“The Fires of Meluhha” reveals that the Meluhhans neither vanished nor were lost to time; instead, they endure across the landscape, culture, rituals, arts, technology, history, festivities, and genetics of the people of the subcontinent.

Dr. Nisar Ahmed Solangi

Chapter 1

The Seal-Maker’s Daughter

The city breathed before dawn.

Pariya had learned to listen for it — that collective exhale of thirty thousand sleeping souls, the groan of fired-brick walls still warm from yesterday’s sun, the whisper of the Sindhu River carrying its silt-brown secrets south toward the sea. She stood on the roof of her father’s workshop on the second tier of the Lower City, her bare feet on cool brick, and watched the eastern sky blush copper above the grain warehouses.

She was seventeen years old, and she had never left Mohenjo-daro. She did not need to. The world came to her.

Below, the city was already stirring. The great straight avenues — her father called them the veins of civilization — ran north to south and east to west in their perfect grid, broad enough for two ox-carts to pass without argument. The drainage channels that ran beneath every street hummed with night-water. The public wells were already drawing their first visitors: potters, dyers, the women who ran the bead workshops on the eastern quarter. This city was not ruled by kings, as the river-lands of Sumer were. It had no single palace, no god-king’s ziggurat clawing the sky. It had something stranger and more powerful — it had order.

Her father, Ranjhan the seal-maker, called it the gift of the Unseen Ones.

Pariya called it a prison with very clean streets.

She turned from the view and descended the narrow stair into the workshop. The smell of steatite dust hit her first — that chalky mineral bite that had lived in her nose since childhood. Her father was already at his workbench, his obsidian-tipped graver moving in tiny precise strokes across a new seal blank, his oil lamp throwing trembling shadows across the finished seals hanging in rows along the wall. Unicorns. Tigers. The sacred fig tree. The three-headed beast that no living creature resembled but that every merchant from the Zagros to the Deccan recognized as the mark of Mohenjo-daro quality.

“You watched the sunrise again,” Ranjhan said, without looking up.

“The sky was interesting.”

“The sky is always interesting. The work is what changes.” He set down his graver and turned. He was fifty, lean and dark, with deep-set eyes that had squinted over seal-work for thirty years. His fingers were permanently grey with steatite. “Sit. I want to show you something.”

She sat on the opposite stool and he pushed a clay tablet across the bench — not one of his seals, but something different. A pressed rectangle, smaller than his palm, covered in the tiny pictographic script that the merchants and officials used to keep accounts. She could read it: everyone in the workshop district could read, it was as basic as knowing how to count.

But this tablet said something that made her breath catch.

“Where did you get this?”

“It arrived yesterday, wrapped in a piece of dyed cotton, delivered by a man I have never seen. He wore the dust of the north road.” Ranjhan’s voice was careful. “Read it aloud.”

Pariya read: “‘The Council of Weights stands corrupted. The measures at the north granary run short by one-eighth. The cheating has continued for three harvest seasons. Seven hundred families receive less grain than their bronze tokens promise. The Inspector of Measures knows. He does not act. The Unseen Ones sleep.'”

She set the tablet down. The oil lamp flame wavered as if it too had heard.

“Someone wants you to know this,” she said.

“Someone wants a seal-maker to know this,” Ranjhan corrected. “Which is peculiar. I am not the Inspector of Measures. I am not on the Assembly. I make seals for merchants and record-keepers. But I am also—” he paused. “—known to certain people as someone who does not throw tablets into the smelting furnace.”

“Who are these certain people?”

He picked up his graver again. “Eat your breakfast. We have a commission from a lapis merchant from the north — three trade seals before midday. And, Pariya—” He looked at her directly. “Tell no one about the tablet. Not Meena, not Munash the copper trader, not anyone.”

She should have agreed immediately. She didn’t.

“Father,” she said quietly, “if the granary measures have been short for three seasons, and no one acts — someone is stealing the food of seven hundred families. In a city of ten thousand, that means one family in fourteen is hungry. Do you know that children on the eastern tier—”

“I know what I know.” His voice was not unkind. “And what I know is that we are small people. The Assembly is not small people. The Inspector of Measures is not a small person. And the man who commissioned the false weights—” He stopped.

“You know who it is.”

He did not answer. He bent over his work. The graver scraped softly against steatite, carving the tiny sacred unicorn that had been Mohenjo-daro’s mark since before her grandfather was born.

Pariya ate a flatbread she didn’t taste, drank water from the household jar, and went to open the workshop for the day’s first customers.

But she kept the tablet in her memory, every word of it, pressed into her mind as cleanly as a seal pressed into wet clay.

She did not know, that morning, that by nightfall a man would be dead, that she would be running through the drainage tunnels beneath the city with a stolen sack of evidence, and that everything she thought she knew about Mohenjo-daro’s famous, perfect order was about to shatter like fired clay dropped from the citadel wall.

The city breathed before dawn. But cities, like people, could also hold their breath — just before they screamed. (Continues) 

Read: Lessons from the Indus Valley Civilization

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Dr. Nisar Ahmed Ali Nawaz Solangi is a distinguished Public Health Specialist with over 28 years of experience in primary healthcare, health management, and policy development. Throughout his career, he has served in leadership capacities, He holds MBBS from the University of Sindh and a Master of Public Health from Griffith University, Australia. He is a dedicated polymath committed to the intersection of ancient civilization and emerging technology. He is deeply engaged in the study of the Indus Valley Civilization—focusing on its maritime history, trade networks, and egalitarian governance. Currently based in Saudi Arabia, Dr. Solangi is a tireless advocate for the digital preservation and global dissemination of the Sindhi language and culture. He is actively involved in pioneering initiatives on social media” Our Digital World”. By bridging the gap between historical heritage and digital innovation, he aims to create a new paradigm for cultural representation in the AI era.

The post The Fires of Meluhha (Fiction) first appeared on Sindh Courier.

By Abdullah Usman Morai

The budget airline terminal in Stockholm was buzzing with the usual chaos—backpackers looking for cheap getaways, students excited about new experiences, and weary professionals desperate for a break. Among the sea of passengers boarding the flight to Marseille was Dr. Adam Lindgren, a Swedish physician in his early forties. Clean-shaven, dressed in khaki trousers and a light blue shirt, Adam carried an air of calm that barely masked the storm inside him.

Adam was escaping—again. His family life had been falling apart for over a year. An endless series of misunderstandings, cold dinners, and unspoken regrets had created a wall between him and his wife. Their children, caught in between, had started to withdraw too. So Adam did what he’d come to do often—book a trip for a long weekend and go somewhere. Anywhere.

