By Sundri Uttamchandani

My hospital is quite small. Perhaps there are too many visitors that make it appear small. In spite of its size it has given me a vast experience of the world and my mind is filled with a strange sense of peace. It feels as the whole of Kalyan camp is getting a medical checkup done in this small space of mine.

The moment Kumari stepped into my hospital I had noticed her but my experience has taught me that a doctor is supposed to be deaf, dumb and blind person! Somehow we have to build these three qualities in ourselves. I was busy treating other patients and her gaze followed me each time I took in a patient for a check-up. As soon as I came out her gaze went back to its original place, like a pendulum. Kumari was very disturbed and was sitting on the edge of the bench. Her eyes had a strange mix of fire and pain. I was sure that this girl would burst into tears now. That is why, while checking a patient I asked her, “Kumari are you in too much pain?” That is the only difference between other doctors and me. Biting her lip, and lifting her heavy eyelids she shook her head in affirmation. After giving medicines to other patients I took Kumari into the examination room. As soon as she climbed the stool she burst out, “I want poison, doctor.”

“Why? Why?” I had seen many such cases but I had not learned to underestimate somebody’s pain.

“Have you committed some wrong?

Kumari shook her head in affirmation.

“One can correct a mistake. What use is poison?

“The mistake I have made of being born to such a father cannot be corrected except by poisoning him”

My sympathy was totally shaken. As it is I had too many complaints against present day girls. But I felt this to be a slap on the entire culture and civilization. I felt like driving this girl out of my hospital. But how can I forget my culture simply because somebody else has discarded it? I said, “Kumari, one cannot get sympathy from a doctor by taking undue advantage of him…”

She held my hands, “No doctor, don’t get me wrong. I have come to this decision only after thinking hard for a full month.”

“What a great decision! Hats off to your intelligence; such an educated girl… and is this your intelligence…”

Kumari became very nervous, “Doctor just come home with me and see my mother’s plight. How he has beaten her. Does a single man have the authority to destroy the entire house?”

Truly, my spirit was quite eager to visit the house of this girl with a strange request. Just as I finished checking all patients within half an hour or so and got free, I saw that Kumari had fallen asleep on the chair while waiting for me. It was rather strange! Someone can actually fall asleep while planning to murder her father? What kind of a mindset does this young generation have! But what had happened to me? My body felt feverish. Murders, thefts and fights are not new in the camp, but a daughter getting ready to kill her father?

Kumari got up with a jerk, “Come doctor, come and witness the hell in our house. And you yourself will agree that in such a situation there is no other option. Even now, as I was asleep, I dreamt of him beating me also.”

“Yes”

Looking at her facial expressions I asked, “May be he is not sane…”

“No doctor it is not so. I feel that such types of straight people are even more dangerous than lunatics.”

Our camp is not a village but a large family. One has to greet quite a few while walking through. At times someone even would request to treat his child on the way. Often I free myself from such encounters by just saying, “I’m coming back” Often I hear voices from behind saying, “Look at the doctor’s attitude. He has made a living through us in the camp and now he acts arrogant.” But nobody knows my real feelings besides myself.

Kumari’s house…

A typical two-room barrack – In one room, was sitting on a four-legged cot was the man about whom Kumari, his own daughter had uttered abusive words and expletives. I am a happy-go-lucky person, but when he asked, “Why has the doctor come? Who has called him?’ I burst out laughing, and I patted myself because I have often learnt that such people too have a good heart. I calmly replied, “Kaka, are you OK?” and touching the legs of his cot I said, “Kaka only knowledgeable people like you value these treasure of Sindh.”

“You may be right but it is not the job of doctors to check cots and beds.”

I smiled to myself. A doctor is merely a remedy for sickness, nothing more. I said, “doctors are humans too, Kaka.”

“Human beings in camps! Stop joking doctor.” he replied.

“Kaka I can see only human beings and that too large hearted humans. As you know, even saplings become weak if they are uprooted and planted elsewhere, until they grow their strong roots in the other soil.”

“What roots will grow? Kaljug is growing stronger by the day. Girls are walking around with tight clothes and exposing their necks. Boys are smoking on street corners. This is our life! Mahatma said that the educated youth should improve conditions of villages. But tell me doctor, has anyone improved the conditions in the camp…?”

