SIXTY-FIVE YEAR OLD RIZWAN Sheikh’s body complains bitterly when he gets out of bed each morning. He clutches his back with both his hands, flanking them like a tight lumbar corset, before attempting to ease his feet on to the floor. For half an hour, all he is able to do, is sit in the same position—upright, with his eyes closed like the meditating Buddha—while his back muscles relax, taking their own sweet time to let go of his hips. Once the long needle on the old wall clock has travelled a semi-circle and then some, he begins the process of testing his back, hoping and praying for the little mercies that will make it bearable. His face creases up in anticipation and his tightly shut eyelids flutter with anxiety as he leans forward gently … just a few measured degrees at a time. When he reaches the tilt practice has perfected, he pauses for a moment, waiting, wondering if he should be a little more adventurous. After a few tense minutes, he acquiesces to discretion, reversing his effort, straightening up slowly and sighing with relief if he can extend beyond the starting point, incident free. He repeats this simple but effective selfprescribed regimen, feeling his back muscles ease progressively while he oscillates like a defective metronome struggling to find its tempo. He has to be patient and persistent—trying, testing, tempting—waiting till he discovers the range of motion that will allow him to stand up with some measure of confidence. He has learned the penalty of haste the hard way, doubling up on the bed with pains shooting up and down his back like sharp electric shocks should he deviate from this demanding ritual even the slightest.
It is a strange ailment that Allah has gifted him in his old age. For, once he is upright, the rest of the day passes off without much incident. Sure, he feels the occasional twinge here and the sudden ache there, but nothing like the madness of his morning ceremony.
What irritates him even more is that this backache is precisely the reason he has to seek employment again. The indifferent doctor in the squalid government hospital had dismissed him with a rather offhanded comment that he needed to consult a specialist, privately. The specialist had charged him two hundred rupees just to tell him that the opening of his spine was too narrow to accommodate his nerves and that he needed surgery to correct it. The surgery would cost an additional fifty thousand rupees not including some ancillary charges like blood tests and x-rays. The specialist would not even guarantee success: the best he could do was estimate a sixty per cent chance of improvement.
Rizwan had walked out of the nursing home shaking his head in disgust. These doctors … they could say anything and get away with it. Would a carpenter dare to charge two hundred rupees to tell his customers that there would only be a sixty per cent chance of fixing that crooked chair? Would his business survive if he then demanded close to a year’s salary to justify his work?
Ah the cruelties, the hundred indignities of senescence …
He turns to look at his wife lying next to him, fast asleep. Her body, curled up like a foetus, is cocooned underneath the thin bed-sheet, one edge of which wraps her head like a hijab. Her face, the only exposed account of her anatomy, peeks out from underneath the covering like that of a bonneted child. He knows that this disposition of hers implies particularly deep sleep, and, in the past, on a couple of occasions like this, unable to detect even the lightest motion of her torso, he has held his finger under her nostril, seeking the reassurance of her warm, moist breaths.
He hates the thought of having to wake her up. He wishes he could let her lie in bed for as long as she wants. But today is different . today is the first day of his new job and he cannot afford anything less than a favourable first impression. It has taken him a number of obsequious phone calls and a lot of servile hand wringing to secure this position. In a city flooded with young, able-bodied men, very few, it seemed, wanted to employ a senior citizen.
He hesitates for a few minutes before calling out lightly, ‘Mehr … Mehr, are you listening to me?’
She opens her eyes and looks at him sleepily. Her eyes wilt almost immediately and she steals a few more winks before stirring and sitting up slowly—a resigned-to-my-fate look on her face. She shakes her head to dispel her drowsiness, stretching and yawning a couple of times in the process. She knows the routine … she has been doing it for the last six years. She lumbers out of bed and reaches for his walker, placing it in front of his feet for him to rest his hands and begin the process of testing his back.