A few rows behind him boarded Aarav Mehta, an Indian IT consultant based in Uppsala. In his mid-thirties, Aarav was lean, with expressive eyes and a short beard. He walked a little slower than others, clutching a small medical pouch tightly. Unlike Adam, Aarav was at peace with life, at least spiritually. Despite a terrifying diagnosis of a rare condition called Narcolepsy with Cataplexy, which caused him to suddenly fall unconscious, Aarav carried an inner calm, drawn from his deep spiritual connection and a life of mindful living.

The two men had chosen the cheapest option—random seat allocation—and as fate would have it, they found themselves seated next to each other, in 17A and 17B, window and middle.

For the first half hour, they sat in silence. Adam stared out the window, lost in thought. Aarav opened his Kindle, but his eyes often lingered on the clouds. There was no small talk. No reason to.

Until the turbulence hit.

The plane jolted violently, eliciting gasps and muffled screams from around the cabin. Adam’s hands instinctively gripped the armrest. Aarav shut his eyes and muttered a soft prayer. After a few tense minutes, the aircraft steadied, but the ice between them had been shattered.

“Quite the welcome from the skies,” Aarav said, offering a nervous smile.

Adam chuckled. “Makes you reevaluate life for a second, doesn’t it?”

“I think fear does that. Shakes us into connection,” Aarav replied.

And just like that, the wall crumbled. They introduced themselves. Adam, the seasoned physician who rarely spoke about his personal life. Aarav, the IT wizard who believed in the universe’s signs.

Their conversation flowed naturally—from work to travels. Aarav spoke of his adventures in the Dolomites and hiking in Iceland. Adam shared tales of medical camps in South America and quiet retreats in the Alps.

Eventually, the conversation turned deeper.

“I travel because I need an escape,” Adam admitted. “My home doesn’t feel like home anymore. My marriage is… complicated. I don’t talk about it much. But lately, I feel like something’s missing in me. Not physically. Just… emotionally.”

Aarav nodded thoughtfully. “Sometimes we live entire years disconnected from our own hearts. I’ve been there.”

He opened his phone and read aloud a quote by Rumi:

“The wound is the place where the light enters you.”

Adam looked at him, eyes slightly wet. “That’s… powerful.”

“Rumi saved me, in a way,” Aarav said softly. “When I was diagnosed with my condition last year, my world turned upside down.”

“What condition, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Narcolepsy with Cataplexy. It’s rare. One in a million, literally. I can suddenly lose consciousness, often triggered by emotions or excitement. Sometimes I collapse in the middle of the street or at work. I carry my medicine everywhere. This pouch,” he said, lifting the leather bag, “has saved my life more than once.”

Adam looked at him with concern and respect. “That’s a lot to handle.”

“It is. But I believe even suffering can be a teacher,” Aarav said.

They landed in Marseille with the sun painting the sky in hues of lavender and gold. As the passengers dispersed, they exchanged numbers.

“Tea tomorrow?” Aarav asked.

“Absolutely,” Adam replied.

***

The next day, they sat in a quaint café near the port, sipping herbal tea and sharing slices of Tarte Tropézienne. They spoke of childhoods, their favorite books, their regrets, and the beautiful absurdity of life. The warmth of their connection was unexpected, yet unmistakable.

“Ever been to Aix-en-Provence?” Aarav asked.

“No, but I’ve heard it’s beautiful.”

“Let’s go. It’s just an hour away. It was home to Paul Cézanne, the impressionist painter. His studio is still there.”

They spent the next day exploring the charming streets of Aix, its fountains, lavender shops, and the famous Montagne Sainte-Victoire, which inspired many of Cézanne’s masterpieces. They even attempted bits of French they remembered from school.

“Ça va?” Adam asked.

“Très bien!” Aarav laughed.

As the weekend came to a close, both men boarded their return flight to Stockholm. This time, their random seats had separated them. Adam was near the front, Aarav toward the rear.

Midway through the flight, a commotion erupted near the back. A passenger had collapsed in the aisle.

“Is there a doctor on board?” a flight attendant shouted.

Adam instinctively stood up, heart racing.

As he reached the scene, he recognized the unconscious figure on the floor. “Aarav!” he exclaimed.

“I know him,” Adam said quickly. “He has a condition—Narcolepsy with Cataplexy. He showed me the medication.”

He rummaged through Aarav’s backpack, found the familiar leather pouch, and swiftly administered the necessary treatment. Slowly, Aarav stirred.

“Adam…” he whispered, weakly smiling.

“You scared everyone,” Adam said, half-laughing, half-relieved.

After stabilizing Aarav, Adam turned to the crew. “He should always inform airlines of his condition. Please note it for future flights.”

Back in their seats, Aarav looked at him, grateful. “Thank you for saving me.”

“You helped me first,” Adam replied. “More than you know.”

They both laughed softly.

“Funny,” Aarav said. “Two random seats… and a whole journey of connection.”

“Random,” Adam mused, “isn’t always bad.”

***

Epilogue

They remained close after that. Adam started reading Rumi and attending mindfulness workshops. Aarav, on the other hand, began consulting a specialist recommended by Adam for better treatment and lifestyle adjustment.

Their friendship grew with time, built on trust, shared vulnerability, and a flight that shook their lives in more ways than one.

Whenever they traveled, they’d joke, “Let’s not pick seats. Let the universe do it.”

Because sometimes, random seats bring exactly the person you need.

Read: Short Story: The Wake-Up Call

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Abdullah Soomro, penname Abdullah Usman Morai, hailing from Moro town of Sindh, province of Pakistan, is based in Stockholm Sweden. Currently he is working as Groundwater Engineer in Stockholm Sweden. He did BE (Agriculture) from Sindh Agriculture University Tando Jam and MSc water systems technology from KTH Stockholm Sweden as well as MSc Management from Stockholm University. Beside this he also did masters in journalism and economics from Shah Abdul Latif University Khairpur Mirs, Sindh. He is author of a travelogue book named ‘Musafatoon’. His second book is in process. He writes articles from time to time. A frequent traveler, he also does podcast on YouTube with channel name: VASJE Podcast.

The post Fiction: Wonders of Random Seats’ Miracle first appeared on Sindh Courier.

By Dr. Mushtaq Soomro

On one cool evening in London, barrister Mazhar Kazi received a phone call from Dr. Imdad Ali, his close friend and old classmate, now working as a psychiatrist in a prestigious London hospital. He asked him if he remembered Mr. Peter Marshall.

“Yes he was my senior, but I know him, I heard him in a few symposiums. A really smart guy.”

“That’s fine, I am going to meet with him today evening, if you are free we can go together”, said Dr. Imdad Ali.