I was left gaping at this man’s face after hearing this lecture. Kumari and her mother were waiting outside the room. They appeared bitter. I looked at them. They both pleaded me to come into the other room. I felt the intentions of this ‘abused’ man to be pure as Ganga Jal. But he was irritated as I got up to go to the other room. He said, “Look doctor, it is your duty to treat patients. It is not graceful to come into somebody’s house and get close to the wife and daughter.”

A strange stroke! I had no words to explain to him that. My intentions too were pure. In fact I had come to rescue him. I was standing there, looking down, confused. This man ordered, “Say what you have to say in front of me. Kumari.. For whom have you brought the doctor home?”

“To get Amma treated” she quickly replied.

“Bring her here. Let me also see what her ailment is.”

“Would you be able to know the ailment?” asked his wife, raising her hand.

“Look doctor, look at her behavior. Not just the country but the people too have changed. There is no etiquette as to how to behave with a husband and with a father.”

“I am fed up with your lectures. Do you see doctor?” This plump woman was saying from the other side of the room.

“Doctor, first check this man, who is opposing us at each step. He is angry at our dressing up and bitter at our eating. Who knows what fire burns within him!” said Kumari whose clothes were stuck to her body as she had just taken a bath. I looked wide-eyed. Was she the same Kumari who was weeping in my hospital!

On the other hand, the father who was quiet looked at the watch and said, “It is two o’clock. It is time for my elder son to come back after roaming about. He is different from these two. I have another daughter too whose husband has deserted her. Thank God she is not useless like them but she is a loudmouth like them. I only expect all of them to work hard and earn a living, but they eye only my bank balance.”

On the other side of the window Kumari’s eyes were full of anger. She said, “Will you carry the money to your grave. Can we not enjoy part of it?”

“If everyone is busy enjoying then of what use was the freedom of the country?”

“We did not ask for freedom. Others asked for freedom. They were prosperous even when they were bonded. But we are slaves to this selfish man even during freedom. “This came from Kumari. Another stroke came from the mother, “What are you saying? People who have not even lived their youth should start dying for the country?”

The father got up from the cot and leading me towards the door said, “My dear sir, don’t open anymore the cover over this hell of ours! If they could, they would eat me up alive. Yes Sir, each one here is a packet of poison.”

“Packet of poison…!” I said with a jerk. And I quickly walked out.

Sundri Uttamchandani

Sundri Uttamchandani, an acclaimed writer, was born on 28th Sept 1924 at Hyderabad Sindh and passed away in Mumbai on 8th July 2013. She has written about 200 short stories, in addition to 12 One Act Plays and 2 Novels.

Selected from Short Stories Book ‘Acha Var Garha Gula’ (White Hair, Red Roses). Translated in English by Arun Babani. 

Courtesy: Sundri Uttamchani’s website

The post Packet of Poison (Zahar Jee Puree) first appeared on Sindh Courier.

By Sundri Uttamchandani

She had large eyes, lively and full with vitality. She had beautiful hands. She climbed the steps, sprinkling milk (a marriage ritual). They held a clay lid over her head. A gentleman in a suit jokingly told a young girl standing next to him, “This lid reminds about the story of a fool where a lid was tied to a fool’s mouth, afraid when he said something wise, “his wisdom may leave him.” The young girl burst into laughter.

The ladies from the neighborhood had gathered were singing a ritualistic song.

The beloved has brought his bride. But there was no joy or fun in it. One could hear sound of washing clothes from the neighboring house.

The bride was married a week ago in Poona but only today she had come to her new house in Kalyan Camp.

The neighboring women had come to have a look at the bride. Somebody said, “She looks like a flower.”

Another said, “She is like Padmini”

And yet somebody said, “Gopal has ultimately won.”

But the groom’s aunty shook her body and said sarcastically, “What is she? Where is the color in her face? When my sister got married she had blood red cheeks. She was white and velvety..”

Everyone looked in the direction of the bride’s mother-in-law. “The masjid had fallen, but its beauty was still intact.” The bride’s mother-in-law’s features and looks were far superior than all those present. Her skin was dry and pale. She proudly said, “Of course! My cheeks were such that everyone would ask if I had used creams. But those were the days of pure ghee. We had our own bungalows in Karachi..” saying this her smile faded from her face as if while thinking of the good old days the smoke of sadness had come upon her.

