The door opened and a nurse came out. He jumped to his feet and stared madly at the nurse. The nurse told him the baby had died as soon as it was born. He shouldn’t worry – it was always so with babies born in the eighth month. But he wasn’t thinking of the baby. Only if she were alive … Was she? The nurse went on, ‘You shouldn’t worry, you see, these babies rarely live.’ ‘My wife?’ ‘Your wife? Well, get her a cup of coffee. It will revive her a bit.’
Coffee for his wife? So she was alive.
When he brought the coffee, he saw that she had been taken to another ward. She lay there quietly on the bed. He stood by her and watched her pale, weak body.
‘How are you feeling now?’ he asked her softly, taking her cold, perspiring hand in his.
She smiled faintly. ‘I’m all right. But this time I’m too weak, you know. Every joint in my body aches.’
They didn’t speak of the baby. He thought it was better so. She was saved and that was all he had wished for.
The next morning he went to the hospital. He took the children with him too. She smiled at them. The children gathered round their mother’s bed and he sat by her, holding her hand in his.
She caught the anxious look in his eyes and pressed his hand reassuringly. Her eyes rested on his face. There was a wealth of tenderness and affection in them – love, devotion and silent worship.
They had no physical attraction left: either of them. His loose, clumsy clothes dangled about his dark, bony form. She wore coarse, discoloured clothes. She had lost her figure having borne many children. They were both worn out by hard work. They had no looks. Poverty had snatched away what little charm youth had given them. Once wheat-brown, he had turned quite dark now. His cheeks had sunk in. She had a very pale yellow complexion, dark rings around her eyes sunk deep into their sockets. Hardly twenty-five, she looked aged already. She was just wasting away.
There was something other than beauty, a force stronger than physical attraction that had drawn them so together.
The elders had joined their hands according to religious rites and from then on they belonged to each other. And she knew she ought to love her husband. He was her lord, she should worship him, and she loved him, worshipped him and devoted her life to his service.
And he was aware that a weak, delicate being was given to his care, that he should protect her and support her. This weak being would share her life with him, she would be the mistress of his house, the mother of his children. And thus their hearts came together. Long communion had tended to make them what they were; it had deepened their affection and love for each other. And the children born of their love cemented the bond.
The children could feel, too, that all was not well with their mother. Anxiously they inquired, ‘Mother, are you not well?’ They felt her forehead. ‘Is it fever?’ And the youngest one said so touchingly, ‘Where is it that you are feeling pain, Mum? Show me. I will kiss there and the pain will go …’ He kissed her arms.
‘Here.’ She seized her little one and clasped him to her heart. She felt so very, very happy. How they loved her, her little ones, her own flesh of her flesh, blood of her blood. She had given them her lifeblood to make them grow. These little beings who had taken their shape and their life within her womb. She sighed as she thought she had not created life this time.
After all, what else was there in her dreary, miserable life? – poverty, starvation, misery, grief, pain but for the children who loved her, the husband who cared for her. Yes, this was the treasure of her life.
The visitors’ time was up and they had to leave.
She followed them with her eyes as they passed out of the door of her ward.
The next morning he found her lying quiet and calm. But she was paler than ever. Her face was yellow, as if turmeric water had been sprinkled on it. It looked as though all the blood had been sucked from her body.
A nurse came in and, pricking her thumb, took a drop of blood. Absorbing it on a paper, she examined the percentage of haemoglobin in her blood. The lady doctor came in just at that time and examined it too.
The doctor turned almost furiously on him. ‘Can’t you see the danger your wife is in?’ She went on in English, ‘Can you imagine that? You never gave her liver extract injections, never gave her tonics during pregnancy. And when she is beyond all hope of recovery, you bring her here. And I suppose you will blame us for her death.’
Every word of the lady doctor fell like a hammer stroke on his heart. He did not love his wife? He did not care for her? He never gave her tonics and injections? A petty clerk: how could he afford tonics and injections for his wife? And she was reduced to this condition. She was near death … near death … Oh, hell is poverty.
He no longer went by bus to his office, but walked all the way. He stopped smoking his cheap cigarettes. And with the few annas that he saved, he bought fruit. He borrowed money and paid for her injections.