On that evening, Kazi and Dr. Ali went to a large rehabilitation center, which was meant for recovering patients of drug addiction, a short drive from London.

Kazi became remorseful when he saw Peter Marshall; he had become a thin, lean, rather emaciated person without any glow in his face. Kazi recognized that same glowing Peter coming out every time during a conversation when any law-related matter came under discussion during the informal chat as he was brilliant with his professional and academic knowledge.

All of the talk was random without any prior agenda as the period between recovery and actual departure back home was meant to keep the patient as relaxed as possible so that they could cope with the realities of life in new spirits.

Since the meeting, a couple of more months passed before Peter was allowed to go home from the rehab center. He had lost several precious things like his lucrative law practice and very pleasant professional colleagues but his most precious loss was Margaret, his beloved wife. She deserted him after filing for divorce. When Peter came out of the hospital, he had a huge debt under his name.

His divorce from Margaret was quite shocking. It was not clear if his drug addiction was the cause or the effect of his strained relations with his lovely wife. It is likely both were intermingled with each other.

Margaret was his lifetime love and Peter adored her a lot. By profession she was an executive in a marketing firm; the boss of 200 employees in a huge building. Differences were creeping up between them when she was shining in her career; feeling proud all the time and Peter started the habit of LSD use and seemed to be indifferent to his law practice. Margaret gently tried to explore the reason behind his odd behavior, but Peter surprised her as he alleged she was conspiring to kill him.

Every day, Peter was sucked into the quagmire of drug addiction, became hypertensive, and lost control of himself. Margaret used to become very worried when he was alone and was reminding him to take care of himself but he hated her company; living in various temporary places sans home.

She came to know from her sources that he was using increasing amounts of LSD day by day. Margaret was fed up with convincing him to go to seek medical advice.

One sad evening Margaret got an unfortunate phone call as somebody informed her that Peter was involved in a road traffic accident on the motorway in which he slammed his car into a trailer and got multiple fractures, and was rushed to hospital.

Peter was semiconscious and sedated and had to go through several operations during the coming days. The head of the panel of expert medics and surgeons told her that his drug addiction was hindering his normal recovery.

When he became a bit settled, the first thing he did was to instruct the hospital to forbid his wife to meet him or phone him. That last straw broke the camel’s back and the divorce papers were processed quickly.

Peter got treatment for his injuries for several weeks then got prolonged management for his drug addiction issue. Despite broken relations, Margaret offered Peter to pay his hospital bills but he declined the offer.

After recovery, he changed himself drastically, rather he rediscovered himself; all of his hobbies and passions changed, and he started to take a deep interest in history, anthropology and archaeology.

He started to spend more and more time in his grandfather, Sir John Marshall’s library, studying his old diaries. He was an extraordinary figure; an archaeologist by profession who discovered two famous cities of Indus-Valley Civilization – Harappa and Mohenjo-Daro in 1920–21, both towns around 5000 years old.

Exploring these ancient sites, which were unknown to anybody prior to that was not an easy task. One colleague and friend of John Marshall had to sacrifice his life during the process of exploration of the sites. He was murdered in far-flung hilly terrain by barbaric bandits as they assumed that he must possess enormous wealth as he was exploring hidden treasures in the land.

Peter was moved by reading his diary in which he wrote an obituary for Mr. N. G. Majumdar in very respectable words. Majumdar was his worthy colleague, a hardworking and dedicated fellow who was the main figure in discovering sixty-two archaeological sites in the Indus Valley.

Peter started to read archaeology as a subject and did his masters, wrote several research papers, and was very excited that his friends Dr. Ali and Mazhar Kazi were natives of the land of Indus Valley Civilization.

He used to ask both friends about Mohenjo-Daro, about how the city looked and was eager to visit it as soon as possible.

Peter changed his occupation and became a faculty member of the Archaeology department at the University of London, where he excelled by understanding the subject and explaining it in simple terms so that a person of any background could enjoy the rather dry subject of archaeology.

Meanwhile, UNESCO (United Nations Educational Scientific and Cultural Organization) arranged a conference on Indus Valley Civilization in London; in fact, Peter was the main person behind the arrangement of this conference and the main speaker of the occasion.

Various experts in the field shed light on the different aspects of the Indus Valley Civilization. The audience appreciated their deep understanding of all available details about Mohenjo-Daro and Harappa – each city had a population of 35,000 and 25,000 respectively.

Indus Valley Civilization was at least 4500 years old, having about 1,500 locations discovered so far, scattered in the triangle-shaped area of about 1.2 million kilometers (Equivalent to 75 thousand square miles). Some of its towns and cities are located in India but two main cities are located in Pakistan among which Mohenjo-Daro is quite an amazing example.

“These people were not warriors or barbarians who practice violence and enslaved their fellow humans but they were artisans, engineers, and very good town planners.” A sentence from the speech of Peter Marshall.

The whole conference was exciting and informative for history lovers and archaeology professionals. Archaeology and anthropology students of London universities were especially interested in the artefacts they saw in the British Museum and asked questions from the speakers they particularly admired. English newspapers gave nice coverage of the proceedings of the event.

“These people were not warriors or barbarians who practice violence and enslaved their fellow humans but they were artisans, engineers, and very good town planners.” A sentence from the speech of Peter Marshall.

“Occupation-wise, these people were traders but able to do farming of wheat, barley, cotton, peas, dates, sesame and mustard for oil and they had vocational skills to manufacture cotton and woolen textiles. “They were probably the first bunch of people who were able to construct multi-story houses.

As time passes, new sites of Indus Valley Civilization are appearing, Peter Marshall mentioned that his archaeologist friends in the Indian state of Gujrat, Mr. Gadvi and Prof. Joshi were busy unearthing the Dholavira site, which is only 50 kilometers away from the Pakistan border.

In the Dholavira area seals with shapes of animals, beads and metal objects have been discovered. The size and shape of the bricks are the same as those used in houses in Mohenjo-Daro and Harappa. He demanded UNESCO to allocate more funds to excavate the site of Dholavira.

In the end, Peter Marshall took the podium and impressed everyone with his sleek style to explain his deep understanding and sound knowledge of the Indus Valley Civilization.

Very few people in the audience, including Mazhar Kazi and Imdad Ali, knew that Peter took inspiration from the life and work of his late grandfather, Sir John Marshall, who discovered Mohenjo-Daro, played a major role in its excavation, which later became one of the main world heritage sites in Pakistan.

“A meticulously planned street layout and an intricate drainage system indicate that the residents of Mohenjo-Daro were skilled urban planners with an attention to detail on the control of water.”