Next day Gopal’s mother had arranged for ritual singing of Laadas – marriage songs. The neighboring women were playing the drums, and singing the ritualistic songs. Suddenly there was a noise; “The singing lady has arrived.  “The bride looked at her shyly. She was a slim and beautiful girl. Colored lips, cheeks painted, she came swaying and sat on the floor mat. As she met the eyes of the bride, she gave a big warm smile but the bride lowered her gaze.

The Laadas-marriage songs began. The singing girl’s mother-in-law was on the drums. Her sister-in-law was singing and she herself stood in the middle, dancing. She even performed a small skit in which an unmarried girl prefers to get married to a young poor man rather than a rich old man. Everyone was challenging her that the young fellow would get you to fill water…give you simple clothes…make you wash clothes…make you do a job.” And this dancing girl was laughing and dancing and saying, “I will do it happily.. I shall wear it lovingly etc.”

The loud beat of the drums made the heart of the bride quite excited. Her eyes got fixed on this carefree singing girl. Is dancing her profession or her hobby? The bride felt that for her, dancing seemed everything yet nothing. She had a silent smile on her face, and even to consider this profession as her hobby was a stupidity. But she enacted the skit so delicately that the bride’s cheeks became red and lips became dry. Her vision became so deep as if the dancing girl was describing the carefree girl hidden within her soul. The dancing girl lifted her chin and said, “Dear, he will look at you.” Everybody started laughing. The bride started blushing. Suddenly she saw her husband standing at the door and she was even more nervous. As she got up to go, the little girls made her sit down, but her mother-in-law gestured to them to let her go out. The bride saw this gesture, but yet she allowed her mother-in-law to hide what she wanted to hide and she walked away to the porch of the barrack. The Laadas were over. The singers were leaving but the bride overheard what they were whispering while going, “There is no value for marriage singers in India. There was not much money offered.” the daughter said, “People are bankrupt. They do not have enough to eat.”

The bride overheard everything without looking in their direction, as she felt that her mother-in-law wanted to hide something from her and did not want her to hear. But her mind changed after a few days. So much was being hidden from her. She wished that somebody should tell her everything. She was ready for the worst but not for this kind of alienation and hiding from her. Two more days passed by. Now she was even more convinced that she was a stranger in this house. There was a cloud of gloom over the entire house. As if life sulked from her.

One night she put her head on her husband’s knee and cried, “does the joy of marriage last only this much? Do I have to spend my entire life without laughing in this house?”

The husband kissed her beautiful innocent face but the bride repeated her question in the freshness of the morning, “What are you all hiding from me? I can see even Mom and Dad are hiding something from me. Have I brought in fewer dowries?”

“No dear” Gopal said, touching his eyes with her fair hands. “In comparison to your beauty even the guineas of dowry are pale, my queen.”

“Leave jokes aside.”

The bride had tears. She took a napkin and went to wash her face. Her mother-in-law’s door was still closed but it looked as if the in-laws and the gang of children had woken up long ago. As she was wiping her face and passing by the door, she suddenly heard her father-in-law’s sharp voice, “You’ll be cursed, Gopal’s mother.”

“Why are you furious? Now go and all of you expose yourselves.”

“Is doing business same as exposing? If yes then we are like the rest of the world.”

“I’m asking you why you couldn’t find any other respectable business. Is manufacturing tin boxes the only business left for you?”

The bride standing outside took a sigh of relief.

The father-in-law coughed and said, “Who is stopping you? Then you search some other business for me.”

“Okay, you wear female clothes and sit at home. I will go and search for a business!”

“My dear, you already have made me wear female clothes. Now do want to gag me? It’s been fifteen days that the work has stopped.. Now I’m suffocated. The bride has come home. She is not a new bride any longer. Why don’t you let me work?”

“I shall stop this business somehow or the other. We don’t have only one son that we are through with it. There are still other children left. Previously we were just close family. Now there is an outsider. This secret can no longer be hidden.”

Had you not kept a lid on the bride’s head, signifying that the secrets of the house will remain safe with her?”

Suddenly a child came running out of the room and left the door opened. The bride was so embarrassed as if she was caught stealing. The in-laws too were embarrassed. The children all became silent. The bride hung the napkin on the hook and sat down besides the mother-in-law.

The mother-in-law took a deep breath and said, “My dear, come inside and sit here with me.”

The bride was overwhelmed. She said, “Ammi, how much you care for me.”

The mother-in-law smiled. There were tears in her eyes as if she was saying, “Yes daughter I care for you a lot but it is proving to be too expensive for me.”