But she lay there pale and weak as ever, a most deathly pale. Her face was bleached white. Her body was cold and numb. Warm leather gloves and stockings were drawn on her hands and legs. Hot-water bottles and bags were kept under her feet. One could feel the presence of something invisible hovering over her. Some foreboding of death.
Yet she had a faint, reassuring smile for him. As he sat by, looking at her, pain reflected in his eyes. He comforted her: ‘You’ll get well. I’ll take good care of you. I’ll give you tonics and fruit. I’m saving money, you know.’
And very sadly she smiled at him: ‘Yes, I’ll get well’ – a ray of hope.
Maybe this hope would keep her candle of life still burning. But the next moment he realized that her smile was a forced smile, her eyes had a faraway look.
And then came the critical night. Her calm gave way to groans. That night she moaned and groaned ceaselessly, piteously. He saw the crisis coming. He begged the nurses and doctors to let him stay with her that one night. They didn’t listen to his entreaties. That was against the hospital rules! Moreover, it wasn’t a special ward that anybody could be allowed to stay with the patient! A nurse came in and gave her tablets for sleep, shouting at her brutally, ‘Can’t you be quiet? You’re groaning horribly. Don’t you realize the patients in other wards are being disturbed?’
The patients in the ‘other wards’. Why couldn’t she come out with the whole truth? The patients in the ‘special wards’, ‘the chosen few’ – and this treatment was meted out to him because he was poor, he was not of ‘the chosen few’, he thought bitterly as he trotted home. Her groans haunted him. And as he lay wide awake, staring at the ceiling, he could hear that piteous moaning all night long.
Next morning she was calm again. Did it mean that the crisis was over?, he thought hopefully. But the lady doctor examined her and shook her head in despair. ‘There’s only one hope left.’
‘What is it, doctor?’ he asked madly.
‘Blood transfusion …’
‘Please examine my blood, doctor. If it suits her …’
And the doctor looked at this man from head to foot. Would he give his blood, this lean, lanky man? He seemed to have very little of it himself. But his beseeching, melting look seemed to answer: he would. ‘I would give any quantity of my blood, if it could save her life.’
A few hundred cubic centimetres of blood were drawn from his body and transfused into hers. As her husband’s blood, every drop of which contained the warmth of his love, passed through her veins, she gained a little warmth. She seemed to revive. He touched her head. It was warm, it was warm. He bent over her and whispered softly, ‘You will recover now, surely.’
She gave him a warm smile, she had understood everything. She thanked him with her eyes and she opened her lips to say something. Her lips trembled; she turned blue and her whole body passed through violent convulsions so that it shook all over. She dug her nails in the sheets. He caught hold of her and bent over her. She wanted to say something, but her lips just parted and trembled. Perhaps she was asking for her children.
In his dismay, this thought flashed through his mind. He asked the female neighbours, who had come along with him, to go and get the children. Their house was not far off. They were soon brought there. She looked at them one by one. She tried to stretch her arms out towards the youngest one but her arms fell, lifeless. She looked at him for the last time, as though she were bidding him goodbye.
And then all was over.
Beating his head, he called out her name again and again. But soon he realized he was in the hospital. He shouldn’t behave like this. And then there were the children. He should keep calm in front of them. He let himself fall on a chair. The children stood by their father’s chair and stared at the body of their mother – the mystery of death was beyond their understanding.
He sat staring at her, too, as the nurses were covering her with white sheets. White sheets, and a face as white as those sheets. White face and thick black hair falling on her shoulders. He stared and stared.
He was oblivious to his surroundings. Faintly, very faintly, he caught a few words that were being spoken around him. It was the lady doctor who was saying, ‘It’s too late at night. You may take the body home tomorrow. Meanwhile the corpse will be laid in the mortuary. We’re sorry we couldn’t save her life … and you can pay the bill later …’
And the depressed-class women, who bore the corpses down, were shrieking, ‘We shan’t take it down unless we’re paid first.’
And he heard the nurses saying to each other, ‘After all, we’ve seen so many deaths here, it never gave us a fright to see a dead body. We’re used to it. But look at her. Don’t you feel …?’ They whispered something.