He studies her closely. Age and the demands of a hard life have caught up with that beautiful face. Right now, leftover slumber adds its own weight to the bags under eyes. Her right cheek is imprinted with a line where the thick edge of the blanket had creased her face. A few strands of wayward hair crisscross her forehead; the rest—still jet black after all these years—ropes down to her waist in a long, thick braid.
Something makes him turn to look at the photograph of their marriage, hanging on the wall like an outdated memory. The bright, gold coloured frame has mellowed with age. A crack at the bottom right hand corner of the glass pane serves as a permanent reminder of the moment twelve years ago when it had slipped out of his hand and hit the floor as they were preparing to whitewash the walls. But, other than a twinge of sepia at the edges, the black and white photograph inside remains intact, and he can’t help but smile seeing the strapping young man staring nervously into the camera while his demure wife fixes her eyes to the ground.
He wonders where the forty years have since flown by.
‘Once the operation is done, I won’t have to wake you up anymore,’ he says. ‘Then you can sleep … late. As late as you want.’
She covers her mouth and yawns again. ‘Why don’t you worry about that later? Just try sitting up now,’ she says.
‘Just six more months, Mehr, and then we will have enough to pay that doctor.’
She nods sleepily. ‘How much is this new job paying you?’
‘Ten thousand rupees a month, Mehr. Ten thousand for eight to five and then fifty rupees for every hour overtime.’
Her eyes widen, chasing away her somnolence. ‘Is that the going rate for a driver? He seems to be overpaying. Allah is merciful. I hope he doesn’t expect you to put in late hours. At your age you shouldn’t have to work so hard … at your age you shouldn’t have to work at all.’
‘What can you do when there are no children to carry your coffin. You have to pay for your own.’
‘Don’t say such inauspicious things so early in the morning! We have spent forty years together without children and we will spend the rest too. Just take your time to get up. I’ll go and make some tea.’
She disappears through the narrow passageway of their modest bedroom into the equally modest kitchen next door. That is their existence … two rooms in this chawl in Dongri is what they have to call their own.
He can hear the tinkle of pots and pans and the rush of water filling up a kettle. He sighs and goes back to testing his back; clenching his jaws with tension as he begins his routine. Soon, he is able to achieve the range and strength that allow him to stand up slowly. Satisfied, he smiles to no one in particular before hobbling out of the room, feeling his legs gain strength with movement. Soon he is walking around without any problem, remarkably different from the man who was struggling to get out of bed some time ago.
She arrives with his tea and a couple of his favourite cream- cracker biscuits. She places them neatly on the table in front of him and goes back into the kitchen to get her own. They sit together, like they have been doing for the last forty years, dipping their biscuits in the steaming brown liquid and nibbling on the mushy ends till most of the tea is gone. What is left at the bottom they pour into saucers and slurp on noisily, like children.
‘When will you be back?’ she asks him.
‘Arre, today is the first day … how will I know?’
‘What does this man do?’
‘Mr Patel is a very important man in some company … some director-birector, something like that. He has four cars and needs more than one driver.’
‘How can four cars take one man?’
‘His family also needs to go here and there, bewakoof! He is too busy to drive them around.’
She smiles. ‘Then don’t be late on your first day, Rizwan miya.’
The suit, cap and shoes are white and spotless. There is a name-tag pinned to his right chest that says “Rizwan Mohammed Sheikh.” His instructions are to keep the suit clean, salute whenever Mr or Mrs Patel approach him and open the door for anyone who looks like he is headed for the car. The climate control in the Mercedes is to be set at nineteen degrees centigrade and the passengers in the car get to manipulate the radio channels from the rear seat with the remote control. His presence is essential at 8 a.m. sharp and any absences have to be authorized at least a day in advance if he doesn’t want his payment for that day to be docked. All overtime hours and expenditure have to be submitted within twenty-four hours of the day incurred and approved by either Mr or Mrs Patel for payment.
