On The Way to Retreat
Fiction by Muhammad Nasrullah Khan
The sun was about to hide itself behind the black peak, when grey-haired Rafeel reached the old bus-stop to his village. The particular smell of the land made him excited, yet he was feeling himself as an outlander in the land where he had spent twenty-five years of his life. Twenty years ago, he left his own land in utmost dejection. He was young, brave and a nonconformist; therefore he was declared a rebel against the army-government. There were two ways: he either had to surrender, or leave the country. He chose the latter. Now, twenty years later, he was in the same place-nothing had changed; black rock was concealing the sun with the same grievous greed. The army had come into power again. He looked at the faces of the people-they had become paler. Their eyes were empty and deadpan; they were still in their soiled rags, scavenging through the trash for discarded crumbs. They were the citizens of a moth-eaten country; the land had become more chaotic and poverty-stricken; their corrupt leaders had sucked the blood out of their bodies; they had raped the country over and over. Moreover, nature also had turned against them, and there were riots, floods, earthquakes and famines. Now they were spiritless bodies; living for the sake of life.
These neglected souls are the scapegoats of every government. Poverty is their crime and they are paying the penalty for that crime, like their ancestors had. Yet they are so simple-hearted as to be deceived by any leader-because their memories are lost.
Rafeel remembered his final meeting with his family, when he left his sanctuary in the barren mountains. His father said, "My son, now I am too decayed to face the vulgar vultures." He looked into the eyes of his father; there was more than pity in his feeble and frightened eyes. He was a strong man who had crossed swords with death. In his disappointment Rafeel said, "Is it more horrible than death? Is there something more powerful than your Herculean ideas, father?" His father did not reply; he just looked at him and turned his face with his head held low. The old man was not ready to accept the humiliation of defeat. It was something new and strange for Rafeel-like a nightmare. The fall of that great man set off a wail inside of him and a horrible wave of guilt overwhelmed his broken heart. In the very next moment he decided to leave that land. "You should leave, Rafeel, they are chasing you like stray dogs," the old man spoke in a requesting manner. Before leaving his home, Rafeel turned to his mother, who was sleeping. Her face was still turned towards the door; it seemed as if sleep had overpowered her while she was continuously looking at the door.
Her face was not peaceful even in sleep. He came close to her, sat near her bed for a while, kissed her hand silently, and then moved quickly towards his mare with a heavy heart. He did not have the courage to look back. In those few steps he traveled the distance of centuries. Deep sorrow shocked his soul. Soon his mare was running with utmost speed, leaving behind the barking dogs-masters of the land. In that same dark night, he crossed the border of his country; the thick clouds covered even the stars. Before disappearing, he viewed his land with dejected eyes. He grew weary of his useless existence. All the teachings of his father about bravery had ended in smoke. He found everything shallow and empty. He had always been hostile towards the withdrawn souls and now he himself was one of them. The bitter taste of defeat moved him to tears; those rolling tears were absorbed in the heart of the earth. He saw the ashes of his dreams and could not stop his anguished thoughts. With deep detest he spat in the air, saying, "This is for you, the exploiters. Bravo! You have defeated your own land, your own men. But don't forget that this was our own fault-that we tamed the monsters. You are the beasts who can never be trusted. I spit on you-you unfruitful and lustful men. I even hate to breathe in this land; woes for those who will live among you and your bad breath." This was an emotional yet sincere statement.
He was one of those thousands of unknown political workers who were forced into exile, and the majority of them were killed, unnoticed-without any rewards, medals or fame. These people were committed to a cause and were lead by the dream of emancipation. Their free spirits and free hearts made their enemies violent. Rafeel was also one of those free souls whose heart drove him to miseries. Political leaders, on the other hand, were faint-hearted and self-serving. Later on, these selfless political workers came to know that the guardians of their commitment were the agents of agencies and the establishment. But by then it was too late.
What happened to Rafeel during his twenty years of exile was another hellish story, but the most pathetic aspect of it was that all his sacrifices could not bring any change to his country. The so-called leaders brought feudal democracy over and over. Common people accepted this situation. After a little poison, now and then-which gave them sweet dreams-they were now ready to take a lot of poison for a sweeter death-there was no end to their miseries.
The look of the very old tea-hut brought Rafeel back from his imaginings. He recognized the old man working over there. It was "Rasoola," who had been running that hut since Rafeel's childhood. Rasoola was closing his hut when Rafeel reached it.
"Can you give me a cup of tea," Rafeel said in the native accent.
Rasoola turned his sun-burnt, wrinkled face, stressing his eyes to recognize the stranger. But his face remained blank. "Chacha [Uncle] Rasoola, this unfriendly behavior with a friend? No, you were not like that..."
