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Translate Urdu to English, Dogs , written by Petros Bukhari
I asked professors of zoology, consulted veterinarians, racked my own brains—but never could I understand: what on earth is the use of dogs? Take a cow for instance, it gives milk. Take a goat, it gives milk too—and also neat little pellets. But what do dogs actually do? People say, “A dog is a loyal animal.” Now, sir, if loyalty means starting to bark at seven in the evening and continuing without pause till six in the morning, then we’d rather remain disloyal!

Just yesterday, around eleven at night, one dog’s spirits got tickled and he came out onto the street to give the opening line of a ghazal. Within a minute, the dog from the bungalow opposite contributed the opening couplet. Then, an old seasoned master, furious at being disturbed, leapt out from a confectioner’s shop and recited the entire ghazal right down to the closing verse. From the northeast, a connoisseur of a dog applauded with great enthusiasm. And then, sir, the mushaira (poetic gathering) grew so heated that words fail me.

Some had brought along two whole ghazals, others three. Quite a few recited spontaneous odes upon odes. The uproar was such that it simply wouldn’t die down. I shouted “Order! Order!” from the window a thousand times, but who listens to the chairperson at such occasions? Now one might well ask them: if you were so desperate to hold a mushaira, couldn’t you have gone to the riverside in the open air? Why disturb the sleep of those living between these houses?

And then, our local dogs are a particularly ill-mannered breed. Many of them are such nationalists that at the mere sight of trousers and coats they start barking. Well, that much may even be considered commendable, so let’s leave it aside. But there’s another point. I have often had the chance to visit the bungalows of the sahibs carrying trays of goods, and I swear by God, I’ve seen such refinement in their dogs that I came back sighing in admiration.

The moment I entered, the dog gave a light “woof” from the veranda, then closed its mouth and stood still. As I stepped forward, it too stepped forward a few paces, and in a delicate, melodious tone gave another gentle “woof.” Security with music—two in one! Whereas our dogs have neither melody nor rhythm. They string one bark after another, entirely off-key, with no sense of time or occasion. All they know is throat-straining noise—and are proud of the fact that Tansen, the great musician, was born in this very land.

It’s true, my relations with dogs have always been somewhat strained. But you can swear me on oath that never once have I abandoned non-violence in dealing with them. You may take this as boasting, but God is witness, never have I raised a hand against a dog. Many friends advised me to carry a stick at night, since it drives away misfortunes. But I never want to make enemies without reason.

The moment a dog barks, my natural gentleness overwhelms me to such a degree that, if you saw me then, you’d surely think me a coward. You’d even notice my throat going dry—which is true enough. If at such a time I tried to sing, only the flat notes of the lower register would come out. And if you have a temperament like mine, you’ll find that at such moments the Ayat al-Kursi slips clean out of your mind, and instead you may start reciting the Dua-e-Qunoot.

At times, it so happened that I was returning home at two in the morning, swinging a cane after the theatre, trying to memorize the tune of some song from the play. Since I didn’t know the words and was still a novice, I had resorted to whistling. Even if out of tune, it might pass for English music. Just then, I turned a corner and saw a goat tied there. But my eyes took it for a dog. A dog, and one the size of a goat—practically a monster! My hands and feet froze, my cane slowed and stopped at an absurd angle mid-air. The whistling music choked and died. Yet not a muscle of my cone-shaped snout moved; as though a soundless note was still escaping.

It’s a medical fact: if you sweat even in winter at such a moment, there’s nothing strange about it. It dries later. Being naturally cautious, I’ve so far never been bitten by a dog—that is, no dog has ever bitten me. Had it ever happened, instead of this tale, today my elegy would be in print. With the historic line: “May even grass refuse to grow from that dog’s dust!”

But then, whom should I tell that
“A dog’s companionship is a calamity”?

What harm was there in dying—if it happened only once? But as long as dogs live in this world and insist on barking, consider me half-buried in the grave already. And then, their barking habits are peculiar: it’s contagious, afflicting young and old alike. If a burly, majestic dog occasionally barks just to maintain his aura, we might grudgingly say, “Fine, bark away” (though at such times he really ought to be chained). But these two-day-old, three-day-old pups of just a few ounces won’t stop barking either! Their thin voices, tiny lungs—yet they exert so much force that the tremor runs all the way to the tip of their tails. And then they bark even at speeding cars, as if to stop them! Now, if I happened to be driving, my hands would certainly refuse to obey—but not everyone will spare their lives.

My greatest objection to dogs barking is that their noise paralyzes all thinking powers. Especially when from under some shop’s wooden platform a whole secret assembly comes out onto the street and begins a propaganda campaign—how can one’s wits remain intact? One has to pay attention to each in turn. Their racket, our muttered protests, their antics, our frozen postures—how can a brain work in such chaos? Though, what great feat could the brain achieve even if it did?

In any case, this extreme injustice of dogs has always seemed detestable to me. If only one of their representatives would politely inform me: “Sir, the street is closed.” I swear I’d turn back without complaint. And this is no exaggeration. On dogs’ insistence I’ve spent many a night pacing the roads. But for the whole assembly to gang up and impose their will—that’s downright vile. (Dear readers, if you have a dear and respected dog in your room, please do not read this essay aloud. I have no wish to hurt anyone’s feelings.)

God has created good souls in every community, and dogs are no exception. You must have seen a saintly dog at least once. His body bears the marks of austerity. When he walks, such humility radiates that it seems he’s too conscious of sin even to raise his eyes. His tail clings to his belly. He lies down right in the middle of the road for contemplation, closing his eyes. His face resembles a philosopher’s; his lineage seems traceable to Diogenes the Cynic. A cart driver honks again and again, bangs every part of the vehicle, calls others for help, shouts himself a dozen times—at last the dog lazily opens his bloodshot eyes, surveys the scene, then calmly shuts them again. If someone whips him, he slowly rises, shifts a yard away, and resumes his train of thought exactly where he left off.

At night, this same dog spreads his thin, dry tail as far as possible across the road—merely to test God’s chosen ones. If by mistake you step on it, he scolds you in a saintly tone: “O fool, you dare trouble ascetics? Can’t you see we holy men sit here?” And his curse brings trembling fits upon you. For many nights after, you dream of countless dogs clinging to your legs, refusing to let go. When you awake, your feet are caught in the bed’s headboard.

If only God granted me, for a while, the supreme power of barking and biting, I have vengeance enough in my heart. Soon, all dogs would be flocking to Kasauli for treatment. As the poet says:

Urfi, do not worry about the rivals’ clamor,
The barking of dogs never lessens a beggar’s livelihood.

This, I say, is the kind of perverse poetry that brings shame upon Asia. There’s an English proverb: “Barking dogs seldom bite.” Very well. But who knows when a barking dog might stop barking—and start biting?

8 months ago | [YT] | 1