RAJA GIDH: Professor’s Smile, Vulture’s Hunger: Unfinished Lessons from Bano Qudsia

 

I loved reading books, and there were some books that were also read by my father. I read both English and Urdu literature and novels; there was one such book that stood out: *Raja Gidh* (Vulture King) by Bano Qudsia.

The story began with the strange, unprecedented bond between a hunter and a vulture. The hunter, trapped upside down in his own snare, hung helplessly. The vulture, drawn by instinct and perhaps something deeper, tried to save him—pecking at the knots, hoping to release the man. But in the struggle, it tasted his blood. That single drop awakened something irreversible. From then on, the vulture's nature shifted; the line between help and hunger blurred forever.

The novel then unfolds as a powerful metaphor for romantic realism—how a man, deeply and almost mystically in love, wishes only to remain by his beloved's side, even when that desire begins to devour everything pure within him. The vulture becomes the symbol of *ḥarām* desires that masquerade as devotion, slowly poisoning the soul. By the end of the book, my curiosity wasn't resolved; the questions lingered: How does one recognize when love has turned into consumption? Why do we sometimes crave what destroys us? The story refused to give easy answers, and that silence haunted me for years.

Then came marriage, and life shifted from pages to people. In our Karachi neighborhood, there lived a man named Aliyas—Professor Aliyas, teaching literature at a nearby college. Everyone spoke of him with respect. Soft-spoken, always ready with a smile or a salaam, he seemed the very picture of righteousness. Neighbors borrowed books from him; students admired his lectures on ethics and poetry. He was the kind of man you trusted with your daughters' futures.

But rumors, quiet at first, began to spread like smoke through narrow lanes. Whispers of harassment. Threats. A college-going girl who had once walked past our street with confidence now hurried with her head down. I had met her a few times before any of this surfaced—her name was Meher. She was friendly, energetic, the kind of girl whose eyes literally sparked light when she laughed at something small. She would wave hello even if we had only exchanged two sentences. That light dimmed after the incident.

I saw her one afternoon near the corner shop. She looked smaller somehow, shoulders hunched, fingers twisting the dupatta's edge nervously. Our eyes met for a second, and I felt it—like reading a page I didn't want to understand. Fear. Shame. A desperate plea she couldn't voice. She needed help. She needed someone to believe her without demanding proof first.

I couldn't gather the courage to ask. What would I even say? "Are you okay?" felt too hollow. The words stuck in my throat like dry roti. Her parents were in a fragile state—barely holding the household together, terrified of what the mohalla would say if they spoke openly. In our world, silence is often the only shield left.

Weeks passed. The rumors grew louder, then strangely quiet. Professor Aliyas continued his walks, his greetings unchanged. But I began noticing small things: how Meher no longer came to the lane alone, how her mother now accompanied her everywhere, eyes scanning every face. One evening, I overheard two aunties at the water tank murmuring, "He offered to help with her admissions… said he knew people… but look what happened." The sentence trailed off, unfinished, like so many truths here.

Months later, Meher left for another city—some said for higher studies, others whispered it was escape. She never returned to the neighborhood. Professor Aliyas stayed. Life moved on, as it cruelly does. The respected man remained respected; the girl who once sparkled became a story people stopped telling aloud.

And in those quiet nights, when the house slept, *Raja Gidh* returned to me. I finally understood what Bano Qudsia had left unanswered. The vulture doesn't always look monstrous. Sometimes it wears the face of a gentle professor, a helpful neighbor, a trusted elder. It approaches with concern, with promises, with the appearance of care. It pecks gently at first—offers guidance, attention, protection. But once it tastes vulnerability, the hunger awakens. What began as "help" becomes possession, control, violation. And the worst part? The vulture never sees itself as the predator. It believes it is still trying to untie the knots.

I never confronted Aliyas. I never spoke to Meher again. But every time I pass that corner shop, or see a girl walking with that same spark in her eyes, I remember. I remember that the real horror isn't just the act—it's how easily we let the vulture stay perched among us, calling it a king.

Some stories, like *Raja Gidh*, don't end on the last page. They continue in real lanes, in silenced eyes, in the courage we fail to find. And perhaps that's the cruelest lesson of all: sometimes the vulture wins not because it's strong, but because we refuse to name it.