You’re a magic city, dear Wilmington
Translated by: Komal Shahzadi
(This article is a translation of Dr Sheeraz Dasti’s “Wilmington: aik shehr-i-jadoogaran” published in the aikRozan.com on 12 July, 2016)
Some five centuries ago Giovanni da Verrazano embarked on a journey to navigate the West. The moment he touched the anchors of the ship, the Waters of Atlantic got busy in conversing with the Stars of his Destiny, bargaining for his fate. While Captain Verrazano was offering the damsel of his dreams the sumptuous satin of his memories, the sea-gods adjourned their celestial meeting to puff-up the reluctant sails of his vessel. Under the sway of these guiding-stars, rolling over the tempestuous tides of the Mediterranean, listening to the lullabies of its alluring winds, watching the trailing-light of shooting-meteors; his ship floated down to a sandy harbour where the carefree American fairies with their flowing golden curls were weaving the magical webs of tales – tales of their charming-princes. It was a morn in 1524 when a new chapter of devotion dawned in the life of Verrazano from France; and his ship kneeled down as a gesture of morning matins in the watery temple of Wilmington. After a day-long ritual of anchorage he climbed over the deck to inspect his destination while his hand was shielding his eyes from the sun.
An Alice’s wonderland was lying in front of him: fairies, trees, mountains were there; fragrances, colours of gay, shades of greenery and what not. Then he uplifted his hand by a fraction and flattened the pupils of his eyes to see future-to-come: there he beheld a city only half-a-millennium far: where there were the lakes, the water-falls, the fire-flies; connecting bridges, moving pavements, orchestrating anklets, perfuming petals, and flying airplanes. A little farther he saw Azalea Festival, Greenfield Lake, and Wrightsville Beach in the chain of events. He foresaw Forden Station; glanced at University of North Carolina; and viewed Wilmington Airport. And it was there where he found me – a mendicant of love and knowledge – stupefied by the mantra of Wilmington; holding two bags full – one with the printed books, and another with the electronic epistles from the apostles. My assets reminded him of his own epistolary quest: to address his princess in the guise of a letter to his monarch, Francis I. So after a brief hello-hi he returned to his ship in long strides that was embarked there some five centuries ago.
Still holding the bag of letters, I flagged down a taxi, outside the airport building. Grand trunk roads, towering trees, traffic signals, and fast-moving vehicles: every object a sole witness that Verrazano had prophesised for me a Wilmington of 2016. Though the floral floor of the foliage was under the snowy white sheet but some love-acquainted boughs were able to play hide-and-seek, of recognition-and-adventitiousness with me.
From that maiden morning in January to this exhausted eve of June, not a single moment is wasted when I was not busy in some sort of conversation with the city of Wilmington. This City of Magic made me to listen to the legend of its princes from its fairies; of its winds from its fragrances; of its bumble-bees from its flowers; of its eaves from its birds; of its alumni from its alma-maters; of its traders from its market-places; and of its love-smitten from its squares. And I told its fairies the story-of-life; I induced its fragrances to send some fragrant messages to the East Wind as well; I asked its roses to refrain from becoming thorny to their collectors; I warned its birds about the dangers of flying far-away beyond the known horizons; I complained its curators of knowledge for not erasing the discriminations; I handed over the lists of priceless artefacts to its traders; and above all I forbade its dwellers not to publicise the secret-romance of love-smitten-souls.
From dawn till dusk Wilmington used to escort me through its streets. We went to Greenfield Lake where the legend holds that fairies still descend for water-rafting, and the hypnotized Verrazano leaves his labour of love – that writing of letter, to watch them from the deck of his ship. The grains of sand in this City of Grace are so down-trodden in nature that while caressing my feeble feet swollen in the quest of love got themselves captivated, and came all the way to my bedchamber in the cavern; and its waist-high-waves eagerly embraced me in their watery-hugs. Wilmington took me to its gardens of strawberry – the fruit having an Eden’s taste to savour both body and soul. One day it took me to the deep sea where fish are still under-civilized thus get trapped for a morsel of food; they fall to the status of sea-food for the sin of believing in man, the Homo sapiens. Festivals and the musicals; the fields and hearths of the colonial period; the collective-graves made during the days of civil war; and the War-ship used during the Second World War: I visited them along with Wilmington…
In exchange I allowed it to see some wounds on my soul’s shred: the shrines of those who were killed during famines or martyred during wars. I selected some e-epistles with utmost care and asked its fairies to read them, to rekindle in this City of Dreams a sense of the beautiful (that is truth). Then unlike Verrazano who got fascinated-for-life with the lays and sagas of the magnanimous Wilmington, I asked for its prayers, said goodbye and returned to my home. That home, which I saw umpteen times from the window of Google earth had cleared all the thorns of my path; and was so much anxious for my return that its Muse had waylaid the grand-trunk-road of my village.
About the translator:
Ms Komal Shahzadi is a faculty member in the Department of English at International Islamic University, Islamabad and has visited Wilmington during November 2016 for completing a three-week International Fellowship at the University of North Carolina, USA. Her areas of interest include Pakistani literature in English and creative writing.