“The city of Mohenjo-Daro lacks any remains of impressive palaces, temples or monuments. There is no obvious central seat of government or evidence of a king or queen “

“4500 years before there was no king or queen” – one headline from the magazine section of a London daily.

Barrister Kazi was invited by then Pakistan Prime Minister Mr. Zulifkar Ali Bhutto to work with his team as press and media advisor. So Kazi closed his law chamber in London and went to pursue a political career in Pakistan.

Soon it was decided to organize an international conference on Indus Valley’s history culture and archaeology, given the name ‘Sind through the Centuries’.

Experts in Sind affairs from all over the world were sponsored to come personally and speak on stage and present their research papers in a 3-day event held in Karachi.

Mazhar Kazi personally invited Peter Marshall and Dr. Ali to attend the conference and it was a nice coincidence that Mr. Bhutto’s ancestral home abode was less than a one-hour car journey from Mohenjo-Daro.

Peter finalized a research paper to be read as part of the work he was doing on the subject for the last three years in The University of London.

Mr. Bhutto took a personal interest in all the arrangements of the mega event, being one of its kind in the history of Pakistan and Mazhar Kazi was his main aide to look after these preparations.

It was also decided that a gala dinner and live concert of folk music would be organized at the site of Mohenjo-Daro. It was a pleasant surprise to Mr. Bhutto that Peter Marshall was a trainee at the same Lincoln Inn in London in which Mr. Bhutto got trained, as was Mr. Kazi.

One day before the event, Mazhar Kazi himself collected the delegates at Karachi International Airport including Peter Marshall and Dr. Imdad Ali, both were driven to the five-star hotel in the city where the conference would be held.

The next day, Prime Minister Zulfikar Ali Bhutto inaugurated the international event, first of its kind covered by national and international media.

He warmly welcomed all the exalted scholars who brought their brilliant pieces of research work to highlight the Indus Valley Civilization, especially Mohenjo-Daro, he welcomed Peter Marshall being an ex-student of Lincolns Inn, a famous seat of learning for barristers in the heart of London. He eulogized the services of Peter’s granddad Sir John Marshall by discovering Mohenjo-Daro located in the county of Larkana, home town of Mr. Bhutto himself.

After the prime minister’s speech, the Vice Chancellor of the University Of Sindh came on stage, announced the award of an honorary doctorate to Sir John Marshall, and requested the Chancellor of the University to posthumously award him, being received by his grandson, Peter Marshall.

Very sad part of first ever mega event on the Indus Valley Civilization and Culture. Peter could not see with his own eyes the world heritage site, which was given years of labor by him and his family

This announcement brought loud applause and in the noise of clapping Peter Marshall proceeded towards the stage but several people, particularly Dr. Ali, noticed that his gait was wobbly and fidgety. Somehow, he collected his courage and reached the podium, until everybody saw he collapsed; several people along with Dr. Ali rushed to help him.

Found to be drenched in sweat and in a semiconscious state as he suffered a massive heart attack, he was soon transferred to the cardiac intensive unit in the ambulance, which was part of the prime minister’s escort fleet.

The cardiac unit was only 12 minutes away and paramedics were giving him resuscitative support. Dr. Ali was beside him in the ambulance assisting paramedics throughout but after arriving, he was lifeless, and pronounced dead.

Very sad part of first ever mega event on the Indus Valley Civilization and Culture. Peter could not see with his own eyes the world heritage site, which was given years of labor by him and his family. Dr. Imdad Ali could remember only these slurred words of Peter,” Margaret where are you … I love you.”

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Dr. Mushtaq Soomro, hailing from Sindh, Pakistan, is a UK-based medical doctor and freelance writer of Sindhi, Urdu and English languages. His works were published in various dailies including Hilal e Pakistan, Jang, Dawn, Daily Times, The Frontier Post, Kawish and Ibrat. His short story was published in Ibrat magazine. This is his first short story in English. He can be accessed at e-mail: mushtaqsoomro@gmail.com

The post Connection with three millennium BC – A Short Story first appeared on Sindh Courier.

By Park Ga-young

Seoul

A new literature award that aims to discover creators worldwide who write in the Korean language and examine the diaspora literature from diverse perspectives, has selected its winners, the Literature Translation Institute of Korea announced on Friday.

LTI Korea has awarded three writers — Lee Soo-jeong, Chung Chul-young and Kim Jae-dong — for the inaugural “‘Nomo New Literature Award,” selected from a total of 111 entries received between Nov. 14, 2022 and April 30 of this year, across three categories: novels, poetry and essays/non-fiction, representing 21 countries.

Lee, the winner of the novel category, moved to the US 20 years ago and has been involved in translations and writing. Chung, based in New Zealand, won in the poetry category with five poems he submitted. Essay writer Kim has resided in the US since 1998.

The three winners were announced following two rounds of deliberations. The jury consisted of 9 experts, with 3 specialists per category participating in the evaluation process.

“Nomo,” meaning “beyond” in Korean, is also the name of the web magazine introduced by LTI Korea last year. Nomo offers in-depth analyses of the present state of Korean-language diasporic literature, new short stories, poems, essays and introduces works and writers of the diasporic literary canon. In addition to analyzing literature in Korean about the Korean diaspora, the magazine also seeks to discover new works not only by Korean nationals and ethnic Koreans, but also by foreign nationals writing in Korean, concerning diasporic issues and writing from around the world.

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Courtesy: Korea Herald (Posted on September 1, 2023)

The post Three writers win Korean diaspora literature awards first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Zeeshan Ali Zardari

Literature is one of the primitive things prevailing across the globe, ranging from era to era. No other thing is compatible to literature which has served such consistency within the context of time. Literature within every era or within every period of time has pursued with a versatile and unique legacy. It would be considered in terms of credibility, that literature ensue required and needed legacies of each as the requisition of hour. However, through the demarcated genres, literature preceded with chosen genre to function and yield with intended results. Hence, every genre, in terms of fiction and non-fiction, has retrieved with glorious outcomes. Meanwhile, the literary figures have also played a towering role sustaining the literary legacy in according terms.

According to William J. Long, universality with respect to appealing human interest and human emotions is known as one of the specified legacy of literature.

Literature is one of the most interesting and significant expressions of humanity

Concerning Long, the absolute infrastructure of literature is based on these two fundamentals, whilst these respective merits remain stagnant with alteration of intensity and functions. The epicenter legacy of literary productions and compositions is human affairs, varying time to time and age to age. This enroots literary legacy in universal terms, as the human affairs and chores are universal functioning differently. These two things serve as elementary stances, for creating and sustaining the legacy of literature.

