Nayeema Ahmad Mahjoor
‘In just 30 seconds, you will fall into a sound sleep and enter the dream world. Remember what you see,’ the nurse in the pink apron said as the anaesthetist injected gas into my arm. I had no power, no rights, and no courage. My body, soul, and mind were entirely in their gloved hands—warm yet thin and filtered.
A shiver ran down my spine, and soon I lost the world I had known for the past six decades. Either I was dead or transported to an unfamiliar domain. All around me was nothing but darkness, like a black hole cradling me. Yet I could feel the medical team working together—inserting tubes, applying patches, and moving machines, invading my body from every direction as if they had struck the jackpot. It was somewhat different from my homeland, where dozens of attendants surround you, hug you and say prayers with tearful eyes.
Every turn of my head transported me home, a home that was lost. And I was lost in a world that was not mine.
My house in Kashmir stood tall, with traces of my life visible on every brick. Spring had returned after a harsh winter, and the lawn was alive with people and machines. A gardener was trimming a large tulip tree while another was cutting away dead leaves from the rose bushes. The Kashmir rose plant had died, and its stem still lay in the ground. I couldn’t save it. This guilt was killing me. The gardener said the plant could grow again after a few years, as it had throughout the centuries.
The pansies bloomed brightly, the turf regained its lush green hue, and the pigeons were noisy on the window sills. They would take flight at the slightest movement in the garden. In the left-hand corner of the lawn, the tube well sprayed water into a small canal that irrigated the trees and bushes. The electric motor, overdue for maintenance, had grown increasingly noisy. One of the gardeners switched it off, cutting the water flow.
I was listening to Surah Al-Kahf on the radio, hearing the story of the seven sleepers who awoke after three centuries. I wondered how the divine sleep might symbolise societal or spiritual awakening, prompting reflection on whether such divine interventions could transform nations mired in conflict or oppression.
The radio spoke of Zulqarnain, a character shrouded in ambiguity, about whom little was known, including his whereabouts. Historians call Cyrus of Persia Zulqarnian, which was avoided in the Radio broadcast.
We had neither Zulqarnain nor Cyrus… only HalaKu or Genghis….
The gardener with a skull cap watched me intently, as if he knew but was unwilling to share.
The lawnmower’s heavy crackling prompted me to turn off the radio and watch the gardeners take turns cutting, pruning, and collecting debris.
I was moving towards the huge gate, with Moghul architecture carved on it. They left a history that was being erased. But the gate stood against the tide of floods. Soon, I had reached a far-off place inhabited by our neighbours and relatives, including our Pir Sahib, who sat aloof in the corner. This looked like a strange place I had read about in a book earlier, where people were assembled, evaluated, and assigned to one side or the other. Most of the people here had died a long time ago and were now even forgotten by their own relatives.
At a distance, I saw women clinging to one another, avoiding the gaze of men who seemed at ease, as if enjoying the gathering. So this place truly practises segregation. Many of those sitting or clinging to one another, I know, have left an impression on the world I had lived in with them.
They seemed at ease, rather at peace.
I was thinking about the woman in a black scarf who had bravely fought against the hardships her husband never cared about. She was thrown out of her home in the middle of the night after being accused of promiscuity. Her plea before the jury, headed by the Pir Sahib, who sat aloof in the corner, did not acquit her. Pir Sahib was a very strict man and did not budge. He ordered her excommunication.
Many neighbours stoned her, ignoring her vulnerability. The holy cow of societal norms could not be compromised and demanded severe punishment, even stoning to death. Her house was kept under community surveillance. Her daughters had to lock themselves to bear the shame.
There was no one to come to her rescue except the cobbler, but he was ridiculed and blamed for being sympathetic. After being stoned, her skull was shattered. The body parts were assembled by a municipal sweeper the next day and loaded into the truck for disposal at the garbage site.
The place of stoning was cleaned with water and detergents, and the whole road was wiped down until the Pir Sahib declared it cleansed of the woman’s bad spell.
