Tunnel Vision

by Shandana Minhas

  ‘You,’ he barked at Adil, ‘get your mother out of this hospital now!’

  ‘It was all your fault!’ I could still hear my mother screaming, ‘he left because of you! Saad will never marry you if he knows! I’ll tell him! He’s only put you in here because it’s payment for services rendered. Good thing you’ve been sleeping with a rich man for a change!’

  The door swung shut and cut her off. The only sound in the room was the humming of the air conditioner, and the sound of my heart racing on the cardiac monitor.

  ‘Mothers!’ Dr Shafiq sighed as he put my canola back in and fixed my drip, ‘sometimes I wish everyone was a test-tube baby.’

  A nurse came in and stood waiting for instructions.

  ‘She needs an immediate X-ray,’ he said, ‘she might have a broken rib.’ The nurse rushed off, a study in speed.

  ‘Don’t you just love efficiency after the fact …’ Dr Shafiq leaned across and straightened the sheet over me.

  ‘Now I think you can hear me. I think you might have heard your mother too. I’m not a psychiatrist, but I can tell you your mother is a sick woman. You’re a smart girl. I can tell. You know she’s not well. I want you to try and think of things that are pleasant, full of love. Think of nothing except your future and all the things that will bring you joy in it. Focus. Find peace.’

  He kept talking, crooning almost, till my heartbeat slowed down, down, down, then began to look worried as it dropped further, jabbed the call button. More nurses flooded in, bustling and scurrying around me, I, the body in the centre of it, a little dot of trouble enveloping yet more people into its poisonous circumference.

  I looked away for the last time from living colour; looked for black. I was ready.

  I found black. Let everything go. There was a sound in my ears, the thunder of a thousand locomotives passing at speed. It faded.There was only my awareness of myself. I could see nothing. No Ammi, no Adil, no doctor, no father, no Omar, no Mamu, no Saad. Was this it? Too good for hell but not good enough for heaven? Condemned to God’s waiting room, to bide my time in silence until my number was called? It figured.

  BLAME IT ON AL-QAEDA

  SLOGAN ON POPULAR T-SHIRT

  ~

  ‘Why?’ It began with a voice. A child’s voice. I thought it was my own.

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why do you want to die?’

  ‘Because I don’t want to suffer anymore.’

  ‘What brings you suffering?’

  ‘Everything. Everyone.’

  ‘Your mother?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Adil?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Saad?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Your mamu and mumani?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Your job?’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘Your father?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about him.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I just don’t, okay?’ The answer was almost wrenched from me, escaping through clenched teeth.

  ‘If you don’t want to talk about him just yet, that’s okay,’ there was a pregnant pause, ‘I can wait.We have all the time in the world.’

  ‘It might not be time enough.’

  ‘Yes it will.’

  ‘You sound like my mother.’

  ‘Yes,’ the sparkly voice laughed, ‘you do sound like your mother sometimes.’

  ‘I don’t want to think about my mother.’

  ‘Why don’t you think about your mother laughing?’

  My mother laughing. My mother used to laugh a lot: in the morning getting out of bed, in the kitchen making aloo ka parathas, on evening scooter rides as the wind played with her hair, at the table ladling food to her brood. She had a laugh that tinkled, pealed, reverberated, depending on the occasion. I remember her beaming face gazing down at me when I was a child in bed. I remember looking through my bedroom door left slightly ajar so the hallway light would comfort me and watching Abba corner her in the doorway and gently brush her hair behind her ears. Her eyes suffused with the glow of a thousand moons, she had laughed softly.

  My mother laughing like a lively, loving woman. When did the placid lake turn to white water?

  My mother laughing at the faces I was pulling while she braided my hair in the morning before school. She wielded the comb deftly, parting, separating, and plaiting all in a continuous motion. Abba appeared in the doorway, briefcase in hand.

  ‘Hurry up Jahan,’ he said brusquely, ‘isn’t the girl ready yet?’

  ‘Nearly done, nearly done. What’s your hurry? It isn’t time yet.’

