RAZA SITS ON THE bench next to me and shows me the sports section of the newspaper he’s been reading all morning. The newspaper is at least two decades old. He talks in a jerky manner about Germany and Holland and who won what match and why they lost until he interrupts himself, touches his small mustache, falters more and more until he stops, as if he realizes that he’s heard himself talk about this very thing several times before. Then he explains to me why he hadn’t done well in his grade nine exams. He is thirty-eight years old and can recall bad grades and the names of his enemies from his school days.
I stop listening. Outside, the sun burns strong, but inside, all the lights are switched on. There are no windows in this part of the hospital—where the patients roam, their minds rearranged from treatments that remove voices and visions that only they can hear and see. When I watch them here, I feel obscene about my healthy male body in my ironed scrubs, my nurse’s arms strong from helping their uncertain bodies. I wonder what their family and friends feel—guilt or grief. When they leave they have their arms wrapped around themselves, or their mouths stretched in a too-tight smile. A while back, a mother walked out after visiting her son, her hands pressed against her stomach.
No one comes to see Raza. His older sister brought him in eight months ago and she hasn’t returned since. There is no other family member listed in his file. When there is an unusual number of visitors for other patients, Raza is left all by himself on his small alien planet, hunched over and shuffling from corner to corner. I try to busy myself with paperwork, but his large, sad figure hovers in the periphery of my conscience—the conscience that should be his sister’s. I feel irritable and angry, and I take him downstairs to the cafeteria and let him fill himself up with whatever he wants, and listen to him talk with food in his mouth.
Last week, the head nurse told us that Raza’s sister called to say she’s coming to see him in a few days. The head nurse advised us to not tell him in case, yet again, the sister doesn’t show up. Part of me wants to tell him; perhaps the weight of his disappointment will crush him enough that he finally sees her as the selfish liar she is. She has always given excuses for canceling her visits—her health, her work, the family. It’s been four days since her call. I find myself looking at the clock, though I try not to because it makes my blood pound behind my ears.
Every afternoon I send Raza to bed for a nap so that if she does visit, she will find him sleeping.
On the sixth day, the phone at the nurses’ station rings. The sister has made it after all.
I watch her come down the corridor, walking deferentially behind the head nurse, perhaps because she thinks it’s appropriate to appear humble. The fluorescent glare from the ceiling turns her skin the same shade as that of the patients. I can’t unfold my arms from across my chest.
The day she had brought Raza to the hospital, he’d tried to bargain with her, telling her to take him back, that he would go to the doctors and the therapists, and he was never, ever going to scream at anyone in the street again, not even the man who sold shoes out of a box and kept a gun hidden in his pants pocket so he could put a bullet in Raza one day. He lunged to grab his sister’s silk sleeve, and she pushed him off and yelled, “Won’t someone get him?” A nurse got hold of Raza, and the sister straightened her clothes. “He cannot stay at home,” she explained loudly and clearly to the nurse. Turning to her brother, she told him that he had six months to complete at the hospital and then he could go wherever he wanted, anywhere in the world, or he could stay in Karachi until he died and be buried by the sea or near the hills, wherever he chose; he could be whatever he wanted and do whatever he pleased. Didn’t he remember all the things he wanted from when he was younger, years and hellish years ago? She waved to him from the safety of the other side of the ward door and left.
She doesn’t look the same as that time—her clothes are ugly, drab and colorless, her hair dull and grayer. Her decline fills me with satisfaction. Above her crepe-skinned neck is her face with a tight smile on it. Her glance skips like a pebble from the surface of one vacant face to another. I see the men the way she must—their mouths a little down at the corners, eyelids drooping, hair unkempt. Some appear to say hello, but their waves are vague and unsure. They don’t move fast, and the relentlessly brisk forward motion of the nurse and Raza’s sister makes them appear extraordinarily slow. For a moment, I feel embarrassed for them.
