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kashmiri short stories

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By Umar Lateef Misgar and Khalid Fayaz She called her friend, Sahil, and told him about the chemist who had slid his phone number into her packet of potions. Her eyes closed but a vestige of hope bloomed in her.“You should have informed your mother so she could have taken a mature reaction against the chemist”, replied the friend. He added, “Women are naturally weak and their best protectors are their parents, not friends, because society is negative and friends take decisions based on impulse, which usually proves to be counterproductive. But if you insist, I will batter him down

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He spoke rather exasperatedly, “This is a matter beyond your understanding. It is too technical for you, surely not as simple as it might appear.” He picked up his packet of cigarettes from his desk. I was rendered speechless. He lighted a cigarette and leaning back spewed out of his mouth a cloud of smoke which thinned away slowly, filling up the room. Purged of its acridity, the smoke now became air, mingled with the air. Breaking my train of thought, he said, “Listen, the body is not important. What matters is the head. What have I to do with

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Written by Akhtar Mohi-ud-Din | Translated from Kashmiri by M Siddiq Beig It is now that my vision is getting clear. Not that I discern anything, or that I get a feel of anything palpable, but assuredly, not that darkness which terrified, that led you astray; something like a perception that there is somebody on the other side of the wall, or something breathing “yahoo, yahoo” in and out. Well, who or what can be there on the other side of the wall? How can I say! I still admit to my blindness. My eyes even today perceive the darkness

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