They all said in one voice, ‘We will, we will.’ And the lorry drove away. Sirajuddin prayed once again for their success and his heart was a little lighter.
Towards evening, there was a disturbance in the camp near where Sirajuddin sat. Four men were bringing something in. He made enquiries and discovered that a girl had been found unconscious near the rail tracks; she was being brought in now. Sirajuddin set off behind them. The people handed her over to the hospital and left.
Sirajuddin stood still outside the hospital beside a wooden pole. Then slowly, he went in. There was no one in the dark room, just a stretcher with a body on it. Sirajuddin approached, taking small steps. Suddenly, the room lit up. Sirajuddin saw a mole on the pale face of the body, and cried, ‘Sakina!’
The doctor who had turned on the lights said to Sirajuddin, ‘What is it?’
Sirajuddin managed only to say, ‘Sir, I’m… sir, I’m… I’m her father.’
The doctor looked at the body on the stretcher. He checked its pulse and said to Sirajuddin, ‘The window, open it!’
At the sound of the words, Sakina’s corpse moved. Her dead hands undid her salwar and lowered it. Old Sirajuddin cried with happiness, ‘She’s alive, my daughter’s alive!’
The doctor was drenched from head to toe in sweat.
* A town in the North West Frontier Province.
Khaled Mian
Mumtaz had taken to rising early and sweeping all three rooms of his house. He made sure he removed cigarette butts, burnt matchsticks and things of this kind from every nook and cranny in the house. When all three rooms had been cleaned, he breathed a sigh of satisfaction.
His wife was asleep outside in the courtyard. The child was in his crib.
The reason Mumtaz had taken to rising early and sweeping the house’s three rooms himself was that his son, Khaled, had just started walking. And, like all children at that age, he picked up whatever came his way and put it in his mouth.
It never failed to surprise Mumtaz that despite cleaning the entire house himself every day, and with great care, Khaled, his firstborn who was not yet a year old, would always find something or the other — a flake of plaster with dirt and dust sticking to it — to pick up with his tiny nails.
Mumtaz had become obsessed with cleanliness. If ever he saw Khaled pick something up off the floor and put it in his mouth, he would chide himself with all his heart — why had he been so careless?
He didn’t love Khaled; he adored him. But as Khaled’s first birthday approached, Mumtaz felt a dark fear grow into something of a conviction that his son would die before he was one.
He had mentioned this foreboding to his wife. Mumtaz was famous for not believing in such superstitions. So when his wife first heard of it, she said, ‘You? And these kinds of fears? By God’s goodwill, our son will live to be a hundred. I’ve made arrangements for his first birthday that will leave you speechless.’
Hearing this, Mumtaz felt a kind of jolt in his heart. Of course he wanted his son to live, but how could he rid himself of his fear?
Khaled was in excellent health. One day in winter, after he had returned from taking Khaled for a walk, the servant said to Mumtaz’s wife, ‘Begum saab, you mustn’t put rouge on Khaled mian’s cheeks; someone will put the evil eye on him.’ His wife laughed loudly when she heard this. ‘You fool, what need is there for me to put rouge on his cheeks when, mashallah, they are naturally so red?’
In winter, Khaled’s cheeks had been red, but now in summer, they seemed somewhat sallow. He was very fond of water. Before going to the office, Mumtaz would stand him in a bucket of water. Khaled would stay there at length, splashing about and spraying water all around him. It made Mumtaz and his wife very happy to see him, except that with Mumtaz now, his happiness was obscured by a cloud of sadness. He would think, ‘God, may my wife be right! Why am I possessed with this fear of his death? Why has this dread that he will die crept into my heart? Why will he die? He’s a happy, healthy kid, many times healthier than other kids his age. I must be going mad. It’s my excessive love for this child that’s causing this fear. But why do I love him so much? Do all fathers love their children in this way? Does every father live with the fear that his child will die? What the hell has happened to me?’
After Mumtaz had swept all three rooms thoroughly, he liked to put a mat on the floor and lie down. After sweeping, especially in the summer, he would rest for half an hour without a pillow. This was how he relaxed.
Lying down today, he thought, ‘The day after tomorrow is my child’s first birthday. If it passes safely, without incident, I know the weight on my chest will lift. My fears will become a distant thing. O God, it’s all in your hands.’
His eyes were closed when suddenly he felt a weight land on his bare chest. He opened his eyes to find it was Khaled. His wife stood nearby. She said that Khaled had been restless all night; he had shivered in his sleep as though from fear; he now lay trembling on Mumtaz’s chest. Placing his hand on him, Mumtaz said, ‘God, be my son’s protector.’
His wife’s voice rose with anger, ‘God forbid! You’re consumed by these fears. It’s only a light fever, you know. God willing, it will go.’
She said this and left the room. Very gently, and with great love, Mumtaz began to stroke Khaled, who lay face down on his chest, shivering from time to time in his sleep. The stroking woke Khaled. He opened his big black eyes slowly and smiled when he saw his father. Mumtaz kissed him. ‘What’s the matter, Khaled. Why are you trembling?’ Khaled dropped his head on his father’s chest. Mumtaz began to stroke him lightly again. Silently, and with all his heart, he prayed that his son would live long.
His wife had made big preparations for Khaled’s first birthday. She had invited all her friends. She had had the tailor stitch clothes especially for the birthday. The menu and a great deal more had already been planned. Mumtaz didn’t like all this pomp. He would have preferred for no one to know, and for the birthday to pass, and for his son to turn one even without him remembering it. He only wanted to be aware of it once Khaled was a few days past the one year mark.
Khaled rose from his father’s chest. Mumtaz, his voice filled with affection, said, ‘Khaled, won’t you get up and greet your father?’
Khaled smiled, and raising his hand, touched it to his forehead. Mumtaz blessed him. ‘May you live long.’ But as soon as he said it, he felt that painful foreboding in his heart again, and felt himself submerged in a sea of sorrow.
Khaled went out of the room. There was still some time before Mumtaz had to leave for the office. He continued to lie on the mat, determined to ease the dread in his heart and mind. Suddenly, he heard his wife’s alarmed voice in the courtyard: ‘Mumtaz saab, Mumtaz saab! Come here!’
Mumtaz rose with a start and ran out. His wife stood outside the bathroom, holding Khaled, who twisted and turned in her arms. Mumtaz took Khaled into his arms and demanded to know what had happened. His wife, her voice thick with fear, said, ‘I don’t know. He was playing in the water. I was cleaning his nose and he suddenly had a fit.’
Khaled twisted in Mumtaz’s arms as though someone was squeezing him like a piece of wet cloth. Mumtaz laid him down on the bed; both husband and wife were gripped by terror. Khaled lay shaking and the two of them, half out of their wits, didn’t know if they should caress him, kiss him or sprinkle water on him. His convulsions just wouldn’t subside.
After some time, when the fit did subside, and Khaled lost consciousness, Mumtaz believed he had died. Turning to his wife, he said quietly, ‘He’s gone.’
‘The devil be cursed!’ she shrieked. ‘What things come out of your mouth? He’s had a convulsion — it’s over; he’ll be fine any minute now.’