The bride looked at her mother-in-law wide eyed and felt devotion towards her. Looking down and scratching her nails she said, “Ammi the house that you came to see me in Poona is actually my aunty’s house. Our own home is in Baroda.”

Everyone noticed the bride’s sweet voice and serious attitude. The bride continued talking, “Our house in Baroda is just like your house. My father is now employed in cloth business but sometime back he also had a small stall in the market.”

Everyone in the room was surprised. They kept watching the bride but she had taken the courage and spoken all that she wanted to. That is why, after a while everyone looked away from her face.

The bride noticed that as soon as everybody finished their tea, her father-in-law took the key and went out to open the adjoining barrack’s door. The mother-in-law called out to him, “Listen…Please listen..”

But the father-in-law whispered, “Go to hell” and left.

The bride went for a bath. In a short while there were sounds of tin sheets being beaten, coming from the adjoining barrack. One by one all the children went there. Gopal was pacing up and down. Finally, as he was sneaking away into the next barrack, he faced his bride coming out of a bath. Gopal laughed sheepishly but the bride kept looking at him innocently as if she was saying, “So you too are hiding it from me?”

Gopal did not have any answer for this taunt. For a moment there was helplessness in his eyes and instantly he lowered his gaze. With a bucket in one hand and her wet hair in the other, the bride started walking out. Gopal kept watching her till she reached the door. A voice from inside was heard, “Have you come here to do labor work?” Gopal recognized his mother’s voice followed by a sweet and melodious voice, “Ammi, there is no shame in labor.” Gopal was filled with pride. Laughing, he went to the adjoining barrack and began to work.

As the wall struck twelve, the bride carrying a plate of bhajiyas, slowly entered the barrack. Everything became silent in the barrack. Her father-in-law, two brothers-in-laws, a sister-in-law and Gopal, all looked up. The bride had a big smile on her face. Pushing the plate of bhajiyas forward she said to all, “Please have.” Her father-in-law took two bhajiyas and shook his head. Gopal took the plate and distributed to his brothers and sisters. Everybody was smiling while eating as if saying, “Oh now our secret is out” The bride found a treasure of intimacy in their smiles, because while returning, her feet were dancing and heart was singing. But as she entered the house she saw her mother-in-law sitting sad and morose. The bride kept the plate of bhajiyas behind her back and called out, “Ammi”

The mother-in-law was jolted and she asked, “My dear, did you take away the plate of bhajiyas from here?”

Bringing the empty plate forward she said, “Ammi today the labor effort has got free from any fetters; I have distributed all the bhajiyas in that happiness.”

“My dear, I tried hard to hide it.”

“But Ammi, just see how energetic everyone is, due to the running of the factory. It looks as if the sulking life had come alive again.”

The mother-in-law was left gaping at the bride.

Sundri Uttamchandani

Sundri Uttamchandani, an acclaimed writer, was born on 28th Sept 1924 at Hyderabad Sindh and passed away in Mumbai on 8th July 2013. She has written about 200 short stories, in addition to 12 One Act Plays and 2 Novels.

Selected from Short Stories book ‘Acha Var Garha Gula’ (White Hair, Red Roses) – Translated by Arun Babani

Courtesy: Sundri Uttamchandani’s website 

The post Life Returns (Zindagi Moti Aayee) first appeared on Sindh Courier.

By Smt. Sundri Uttamchandani

Translated by: Kamlesh Moorjani

Today, I have slapped my Mohini! Her cheeks became red and she cried aloud! All our neighbors watched a small child refusing to go to school. The school bus came and forcibly took my writhing-bawling child away from me. With a heavy heart -and gripped by fear- I sat alone in my small house.

I can well visualize Mohini sitting on her school bench, a bench that is larger than she herself is. I have seen those benches with my own eyes. Her class is probably as small as her six year old heart. There are children big and small, sitting in a disorderly manner and moving around when the teacher is not around. Some children are crying, some are shouting and some big ones are even beating up the smaller ones. Sitting here, I feel like a gardener, who has been compelled to plant his valuable seedling in a poor quality soil.

I may well be asked as to why then am I planting my seedling in poor soil? But what can I really do? After all, this is the soil that happens to be my very own, and indeed the soil that I am half in love with. This is the soil that has been passed on to us in legacy by our forefathers. This Sindhi medium school is my very own school. I am also aware that it is because of the undying dedicated efforts of some of our own wonderful Sindhi brethren that Sindhi Culture – “Sindhyat” as we call it is still in existence.