  ‘I have to be at work early. Important meeting. Which reminds me, we expect it to go on late, so don’t wait for me for dinner, okay?’

  ‘That’s the third time this week?’ she protested, pulling a rubber band over one braid.

  ‘Is it? I don’t have time to count such unimportant things.’

  ‘Of course not. You’re such a busy man after all,’ there had been no hint of irony in her voice, ‘but thank you for telling me.’

  ‘No problem. I just didn’t want you worrying about where I was, that’s all.’

  ‘Why would I worry about that?’ She finished the other braid, patted my shoulder in the signal to get up, and rose to face Abba in the doorway, ‘I know work is the only thing that would keep you away from us.’

  ‘Well, not the only thing,’ Abba grinned, ‘there’s cricket too.’

  ‘The Pakistani man’s best friend. Well don’t get too friendly with the cricket, sir, because I don’t think I can compete with two other mistresses.’

  ‘What are you talking about? I only said cricket,’ Abba seemed flustered.’ Look at the time, got to go,’ he mumbled and rushed off.

  ‘Listen!’ Ammi followed him to the door to yell.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t forget your daughter,’ she pecked me on the cheek

  and sent me after him. As I looked back before Ammi closed the front door she was gazing after us, not laughing any more.

  PAPPU AUR MUNNI KI GADI

  BACK OF RICKSHAW

  ~

  ‘Always be pleasant when parting,’ she used to tell me repeatedly when I was a little girl, ‘smile, because that might be the last time you see the person you’re taking leave of.’

  ‘Because they might have to move suddenly,’ my mind did the math, ‘or because I could die?’

  ‘Don’t be morbid child,’ she kissed me goodnight.

  My mother used to kiss me a lot. Later of course, it seemed my skin was acid to her.

  We were a social family when there was just the three of us, going out at least once a week, driving along briskly on Abba’s scooter. Ammi sidesaddle in her sari, a fresh flower in her hair, and me tucked safely between Abba’s legs in front, a smaller flower in mine. The Queen of the Night and her sidekick, my father would laugh a lot as he would watch us getting ready. Actually it was more Ammi getting ready and my mimicking her by her side, a small but determined mirror image.

  We were regulars at the annual mushairas at one of Karachi’s landmark parks. I would be dragged along because there was no one ‘reliable’ to leave me with; the two Mamus, it was decided, really wouldn’t know what to do with a little girl. I didn’t mind, the late return usually meant I was allowed to skip school in the morning, the culture I was held to have soaked up the night before more than compensating for a temporary lack of arithmetic or grammar. Besides, even to a six-year-old, the mushairas at the Park were awe-inspiring spectacles.

  A tide of humanity would sweep across the grounds and lap gently at the edges of the stage, where eminent poets, poetesses and writers would vie, always politely, for the audience’s affections. It was a fight, even I understood that, albeit a civilized one, and verse was their weapon. The audience sat in thrall to their delivery of ghazals, couplets, satire, etc. and ‘wahs’ and ‘bahut-khubs’ would often erupt simultaneously from many, sounding l
ike a collective polite cleaning of throats, or the honking of a flock of cultured geese.

  While all eyes were inevitably glued to the stage or closed when someone recited, my mother would draw many admiring (and resentful) glances in between. There were women as attractive, even prettier, but it was the way she held herself. Her confidence made her stand out in any crowd, whether she was dressed in a Banarasi sari with jasmine in her hair or a hideous butterfly shalwar with a spot on her kameez.

  Forced to sit still, reminded of the invisible ball and chain of propriety by a hand in the small of my back, I would begin the evening sitting in front of my parents on the sheets spread on the ground and end it lolling back on Ammi’s lap, lulled to sleep by the gentle rhythm of words I mostly didn’t understand. Sometimes Ammi and Abba would take my closed eyes as evidence of sleep and talk to each other in a manner unfamiliar and bewitching to me.

  ‘You’re radiant tonight, Jahan. I can’t remember the last time I saw you glow like this.’