They were insulting her even in death.
Suddenly he got up and lifted the body in his arms. Somebody brought forward the stretcher. He pushed it aside. And passing by all who stood staring at him astonished and shocked, he carried her body to the stairs leading down to the back yard.
A few days back – how many days was it? – he had brought her up the stairs, supporting her, holding her tight. He had made her ascend the stairs and now, bearing her lifeless body in his arms, he was going down.
There was life in this body once. Why, even a few moments ago. Now it was cold and stiff and heavy in death. He had loved this body, loved it for ten years, and now she was lost to him forever. How often had he carried this body in his arms when it was light and soft and warm? She was hardly fourteen when she came to him as a bride. His mother was alive then. She made her work all day. When his mother was out visiting relatives, they had a gay time. He would lift her in his arms and whirl her round. Those happy days had come to an end too soon. Hard work and childbearing had made her very weak; she was constantly ill. He asked her not to work so hard, but she wouldn’t listen to him. When she was at her work, he would go behind her stealthily, lift her up gently and lay her on her bed so that she might rest. Yes, so often. And now he was bearing this body in his arms for the last time.
He was bearing her down; down the stairs.
The stairs were narrow and dark. There was darkness all about him. The darkness of night, the darkness of death. The steps seemed never-ending. A long way down … down, down. A long descent. The last descent.
Translated by the author
AMTUL RAHMAN KHATUN
Grandma’s Tale
‘Grandma dearest, tell us a brand new story today.’
‘My darling children, haven’t I told you all the stories I remembered? Where am I going to find a new one?’
‘No, no, Grandma! We’re not going to let you go umless you tell us a story. Look, Safia and Rokaya have also arrived; there are five of us now. We’ll have such fun.’
‘Yes, Grandma,’ Rokaya and Safia chimed in. ‘We don’t come over every day; only your grandaughters have heard all your stories, we’ve heard only a few. We’re not letting you off without a story.’
Grandma said:
‘Look children, I hardly start a story and you all begin to cross question me. There’s no fun in telling a story unless there’s a proper hum of response from the listeners.’
‘Grandma, now that the exams are over we can happily stay up till midnight or even later, and we’ll all give the response in turn.’
Grandma smiled.
‘Well, girls, you’ve heard all the stories I know about kings, fairies and demons; today I’m going to tell you about someone as ordinary as any of us. It’s a story for girls, not for boys.’
‘There are no boys here at the moment,’ one of the girls said. ‘Do start, Grandma.’
Grandma, opening her casket of betelnuts, asked:
‘So, girls, what year was Pakistan created?’
‘1947,’ the girls replied in unison.’You think we wouldn’t know that our Qaid-i-Azam Muhammed Ali Jinnah was the creator?’
‘When did he die?’
‘September 11, 1948,’ the girls answered.
Grandma sighed.
‘Sadly, he didn’t live to see the blossoming of a new country; a one-year-old infant was orphaned. May God grant us protection! We need it.
‘Well, children, now tell me: how did you come to Pakistan, by train or by air?’
‘Grandma! We were born here, don’t you remember?’
Grandma made a gesture of despair.
‘My memory! The truth is, I think I’m becoming senile. I was just thinking of your brother, who was born in India. We came by air. But thousands came by railroad; there were special trains, and people were herded like goats and sheep into these.’
She sighed again at the memory.
‘But this isn’t a fairytale, Grandma; you’re just replaying your old memories.’
‘So?’ Grandma said. ‘It is old memories that turn into stories. As I was saying, it was one of these special trains that brought Saliqa Begum here.’
The girls giggled.
‘What a funny name! Can anyone be called Saliqa Begum?’
‘No, her real name was something quite different. I called her that, because of the qualities of refinement and prudence she embodies. I have known her since we were in in India. She lived in our neighbourhood and called me her aunt. They were people of modest means, but well brought up and from a good family. Her husband Shaheedullah worked in some office for a salary of sixty rupees a month …’
The girls giggled again. Grandma said irritably:
‘What are you giggling at now?’
‘You keep coming up with these odd names. Shaheedullah? Can that be a name?’