Rizwan has driven a Mercedes in the past; one of the many jobs he has held since running away from home at the age of eighteen. But this one is nothing like it. It takes him a whole day to figure out all the knobs and buttons on the console in front of him. The dashboard feels like it belongs in an airplane. There is a small screen that looks like a miniaturized television. The steering wheel telescopes back and forth and swivels up and down before locking into his favourite position with the push of a button. The seats are plush and made of soft leather, and have electronic knobs to adjust just about everything, including one that pushes the seat against the curvature of his back, making it very comfortable for him to drive.
His first impression of Mr Patel is how young and handsome he is. Rizwan cannot stop describing him to Mehr when he returns home that evening. ‘Mr Patel looks like a film star … like the young Dharmendar … so handsome and smart! What English he speaks … fata, this, fata that … just like in those American movies. He walks around with three mobile phones that keep ringing every second.’
‘Did your back hurt?’ she asks.
‘What?’
‘Did your back hurt today on the job?’
‘Mehr, you know it doesn’t hurt unless I lie down for a long time. Why aren’t you listening to me?’
‘I am …’
‘Then tell me who Mr Patel looks like.’
‘Like a young Dharmendar.’
‘Hah … lucky guess! But like I was saying, his car is so big and comfortable that I feel I am getting a massage in it.’
She laughs. ‘Don’t get too comfortable. Inshallah, once your surgery is done you won’t have to work anymore. Then you can sit next to me at home and I will nag you the whole day.’
Everyday Rizwan transports the Patel kids to school. A chubby ten-year old boy and a chubbier seven-year old girl sit in the back seat and excitedly discuss their escalating pocket money, the newest brand of potato chips and their favourite cartoon on television. They talk in accented English and Rizwan learns later that it is because they were brought up in England prior to their move back to India a year ago. He smiles at them and limits his interaction to wishing them good morning and waving a goodbye when they enter or exit the car. Usually it is the nanny who goes with them to drop them off at school. Twice a week, more precisely on Mondays and Thursdays, Mrs Patel chooses to make the journey and sits in the back seat next to her children, spending most of her time looking out of the window through big brown goggles. She is nicer than Mr Patel; she at least smiles and wishes him good morning upon entering, and has even enquired about his wife’s health on occasion—a courtesy Mr Patel finds below his dignity to perform. On their return journey she calls on her mobile phone and says ‘I’ll be there in about ten minutes,’ before clicking it shut to return to staring out of the window. She then directs Rizwan to drop her off at a particular beauty parlour. Before disembarking, she instructs him to return home and wait for her call for an appropriate pick up rendezvous.
Although he doesn’t think much of her huge eyeshades, Rizwan can make out Mrs Patel is very pretty. With such frequent trips to the beauty parlour he isn’t surprised that she has managed to preserve her youth very well. He often wonders if he should initiate a conversation with her during their journeys alone but decides against it because he can neither think of a common topic nor find the courage to talk.
It is during his second month at work, that Mr Patel’s other driver meets with an accident and breaks his leg. Rizwan is summoned in the middle of the day to take over the other driver’s duties. He arrives at the office to find Mr Patel waiting impatiently for him outside. Mr Patel gives him an address that he needs to reach within the next ten minutes. Rizwan recognizes the place and uses his intricate knowledge of the city to drive through smaller lanes and empty streets and makes the distance in eight minutes flat. Mr Patel nods approvingly and Rizwan feels happy to have pleased his master. He tenders a smart salute and watches Mr Patel disappear into a tall residential building.
Mr Patel reappears after an hour and instructs Rizwan to head back to the office. As Rizwan is driving, courtesy of his rear view mirror, he cannot help but notice that Mr Patel is wearing a light smile on his face and looks a little lost. It is an expression he hasn’t ever previously credited Mr Patel with and Rizwan feels happy to have pleased his master.
