Qudoos began to cry—loud, helpless sobs echoing through the street. Choking on his despair, he muttered, “I always thought I was a responsible man…”. Mid-sentence, he tore the shawl from his shoulders and flung it across the road. Then, without another word, he sprinted toward the police station. Outside, he found a constable and poured his heart out, folding his hands, pleading, begging. But the constable, irritated, brushed him off with a grunt: “Go inside. The Munshi sahib is there. File an FIR.”
Qudoos dashed inside, straight toward the FIR register. He began narrating his tragedy, but the officer barely understood him, and eventually directed him to the station house officer — the Thanedar. Thanedar, upon seeing Qudoos’s disheveled state, offered him water, calmed him, and said gently, “Qudoos, don’t lose hope.
We’ll find what you’ve lost. But first, think clearly. Describe this… precious thing of yours. Once we have its sketch, Shahid — our best sketch artist — can draw it.
Posters will help us search better. Right?” Qudoos nodded eagerly, his tearful eyes lit with hope — as if it wasn’t a policeman in front of him, but an angel.
“Alright then,” the Thanedar said. “Begin.”
“Yes… yes, sir. Let me describe the potrayal” The neck of the missing one… it was intoxicating. As if it called you towards it from all directions. And the skin… always cool and moist — like morning dew clinging to a leaf just before sunrise. Just like that. Sir, may God forgive me, but being near it… you don’t want to move away. It’s… it’s addictive. There’s a wildness in it. I can’t sleep at night without touching it, without pressing it to my lips. If it’s not beside me even for one night, I toss and turn on the footpath, craving my share of it…”
At this point, Thanedar shifted uncomfortably in his chair — something about the tone, or the details, had altered the tension in the room. He adjusted his seat and said, firmly: “Qudoos, give us a more… appropriate description. This is a police station, not one of your steamy street-side tales. Show some restraint.”
“I’m sorry, sir. Forgive me. When a man loses something he truly loves, his mind loses all sense. I’m not in my senses. I’ll explain properly now.”
“The head bore a hint of rust and ash, often wrapped in a cloth. A long neck… with a curve so graceful, you’d think you were gazing at a mountain from afar. Yes… exactly like that. And and beneath that neck — a full, solid form. Forgive me, sir… but even the most innocent intentions would crumble. Even someone who’s never touched or seen it would fall. How many such things can one truly possess in a lifetime?”
The room fell silent. Both the Thanedar and the sketch artist, Shahid, sat in thoughtful quiet.
Qudoos spoke again, softly:
“Even if I achieve everything else in life… what meaning would it have if I don’t find her again?” Thanedar glanced at Shahid and muttered, “Alright, alright… that’s detailed enough.” Shahid gave a subtle nod and began sketching.
Turning back to Qudoos, the officer asked, “Now tell us — when was the last time you saw her? When did you realize she was missing?”
Qudoos placed a trembling hand on his forehead, then buried his face in his arms. He let out a long breath, like a man tired of life itself. Tears shimmered in his eyes. “Like every other night… I collected a few coins near the red light, then headed back under the flyover. I saw her there — she saw me too. Men around her were eyeing her hungrily. I couldn’t bear it. I brought her with me. A kind soul had given me some leftover roti and sabzi in a plastic bag. I ate that and had a puff or two from a leftover bidi. Then… I kept her close, very close and I felt asleep. But when I woke up in the morning… she was gone. I… I had lost her.”
As he finished, Qudoos broke down again. The tears wouldn’t stop.
The Thanedar — tough on the outside, but a tender, humane man within — couldn’t bear to see him like this. He reached toward the bell to summon water when the constable walked in, distracted with paperwork. The constable without glancing at Qudoos, he said briskly, “Thanedar Sir, the liquor bottles we seized from the homeless under the flyover last night — the municipality has sent a bulldozer to crush them. Should I begin the operation with your permission?”
At those words, Qudoos froze. His world collapsed. The memory of what he had lost flashed vividly before his eyes. The sealed bottle of liquor… that he had kept by his side as he fell asleep… Tears dropped from his eyes again, and in a hoarse, broken voice, he whispered:
“My judge… is my culprit.”
And with that, Qudoos fainted. The Thanedar, stunned, turned to look at Shahid’s sketch. There, on the canvas, was the image of a liquor bottle. In shame, he lowered his head.
Author: Moomin Maqbool