Rasoola, he was baffled. At last, Rafeel had to introduce himself. "I am Rafeel, son of Murad Khan." Rasoola rushed towards him saying, "Oh, you-naughty boy of Khan's, my hero, come close to me..." He hugged Rafeel warmly and started kissing his head. "You have become so weak and old, how strong you once were." After that passionate encounter he sat down on the big bedstead. In the dim light of the fire, Rafeel keenly observed Rasoola's face. There he saw the centuries of deprivation and hunger hidden in his wrinkles-that was the face, the fate, of third-world countries. They had to work in the scorching sunlight to fill the ever-empty bellies of their offspring. Rasoola made a special bowl of tea for him. The corner of the bowl was as old as Rasoola himself. Giving him the bowl, he wiped the sweat off his forehead, and said, "Rafeel, we will talk a lot tonight."
"No, I want to see my home. I can't wait."
"Rafeel, have you forgotten that this is the time of year when hungry wolves come out of the mountains?"
"Even then, Chacha, I will go."
"I will tell you lots of stories..."
"Stories of what? Of wolves?"
"No, I will tell you the stories of men who are more vicious than wolves, and you will tell me the stories of the wolves abroad. You must have come across many wolves during your long stay over there."
"Yes, Chacha, but those wolves were of my own land, imported wolves."
Promising to meet again, he started walking quickly towards his Basti [village]. There were many Jhokes [small villages] on the way. When he passed through the nearest Jhoke, he saw an old man fettered in chains. Rafeel knew him: he was Bukshoo, who had lost his mind in his youth. The people of the village had fastened him because he threw heavy stones at people. Rafeel stopped for a while, to have a look at the caveman. His white beard was touching the land, and froth was coming out of his mouth. Bukshoo looked at the stranger, made a bowl of his hand, threw dust at him, and started rolling in the dirt like a tired donkey. Rafeel could not digest that horrible scene and started walking again. His country had become an atomic power, but Bukshoo was still in chains! "Damn, caring. I won't think about people-already I have suffered a lot; I won't say anything against anybody; I want to live with my mother- to hell with the people, my mother is now too old. Democracy, justice and emancipation are just romantic notions. Here everything is futile, shallow and absurd." He stroked a stone with his foot and kept on walking. He heard the voice of the mountains, "Everything is shallow, everything is absurd."
To overcome those oppressive thoughts, Rafeel looked at the red light [shining] on the mountains; his thoughts ran back to his childhood. He remembered the day when all the people of the village were gathered to see this strange thing for the first time. Many simple farmers were so frightened that they hid themselves in their homes. Everyone narrated it [the light] with his own innocent perception. His elder brother told him that it was the light of the uranium sector. Khair Shah, shepherd of the village, never believed that it was a man-made thing; he was sure that it was the light of a saint, sitting on the mountains. Most of the simple villagers were followers of [agreed with] Khair Shah. In that far-off village, where there was no electricity, no pure water, no medications for dying people, the light [appeared to be] something supernatural. When Rafeel's father brought a radio, villagers ran out of the village; voices from that box made them frightened. It took them many months to become adjusted to that speaking-box.
When Rafeel neared the cluster of thick and big wild trees, a melancholic memory stroked his mind. That was the place where they had found the bones of Kaloo. Kaloo was a brave lad of the village, never afraid of wild beasts. He would walk late at night. Once, when he was absent for many days, his friends started searching for him; they found the bones of Kaloo, here. Hungry wolves left nothing behind except a few bones and pieces of his clothes. Almost everybody believed that that cluster of trees was the home of witches. Many people had even seen those witches. And nobody had ever dared to cut any tree there-except for Kaloo. Now, it was a common belief that Kaloo had been eaten by witches. Rafeel was surprised that not even a single tree had been cut in his long absence. He felt a wave of fear. The cluster of those wild trees closely resembled his country.
It was almost midnight when he reached the surroundings of his village. He remembered the loud barking of the dogs when he used to return home late at night, after fights with wild beasts. Now, hung with ugly truths, he stood there again. This time he was returning after a long and tiring fight against beasts, beasts that have never been overcome! At that moment, he envisioned the old face of his mother and ran like a child towards his home-the last refuge of every falling man.
Muhammad Nasrullah Khan lives in Pakistan. "I try to write heartfelt stories based on bitter realities. I belong to a country where people are afraid of life. I want to reawaken their lost dreams; I want to share their woes; I want to share the suffering of shrieking souls. Humanity is dying, and I want to put a few drops of water on its dry tongue so that it can face death bravely."