Adding P.T Barnum’s words, ‘Literature is one of the most interesting and significant expressions of humanity’, this statement terms literature as mainstream source, through which humans do express unanimously. Additionally, the genres of literature maintain this legacy, through altering the taste and quality of expressions. The fiction and non-fiction mediums have two different capacities to express and to reflect the humane interest accompanied with humane emotions, followed by the bent of writer as well. While this legacy to express have always a unique and distinctive corner. It depends on the era that what must be reflected through the medium of literature. The literary figures do adopt needed things to reflect and express in form of genre. Hence one very prominent point, to enlighten is that, whenever the legacy of literature changes, the era also changes, and new legacy with another set of challenges surfaces for literature. For instance, Humanism was sole legacy of Renaissance, Morality was core legacy of Victorian era and Criticism was central legacy of Modernism.

Eminently, literature means to reflect, and later on, that reflection becomes the legacy to be followed and perpetuated. In addition to that, history records the respective legacy as of foundational importance. Generations onward do adopt and percept the legacies of literature variedly. Meanwhile, through the adoption of legacies in various times, yields with certain purpose also. Conclusively, literature is everlasting approach of human mind to reflect human affairs in form of legacies.

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Zeeshan Zardari S/O Aijaz Ali, hailing from Village Kod Khan Zardari, Taluka Shahdadpur. District Sanghar, is a student of Literature, at Shaheed Benazir Bhutto University Nawabshah Sindh

The post Literature’s Legacy first appeared on Sindh Courier.

By Nazarul Islam

I want to begin my piece with Damion Rumyon—one of the most influential artists of the last generation. He died nearly 75 years ago. In the UK, he is little-read, and what reputation he has rests on the faded glamour of having written the stories that inspired the Fifties musical, Guys and Dolls.

In his stories of the lowlife gangster milieu of the Roaring Twenties and the Great Depression — the snatchers and the shooters, the dimwits and the dolls, the potatoes and the players in Broadway’s “hardened artery” — Damon Runyon invented the main character of the late twentieth century: the good, bad guy.

Today we are so steeped in villains, that it hardly seems bold or daring for a writer to dive into the beating heart of a man who kills or kidnaps for money. Badly behaved men — and they are usually men — as the half-sympathetic moral center of a story have been a staple of serious literature since the Fifties: amoral murderers like Patricia Highsmith’s Tom Ripley; everyman adulterers like John Updike’s “Rabbit” Angstrom; and distilled misanthropists like Joseph Heller’s Bob Slocum (“The world just doesn’t work. It’s an idea whose time is gone”).

The good bad guy moved from literature to film in the Seventies, and two decades later came into our homes on TV. You don’t have to look far to see the flowering of this quality in our culture. Indeed, it’s not going too far to say that without Runyon, there would be no Godfather, no Tony Soprano. Martin Scorsese would still be trying to think of something to make films about.

But when Runyon wrote his stories in the Thirties and Forties, he was bringing us news, softening us up for the century to come. He made us fall for the guy who is dubious in business and negligent in his home life and his love life.

The stand-out quality of both Runyon and his characters is that they’re funny. Runyon’s anonymous narrator is a lower-rent, warier version of P. G. Wodehouse’s tireless storyteller Mr. Mulliner, and indeed Wodehouse is the writer Runyon most resembles stylistically. His rhythmic patter fits Wodehouse’s description of his own work as a “musical comedy without music”.

Runyon’s narrator trades in nicknames, neologisms, mock-formality, a language devoid of contractions and a perpetual present tense. When he tells us that “when Dave the Dude takes a guy out for an airing, the guy very often does not come back”, the threat is softened by the stilted idiom — but not too much. The same goes for the cracking line, “I always take a gander at a doll’s feet and ankles before I start handicapping her”.

Comedy lowers the reader’s guard and enables the writer to slip in other things. We get unexpected moral complexity, in the story The Lily of St Pierre, in which a tragic woman suffers a death “that happens to a million dolls before and will happen to a million dolls again”. And there is a truly psychopathic viciousness in Sense of Humour, which begins with the aptly-named Frankie the Ferocious killing the family members of an associate who played a practical joke on him, and gets worse from there.

Runyon used comedy as a balance to danger, then; his inheritors developed this, using it as a source of danger, too. In the famous scene in Scorsese’s Goodfellas, Joe Pesci’s Tommy turns laughter — “Do I amuse you?” — into blood-chilling fear. Like Runyon’s stories, like any good portrayal of the good bad guy — like any good art — it operates in multiple registers.

Connected to this is strength of Runyon’s good bad guy: he is real. Runyon certainly knew the world he wrote about, both from his work as a newspaper reporter covering sports, politics and murder (which he called “the main event”) and from personal connections: he knew, among others, Al Capone.

His portrayal of gangster culture in his stories was an exaggeration, usually for comic purposes, but it’s the authenticity that provides the frisson: Runyon’s biographer said any decent New York detective would recognize most of the crooks in his fiction, from Harry the Horse to Nicely-Nicely Johnson.

And so reading about, or watching, a good bad guy is like a rollercoaster ride: a brush with danger within a safe environment, all the more so when we are strapped to his viewpoint. We can’t help but come round to his way of thinking when we watch the serial killer’s serial killer Dexter Morgan in Dexter, or read Alex’s own words in A Clockwork Orange.

After all, to paraphrase one Runyon character, many legitimate guys like you are interested in the doings of tough guys.

The guys and dolls come and go in Runyon’s stories, but his world is held together by that constant narrator, a bystander to the action (“I am known to one and all as a guy who is just around”) who rubs comfortably alongside the criminal underworld, even if he is not strictly part of it, and gently expresses theoretical disapproval of, say, kidnapping. “Snatching is by no means a high-class business, and is even considered somewhat illegal.” (Then again, we get the sense that he would help out if they were busy, and occasionally he provides a turning point in one of Runyon’s clockwork plots.)

But the intimacy of the first person narrative makes us want Jo-jo and Spanish John and Dave the Dude to succeed — because reading is an act of empathy, but also because we see them within their own community, where they don’t seem so bad at all. They are, like Puzo’s mafiosi in The Godfather, bound by their own code of honour, however twisted.

The novelist Howard Spring summed up this appeal by describing Runyon’s people as “jungle-dwellers, hateful and horrible men and women, who yet please us because they are alive and completely integrated.”

Fictional violence, in other words, is thrilling, and all the more so when we’re made to care about the characters dishing it out. In The Sopranos, the most simultaneously beloved and bloodthirsty of Tony’s henchmen was Paulie Walnuts, who murdered more people than anyone else, but was also a comic figure, cladding his furniture in plastic and forever repeating his jokes to impress Tony.