I am determined to see that my little Mohini studies in a Sindhi only. At the same time, however, I find no similarity between this school and the Tolaram Girls School of Hyderabad (Sind). That school had large breezy class rooms, a large park surrounded by flower beds and had swings and slides. Above all, it had a clean and friendly environment. I still have vivid memories of an early morning when, accompanied by my father, I was returning home after a walk in the gardens situated on the banks of river Phuleli. I had jumped with joy when my eyes first fell on the Tolaram Girls School on our way back.

I had immediately told my father: “Father, I shall study at this school only”. Upon reaching home I made my mother’s life miserable, insisting time and again that she must get me admitted to that very school. My mother preferred that I rather attend a school in the neighborhood, but I was adamant -I even cried- insisting that the other school was not as beautiful.

I also remember that one day, when my mother was busy making papads (a popular Sindhi snack), I dragged her away and showed her the school that I had fallen in love with. As soon as we entered the school’s large gate, we saw a large playground. Overjoyed, I had started clapping my small hands and joyfully exclaimed “La!”

But today I have pushed my Mohini to this small school, while she bawling and crying, and said “I will only go to school that has garden and swings. Mother please get a new school built for me.”

I wonder if I am to blame. With the circumstances I am in, do I really have a choice? When Mohini was only four years old and had developed some understanding, she became fond of listening to stories. No sooner I finished telling her one story, she would ask for another one and then yet another. Getting fed up I used to turn and tell her, “Mohini, why don’t you start reading the stories on your own, you have scores of books lying around. I have to cook, sew clothes and clean the house”.

“Why don’t you send me to school then, so that I can learn to read?” She would respond. “My little flower, you are still too young to go to the school. Grow up a little more and I shall send you to school”.

From that day onwards, she used to watch school going children, through the window bars and with her finger on her lips used to ask “Mother am I not old enough now”? The day I told her that she was six years old and can go to school, she became so happy that she put her arms round my neck and said” Mother, will I be able to read all the stories now? The stories of “A Tiny Girl and a Frog” and stories like “Little loopy flower” and of course the story about “My pot goes to Timbuktu “? She was in very such high spirits that she even kissed my face. I immediately picked her up, and made her stand on my feet and gave her a swing on my hanging legs, simultaneously chanting the famous childhood nursery rhyme “Gula golari, makhan pholhri, will you like to go visit your maternal grandparents or to paternal grandparents?”

Her prompt response was: “No mother, ask me instead, if I will go to school.” “All right, all right, will you go to school or rather stay at home?” “School”, she shouted back and laughed showing her pearl like small teeth, her laughter creating small dimples on her cheeks and making her little face glow with the sweet anticipation of going to the school.

I kissed her and told her. “The school will have a park, a swing and a wonderful Dadi (teacher).” She quickly rhymed back “Dadi ji shadi” (Teacher’s marriage)! Amazed at her rhyming capability, I wondered if my little girl will turn out to be a poetess one day. While continuing to swing on my legs she asked, “Tell me mother, what else will be there in the school?” Teasing her, I too started rhyming back “Yes the teacher will marry and produce a daughter, the daughter will come to school and study with you and become your friend”. Hearing this she burst out laughing; her laughter’s echo filling the whole room. I continued “The school will have a library that would be full of story books, a room for music, large classrooms, a large playground, a large flower garden and a shop full of delicacies to eat and lots of milk to drink.”

I had started imagining Mohini drinking a glass of milk, when it suddenly dawned upon me that the khichidi (Sindhi rice dish) that I had put on the stove in the kitchen must have started boiling. I rushed to the Kitchen immediately. The rice was indeed cooked and ready. I added some butter to the rice and baked a papad. I dished out a small portion of the rice and brought it in a plate to Mohini.

I found Mohini leisurely lying on her stomach, her small face resting on her hands supported by her elbows. She appeared to be engrossed in some deep thoughts. Perhaps she was day dreaming! I did not want to disturb her reverie and quietly sat on a chair nearby. Soon, even I started day dreaming! I imagined that Mohini, whom I had brought up with immense love and affection, will someday grow to be a person of exceptional compassion like the great Gautam Budha. Gautama’s father had made Gautama grow amongst all the world’s flower-like happiness and kept him away from all pain and evil. This in turn resulted in Gautama’s heart being kind and full of love and compassion. Gautama grew to be an illustrious person of whom whole of India is proud. I imagined that I too shall give Mohini similar upbringing so that my Mohini grows up to be a person whose very presence will bring a perfume-like effect to her environment, her very presence signifying peace and culture.

