Wandered the Traveller 

Afgar opened her eyes when the lukewarm sunlight streamed through the window. A few moments later, once her consciousness had penetrated the haze of sleep, she cried to herself, Oh, school! She threw off the quilt and sat up quickly. A girl with tousled hair and a wheat-coloured complexion stared back at her with surprise from the vanity mirror. Suddenly, she burst out laughing. Oh, this is me, she declared and leapt out of bed. Ayah and Navin’s bed was empty. Perhaps they were drinking tea in the kitchen. She ran to the bathroom, and in half an hour, after drinking her tea, putting on her shoes, neatening her hair a bit with her hands and slinging her satchel over her shoulder, she set off for school. Her clothing was still wrinkled from sleep, but she was unaware of this and unworried by such details. She put her bag on her back and skipped through the yard and on to the street. The cool breeze felt pleasant. It would still be a while before school opened. She quickly traversed the paved roads and set out on the sandy paths to the school. The field she had to cross to reach the school was dotted with many small bushes of bright red jujubes and scattered acacia trees. She adored the tiny red jujubes. She set down her bag and began picking the berries. How fun it was last Ramzan! she said, addressing the jujubes. She had kept the fast every day, and she and her cousin Syeda had picked jujubes for ages to pass the daylight hours. Suddenly, Afgar looked up at the sky, as though she expected it to be as it had been then, as red as the fruits, and the sun slowly sinking below the horizon (O Allah, how slow it had been!). But no, now there was nothing but the fresh blue of the morning sky and golden sunshine. She wrapped the jujubes in her dupatta and continued on her way, swinging her bag. 

The school day always seemed to pass in a snap of the fingers. The bells rang out one after the other. Afgar would write and read something, talk to her friends and her teacher, Apa ji, a bit, and then the bell for recess would ring. Asking questions about clocks and time, Afgar wished she could ask, Apa ji! Is our school clock fast? But she didn’t, for fear Apa ji would laugh. As it was, Apa ji already laughed heartily at her questions – and how well she liked that laughter. Then Apa ji would call her amusing terms of endearment, such as ‘laughing flower’ and ‘mischievous devil’. 

That day, when she arrived at school, her friend Zaino was sitting on the steps, weeping. She ran across the grounds, put down her satchel and hugged Zaino. 

‘Why are you crying, Zaino? Why are you crying?’ she asked. 

Zaino was three or four years older than her, but she looked completely grown up. She was close friends with Afgar. Wiping her tears from her eyes, she explained, ‘We’re leaving, Affi! Father has been transferred.’ Afgar was surprised. She was interested in seeing new places. If her family were transferred, she’d be delighted. But she tried hard to comfort Zaino. Zaino was a sentimental girl. When all of Zaino’s friends promised to write her letters and Afgar assured her again and again that she wouldn’t forget her, Zaino wiped away her tears and wandered about the school sadly. She hugged the banyan tree. She gazed at her classroom. She tearfully begged Apa ji to forgive her for past errors. Finally, she reached the school gate. 

‘Oh, Affi!’ she said, pressing Afgar’s hand. ‘How lovely these days have been. I had no idea we would be separated.’ Then Afgar felt sad as well. Suddenly, Zaino said, ‘Today is also lovely. This morning, today seemed terrible to me, but now I think, But we’re together! Today is good.’ 

That day, Afgar sat in the thickets of jujubes for a long time on her way home. I will write her a letter with love, she promised, staring at a tiny red bittersweet jujube. She was so reassured by that pleasant notion that she picked up her bag and went home. 

Murad Khan was seated on the front veranda drinking tea when she entered the gate. She walked all the way around the house and entered via the back lawn. Navin and Ayah were drinking tea on the back veranda. The sunlight of early evening was receding from the lawn. 

‘Affi!’ cried Navin. 

‘Come, drink some tea!’ called Ayah, pointing to the tea. 

Afgar put down her satchel and sat down to drink tea. 

‘Affi!’ said Navin. ‘Mansoor Bhai has come. Tomorrow is the Sunday holiday, right?’ 

Afgar’s heart began to pound. The delightful taste of the tea turned bland in her mouth. She quickly swallowed down the rest and went inside, where she wandered about her room restlessly. She stared hard at the face that appeared in the mirror. It’s an especially nice face, she said to the mirror and then meandered about the room again. Then she rushed over and opened the trunk. She took out her notebook, and Mansoor’s notebook too, picked up the inkpot and walked out to the river. 