Thanks to a cast on his broken leg, Mr Patel’s regular driver is going to be out of commission for twelve straight weeks. Rizwan finds himself burdened with the additional responsibility of having to ferry Mr Patel to this address in the middle of the day and getting him back to the office soon afterwards. The trips are always an hour long and Mr Patel has the same reaction while returning.
It doesn’t take Rizwan too long to guess that Mr Patel isn’t making sweet deals every day. As the days go by, Mr Patel gets increasingly careless, often reappearing lightly disheveled and adjusting his appearance during the trip back to his office. More than once, he reappears with the faintest trace of perfume that wasn’t present when they had left work, and, on another occasion, his zipper is open with his tucked in shirt peeking out from where nothing should.
Rizwan feels troubled. He finds it more and more difficult to keep silent and pretend he doesn’t notice what is going on. It is especially troubling for him when he ferries Mrs Patel alone after having dropped off the children to school in the morning. He feels terrible that she would take so much trouble to preserve her youthfulness and beauty for a man who is so faithless. Every time, just after she’s called the beauty parlour to inform them that she’ll be there in ten minutes, he feels like opening up and pouring his heart out to her. Once, when he catches the hint of a tear-trail glistening on Mrs Patel’s face, he grimaces and wonders if she has discovered the truth.
But he knows that the day he opens his mouth will be the last day of his job; a job he needs desperately. It also pains him to think of the devastation that he will bring about on the children once his allegations break up a family.
And so, Rizwan Sheikh does his duties dutifully, maintaining a calm exterior as he ferries an unfaithful husband and his beautiful wife, all the while burning inside with the anguish of a prickly conscience.
He is closer to having the money. This month he swears is going to be the last one after which he will quit his job and get his surgery.
‘Mehr, do you think this generation has no morals?’ he asks his wife one night. She is sitting on the bed next to him, patching up a tear in an old blouse with practiced ease.
‘How can a generation have no morals? It is up to the individual,’ she replies continuing with her deft needlework.
‘But look at our generation … we knew what family meant. We stuck together. We valued simple things like marriage and family and relationships. Now … no one does.’
She looks up at him, a question woven into the expression on her face.
‘See, in our generation your word meant something,’ he says. ‘You gave your word to marry a woman and you stayed married. You decided that I’ll live with this woman for life, through joys and sorrows and troubles and happiness and you did it. If life was hard, you cried together. If life was good, you laughed together. Then how can someone love another person?’
‘Who and what are you talking about?’
He sighs. ‘Mr Patel … he is having an affair!’
She stops her needlework. ‘Hai Allah!’ she says, her face now scandalized with shock. ‘How do you know?’
He tells her. He describes the afternoon expeditions, the dishevelled clothes, the tousled hair, the ladies perfume, the open zipper, the satiated look. He fesses up to his troubled conscience when he drives Mrs Patel alone. He admits to looking forward to the end of his job with relief.
She listens patiently, probing his face with understanding eyes and hanging on to the tiniest detail in his descriptions. Then, when he falls silent, she thinks for a minute before sighing and saying, ‘you do what you feel best. They may be big people but you are a good man, Rizwan miya.’
He shakes his head and says, ‘How can Mr Patel lie to his wife? They have two children together and she is so beautiful and takes so much trouble for him. How can he do this to her? Doesn’t it hurt his heart when he tells her that he loves her?’
She sighs and she says, ‘Why would he have to say that?’
‘Arre … she is his wife … they are married … that is why!’
‘Miya, they are married … that is why he doesn’t have to say it to her.’
‘What? What do you mean?’
She smiles at him and says, ‘When was the last time you told me something like that?’
He stops and turns to stare at her. His mind flashes back forty years, right from the time they had met outside her father’s house and he had seen her behind a thin blue veil. He remembers their introduction, their marriage ceremony, their nights together and their days apart, their years with each other, the joys and sorrows and laughter and tears they have shared. He knows he loves her … with all his heart. But he can’t ever remember telling her that he loved her.
Not once.