In Scorsese’s Gangs of New York, when Daniel Day Lewis’s Bill the Butcher delivers a theatrical “Whoopsy-daisy!” as he “misses” while chucking his knives at Cameron Diaz’s Jenny, we feel the same sense of uneasily disrupted danger that Runyon detonates in his darker stories.

In capturing the Broadway gangster era, Runyon created it, just as Fitzgerald did the Jazz Age — which operated at the same time but in a different world.

But Runyon’s influence goes even further: he prefigures the wisecracking Noo Yawk idiom of countless sitcoms. And by offering a gangster environment that was fundamentally comic in nature, he opened a gap between his creations and the traditional villain for others to fill, and fill it they did, forming characters who flatter our appetite for complexity by being good only in parts.

After Runyon’s death in 1946 — from a lifelong smoker’s throat cancer — a plane was flown above Manhattan and his ashes were scattered over Broadway, the avenue he dusted with his own peculiar genius. It was a tribute befitting either a city grandee or a legendary crime boss — and therefore perfect for the man who in straddling both worlds created his own, and laid the path for ours.

Nazarul Islam

The Bengal-born writer Nazarul Islam is a senior educationist based in USA. He writes for Sindh Courier and the newspapers of Bangladesh, India and America. He is author of a recently published book ‘Chasing Hope’ – a compilation of his 119 articles.

The post Our infatuation with villains… first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Contemporary World Literature 

A Short Story from Uzbekistan

By Mokhira Eshpulatova

Mokhira Eshpulatova is an Uzbek writer. She was born in Khatirchi district of Navoiy region, Republic of Uzbekistan on October 25, 1995. She graduated from Navoiy Pedagogical University. By profession she is a teacher of Uzbek language and literature.

The forty-first day

As the day wore on, Nozima lay unconscious, leaning against the window, alone in her room, which was set aside for her in the hospital, and where she was alone having no contact with the outside world.  Her room was spacious, bright and had all the facilities. The walls and all the furniture, from the curtains to the sheets, were blue. At first glance, it was as if she was asleep, her long black hair covered her entire pillow, scattered, disheveled. One of her wings descended from the wide bed and touched the floor, while the other covered her up to knees as if a cloak had been thrown over it. The room was on the seventh floor of a large building and it was possible to see the outer environment from the balcony. But that was not interesting for Nozima anymore, because she had done it several times a day. All the furniture in her room bored her, and only a large mirror was her only amuse. She would watch her own reflection in the mirror every day, sometimes for hours at a time. She did so to see if the treatments had a positive effect. In the first week of hospitalization, which was the result of her father’s devotion, she was overjoyed with the hope of recovery. Many more days passed, and when she saw no positive change in herself, her hopes turned to doubt, suspicion and hesitation.  Then she got bored, and got used to it all. At the same time; she’d become apathetic. Nozima, who was lying quietly, heard the familiar footsteps coming near the room, and then the squeaking of the ever-locked door of her room. She opened her eyes involuntarily.

“Good morning, my daughter, my little angel, did you have a good rest?” said Munira, Nozima’s nurse.

These kind words made her feel even worse. She loved this voice, but later realized that her words and deeds were different. In general, lately, Nozima noticed that she has not paid much attention to herself before – she has developed the ability to find out what people are thinking with her instincts. She listened to people, looked them in the eye, and knew what was going through their mind, what they were thinking at the same time. Munira had a daughter, who was at the same age as Nozima, and she used to call Nozima her daughter just to comfort herself because sister Munira, like other doctors, was not going anywhere.  And it was most strange situation for Nozima.  Sister Munira was ready to fly away at the end of the contract day, and then it would be easy for her to forget about Nozima as if she never existed.

– How do you feel? Said Sister Munira politely, opening a new page of a large notebook.

– What about you?  Nozima replied coldly as she sat down.

– Please, Nozima, answer all the questions. I need it to have analysis correctly and clearly done.

“The same questions every day,” she said in frustration.

– However, the answers may change every day.

– Shall I repeat the question?

– No, you don’t have to.  You know, Sister Munira, I feel, – she stopped to think over a moment about her own condition. Then she went on to look at the large mirror set up in her room at her own request – I feel like falling into a swamp in a white, luxurious, very long wedding dress.  At first you feel sorry for your dress, and when the mud pulls you into trap, suddenly, you realize life has value and you forget about the whole thing. And your beloved dress will pull you into the swamp and into the depths of the earth again and again…

That’s enough. How is your appetite? Said the nurse

-I don’t know. I don’t want to bend anything. But I eat what you give me.

-Are you going to the toilet, isn’t there any problems with..?

-Everything is ok.

– Do you feel any change in your body?

-I feel it. My “sailing vessels” are growing day by day.

-Nozima!  – The nurse’s voice rose a little. She couldn’t bare it when Nozima talked like that, but anyway would try to stand for, but sometimes she would scold her. This time she was silent. She continued to look at the notebook she was filling out.

– We know that. Another change, such as redness, swelling, rash…

– If you want to ask if anything else is growing, my common answer is no!

Sister Munira realized that she could no longer talk to Nozima and asked:

“What else do you dislike, my daughter?”

You say “my daughter again?  If you only knew that your words would sink into my aching heart like a dagger, Nozima thought.

– This notebook of yours, your questions started to irritate me, sister.

– Good.  I’ll take the notebook. And you’re right about what’s going on, ok?  – The nurse tried to reconcile.

You know better than I do what is happening to me. After all, I am under 24-hour surveillance. What irritates me is that the medicine you are giving me is not curing me, on the contrary, it is getting even bigger, – Nozima angrily dropped the left shoulder of her dress. Her hair fell over her thin white shoulders. She turned her back and showed Sister Munira her wings, white as thin as her shoulders. The wings grew out of about one-fifth of the thoracic spine, and cutting them off was life-threatening for Nozima. But she could not accept her wings as a part of his body. Even though they felt the hot and cold, let alone a stranger’s hand, even if she touched them abruptly, her whole body would immediately tingle differently.  She could feel it, but she couldn’t accept it like other body parts. She looked at her wings as if they were someone else’s deposit, as if it were not hers. In such a day with its nights and mornings, the wings began to grow, and in the words of her father, on thirteenth day of her illness she was hospitalized here. In general, Nozima did not care where she was, because in the days when she lived within four walls without going out, it didn’t matter if the walls were a house or a hospital.

– It’s been 28 days since I came here. It’s been 40 days since I’ve been in this situation. Do you know what that means, sister? I’m counting the days. Living with this plague – she pointed to her wings, – away from my family, I count my boring days with pain. I’m counting the days hoping to recover!!!  Nozima became nervous in a way she didn’t want to.