The nurse stops in front of me and says to Raza’s sister, “This is Murad. He’s the one who usually looks after Raza. He has to give him his medication now.”
Together we walk to a closed door. I have learned not to stride into this room where the men sleep. This is a dimly lit land of tenuous consciousness and soft breathing. There is a mound on each metal bed, not stretched out but huddled. I set the pills and water down on Raza’s bedside table. His eyes are closed, but I know he is only gliding on the surface of sleep because his breathing is shallow. Has the sister slipped out? I wonder. I imagine running after her and hauling her by her hair from room to room, screaming into her ear. This is where he was taken for electroshock therapy! This is where he walks from corner to corner every day! This is where he sits and talks for an hour while I only pretend to listen!
“Are you sure this is OK? To wake him up like this?” It is her, whispering; she has crept closer to the bed. In the muted lighting her dilated eyes fill her face.
“You heard the nurse,” I say.
“Of course,” she nods. “I haven’t seen him in a long time, you know.”
I turn my back to her and give Raza’s shoulder a gentle shake. He stirs and slowly sits up. A slight smell of sweat rises with him. His face appears swollen, his eyelids heavy. His hair is neatly parted, even after his sleep. Behind me, his sister gasps. I give him a moment to wake up while he looks at his bed, at a wall, at the plastic bowl and cup in my hands.
“Time for your medicine,” I say with cheerful firmness.
Conditioned after hours and weeks and months of hearing this, he takes the pills and the water, swallows, and returns the cup.
“Good job,” I say. “Now open your mouth so we can see if you’ve been good.”
Dutifully, Raza opens his mouth and lifts his tongue and there is nothing hidden there.
I pat his shoulder. “Look who’s here to see you!”
His sister steps forward and speaks to him in a low voice, almost a whisper. She is going to take him home soon, away from this place, she says. She chokes down some tears.
I go back to my apartment after my shift, unlock my door, and am met with an emptiness so solid it presses down on my lungs. There is a letter on the table, sent by my wife. It had arrived this morning. It looks pathetic lying there, as if it, like her, is wondering what I intend to do about the pair of us. I tear off the top of the envelope and skim the lines. She has filled the paper with more words than usual, questions crammed between questions. Am I alright on my own? Is my work long and hard? Do I miss her and home? It’s been a long time since I left, saying that it was for her own good, but she hasn’t been good. She never said I should leave, so why did I? She hadn’t minded the smashed vase or the million shards of glass from the mirror I punched. She hasn’t bought new glass for the frame because maybe I’d like to choose a new mirror altogether. There are sales in some furniture stores now. Could I come back so we could go shopping together? Did I know that I was a liar? The devil disguised as a healer?
I shove the letter under a cushion and go outside. I tell myself that I need food. The sun has just set and the city looks dirty in this light. I try to memorize each face I pass to replace hers, long with long eyelashes, and the memories of how she eats, sweats, flinches, talks. I make sure to walk in dirt where I find it. I give money to an old woman begging on a corner, and when I go home I eat a piece of old bread and go to bed hungry. That is OK. That feels right.
Raza’s sister visits again, and I watch them have lunch in the cafeteria. I can’t hear what she says but whatever it is, he answers steadily in short sentences in his low, rumbly voice. He keeps glancing at the way his older sister uses her fork and knife to cut up small bites and put them neatly inside her dry, thin-lipped mouth. Sometimes he sets down his fork and picks it up again and mutters. She leans forward with an attentive smile, the way a kindergarten teacher would. I wish he’d put on his only button-down shirt, but he’d refused, choosing instead his old XXL pullover. The plastic cafeteria chair is a tight fit for him, but I’ve taught him how to press down on the arms to get out more easily.