His back pain is progressively getting worse. Nowadays he sleeps on a reclining chair next to the bed, but still finds it difficult to straighten up in the morning. He is counting the days before he gets his final paycheck and is able to toss in his resignation.
Mr Patel is increasingly careless. Rizwan has spotted them kissing on the balcony of the apartment that he visits and Mr Patel doesn’t even bother to wipe her lipstick off his cheek before getting into the car. As soon as he shuts the door behind himself, Rizwan drives away in disgust, his tires squealing and his engine roaring angrily, leaving behind a large cloud of dust and smoke where the car once stood.
Mr Patel, however, is too satiated to see and too contented to care.
One day Mr Patel summons him to his office. As Rizwan walks into the massive room with its dark cherry paneled walls, its soft plush carpet and its cool lavender scented air-conditioned ambiance, he can’t help but scoff in his heart at the emptiness underneath all this sophistication.
Mr Patel is busy writing something and doesn’t raise his head. He extends his arm, pointing Rizwan to a seat and says, ‘Rizwan-bhai, I am very happy with your work and your driving. I have a special assignment for you. From now on, you will be driving my friend … you know … the one I go to meet in the afternoon. You will become her driver and I will raise your pay to fifteen thousand a month.’
Rizwan shakes his head. ‘I … I can’t, huzoor,’ he says.
Mr Patel stops writing and looks up. His face wears an expression of disbelief. ‘What? Why?’ he asks.
‘I cannot, huzoor. Don’t ask me to say more than this. I don’t think you will like my answer.’
Mr Patel is silent for a moment. Then he says, ‘you better start looking for a new job, Rizwan.’
‘I will have to anyway, huzoor. I just took this job for the money. I need the money … otherwise who works as a driver at sixty-five years of age.’
‘What do you need the money for?’
‘An operation, huzoor. The doctor said the hole in my spine is too narrow and I need an operation. Once I have fifty thousand rupees, I will be able to get it done. Otherwise I would have left your job three months ago.’
Mr Patel sighs. He is silent for a few seconds. Then he says, ‘Why does my personal life matter to you, Rizwan? What I do or don’t do is my life and not anyone else’s business.’
Rizwan keeps his eyes downcast and says, ‘How can I explain what I feel, huzoor? I am old and my views are old. With a lot of difficulty I have kept my mouth shut all this while. I have suppressed my conscience for the money, but now I cannot. I cannot work for your friend. I drive Mrs Patel and I feel like she is the daughter I never had. Forgive me huzoor if this small man has dared to say big words.’
Mr Patel smirks. He opens his drawer and picks out a set of keys. He turns around and opens a series of locks on a safe behind him. He reaches into it, retrieves a wad of cash and tosses it on the table.
‘Here,’ he says. ‘Fifty thousand rupees. Yours to keep for the operation.’
Rizwan is silent for a minute. ‘What do I have to do?’
‘Nothing. Just take this new job. That’s all.’
Rizwan shakes his head. ‘I … I cannot, huzoor. I … cannot.’
‘Why? Here is the money . for you. I don’t expect you to pay it back to me. You can just keep it.’
‘No huzoor . I cannot.’
‘Don’t be a fool, Rizwan. I will even speak to my friend who is an orthopedic surgeon. He will take special care of you.’
‘Huzoor, I am tempted. But you cannot buy me. I believe in truth and honesty and love—’
‘Truth and honesty and love … ! You know what is worse than being a fool … a sentimental fool. Here, keep this money with you tonight and think it over. If you don’t want it, return it to me tomorrow with your resignation letter and start looking for a new job.’
That night, long after Mehr has fallen asleep, Rizwan sits on the table and stares out of the window into the tarry night sky. He is still seven thousand rupees short of the fifty thousand he needs. He looks at the wad of cash lying on the table. He can see no barriers, no physical impediments between him and the cure for all his troubles. And yet, it has never been harder for him to extend his arm and reach out for it.