I touched Mohini’s forehead affectionately. Slowly, she came out of her reverie and asked “Mother how large will my school be, compared to our home?” – “Much larger, my dear,” I replied. Wasting no further time, I quickly fed her and took her to school. She appeared very happy that day and did not cry. She sat on a large bench. I, however, found that class rooms in the school were very small, even smaller than a room in our house. The walls were broken and had many holes too. The windows had no protection grill or bars. One small girl who was sitting next to the window could have easily fallen down and landed in the bazaar below.

Warning Mohini of the possible danger, I made her sit on a bench at the back. Some smaller children were crying and the bigger children were teasing the smaller ones. There was no play ground in sight. The passage leading to the class was so narrow that kids were bumping into one another while crossing it during the recess. In this melee a child’s school bag fell down and the slate inside got shattered. A fight broke out between the two boys and they started pulling each other’s collars, followed by a fist-fight. Even a passing teacher got hurt. He in turn slapped them both and then managed to separate them.

I feared that someday even Mohini may break her slate and may even be slapped on her soft little cheeks. If that was to happen, how will Mohini’s lotus-like personality blossom into a full blown flower? Why our Sindhi Schools are like that, I kept wondering. Because she was very enthusiastic to go to new school that day, her mind did not quite register the pathetic condition of the school immediately. But much like the sun cannot hide behind the palm of a hand for ever; the realization soon dawned upon her! When she returned from the school, her walk was slow and the brightness in her face had faded away. Quietly, she sat down on a mat and started scribbling something on her new slate.

I gave her a hug I asked “How was the school, dear”? She put her arms around my neck and bitterly complained “There is no playground in the school and there are no swings either. It is a very small school. My friend Laj goes to a very large school.” “That is an English Medium School, my dear.” I explained. “I want to study in that school,” she replied.

Next day I took her to the English School. Small children were reciting poems like “Jack and Jill went up the hill” and “Ba! Ba!! Black sheep; have you any wool?” One child quickly came and said to Moihini “Pussy cat, Pussy cat, where have you been”? Mohini did not understand anything and got confused. She was on the verge of tears. She seemed scared and continued to stare at the children apprehensively. Suddenly, an important realization dawned upon me! That our economic status was not compatible with the environment that exists in the English medium schools!

These schools may have large breezy rooms and large play grounds, but my Mohini will be out of place here. Suddenly, I felt like a very poor woman who at times is lured to handover her child to a rich childless mother but is overwhelmed by her motherly instincts at the eleventh hour and clings to thee child with tearful eyes and decides not to let it go; all the while showering her with an endless stream of kisses. Exactly in the same way, I chose to bring my Mohini back from the step motherly looking English school, abandoning the love of flowers and other perks. I brought her back to our very own Sindhi School.

Today I have forced her to go back to the Sindhi school. At the moment, she must be sitting on that large bench in that narrow class room with tears rolling down her eyes, trying to control her sobs while being surrounded by small children chanting Sindhi nursery rhymes like “Ten little sparrows were busy cooking on hot griddle; one fell down and they became nine..”; “One who drinks milk will be strong” and “Oh mother, may I be converted to a duck, whose chicks I see and get scared..”

And then, at the very same moment I imagine Mohini making her own sentence to rhyme along, like “Those chicks I see and I laugh…” I hope she may have started laughing by now, creating beautiful dimples at the places where tears on her cheeks ha d streamed down. Hopefully, she must have even forgotten about the resounding slap I gave her. I will, however, never be able to forget her innocent and earnest request: “Mother, please get a new school built for me.”

Sundri Uttamchandani

Sundri Uttamchandani, an acclaimed writer, was born on 28th Sept 1924 at Hyderabad Sindh and passed away in Mumbai on 8th July 2013. She has written about 200 short stories, in addition to 12 One Act Plays and 2 Novels.

Courtesy: Sundriuttam.com 

The post Sindhi Literature: Masoom Ilteja (Earnest Request) – A Short Story first appeared on Sindh Courier.