While walking to school, I would turn back the moment I would sight Pir Sahib on my way. My eyes did not see him, and Cobbler was never seen in the locality or at the mosque for prayers. He had to vacate the space where he would sit to mend people’s shoes.
After a few years had passed since the stoning incident, news of Pir Sahib’s illness spread in the community. Nobody knew what the disease was, but a few guesses were circulating about widespread skin rashes. Only his wife was allowed to care for him, apart from the doctor, who, despite people pestering him, did not breach the patient’s confidentiality. It was something unexpected in our society.
Pir Sahib died, and a huge procession followed him to the graveyard. People wept and wailed, recounting his deeds. ‘The place in heaven was reserved for Pir Sahib,’ a man near the grave declared.
My eyes turned sour while watching both at the same time.
Both a promiscuous woman and an ailing Pir were waiting for their final destination in this huge gathering. Watching them, I felt a profound connection to the universal journey of mortality, contemplating how societal judgments may shift in the face of spiritual truth, transforming monsters into angels and vice versa.
A few flying people appeared on the scene, indicating to men and women that they should follow them in two different directions. On the left side was the one-eyed man, with his other eye covered by a black cloth. I could remember Moshe Dayan of Israel, who had the blood of poor Palestinians on his hands. The one-eyed man was near Pir Sahib, pointing at him with his long-nailed finger, bidding him to follow. Fear spread over Pir’s face.
On the other side, a cursed woman was following a soft, fairy-like man in the right direction. I tried to avoid looking at Pir Sahib out of respect, but something inside me forced me to look until he grew uncomfortable. Perhaps he recognised me. His head was tilted down, not expecting the decision he was awarded. There were no crowd followers to protect him, though many neighbours were behind him. But how could a Pir Sahib be decreed to be on the left side? He prayed, encouraged others to pray, taught us religion, and looked after the community for three decades. There was not a single complaint against him by the locality, except that he had pronounced a judgment against a bad woman. Was she innocent? Had he played foul with her? Or had he favoured only men while deciding the disputes?
I was getting lost in weird thoughts.
The woman with the fairy-like man had entered the garden, followed by many others, when some were detained at the gate of the gathering place for a decision.
I grew more confused about how many women were left behind, and a few men asked to join them until another announcement was made.
I looked farther down to see if I could spot a cobbler, but that cluster of people had already been sent to follow the two directions, left and right. The cobbler was missing in this crowd.
Soon, there was so much noise around that I had to put my fingers in my ears; shrill voices were coming from the left, accompanied by shouts, crying, wailing, and huge thuds. I was losing sight of the scene….
‘Hello! Hello! Could you hear me?’ Someone was jolting my shoulders.
I tried to open my eyes but couldn’t. I could only hear, but I couldn’t move.
I tilted my head, and the nurse was standing in front of me with a glass of water.
‘I think you slept more than three hours—time to wake up. I will put a few sips of water into your mouth. Open your mouth, please.’
The light bulb on the ceiling was making me uncomfortable.
I opened my mouth, eyes closed. She could have poisoned me. Who cared? I was her property, and could be invaded, killed or saved. Yet I was sure she would prefer my protection.
She asked many questions I couldn’t make sense of. One struck me, ‘I am sure you have been to heaven. How was it?’
I wore a fake, faded smile, eyes closed. She knew I was a journalist. She began her story about her career as a journalist by describing how she had been stuck in New York during the Twin Towers attack and was saved by the Imam of a nearby mosque. I listened until she removed a few tubes and patches.
‘Stay in bed until the anaesthesia wears off, and then you will be shifted to the recovery ward,’ she announced, outlining the plan for the next few hours.
It was late afternoon when I was offered tea, and I opened my eyes, remembering the details of my dream, but I couldn’t share it with anyone. They might ridicule me for imagining the place we dream of living in, and why would I witness the scene and the decision of heaven and hell for people? I should be worried about myself while going through the procedure that could lead me to another world. I closed my eyes again and tried to return to the scene under the constant spell of the sedative.
Nayeems Ahmad Mahjoor is a noted author and senior journalist , can be reached at nayeema7@gmail.com
