Khaled opened his large, black eyes, now tired and drooping, and looked at his father. Mumtaz’s world revived. ‘Khaled, my son, what was that? What happened to you?’ he asked anxiously. A wan smile appeared on Khaled’s face. Mumtaz lifted him up in his arms and took him into the room. He was about to lay him down when the second convulsion came. Again, Khaled started to twist and turn as though seized by an epileptic fit. So strong was this convulsion that Mumtaz felt that instead of Khaled, he himself was in its grip.
The second fit ended; Khaled wilted further. His big black eyes were sunken. Mumtaz began talking to him.
‘Khaled, my son, what is this that keeps happening to you?’
‘Khaled mian, get up, no? Move about.’
‘Will Khaled have some butter?’
Khaled loved butter, but even this evoked no reaction. When Mumtaz asked if he’d have his favourite sweets, he weakly shook his head to say no. Mumtaz smiled and clutched him to his chest. Then handing him over to his wife, he said, ‘Take care of him. I’m going to go and get a doctor.’
When he returned with the doctor, he found his wife out of her wits. In his absence, Khaled had had three more fits. They had left him almost lifeless. But the doctor saw Khaled and said that there was no cause for worry. ‘Children routinely have convulsions of this kind. It’s because they’re teething, and sometimes, if there are worms in the stomach, that can also be a cause. I’ll write you a prescription; it’ll give him some rest. His fever’s not high. You mustn’t worry at all.’
Mumtaz took the day off from work and sat by Khaled’s side all day. After the doctor left, the child had two more fits. After that he lay there unmoving. By evening, Mumtaz thought, ‘Perhaps now we’ve seen God’s mercy. There have been no convulsions for quite some time. May the Lord let the night pass like this too.’
Mumtaz’s wife was relieved too. ‘If the Lord wishes it, tomorrow my Khaled will be up and running about.’ Khaled had to be given his medicine at fixed times through the night. Out of fear of falling asleep, Mumtaz didn’t lie down in bed, but put an armchair near Khaled’s crib and sat up. He stayed up all night as Khaled was restless. He would tremble and wake up repeatedly; his fever was high too.
In the morning, when Mumtaz took Khaled’s temperature, it was a hundred and four degrees. The doctor was called. He said, ‘There’s no cause for worry. He has bronchitis. I’ll write out a prescription. He’ll feel better in three or four days.’
The doctor wrote out the prescription and left. Mumtaz had the medicine prepared. He gave Khaled one dose, but Khaled did not feel any better. At about ten o’clock, Mumtaz called a more renowned doctor. He examined Khaled closely and reassured them, saying there was no cause for concern. Everything would be fine.
Everything was not fine. The renowned doctor’s medicine had no effect; Khaled’s fever continued to rise. Mumtaz’s servant said, ‘Saab, this is no illness. Khaled mian has come under someone’s evil eye. I’ll go and have a protective charm made. By God’s will, it’ll take effect.’
Sacred water from seven wells was collected. The charm was dissolved in it and given to Khaled. It had no effect. A neighbour came over. She prescribed a Unani medicine; Mumtaz went out and bought it, but in the end didn’t give it to Khaled. In the evening, a relative of Mumtaz’s came over and brought another doctor with him. The doctor looked at Khaled and said he had malaria. ‘The fever only ever gets so high when it’s malaria. Give an ice water compress; I’ll give him a quinine injection.’
With the cold compress, the fever instantly came down to ninety eight degrees. Mumtaz and his wife were relieved, but soon it rose even higher. Mumtaz took Khaled’s temperature; it had risen to a hundred and six degrees.
The neighbour came, and looking gloomily at Khaled, said to Mumtaz, ‘I am sure the vertebrae in his neck have broken.’
Mumtaz and his wife’s spirits sank. Mumtaz called the hospital from the warehouse below. The hospital asked him to bring the patient across. Mumtaz sent for a horse carriage, and taking Khaled in his arms, set out with his wife for the hospital. Mumtaz had been drinking water all day, but he was still thirsty. On the way to the hospital, his throat became unbearably parched. He thought he would stop in a shop and have a glass of water. But, God knows from where, a sense of foreboding suddenly took hold of him. ‘Look, if you drink water,’ it seemed to say, ‘your Khaled will die.’
Mumtaz’s throat became bone dry, but he didn’t drink any water. When the carriage came near the hospital, he lit a cigarette. He had taken only two drags when he suddenly threw it away. A thought echoed in his mind: ‘Mumtaz, don’t smoke a cigarette; your child will die.’ Mumtaz stopped the carriage; he thought, ‘What is this stupidity? These fears are futile; what calamity can come to the child from my smoking a cigarette?’
He got off the carriage and picked up the cigarette from the street. He had got back into the carriage, and was just about to take a drag, when some unknown power stopped him. ‘No, Mumtaz, don’t do this; Khaled will die.’
Mumtaz violently threw the cigarette away. The coachman stared wide-eyed at him. Mumtaz felt he could read his mind and was mocking him. He said defensively, ‘It was bad, the cigarette.’ Saying this, he took a new cigarette out of his pocket. He wanted to light it, but was scared. His mind was in turmoiclass="underline" his reason told him that his superstitions were futile, but another voice, another power, overran his logic.
The carriage went through the hospital gates and Mumtaz put the cigarette out with his fingers and threw it away. He felt wretched at the thought of being enslaved by his fears. The men at the hospital admitted Khaled immediately. The doctor looked at Khaled and said, ‘It’s bronchial pneumonia; his condition is critical.’
Khaled was unconscious. His mother sat at the head of his bed looking at him, her eyes filled with despair. The room had an attached bathroom. Mumtaz felt great thirst. He turned on the tap and started to drink from his cupped hand when that same dread returned to his mind: ‘Mumtaz, what are you doing? Don’t drink water. Your Khaled will die.’
Mumtaz ignored his fear and drank so much water that his stomach bloated. Once he’d quenched his thirst, he came out of the bathroom into the room where Khaled lay, withered and unconscious on the hospital’s iron bed. Mumtaz wanted to escape; to lose consciousness; for Khaled to recover and for the pneumonia to take hold of him instead.
Mumtaz noticed that Khaled was paler than before. He thought, ‘This is all the result of my having drunk water… If I hadn’t drunk water, Khaled’s condition would definitely have improved.’ He felt terrible remorse. He cursed himself, but even as he did so, he felt that the person thinking these thoughts was not him, but somebody else. Who was this somebody else? Why did this person’s mind manufacture these fears? He was thirsty; he drank water. What effect could that have on Khaled? Khaled would surely recover. Day after tomorrow was his birthday. God willing, it would be celebrated with great pomp.
But presently his heart sank. A voice told him that Khaled would not live to turn one. Mumtaz wished he could tear its tongue from the root. But the voice came from no place other than his own mind; Lord knows how it came and why.
Tormented by his fears, Mumtaz remonstrated with himself: ‘For God’s sake, have mercy on me! Why have you chosen a poor soul like me to cling to?’
Evening fell. Many doctors had examined Khaled. Medicines had been given; many injections administered, but Khaled remained unconscious. All of a sudden, a voice rang in Mumtaz’s head, telling him to leave the hospital room, to go away immediately or Khaled would die.