  ‘It’s just the light from that spotlight reflected in the oil of my skin.’

  ‘You look even prettier when you smile like that. Almost irresistible.’

  ‘Why almost?’

  ‘We are in a public place.’

  ‘Surrounded by other couples as a woman speaks of love.’

  ‘You’re right. The present company would probably empathize.’

  I heard a rustle as he covered Ammi’s hand with his. She sighed happily.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing, I’m just so happy I thought I’d explode if I didn’t let some of it out.’

  ‘All that simply by my holding your hand?’

  ‘I guess I’m not the only irresistible one here.’

  ‘You’re right. There’s Ayesha.’

  They both laughed softly. I heard another rustle a moment later, then the familiar aroma of burning tobacco filled my nostrils, Abba had removed his hand and lit a cigarette. Ammi’s other hand, entwined in my hair as my head rested on her lap, begin to tug insistently at it till I thought some would be pulled out by its roots. I whimpered in pain but kept my eyes closed, not wanting them to know I was awake.

  ‘What’s the matter with the child?’ Abba asked.

  ‘Bad dream probably,’ Ammi removed her hands from my hair and patted my cheek gently. ‘Let’s go home?’ There was a question in there, a plaintive, pleading tone.

  ‘I thought you wanted to hear Tehmina Bano?’

  ‘I did, but I feel tired suddenly.’

  ‘Okay. We’ll leave in a little while. I like the next one.’

  On the stage, a woman spoke of love being bondage, lamenting the heartlessness of the indifferent other. I fell asleep eventually and dreamt of being chased by a crowd of angry pajamas.

  MAIN BARA HO KAR COROLLA BANOONGA

  BACK OF RICKSHAW.

  ~

  She wasn’t afraid of anything once, my now cowardly mother who ran from buses and only assaulted the comatose. She would tackle anyone or anything if she felt those she loved were endangered, and sometimes just for the ‘principle of the thing’. What she detested most, right up there with bad manners and sloppy kitchens, was a bully.

  One Eid she sent me out to play with the other kids in the street as she tackled the vermicelli. It was a particularly exciting time to be out, because the iron-boat man would be doing his annual round. The iron boat was exactly that. An iron swing in the shape of a boat, with seating for eight and wheels, pushed around by an old taciturn man who was eloquent about correct change but concerned with little else. The boat appeared around the corner as it usually did, but this time a younger man was pushing it.

  ‘Where’s the Baba?’ one of the bigger kids went and asked.

  ‘He won’t be coming anymore.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because he’s too old and weak to be pushing this thing and dealing with nosy kids like you.’

  ‘Are you going to charge the same?’ The boy was unfazed.

  ‘How much did he charge you?’

  ‘How much will you charge us?’

  ‘Take the first ride and find out. You’ll understand why it’s worth more when I’m pushing.’

  I was one of the first to clamber aboard, making sure to raise the back of my yellow silk kurta before sitting down so it wouldn’t get soiled.Then the man began pushing and all thoughts of kurtas tumbled from my head.

  The old man had been a gentle captain, never pushing too hard so that, even in such a rickety contraption, we felt safe as we glided back and forth over the same patch of street without a safety net of any sort. The new owner obviously couldn’t be bothered with safety, and by the fourth push when he had real momentum going, the prow of the boat reared above the frame on each upswing, and everyone aboard was screaming. Another girl started yelling to be let off, but he ignored her. It wasn’t until I puked and physics hurled my breakfast all over the back of the boat, and the kids in it, that he stopped.

  ‘You filthy little runt,’ he ground his teeth in my face as he stopped the ride and yanked me off, holding me at arm’s length like the noxious rag I had become, ‘look what you’ve done to my boat.’

  I couldn’t speak, just blubbered. The bile still rose in my throat and I could feel vomit in my nostrils.

  ‘I should make you clean it up.’

  ‘No, no,’ I shook my head mutely and held out a five rupee note, hoping he would take my fee and let me go.