‘What is a name? Whatever you decide to call someone. There’s no point in disclosing their real names. He was martyred on the way to Pakistan, so I gave him that name.’
‘Oh Grandma, you’ve got caught up in all these anecdotes now; this isn’t a story …’
‘So how do you describe a story? Must it have horns growing out of its head?’ Grandma scolded. ‘I’m just telling you a true story. You’ve heard plenty of lies and nonsense already; if you’re not interested, go to bed.’
‘Alright then,’ the girls said in a colourless tone. ‘What happened next?’
‘No one knew where Saliqa was for the first fifteen or sixteen years. I thought we’d lost her. But a few days ago, she came to see me in a car. I didn’t recognise her at first. Black Lady Hamilton burqa, white crepe shalwar, sprigged blue and white chiffon scarf; gold tops in her ears, heavy gold locket around her neck, eight sparkling gold bangles on each wrist. She was a goodlooking woman, but when I’d known her anxieties and uncertainties had robbed her complexion of freshness; now she was blooming like a pomegranate. Though a good fifty, she didn’t look more than thirty-nine years old. She fell on my neck as soon as she arrived and hugged me. I was totally taken aback by her sudden appearance. “Haven’t you recognised me?” she cried. What could I say? I actually hadn’t recognised her. I mumbled something about my memory being affected by my advancing age, and asked her to jog it and give me a clue about who she was.
‘When she gave me her name and her hu
sband’s I was dumbfounded at the change in the way she was turned out. I had remembered her in coarse cotton burqas and clothes of very mediocre quality. On special occasions she just wore the outfits she’d been given in her trousseau – what else can you expect, on a salary of sixty a month? A husband, two children, herself to provide for; she couldn’t even afford a servant after her marriage. I gaped at her, dressed up in her finery. Must have married a rich man, I thought …’
‘Or found an abandoned house full of old treasures,’ the girls interrupted.
‘No,’ Grandma said. ‘Now will you listen quietly and pay attention to my conversation with Saliqa Begum? Noting my silence, she said: “Aunty, don’t you recognise me?” How can I not recognise you, child? It’s just the surprise. Has your husband got a good job?’
The girls interrupted again:
‘A while ago you said she must have married a rich man. Then why did you ask her if her husband had got a good job?’
Grandma turned up her nose.
‘Don’t try to trip me up, girls. Actually, I’d heard that her husband had been murdered, but how I could repeat something that was only hearsay? This was my way of finding out the actual facts.’
‘So what did Saliqa Begum tell you?’ the girls wanted to know.
‘She sighed. “Oh, Aunty, don’t you know? He was martyred on the way. I brought both my children here. My boy was ten, my daughter eight. We were in the camps for many days. We ate from the community kitchen. All our household stuff, we’d left behind. I had a plate and a glass and in place of a single coin I had only God’s name to count on. The few ornaments from my trousseau I’d already sold; all I had left were a pair of flowered earrings. As you know – when bad times come, even your neighbours and your friends avoid you. Everyone went his own way. After a while I thought, How long can I sit around here living off charity? I have to brave the world. I gathered up my courage. I had no luggage, only a blanket given by the Aid Agencies. I held my daughter by the hand and put the blanket on my son’s shoulder. I put my faith in the hands of Allah and stepped out. Never having been out on the streets, I didn’t know the way. Asking for directions, I reached the bazaar. Believe me, Aunty, I had blisters on my feet and my children were in a sorry state after the miles we’d walked. With the help of the Almighty, I found a jeweller who bought my earrings – for 10 gms of gold, I got 50 rupees, which was a relief. The owner of the shop was a kind fellow. Seeing the state we were in he sent for some naan and kebabs for us, and asked me: ‘Sister, where will you go now?’ When I’d unloaded all my anxieties, he said: ‘If you like, I can get you a job.’ I agreed immediately. He sent a servant with me, but the lady of the house pulled a face when she saw my children and said, I can’t cope with children, I just need a woman to help me. I cook the main meal myself, the bread comes from the local baker’s. I can only pay you 10 rupees a month and I can’t afford to feed you. I agreed.
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