in all by himself, the individual often escaped him , except for those who had blended with his pulse and blood. The doctor immediately forgets his patients, except for their diseases and because of their diseases. As a result, by acquiring his natural warmth, individuals would become one with him, expose themselves; and then they would begin to have all kinds of expectations from him that were impossible to render possible.
When the Molvi entered the lane, the young man’s eyes were fixed on him. To him, the Molvi’s tall, thin body, clad completely in white – felt like history on the move. The triangular shape of his beard, the vibrant sparkle of his eyes and the quivering of his cheeks under the influence of powerful emotions – the desire to learn all their histories doubled within him.
At that time, half of the road was soaked in moonlight and the other half, hidden in shadows, had turned black due to the crooked angle of the moon. Its darkness appeared more prominent than the moonlight.
The young man was faced with two problems. One was to do with sleep, the other was to do with the place for sleeping. And he had two solutions. First option was to wander the night away – only three and a half hours of the night still remained. Second option was to sleep somewhere on the station itself.
After some deliberation, he picked the solution presented by the station.
His body had the exhaustion of three days’ worth of labour. And his legs were now refusing to carry the weight of his body. However, the way in which every solitary man in life, despite his exhaustion, must prepare his dinner on his own – after all, that’s the only way he can fill his stomach – similar to that, his feet were silently, narrating the tale of their grief to their own selves.
He was forced to turn once. It was a narrow path, with moonlight spread on either side all over the upper parts , on either side, of the high-rise buildings.
Exhaustion was inducing waves of sleep within his heart’s void. However, there was the fear of the policeman, if he encountered one on the way it was difficult to placate his suspicions. There is also a growing sense of fear because the path is covered in darkness. The form of the path is discernible under the partially reflected luminescence of the moonlight falling only on top of the high towers.
Another surge of nothingness within his heart! Another bout of drowsiness! Since the path is closed off on either sides it is protected from the cold – it possesses a lot of heat.
The young man is somehow still walking. He wants to slumber in the warm quilt of sleep. Another bout of drowsiness! Another surge of nothingness inside his heart!
Suddenly the young man felt something soft and strange under his feet —unusually delicate, like the warm, tender flesh of a human body. He took two – three more footsteps forward. And his suspicion became confirmed. His entire body trembled . His mind, his judgement shook. If he does not take a step, all the weight of his body — whether it belongs to a child, a woman, an old person, or a young person —will fall entirely on one spot. What can he do? He began to run towards a corner. But where – men were asleep all the way till there. The delicate warmth of their bodies was stuck to his feet. Right ahead he spotted a stone, he stepped on it, gasping. His feet were shaking. He was staring with eyes open. But in that ocean of darkness, he couldn’t see a thing. His crime, in this way, would remain hidden in the dark. His sense of judgement kept squirming, he received such a jolt that it couldn’t stay stable. That virtuous sense of judgement was simply trembling. A question, twisting and turning, began to wander in the young man’s mind, like the dance of lightning: why haven’t all these hungry tramps woken up, gained consciousness, and beaten him to pieces with rods? Why has he been allowed to live until now?
But what could be the answer to this question?
Beaten, he began to tread upon the side of the street. As though, even in that thick darkness, a thousand eyes of hungry souls were gaping at his cowardness, his crime, his disgrace. Upon finding the straight road to the station, the young man changed his path.
On the long straight road, there was no moonlight because there were no towers on either side; only a few small trees were placed at a distance in the corners.
The silent, cold moonlight spread across the path like a white shroud, touching both the horizons. An immense, silent vastness was gripping the young man that and he could only hear his voice – sin! The famine of Bengal is the biggest evidence of the annihilation of our moral conscience. Soon upon remembering – the thing he was making a strong endeavour to forget – his heart trembled, and his sense of prudence began to gasp.
On that long endless white road, that young man dwarfing into a small insignificant shadow, kept walking away.
1Chhayavad was a movement of Neo-romanticism in Hindi literature, particularly Hindi poetry prevalent from 1922–1938
2 From Jaishankar Prasad’s poetry collection लहर (Wave) , published in 1933.
3 A person who drives a tonga – a two-wheeled cart drawn by a horse that is commonly used in India
4 Belonging to the region of Bhairogarh, Madhya Pradesh
5 An Islamic religious title given to Muslim religious scholars, or ulama, who completed full studies in a madrasa
6 An Indo-Aryan ethno-linguistic group originating from the Marwar region of Rajasthan, India
7 Translates as ‘sir’, ‘Lord’, ‘Master’, it refers to an honorific title of Hasanids and Husaynids Muslims, recognized as descendants of the Islamic prophet’s companion, Ali through his sons, Hasan and Husayn
8 The All-India Muslim League, simply called the Muslim League, was a political party established in Dhaka in 1906 when some well-known Muslim politicians met the Viceroy of India, Lord Minto, with the goal of securing Muslim interests in British India
9 An Urdu language weekly newspaper published by the Communist Party of India from Bombay during World War II
10 A popular movement in the 1920s in princely states where people were ruled by local aristocrats, not the British Raj
11 Founded in 1919, the Jamiat Ulama-i-Hind is the largest and most influential organization of Indian Muslims
12 The ulama are a group of Muslim scholars and religious authorities who are considered to be the guardians of Islamic knowledge, law, and doctrine
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