He looks at Mehr and wonders how he ever got so lucky. She had taken care of him without so much as a whisper of complaint. She had sheltered him when he was just a lonely eighteen-year-old runaway in this humongous city. She had fed him, clothed him, comforted him, guided him, taught him and helped him. She had touched him, felt him, hugged him, kissed him and loved him. And yet, in all these years of togetherness, he hadn’t once told her that he loved her.
His heart feels heavy and he reaches for a pen and paper. He begins writing two letters. The first one he addresses to Mrs Patel, pouring his heart out and admonishing himself for having failed to look out for her earlier. The second one is for Mr Patel, crueler in tone and informing him that he is quitting his job and returning the money. He packs the letters in separate envelopes, writing out the names of the recipients on them in capital letters.
Then he heads to his reclining chair to sleep for the last six hours that he still has a job.
Early the next morning, when a rooster in the neighboring alley begins to crow, Mehr-un-nissa is the first one to open her eyes. She looks at the watch and realizes that it is time for Rizwan to get started on his day. She walks over to him and shakes his shoulder to awaken him. He opens his eyes with a start and suddenly finds himself unable to move. His legs feel numb and when he attempts to turn or twist, current like pains shoot down his legs making him scream out in agony. His eyes well up with tears and he begins to cry.
Mehr-un-nissa is panic stricken, blaming herself for having woken him up too roughly. She runs out to the local telephone booth and calls Mr Patel. He promises to send an ambulance right away. They will carry Rizwan to his friend’s nursing home. He reassures her that he’ll call his friend, the orthopedic surgeon, and tell him to take special care of Rizwan.
The ambulance arrives in twenty minutes. A couple of men in white cotton shirts and matching half pants come into the house and carry Rizwan out on a stretcher. Rizwan is still groaning in agony, but notices that the ambulance is from the Sethi Nursing Home and Orthopedic Hospital. He remembers seeing the name somewhere and it even sounds very familiar, but Rizwan cannot recall where or why.
The ride is long and bumpy. Rizwan looks at his watch and notices it is eight in the morning. He worries about who will take the children to school that morning. He remembers that it is a Thursday and that Mrs Patel will be accompanying the children to school that day. His thoughts suddenly remind him of the letters he had written the previous night.
He turns around to look at his wife and says, ‘Mehr, there are two letters I wrote last night, one for Mr and one for Mrs Patel. Can you give it to them today?’
She nods. ‘I will,’ she says. ‘But first you get better.’
‘No, no,’ he says angrily. ‘You must give it to them today! If I don’t survive the operation …’
‘Don’t say such things so early in the morning!’
‘Listen to me woman! Send the letters! Today … right now!’ They come to a stop. The back door opens and all except Rizwan exit the ambulance. He lifts his head and looks out through the open doors and is surprised to see that he recognizes the place.
It is the beauty parlor where he’d usually drop off Mrs Patel on mornings just like that one.
Two men pull out the stretcher and begin to roll it along the pavement … heading towards the beauty parlour.
Rizwan is at once baffled and curious. He watches as they approach the beauty parlour, then twist the stretcher into the narrow alley that flanks the parlour towards a door that says “Ambulance Entrance: Sethi Nursing Home and Orthopedic Hospital.”
A set of double doors swing open and he finds himself in the middle of a huge room. A board hanging from the false ceiling announces it to be the Reception and Admission Hall. A few people sitting in the area crane their necks to look up at him being wheeled in before returning to their erstwhile activity. His arrival sees the young lady behind the reception window get up and direct the men to head straight inside. He finds himself being trundled along an empty corridor, following arrows that point towards the operating room. Another set of double doors swing open and he is soon stationed against the wall in a small anteroom just outside the main operation theater, surrounded by a bewildering array of beeping instruments and whirring machines.