His sister reaches into her large bag and takes out a green book. Raza holds it in his fleshy hands, opens it to a random page, scratches his neck and cheeks. He starts sentences and breaks off in the middle. I know the signs; he is getting agitated. The visit has gone on for too long. I get up and tell his sister that it is time for his afternoon nap. She does not argue with my authority, and, with a feeling of satisfaction, I take him away from the mess of torn ketchup packets squeezed empty and crumpled, red-stained tissues; away from the presence of that failed woman who is his only family. On the way to the ward, he shows me what she has given him—a book of short prayers.
“She got this from a learned man, a very wise man. He doesn’t see just anyone, you know. But he saw her,” Raza tells me. There is pride in his voice.
Silently, I hand him his medicine and he swallows it, allows me to check his mouth, and puts his head on his pillow, the book tucked under it.
If she takes him home, would she know how to talk to him? Would she know about all the things that are forbidden, an impatient sigh, a slightly raised voice, a too-bright smile? Would she worry that the lights in her house are too similar to the lights in the hospital? Would she lock her door, then lie awake worrying that her brother could die of negligence if she doesn’t hear him call out for help in the dead of night? Would she wait until sleep couldn’t be put off any longer before she allows herself to drift away?
At night, lying on my couch, I remember that my wife collected books and placed them alphabetically on shelves. One day, after an argument, I’d pulled one from the shelf and thrown it against a wall, cracking the spine. I bought her another copy, but she never added it to her collection.
I turn up the volume of the TV, and it fills my apartment with comforting sounds, just like it does every night.
They always meet in the cafeteria. Sometimes his sister brings him bananas, sometimes clothes. When he wants to eat a burger with fries, she tells him that he must not be greedy with his food.
“We must fill our hours with good things,” I hear her tell him once. “It’s the only guaranteed way to keep away the devil and all the bad thoughts that he brings.”
“Well, I try, I think,” Raza says, staring at his lap. “I mean, it is hard, in a place like this, full of people from all over, with their secret plans.”
“Nobody’s planning anything.” His sister’s voice is sharp. “You must not think bad thoughts about others. That’s another sign of too much rich food.”
He asks her to buy him a fancy watch and she says, “Look at me. Do I look fancy? I’ve never been happier since the day I let go of false ways to feel better. I’ll get you a strong, plain watch.”
She brings him a watch with a black strap and a dial which tells nothing but the time, and it is not like the kind he’d seen on the wrist of a kid when he was in grade seven. She also brings him a prayer rug.
Raza asks me where he can find a good place to set it down. “My sister said it’s a good idea to pray,” he says. “She prays a lot. She’s a good person.” He stands hunched before me, passing his fingers over his mustache, his glance going from my left shoulder to my right one.
I feel pity and a twinge of disdain toward him for giving her this unearned pedestal. I wonder if she takes antidepressants after every visit.
“You haven’t prayed in years,” I say, mockingly.
He gives an awkward laugh and scratches the back of his neck. “I thought I might try it. She says it helps her. I thought I’d try.”
His ineloquence deflates my anger. I lay his rug in a corner of the rec room. From the doorway, I watch him place his feet on it and kneel. His hands self-consciously go up to his ears. His gravelly voice declares God’s greatness, and there is a note of desperation in his tone. He sneaks a look to his left and folds and unfolds his fingers before settling them over his navel. “God is the greatest,” I hear him whisper over and over and then he presses his forehead against the rug. Does he remember the rest of the words? I feel exhausted. I can’t watch his jittery movements any longer. My shift has come to an end and I want to go home.
Sitting on my couch, I eat a sandwich I’d made in the morning and forgotten about. I chew slowly through the hardened bread and ten minutes go by. I decide to read but I cannot get comfortable. The tear in the cushion behind me bothers me. I think about the box that I know is on the floor, hidden in the shadow of the couch. My wife had sent it some time ago. I had put it where it wouldn’t be easily seen. I throw down the book and pick up the box. There are photographs inside; the two of us at weddings and in restaurants, sometimes with friends, sometimes not. In each picture she and I are smiling. Echoes from a distant time. There is also a letter. I read it quickly, wanting to stay on the surface of her words. She sounds softer, as if, when she sat down to write, she was spent by her sulfurous eruption last time. She says that faith keeps her going, and some days, she does not mind waiting for me at all. She bears me no grudges. She believes that one day we will be good together. It is good to believe, she writes, because she feels stronger for it. At the bottom of the box are three bars of chocolate, gone soft over time. I put them in a bag to give to Raza and crawl into bed.