Sister Munira took a chair a little further away and pushed it closer to Nozima’s bed. She sat down and asked:

-Who called you sick? She asked, looking at her indifferently.

-Don’t you see? All is open to your eyes.

-Look at me, my daughter, if you bring any person who says I am completely healthy and examine his nails to the end of his hair, you will find at least two diseases. At least! You have not been examined every day for a month. The professor also surprised other doctors. You are absolutely healthy.

– Really? – Nozima asked in surprise and hope.

-Of course.

– What does this mean then? – Said Nozima, pointing to her back.

“Are you talking about your wings?” – Munira laughed, as if to say, “quit that.”

– Daughter, not being like people, being different from everyone does not mean that you are sick. Being different from others can also be an advantage if you find your way.

– What do you mean?

– You can conquer the whole world with your beauty, your slender figure and, most importantly, with these real wings that you have never seen or heard of in the history of mankind (although they do nothing). The money itself will flow like a river to you. And you can really sail with your wings on it, and again.…

“What if I don’t need these things?” Said Nozima, overflowing with the nurse’s words

– Now the world is full of people who want to be in the spotlight. They are doing such stupid things for this that you can’t help but say, “Astagfirillah.” (May God Forgive)

– It is important not to be left out of the sight of Almighty.

-Of course, my daughter.

“Sister, what sin have I committed that my God has punished me like this?” I’ve been hurting my parents a lot lately, haven’t I?  I lied a lot, gossiped with others, never felt sorry for beggars, even I felt disgrace. Maybe that’s why I’m punished?  – Nozima said with a look of regret, looking at Munira with wide open eyes.

Don’t say that, girl. We are all like that. Everything I do now is a sin, and the way we walk is a sin. Don’t worry about such nonsense. There’s something good in whatever happens. You say that no one has benefited, because you are the reason why so many professors and doctors are on the verge of making scientific innovations. They will be famous all over the world because of you. You may be starting a new phase in human evolution. Can you imagine what that is?

– Stop, stop! What kind of scientific work, what kind of universal innovation?  After all, they had promised my father not to tell anyone about my condition, – she said in astonishment.

Sister Munira bit her lip as words came out of her mouth that she couldn’t say because the conversation was so heated.

– So, if I am healthy, they have been tricking me for so many days into treating me with these fast-moving wings, which are still unknown to science, and imprisoning me as an experimental rabbit for scientific work? Nozima looked at the nurse with angrily sparking eyes.

“No, no, my daughter, it’s not like that. You misunderstood”.

“No, I understand now, I understand you all. The reason I was cut off from the rest of the world and kept as a prisoner without even meeting my parents was to discover me before anyone else. To be more precise, they are trying to gain prestige and bring shame to me calling it fame by announcing to the world a creature which doesn’t fully match humans or birds! I wish you could understand that I don’t need the “fame” you’re talking about. I want to live like other humans.  Someone knows someone doesn’t know. You see, I want to live like a normal person! ”

Sister Munira was anxiously trying to explain something, and Nozima’s ears could hear nothing more. Or rather, she didn’t want to listen to any more lies. Munira got her reaction as a sign of agreement and gave her daily medication. Nozima drank them without any resistance. The nurse satisfied and left the room, finding her worries inappropriate. Nozima pondered for a long time, wondering what to do next. The blue curtains of the window played in the light wind, and for some reason it attracted Nozima. She approached the window. She closed her eyes and held her face to the “dance” of the curtains in the wind. From the outside she looked very calm, but from the pursed lips, the squinting of her closed eyes, the deep breathing, it could be seen that there is the storm raging inside her. After standing for a while, she closed the window and glanced at her “cage” again.  Everything is in irritating-blue!  “Damn it, – for the first time she hated her favorite color. She said – You represent water in blue. If you take it in your hand, there will be no trace of this color. You call the sky blue, but it is simply colorless. Distant nothingness looks like this to your eyes. There are no blue mountains; in fact, they are all lies, fake, deceptive! I had lived in this room, in this lie, until now.

Nozima reopened the window in agony. She picked up the mirror, which she had previously considered as decoration for her room, and which at the same time looked like an evil to her eyes, never clinging to the “image of a clear sky,” and threw it out of the window. On the seventh floor she heard its crashing sound to the ground. After a while, her room was filled with frightened “lovers” who could not understand what was happening.

It was almost noon when Nozima’s car, with its blackened windows, came to a stop in front of her house. When she was hurrying to get out of the car like a bird escaping from a cage, Munira stopped her and tried to recall once again the words of the professor who was curing Nozima and doing research on her at the same time.

– Sister Munira, I remember everything.  As a smart girl, I promise not to leave the house, she said with firm conviction.

After a broken mirror that happened a few hours ago, doctors found that her mental condition was not good and allowed her to go home for one night. The main purpose of this was to dispel the doubts that had arisen in Nozima’s heart and to prevent any possible problems. When Nozima made sure there was no one on the street, she threw her blanket over her and entered the house. The gate of her house was not locked as usual, their father was at work, and there was no one at home except her mother. Her mother, sister Sharofat was overjoyed at this unexpected visit, as if a long-awaited dear guest had arrived. She took the new dress she had sewn for her daughter and looked around. Nozima did not retaliate against the dress as before she wore the dress only for her mother’s wish.  Sharofat was a sewer who had been sewing a variety of clothes for many, including her daughter. However, for the first time, she was sewing something with long sleeves and skirts and no back shoulders, like this one. This dress suited Nozima’s current condition and was very appropriate for her. In this position she looked like angels in fairy tales. Nozima felt a bit heartbroken and threw herself into her mother’s arms.  Without a word, she thanked her with tears.…

Sometimes, knowing that your plan is going to end with badness, you do it with great risk. You do this not to get out of your curiosity, but to get rid of the clutter in your restless thoughts. Nozima also left the house at the behest of her heart after waiting for it to fall a little late. She entered the garden, where she had not been for a long time. Askar, the cause of her restless thoughts, was waiting impatiently for her in the chair under the old white logs, which she knew and valued well. Nozima recognized him from a distance, with her pounding heart.  She stopped, not knowing whether to go for him or not. “How’ll he behave seeing me in such body? How will be his reaction? Where is my courage I had when I called him, where did it suddenly disappear? she thought.  Nozima tried to go back, but it was too late. Askar recognized her from a distance, despite the fact that she was wearing a hat. And he hurried over to her. Nozima was in a hurry.  Her heart began to pound even more anxiously. The only question in her mind was: What will he feel when seeing me?  She would be afraid of her own guess if she thought so.

– Nozima!  – That longing, pleasant, passionate voice was heard in her ear.

