Old Men*

Some days he would even walk for half an hour straight. Now that winter was nearly over and the air was becoming warmer, Haji was also trying to increase his walking distance. Mamoor Latif had told him, "You are acting like a young man; I refuse to accompany you any longer." Like Haji, Mamoor was also eighty-four years old. Their health problems, however, were very different. Mamoor had heart trouble while Haji suffered from diabetes.

One spring evening, as he set out on his daily walk, Haji was feeling pretty courageous and free. The weather was so beautiful that he was prompted to take off his jumper, fold up his sleeves and unbutton the top of his shirt. The light spring breeze encouraged him to take a different route, and explore the streets of the city. His wanderings eventually led him to the park situated in the centre of the city. For a great number of years Haji had only visited the park in the morning.

Mamoor Latif had once told him that in the morning parks belonged to the old and in the evenings to the young. Haji had been amused by this comment and had always managed to abide by this unwritten rule. Today, however, it has somehow slipped his mind. At the entrance of the park, Haji's eyes fell upon a young woman sitting alone on a concrete bench. He began to study her face; she had a wide forehead, a small nose, thin lips and big eyes. Above all, Haji was fasinated with the soft look of her skin--a blessing of tender age. As Haji passed her, he said to himself, "Why shouldn't I look at a flower in bloom? I am not looking at her with bad intentions." He smiled to himself, beaming at the poor excuse.

As soon as he had come a little distance away from her, Haji stopped. He took a moment to analyse what he was feeling. For some odd reason he could not get her out of his mind; his long walk had increased his blood pressure and left his brain overly active.

Suddenly he thought of a trick to get her attention. He turned around and found her looking back at him. her eyes appeared even larger and brighter than before. Unfazed, he causally asked, "What is the time?" While she lifted her hand, he focused on her wrist. She glanced at her watch and Haji was taken in by the raising of her eyebrow. When she looked at him again, Haji longed for the same movement in her brow.

She responded, "Quarter to six." As she spoke, he could feel her breath and caught the scent of her perfume. Haji began to thank her when, to his horror, he suddenly realized that the young woman must have noticed his watch.

Haji quickly turned away and walked towards the centre of the park. He sat down on a bench and moments later dozed off. After ten or fifteen minutes of peaceful rest, Haji opened his eyes once again and remembered the young woman. He walked quickly to the entrance of the park, but she was nowhere to be found. His heart yearned to see her again, as if it would be his last chance.

He wandered around the park, looking at each bench and behind every tree. He searched the narrow paths between the rose bushes. The fragrance of the flowers and grass was prevalent, yet the scent of her perfume was missing. With a great sense of disappointment, Haji left the park. On is way home he realized where he had gone wrong; he should have searched for the girl at the other entrance to the park. He remembered now that the park had two entrances, one at the north end and one at the south end. Overcome with fatigue and already halfway home, he allowed his desire to see her slowly slip form his mind.

For his evening prayers, Haji went to the local mosque. "How come you are so happy? What's going on?" Mamoor Latif asked him. "Don't ask, I am so tired," he replied. Mamoor stared at him with questioning eyes. "Come with me tomorrow and I'll definitely tell you why," Haji added. Mamoor's eyes seemed to smile as he nodded his head. "Don't worry, I won't take you for a walk; I will show you something which will take you back to your youth," said Haji reassuringly. That night Haji listened to the news, as he usually did. Chinese scholars in northern China had found a herb, which if dried, boiled and taken, was considered the best treatment for diabetes. He sat up and listened carefully. This piece of information had aroused his interest greatly. Early the next morning, well before breakfast, he put on his glasses and began reading the newspaper. The story had been covered in the papers as well. Haji read the story twice, taking in every bit of information.

Later on in the day Mamoor Latif came to visit his friend. Haji immediately told him of the Chinese scholar's discovery. Mamoor then asked him about the other news. "What news?" Haji responded. "The one you were mentioning in the mosque last night," Mamoor reminded him. Haji couldn't remember. In an effort to jog his friend's memory, Mamoor added, "You were saying it was something which would remind me of my youth."

Haji became silent, trying desperately to recall the previous day's events. Yet nothing came to mind. Mamoor once again murmured, "You were saying it was a way to freshen the heart." Haji could not remember a thing. The young woman had fled his mind just as youth had said farewell to his life. After a few moments Haji enquired "Don't you think China has progressed a lot?"

Asadullah Ghazanfar was born in Afghanistan and migrated to Pakistan during the war in the wake of the Soviet invasion. He is regarded as one of the foremost writers in Pashto language.

*reprinted from A Letter from India: contemporary short stories from Pakistan, ed. M. Sheikh, Penguin India, (reviewed earlier in the literature page).