In search of you, sifting through the Boulder vale
Translated by: Komal Shahzadi
(This article is a translation of Dr. Sheeraz Khan Dasti’s “Boulder shehr aur tum: aakhir kahan ho tum?” published in AikRozan.com on 11 December, 2016)
Your search compelled me to sift through the caravans of tingling camels on the beach of Clifton; it entangled my feet to trek along the Mountain-of-Noor in the city of Quetta. I also scrabbled around the hills of Margalla, where the sweet smile of tiny-flowers was insistent that you were under their velvety-curtain; but I found nothing there, save the musky smell of yours. I delved into the waters of Pacific Ocean, whose quivering transparency was pointing that you were behind some yacht’s sail; but I found nothing there, save the milky whiteness of yours. I foraged through the jungles of Thailand, wherein every spot painted on tail-feathers of dancing pea-hens, fanned out that you were inside Buddhist temple; but I found nothing across his stony facade save the nirvana of your soul.
Once a daughter of Eve, on the Western side of Atlantic, raised her eyes in supplication towards heaven to get escaped from the assault of European vagabonds; a gash appeared on the landscape to save her honour. Soon its contours filled with balmy waters in the shape of a beautiful lake. That lake extended its aquatic arteries till Atlantic basin. Now fairies descend there to learn the lyrics of love from the twittering birds, they say. Since you were also an embodiment of melodic tunes; it seemed quite logical to visit that lake in search of you. So, when I reached there, dew-drops frosted over the leaves sworn in the name of your mercurial eyes that you were inside the silky-swings of the trees; but I found nothing save the garlands of your wait hanging upon the green branches.
Amid these voyages once I harboured the city of Boulder. A vast range of lush-green mountains cradles the valley of Boulder just like my heart lodges your loving memory. When I arrived there in September at noon-tide, the city was sun-splashed but there was not a single speck of heat. Mountains with the help of their bordering trees were sending sways of fresh air; Karez were slithering underground-waters down to their water-falls; lakes were weakening the fever of noon-shine with the help of vapour-sponges; the soothing shadows sitting on walls were welcoming the footsteps of every visitor: it seemed, all measures were being taken lest someone’s complaint of noon-stead mar the orchestra of your slumbering dreams. More I explored the locale of Boulder; more the possibility of your presence there changed hands with strong conviction. Same conviction, one day, brought me up to the summit of a hill-top in Rocky Mountains.
When I looked down, the whole city, blossoming in the bowl of the Vale was a scene of festivity – festivity of your nativity. I cupped my eyes with my hand and started to ferret around to figure you out. On one side, I found the fairy meadows depositing towards the brink of 36th road to Denver. Parallel to the highway was a by lane for the bikers; and one cyclist was speeding towards the city as if he misses the gala of your arrival, he will miss the purpose of his life.
To my left, some clouds formatted on the Longs Peak and became a part of aerial procession; dancing merrily, showering pearl-necklaces of rain-drops upon trees in their way, they were coming to give you blessings. The word also reached the pigeons of the Long Mountain; who without a moment’s retreat started their journey to the scene of carnival. Under their pageant flight when they saw traffic on 119th road moving in the opposite direction, they took it as a disgrace to their deity of love; so hooting in burping sounds they descended in the valley below. Their loud coo-cooing reached the ears of a young heron sitting on the bank of a lake and dropped him in the pond of speculations. A love-fest is being celebrated somewhere, he thought. Without much adieu he left its parents amid quotidian tasks and flied away to attend the function in the company of his friend-herons.
Boulder is an abode of elites. And it’s a second nature of rich to show off their money even at the feast of love. Catering to their interests, the local shopkeepers set up their businesses in Pearl Street. Their salesgirls displayed a range of items – from sea glass jewellery to Chinese silk necklaces – to sell. Soon the funfair reached its zenith. When a singer started to celebrate the occasion, people started to sway in tune with tunes of her song. The whole atmosphere became exuberant. But my forlorn eyes were still probing the Pearl Street Mall in phantasmal hope. Signs were shouting at me that you were there amongst them but my vision kept on making and then distorting the silhouettes of your physique.
And when mantled (hope) is dismantled, it is a universal fact that all things alive become frustrated; save my love-torn-eyes, which cannot see their ocular faith broken. They insist to diffuse a soul in the beauteous-effigy of your remembrance placed at my heart’s altar. They darkly ask a simple question: how come a city became so beautiful without your presence? Sometimes, I speculate that by synthesizing dusts of Boulder, winds of Rocky Mountain, and water of Grand Lake the sparks of my impatient eyes can ferment a figurine of yours… My only problem is that I want to find you, not through carving but as an outcome of my longing!