When she reached the riverbank, Afgar realized that, when she’d dreamt of the river, she had been afraid. She set the notebooks down on the grass and put her hand in the water. A ripple sent many bits of straw floating towards her feet, and she tried to capture them in the mud. I don’t feel afraid at all, she remarked with astonishment. She still remembered her fear in that dream. At a distance of one furlong, a man wearing a langoti was teaching two children to swim. Their shrieks and laughter reached all the way to her. They clutched their teacher’s hands and splashed about. Growing bored of gathering bits of grass and straw, Afgar picked up her notebook and began copying down the next manuscript: 

what is hell? 

1. Continually scheming to take revenge on someone and do them ill. 

2. Getting angry on hearing ill spoken of oneself. 

3. Going to court as a plaintiff, defendant or to provide testimony. (Barey Chacha once went to Sharifpur to give testimony in court.) 

4. Becoming a debtor to a prominent individual. 

5. For oneself or one’s loved one to be afflicted with cancer. 

6. To be separated forever from one’s beloved. (She trembled.) 

7. Doubting the intentions of one’s husband, wife, father or son; doubt between brother and brother, or friend and friend, and the grief caused by that. 

8. Employment by a master who is ill-spoken and not worth knowing. 

9. Poverty so dire one can’t find four paise in one’s pockets for bread and medicines for one’s wife and child. 

10. Wrongful use of one’s time and money, such as spending on liquor, card-playing, cinema and pleasure; staying up late and sleeping half the day; never saying one’s prayers. 

11. A young girl starts on the road to hell when she begins to wear gaudy clothing and relish displaying her beauty. She lets her dupatta slip, lifts her eyes, sticks out her chest, and is thus slain with the dagger of boldness and transforms into a kebab on the skewer of elegance, half of which is served on the tablecloth of the parents and half presented to a young Western man. 

Afgar began staring at the river. She envisioned a beautiful smiling girl with a dupatta around her neck and kajal lining her eyes holding out a tray piled high with kebabs approaching on the waves. She began to write again: 

We know the truth of heaven. 

To comfort ourselves this idea of Ghalib’s is a good one: 

Ghalib: 

bade muzi ko mara nafs-e-ammara ko gar mara 
nahang o azhdaha o sher-e-nar mara to kya mara 

One has killed a great oppressor if one slays lust 
A crocodile or a dragon or a tiger is nothing in comparison 

Dagh Dehlvi: 

Jis mein lakhon baras ki hurein hon 
Aisi jannat ko kya kare koi 

What would anyone do with a heaven 
Full of ancient houris? 

She’d finished copying out both pages of Mansoor’s notebook, but she had three lines left in her own notebook. She had no idea how to fill them now. In the midst of this, her cousin Yasmeen came running with Navin. Yasmeen was behind and Navin ahead. The pen fell from Afgar’s hand and she stood up. Mansoor stood in the veranda. Yasmeen embraced Afgar. Afgar wished she could hide. She managed with some difficulty to reach the veranda, hiding behind Yasmeen. 

‘Wah wah!’ cried out Mansoor. ‘You’ve got so big … and you look so well.’ 

Afgar blushed up to her ears. She stood up straight and stepped forward to greet everyone. Yasmeen suddenly whispered teasingly in her ear, ‘Mansoor’s bride.’ 

That night, Mansoor played the record of the bhajan ‘Prem to hai is jag mein karan dukh ka’ – love is the cause of sorrow in this world – several times, and she lay for a long time on the charpoy under the shadow of the stars, barely moving, as she wafted about on the ebb and flow of emotions. Mansoor and Yasmeen sat on chairs under the bright light of the veranda. Afgar could hear Yasmeen chuckling. Afgar reclined on her charpoy in the semi-darkness, out of sight. She was overwhelmed by the sweetness of her emotions and a slight madness. 

‘Look at Afgar over there,’ said Yasmeen to Mansoor, nodding towards Afgar. 

Mansoor came over to Afgar, leaned over and whispered softly, ‘What is it, Affi? Why are you lying down?’ 

A fierce torrent of love overflowed from her heart and overwhelmed her senses. Every time she recalled Mansoor’s soft tone, a flood of love overwhelmed her.

Excerpted with permission from “Wandered the Traveller” written by Nisar Aziz Butt, and translated from the Urdu by Daisy Rockwell, Harper Collins India, 2026.