“Askar,” said Nozima, trying to smile.

“Where did you go, Nozima? How could you be so unkind” – said Askar, approaching her.

“Stop,” said Nozima firmly.  “Don’t come near me.”

“What’s the matter? Can you explain it to me too?” Askar stood in amazement.

– Yes, I will explain. I’m sick!

– I heard that. They said you were going abroad for treatment. I went to your home several times and came back without saying a word. I’m tired of calling. Do you know how worried I am about you?

“You have the right to be angry,” she said, looking down.

– Was it so impossible to make a phone call and say “I’m fine”? Said Askar bitterly

“Are you worried about me?” Said Nozima, taking her eyes off the ground and looking kindly at Askar

– Is it a matter of worry? I almost went crazy.

-Askar, do you remember when you once said to me, ‘If you hold my hand, I will not let them go under any circumstances.’

-I said, Nozima.  We grew up together. We promised to spend the rest of our lives together as well. In any case, I will not give up on you, Nozijon. No matter what the illness is, we will overcome it together, believe me – Askar said sincerely, coming one step at a time. And he quietly took Nozima’s trembling hands in his palms.

Sensing that his words were sincere, Nozima did not pull her hands away, but instead held her hands tightly and then took off her veil. It was already late, the dim, blue lights of the garden shone behind Nozima. Askar didn’t notice anything at first. But then he saw something falling on the black blanket that had fallen to the ground, and it was moving slowly. Nozima stared at Askar’s face expression and fluttered her wings. Askar was amazed. He couldn’t believe his eyes.

“Askar, this is a ‘disease’ that I did not tell you about,” she said with deep sorrow.

Askar involuntarily withdrew his hands. He twitched his beloved who expected such reaction but hoping it not to occur.

– It can’t be, it can’t be! Is it a joke, Nozima? He said with his trembling voice. His attempts broke Nozima’s heart and just said no. And then, nodded her head, and spread her wings away. Askar stepped back as if he saw a ghost. He went far away from Nozima slowly.

– It can’t be, – he would repeat being not able to find other word to express his fear.

There will be such feelings, words are indescribable. Or a person may be reluctant to put it out of his mouth out of emotion. These can be love, hate, and or nostalgia, perhaps. Although Askar couldn’t express how he felt at the moment, he was thinking about it all. That was enough for Nozima. Nozima had bitten her tongue after she had thought of many comments before, but the cold expression and imagination she saw in Askar’s eyes. Then she quickly took off her veil, which was falling on earth like her honor, and disappeared into the darkness, away from the young man who looked at her with fear, pity, and even disgust. Askar froze as if enchanted. It was only after Nozima walked away that he called out “Nozimaaa” in a weak voice that no one but himself could hear. In the evening, streets were lit up, and Nozima was walking in a hurry to somewhere, not even knowing where she was.  “Ehh, why did I come, why didn’t I stay in the hospital quietly?  Are you relieved now?  What have you achieved by breaking Askar’s heart and embarrassing yourself, Nozima?  Why, why?!  “Nozima’s heart was on fire, her world was dark.” Askar was an integral part of her life to this day. She could not imagine her future, her life without it. Now she has lost him for life. Even if she came looking for him tomorrow and told him that everything would remain the same no matter what, Nozima could not accept him. Because he did it not out of desire, but out of pity for Nozima. For Nozima, however, there was no greater humiliation. She paused in front of the gate when these familiar streets brought her home. She was in no hurry to enter the house as she could not hold back her tears. But when she heard her father’s loud voice from inside, she entered the house worrying about the matter.

– You always think short. Why did I put her in that hospital? Can you answer my question? – Her father usually spoke slowly and calmly. But this time, he was very angry, and at such times her mother would keep silent, no matter who was right.  Nozima came slowly and looked in through the porch windows. She missed her father so much, she wanted to go and hug him at the same time, but she couldn’t.

“I told her that she would recover faster if she stayed there and was treated.” I told her to stay away from people’s eyes and gossips. What do you think? Well, she missed you, ok. But why did you allow her to go outside. What happens if someone sees and recognizes. What if people gossip and laugh at us about our daughter’s situation?

Nozima’s breath caught in her throat. She leaned against the wall, feeling dizzy and tiredness in her feet.

– Why do you have such bad thoughts? After all, she has never been out of a room since. What’s so bad about it if she goes out for a moment in the fresh air?  Her mother’s broken voice was heard.

– Bad!  – Replied her father firmly – very bad.  Nozima is no longer what she used to be. She can no longer walk among people as she used to, she cannot live comfortably, even with us. You are a mother; you had to explain it in an appropriate way.

Nozima could no longer hear her father’s words. She went out as she had come in unannounced. She understood everything without exaggeration. She was walking down the familiar streets again.…

Nozima was standing on the roof of one of the high buildings, staring down at the ground from a height. She used to be very afraid of heights. Now that she was stronger than she had been before, maybe it was because it seemed insignificant or because she was used to staring at the ground from the seventh floor, there was no sign of fear. Nozima has been staring at a place for a long time; it was almost an asphalt walkway where she had to go down if she threw herself from here.  She thought about it for a long time, but she was not afraid of it. Her present condition was similar to that of a man who has turned his back on the world and found inner peace. It was midnight, and the moon was standing still.  At that moment, the night wind began to blow on Nozima’s face. She closed her tired eyes and surrendered herself to the wind. Forgetting the world around her, she stood with both hands wide open. She stood there for a long time. Then she began to feel the wind, the fresh air, the sky, and the twinkling stars in it. She felt like as a part of them, a whole with them. Then she felt her whole body lighten, a pleasant feeling circulating throughout her body like warm blood. Its wings have grown bigger and bigger. Its slender tip touched the ground, its wings reminiscent of a circle of skin, but white and transparent, reminiscent of the angels of real legends, fluttering, almost ready to fly. Nozima, on the other hand, did not notice it and was breathing at a steady pace. She felt alien to people, but in fact a part of nature. For the first time, she accepted herself and fluttered her wings. The man who had the privilege of observing her posture could not take his eyes off the beauty, the wonder of nature. Nozima seemed to know in advance how to flap her wings. She fluttered her wings carefully and delicately, she would look so beautiful but she herself couldn’t even imagine that. At first Nozima’s legs rose slowly from the ground, then she threw herself down, desperately wanting someone to hold her. But instead of falling down, she sailed in the air.

By the end of the forty-first day on earth, she was flying to the heavens, where the measure of time was insignificant.

____________________

 Story was translated into English by Hilola Mirzayeva

The post Contemporary World Literature: A Short Story from Uzbekistan first appeared on Sindh Courier.