  He slid the note into his pocket, ‘But I’ll just keep all your money instead.’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ the brazen boy was already recovering from the ride, ‘you’re cheating her.’

  ‘No I’m not. The extra will buy a cloth to clean up this mess with.’

  ‘You already have a cloth over your shoulder.’

  ‘It won’t be much use after this gunk is gone, will it? Now keep quiet if you want another ride.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Scared, are you?’

  ‘I’m not scared. I just think you’re not a nice man.’

  ‘Say what you like. You talk like a lion but behave like a mouse.’

  ‘Your ride doesn’t scare me.’

  ‘Then you can go again.’

  ‘I don’t have any more money.’

  ‘That’s okay. For you it’s free, you and everyone else this swine puked on.’

  I turned and ran home. Even if Ammi skinned me for soiling my new silk kurta, it would still be preferable to this public humiliation. The brazen boy and his gang could take all the rides they wanted at my expense, the next time I dreamed of angry pajamas this man would probably be wearing them.

  But Ammi didn’t skin me alive, not even threaten to, not once she had heard a complete account of what happened.

  ‘You poor child,’ she kissed my nose as she cleaned me up, undoing all the buttons before pulling my kurta over my head carefully so vomit wouldn’t touch my hair, ‘it wasn’t your fault. If someone had held me upside down and swung me back and forth I’m sure my stomach would disobey me too. I want to know what that man was thinking.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter Ammi,’ I interjected, ‘I feel fine now. And since you’re not angry with me I don’t even care about the kurta.’

  ‘Of course you don’t. You’re not the one who has to wash it. Let’s go see this man once you’ve put on this blue dress.’

  ‘But I wore that last year.’

  ‘At your age you can get away with it.’

  ‘Let’s look for something else,’ I wanted to give the iron man time to get away. I didn’t want him to humiliate my mother like he had humiliated me.

  ‘Tell you what, when we get back I’ll help you find something. But right now I want to catch him before he moves on.’

  And off we went, my futile bleating providing the perfect soundtrack.

  When we got there, the socialization of the brazen boy was almost complete. An appreciative crowd of vacant male adults and restless children had gat
hered to watch him scream. The boat was once again reeking of vomit, and the boy clung to an iron strut shrieking, his clothes soiled and his eyes red with crying as he begged the iron man to let him off.

  ‘He was giving us all the free rides he promised, but Akbar kept saying “is that the best you can do?” and then he stopped and made the rest of us get off and shoved me off before Akbar got down,’ one of the children from my last cruise whispered animatedly in my ear. His eyes shone with excitement, and he was nervously twisting his fingers through his hair. I had seen that same look in other boys, throwing stones at a passing dog or an injured cat, trying to knock a bird out of a tree. What was wrong with boys?

  ‘You!’ leaving me in the back of the crowd, Ammi elbowed her way through the throng and barked into the iron man’s ear, ‘Stop this right now. Let that boy off!’

  ‘He doesn’t want to get off just yet,’ he replied dismissively.

  ‘Yes he does, you can hear him yelling it all the way down the road.’

  The man shot her a glance over his shoulder, chest heaving with exertion but looking comfortable, in form, ‘Why don’t you go back to your house where you belong and listen harder, he likes it very much. Don’t you, kid?’ he waved as the boy flew by.

  Not-so-brazen-anymore boy shrieked even louder on the next fly-by. This time we distinctly heard him calling for his mother.

  ‘Look, I’ve asked you nicely. You’re a grown man torturing a small boy, you should be ashamed of yourself. Stop right now or I’ll have to find some other way to convince you.’

  ‘I’ll stop if you get on in his place. You look like you could use a ride yourself,’ this comment went right over my pre-pubescent head, but it drew appreciative sniggers from the gallery.

  ‘So you don’t speak the language of reason? I should have known, considering you are a grown man who earns his livelihood by exploiting little children and insulting women. Should I get you an old man to push around too?’

  The man ignored her and renewed his efforts. Motioning stet me to stay where I was, my mother turned around and disappeared down the street.