Gulzaman's son

fragrances driftin in the air..
leavin traces behind..
a momentary lapse of reason , they cud be..
a shot of vodka wud ve justified this better..
deprived of which..
I Give u sumthn thats close to my heart..

Gulzaman's Son
Climbing his tortuous way from Kanzalwan, GuIzaman leaves the river, buckwheat harvests and slopes dark with conifers. His breath comes in a half-choked whistle, the air uncertain whether to burst through the lungs or whoosh out of the mouth.
He doesn't remain with his people now, among the sheepfolds and high-pasture huts. They rag him, 'GuIzaman, where is the son? Can we help?' 'Here comes the randiest ram in the valley!' They're not funny, these jibes at his virility. So each sundown he leaves for the river to sleep in a stone-breaker'spine-hut, till at dawn the sheep call him.
GuIzaman strains up the last hundred feet to reach the fold. Expectant ewes seek shelter from the wind under the lee of limestone walls. He sees his kinsmen, bearded and gaunt and broad-boned as himself, brooding over a dead kid. Rain starts hissing. There has been such heavy sleet the week past that in the sheepfolds new-borns have been dying. With the mothers wind-weakened and fed on wet grass, the lambs are still-born, floppinginert on the earth. Ewes don't even lick them and probe for hidden embers of life with their raking tongues. Broken, they turn on their sides like sacks of crushed ice.
The turf is sodden but his own fold is a small den made snug by bales of hay.His ewe snuggles up to him and bleats recognition, a thin tremolo of love blanketed by gutturals of pain. Relations crowd, darkening the doorway,as with heavily-greased arms GuIzaman examines her. Yes, the lamb is on its way! An hour later it is there, quavery-legged and wet and uncertain about its rickety, four-pronged hold on the earth. Shortly it pees. Allah be praised, now it will live. It cannot die of a chill in the stomach. Either the doorway has been cleared, or cloudshave been parted for an instant by the sun. GuIzaman picks the dun-coloured lamb and holds it to his chest. 'This', he says, 'this is my son.'
BY KEKI N DARUWALA