The head nurse tells me Raza is getting better and his sister wants to take him home next week. I digest this information, nodding as a detached professional should, biting the insides of my mouth. Raza does look better. His eyes used to have dark pouches under them, like small bananas going bad. He has started exercising on the treadmill in the rec room, walking on it heavily and slowly while a male attendant hovers nearby. He talks more coherently, mainly about things his sister has said. One evening he asks me if I ever worry about my soul, and my jaw tightens with anger but I laugh and say nothing. He tells me that he will pray for my guidance.
Guidance. That is a word I remember my wife using. She said she was seeking guidance because really, what else was there for her to do? She said this might be the most character-forming phase in her life yet, and she had me to thank for it.
If I don’t go back to her, if I leave her alone, what then? Would she wither or would she thrive? Perhaps, after a period of sadness, unnecessarily prolonged because bad habits are hard to break, she would discover that she knew the way out of the terrible maze of our marriage. She could pack her things into suitcases and boxes and take herself somewhere new, leave the broken bits of glass behind, leave my hair in my comb, my flakes of skin on my side of the bed. To make her feel better, I could promise her to faithfully stay alone, to return every night to my broken couch. A deserving arrangement.
The TV lulls me to sleep and then wakes me up. Is Raza’s sister on her prayer rug this time of the night, saving her soul? With every visit to her brother she grows larger and smugger, certain of redemption. She forgets that she left her brother alone in this place, wandering in and out of rooms and states of mind. But Raza trusts her completely, frustratingly. He will allow himself to be taken home, to commit the ultimate act of forgiveness.
The day of Raza’s removal from the hospital, his sister arrives early. She has brought small boxes of chocolates for the staff and is tearful as she thanks the head nurse. She wants to come with me when I go to wake up Raza. I cannot return her deferential smile. He is groggy and puts the pills in his mouth and then sits like a shapeless rock on his bed, refusing to swallow them. I haven’t slept well and I am short with him. “Spit them out, then.” He does, and they land in a small wet gob by my feet. His sister makes a sound—a gasp or a shudder or a whimper, I cannot tell. I scoop up the disintegrating pills and hold them up to her face. She is pale in the gloom. A coward, just like me.
I smile at her. “Are you sure you want to take him home now? You can still go back. No one will say anything. It happens all the time, really. Look, he’s sleepy; he won’t even know.”
She steps past me and sits on Raza’s bed. She takes out a piece of bread from her bag and hands it to him. “Eat this,” she says, and he takes a nibble. “Have you been doing your good deeds?” she asks him, and just like that I am an outsider. “You want to get better and come home, don’t you?” she says to him. “You must do your part. Good deeds wipe away all bad things, like this.” She sweeps her hand over the bedcover and a smattering of crumbs falls off.
I stand by a wall and count the tiles on the floor. Some minutes later, they are ready to leave.
I stay in my apartment, hating the feel of the outside air on my head, on my arms. The head nurse from the hospital calls and says it’s been five days since I went to work. I tell her I will not be going back. Because, I say to myself after I hang up the phone, how can I? I am not real there. I know that now.
I lift the cushions off the couch and pick up sheets of my wife’s letters, pressed flat by all the hours I’ve lain there. “If we close our eyes and open them again, we can pretend to go as far back as we like.” She’d said that one evening as we’d eaten toast among broken ceramic.
The TV is on and its images reflect mutely on the night-dark glass of the window. Now there is an indistinct picture of me on it, holding a phone to my ear and counting the rings.