Story Overview:

“Andha Kunwan” (“Blind Well”) tells the story of an old man abandoned by his children and left to dwell in a house that feels as empty and lifeless as a dry well. Isolated from friends and society, he is haunted by shadows, unsettling dreams, and the ominous presence of crows and ravens—symbols of death and despair. The narrative follows his internal struggle as he grapples with loneliness, existential questions, and the painful realisation that even those closest to him have left in pursuit of their own lives.

The story’s central symbol, the dry well, powerfully captures the protagonist’s emotional and spiritual emptiness. Through surreal imagery and introspective dialogue, the tale explores themes of abandonment, the search for meaning, and the suffocating effects of isolation. In the end, the relentless cawing of the ravens and the sense of dissolution reinforce the tragic consequences of a life devoid of connection, leaving the protagonist—and the reader—confronting the universal fear of being forgotten and alone.

(For a detailed story overview with themes and symbolism, click here.)

Blind Well (‘Andha Kunwan’)

Dark, formidable shadows had again started creeping, as usual. Though he had turned on the lights of all the rooms in the house, he constantly felt that those shadows would in a moment swallow his own existence, like a blood-thirsty dragon. And he would fall silently into an anonymous dry well, even though his own house itself was like one, where he kept on rising and falling day in and day out. He felt as if someone was treading softly on the doorpost of his house, calling him out.

Who, in any way, would care to call him? No one knew him by name. He had neither friends nor sympathisers.

Now, when his own children had left him alone, on the pretext of seeking out a bright future for themselves, how could he complain about others, except that they were also selfish like his sons?

No! No! Not all of his friends were such that he would utter imprecations on them, and sneak into another room when they came to meet him. He wouldn’t escape away, for if they ever reached even there and seized him, being worn out, he would flutter feebly like a wounded bird, and they… No, he wouldn’t flee.

He came out of his room and found a jet-black raven lying dead in his courtyard, and thousands of ugly crows were perched on the walls, shrieking. Perhaps they were wailing, or complaining, or shouting and protesting, as it were. But what had he, in any way, to do with either their complaints or protests?

Nothing! The noise, nevertheless, was growing louder.

It was a deadly noise. But, oh, look at those ravens! Where were they taking their dead buddy, holding it between their bills?

His courtyard was now overshadowed by stony silence. As he walked down, a sudden hush fell over the place, as if suddenly the wind had dropped, and the streets had become deserted. He felt he saw an apparition at his door. Who could be standing there, at that hour, hanging on to the sill of his ailing doors?

There was no one there, to be sure. It was his delusion. But he was still able to spot him. He even saw his frozen lips quivering slowly, looking as though passing through an agony, an ordeal. But why was he sticking to that pillar? Wasn’t he, too, waiting for those hideous, jet black ravens, which would press him between their sharp beaks, and take him away, far away?

‘Oh, no! This is only a dream.’

‘Is anyone calling out?’

‘Who would be calling at this hour of the night?’

Struck by the storm, the rising voices hanging up like a roof over him had long since caved in. What remained there now was a ruin – utterly, devastated, like a graveyard. However, in the past, people would come out searching for water, even in ruins. Where had those people disappeared now? ‘I have become rather tired of looking
for them. When even my children couldn’t become my staff in my prime of life, why rest hope in others. . . .’

He felt that those very people, those sprightly people, who had come looking for water, were his sons, his own children. Otherwise, who would visit this wilderness? But where was the water? I had already turned into a dry well. Why else would anybody care to come to his house to cast a glance at him?

He couldn’t fathom why his house that was once upon a time, a house of lights, was plunged into creepy, inky darkness! Wasn’t it strange? How long should he go on living a life of suffocation? Just how long?

The man refused to speak out. Who had forbidden him to speak? No one, perhaps. So, why had he wrapped himself in the cloak of silence? He could have ripped the dumb cloak to pieces. But he didn’t. Perhaps, he was going to strip himself naked. Why else, therefore, should he tear his cloak? Any reason, any motive?

None, whatsoever!

It was certainly wrong of him to think so despairingly. In that case, what was the right thing to do? Nothing was correct. And yet, everything was correct and proper.

There, however, must be something in between, some way out, some link, some destination, or even something that connects.

Destinations cannot be reached through roads, and roads do not necessarily have any destinations.

‘Has anybody called me out?’

‘No. . . . Not at all.’

‘Where then is the voice coming from?’

‘Voice . . . ?’

‘What voice?’

‘Voices do not have names.’

‘They must have some associations, then?’

Hasn’t the man died, standing on the doorpost?

But why would he choose to die in the wilderness? Wasn’t there any roof for him anywhere, where he would go and…. Oh, the voice again… the clamour! Wasn’t another jet black raven lying dead in his courtyard?

Again that shrieking “caw caw”.. that deadening noise.. those scattered grains.. those plucked out feathers.. what’s all that? Nothing, it was nothing. It was only a delusion, a dream.

‘Can anyone dream while wide awake?’

Oh, yes, one can. Certainly, one can.

‘Was I dreaming or waking?’

‘The one who said this had long ago. . . .’

‘I don’t know anything about it.’

‘When would this curtain of secrecy finally rise?’

‘What curtain? What secrecy?’

‘That, which stands between us.’

‘But it was only me here, or my existence, surviving among all those tattered, wounded curtains of my house.

How did you come wandering here? All the ways to the house were closed.’

‘They were closed for you, not for me.’

‘Wandering, perhaps, is a sign of wisdom.’

‘Why? What do you mean by ‘wandering’?’

‘It is the revival of the self. It could be yours as well.’

‘Mine?’

‘Oh yes, yours. Didn’t you say a few moments ago that all the curtains of your house were ripped into shreds? And didn’t you say you found your lone existence surrounded helplessly by them?’

‘Yes, I said that. And I didn’t deny it. Did I?’

‘No, you didn’t deny. Do you then accept that you haven’t lived a life of denial, and deny accepting the fact that the traumatic truth of your existence is your destiny?’

‘I do not want to get snared in the riddle of words. You are tormenting me without any rhyme or reason. For God’s sake, get away from here!’

‘Why do you get so embarrassed, so quickly?’

‘Can the one who has drunk the bitter poison of truth be embarrassed by anyone?’

‘But I can see clearly that you are ill at ease with me.’

‘Perhaps you drank the poison once only.’

‘I taste this bitter poison of truth every day; nay, drink it, like a cold beverage, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly, and sometimes greedily.’

‘But you are still alive, even after that?’

‘Can’t you see? I am standing here before you. Feel me. Search me. How else would you pull out water and drink it, unless you throw the pail in the well?’

‘I am the thirsty one for whom the well itself comes sauntering every day and my thirst. . .’

‘But it seems your thirst is yet not quenched. You appear to be thirsty for ages.’

‘Have you come here to say bitter and stinging things to me?’

‘Yes. But these are just veils. Behind every veil, there is a reality, and every reality is covered by a veil.’

‘What do you want to say?’

‘Nothing. I have already said what I had to say. I am now myself an overflowing bowl. Just like you.’

‘But what’s that?’

The same uproar, the same deadening and revolting sounds.

“Caw . . . caw . . . caw . . . caw . . .”

He felt as though numberless ugly jet black ravens had gathered from all around the world, and were flying towards an unknown direction, pressing all the pieces of his existence between their beaks!

***

Read the original text in Urdu