He is attended to by a team of masked men and women in blue scrubs suits. They speak to him, asking him how he is feeling, where and what hurts, what medicines he takes and when his last meal was. He listens with only half an ear and spits out answers without thinking. He is undressed, shaved, cleaned with a soapy mix, and lets out an involuntary gasp when a catheter slips into his bladder. Someone connects a number of sticky pads to his chest and soon a machine on the wall above his head begins to beep, mirroring the pace and rhythm of his now thudding heart. He feels an intravenous line pop into one of the veins on the back of his hand and someone inflates a cuff around his arm that squeezes it so tightly, his fingers hurt.
And yet, all Rizwan can think about, is what is he doing inside a beauty parlour.
A young man with a dignified face approaches him. He smiles at Rizwan and says, ‘Rizwan Sheik? I am Dr Joshi. Raghav … I mean Mr Patel, your boss, called me early in the morning to tell me that he is sending someone that I should personally attend to. He says you are the best driver he has ever had and wants me to make you fit to take on your new responsibilities. He has even asked me to waive my charges and I cannot refuse him.’
Rizwan can only smile at him stupidly.
Dr Joshi lays a reassuring hand on his shoulder and says, ‘don’t worry, okay? We’ll have you up and around in no time. Do you have any questions?’
Rizwan has hundreds of them floating about in his head. But he knows that neither are they the ones Dr Joshi is anticipating nor will be able to answer. He shakes his head to indicate he doesn’t.
‘Good,’ says Dr Joshi. Then, addressing the man behind Rizwan, Dr Joshi says, ‘I think you can begin the induction. I’ll scrub.’
Dr Joshi’s mobile phone begins ringing in his shirt pocket just as Rizwan feels someone shoot something into his IV line. Almost immediately Rizwan’s eyes start to close and his head begins to feel heavy. But his hearing is acute and in the silent room he can hear the electronic cackle on the earpiece of Dr Joshi’s phone blurt, ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’
Suddenly Rizwan doesn’t want to fall asleep. He feels a mask cover his face, and someone instructs him to take big, deep breaths. He wants to fight the mask, he wants to get up and run. Instead, everything around him seems to be winding down like a movie in slow motion. Dr Joshi’s words however sink unmistakably into his brain. ‘Sorry, sweets … just got called for an emergency. Yeah … I know Thursdays are supposed to be free, but what can I do … He sent him in.’
Rizwan feels his eyelids growing heavier. A curious weakness— like a sentient drunkenness—is marinating steadily through his body. His body feels heavy even though his head wants to float away. He wants to scream for Mehr, but finds he is unable to speak. Meanwhile Dr Joshi is saying, ‘really? So, you’ll pay for the entire hospitalization? No, of course I won’t charge anything if you say so. You know I’d do anything for you, darling. Wow, both of you must really like him. No, no don’t worry he is just getting induced … he is probably out like a light.’
The lights around Rizwan dim progressively and begin to disappear one by one. Soon the sounds jumble up and the voices become garbled. Before going under, all Rizwan can think of is Mehr, Mehr . please, please don’t love me so much.
Five hours later his head starts to clear. Someone is calling out to him. He sees a bunch of the same masked people around him as their faces go in and out of focus. He attempts a cough, only to discover that he doesn’t have the strength to summon a hack.
His groin burns, his back hurts and his throat feels parched. He tries to speak but his voice is cracked and weak.
‘Mehr … Mehr.’
He feels someone’s grip tighten on his right hand and a familiar voice says, ‘I … I am right here, Rizwan miya.’
He shifts his head lightly towards her and asks, ‘the … the letters?’
There is a startled pause. Then she says, ‘can’t you think of anything else now? You don’t have to think about your duty all the time.’
‘Did you post—’
‘Of course not! Are you crazy? Here you are in emergency surgery and you expect me to leave you and go home to post some letters?’
Rizwan begins to smile. Then, much to his wife’s embarrassment, he shouts hoarsely, ‘Mehr, I love you,’ before drifting back to sleep.