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When Naz spread a new mattress for him and, by lighting a lamp in that darkness, decorated the cave with furniture and pictures, Tauheed looked like a chronic patient who had long grown used to a diet of bland, restrictive food and was suddenly being fed rich, fatty fare in bed. This settled household was too much for him. His mind would not cooperate. His thoughts began to retrace roads of the past. He fell into an inner turmoil. In that mental struggle he glanced at the wall and began to look at the pictures. His eyes fixed on one portrait. A young woman sat with a tiny child in her lap. The painter had rendered the mother's features in captivating, tender colors. Every tear on her face seemed to be oozing maternal feeling; the child was smiling — a smile that held all of nature's joys and blessings. The woman's smiling eyes were only on the child. Naz had specifically ordered that picture. She remembered that once, when she had come to Karachi with her brother, she had seen this painting in two or three shops in Saddar. Today she had sent the boy smartly to the market and he had found and brought the picture. Jida tried to tear his eyes away from the painting but could not. It was as if needles began pricking his mind, and before long a whirlpool of emotions rose inside him: hatred, contempt, rage, vindictiveness, bitter jealousy, and a thousand other destructive, poisonous feelings shook him. The storm rose so violently that Jida could not steady himself. His gaze made no effort now to leave the picture — Jida kept staring at it — and then a mania possessed him. He had reached some lost station of his past, one that had been taken from him, a station he had been removed from and which now was burning before him. Jida sprang up. He was staring at the picture as if it had hypnotized him; terror and cruelty showed on his face, and one of his hands moved toward his navel. In the next instant a pistol was in front of him. Jida pointed the pistol at the picture and two thunderous shots shook the room. One bullet struck the mother's chest and the other hit the child's forehead. The picture's glass shattered to pieces. Yet Jida's past kept lying before him against the wall. If Jida had been left alone for a little longer, who knows what he might have done — but he was not given that chance. Muna, Tipu, the two boys and Naz reached the room like bullets at the sound of the shots. This house was a den of crime and sin; the residents here never knew what might happen at any moment. They were always alert and ready. Jida's companions rushed in, ready to fight and kill, but they saw Jida sitting in the chair, staring fixedly at the picture, pistol in hand, his face flushed red, droplets of sweat on his brow, his teeth grinding with extreme anger. "What happened, Jida?" Naz asked, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Why did you shoot?" He silently kept staring at the picture. Tipu looked at him, then at the picture, and understood. Muna and Tipu were his confidants; they had been companions for a long time and knew his temperament. Naz shook him by the shoulders. "Jida?" Startled, Jida, without looking at Naz, threw the pistol onto the table and buried his face in his arms. Tears began to trickle from his eyes; the trembling of his shoulders showed he was crying. "Everyone go," Tipu said, stepping forward. "Muna, fill a cigarette. Boys, go. Muna went to roll hash into a cigarette and retreated to his room, while Naz remained standing there helplessly. "You should also leave," Tipu told Naz. But she did not want to go. She looked at Tipu as if to say, How could I leave him in this state? "Naz, go," Tipu snapped angrily. Naz left. Tipu took the pistol from Jida's hand. He pulled two bottles out of the drawer and placed them before Jida. Muna brought the cigarette already packed with hash; Tipu put the bottle to Jida's head. Jida took a long drag from the cigarette and slowly exhaled smoke. Tipu glanced at the mother-and-child portrait; it was hanging slightly crooked. Then, with a look of wrath scanning the room, he took Muna along and went to his own room. A little while later Naz stood in Tipu's room. Muna sat with his back against the wall; Tipu paced. A look of anger marked Tipu's already darkened face. "So what happened?" Naz asked them. She had already asked earlier, but Tipu and Muna had given no answer. "You are the first woman on whom the teacher has shown such great favour," Tipu said, stopping. "I don't know why." Naz had asked something else earlier, in a commanding tone like the mistress of the house. "Listen, girl," Tipu said in a bitter, serious voice, "we are not people who live in well-decorated households; we live in the depths of the earth. We demolish the houses we live in. We do not build homes. We stay awake at night and sleep in the day. We play with gold and silver, but sleep in the dust." "I will not let Jida live this degraded life," Naz said, tightening her voice a little. "You are taking a risk," Tipu said. "What risk?" Naz asked sarcastically. "Your life? I am not afraid of dying. Nobody will tremble at your death, no one will grieve." Tipu glared at Naz. "Yes — I am afraid for Jida's life. He will die while still alive." "Remove those pictures from there," Muna said. "Take away that mattress and those chairs," Tipu ordered. "That's Jida's death. He will commit suicide. Today he has reached that state." "Let the pictures stay," Naz said bitterly. "Everything there is for Jida. Don't be foolish. Don't bump into stones." Tipu gave her a mocking smile. Naz was about to say more when a sudden, chaotic noise came from Jida's room. Naz ran in and saw him on the floor.
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To be continue....