A Return to Roots (Short Story)

A Return to Roots

By

Tipu Salman Makhdoom

(Translated from Urdu)

Even though jet bridges are now common at Pakistani airports, the American plane didn't get one. If this had happened in America, there'd be an uproar. But after twenty years as an American citizen, with America deeply ingrained in him, he considered it normal for a developing country like Pakistan, despite returning after twenty-five years. He hadn't planned on coming back, but his young nephew's sudden death compelled him to offer support to his brother, even if only for a few days. Missing the funeral wasn't ideal, but arriving four days later was still something. To top it off, the plane landed in Lahore at four in the morning.

So, instead of a jet bridge, stairs were rolled up to the plane. Stepping out onto the stairs, he felt a pleasant gust of cool July morning air. The metal stairs struck him as old-fashioned, yet they held a certain charm, a scent of belonging. In Pakistan, those who can't go to America eat at McDonald's. But for those returning from America, the true scent of their homeland isn't found in McDonald's; it's in chana daal gosht (chickpea lentil and meat) and saag (greens).

His car passed through Cantt and then Mall Road, eventually turning into the narrow lanes of Krishan Nagar, a neighborhood founded by Hindus. This neighborhood had since embraced Islam, renaming itself Islam Pura. His nephew pulled the car into a lane, and the two young men carried his luggage and him into the three-story house, built before the partition of India. Upon seeing his brother, he moved towards him. His elder brother also rose, and the two embraced. Words of condolence were exchanged—"I'm so sorry, brother," and "May Allah grant you patience and a place in heaven for the deceased," followed by "It was Allah's will." Then, they settled onto the sofas opposite each other. After reciting the Fatiha (a prayer), a moment of silence fell.

"What happened, brother? How did all this come about?" he finally asked, sipping his strong Lahore tea. "What can I tell you, little brother," his brother replied. "Six months ago, Munna was perfectly fine. Then, suddenly, one day, he had severe stomach pain. We had to admit him to the hospital. The company he worked for as an admin officer had a panel hospital. They ran so many tests on Munna. Every single test listed in medical books, they left no stone unturned. All these tests were free, covered by the company. The tests revealed a tumor in Munna's stomach. Samples of the tumor were taken and extensively tested, and it turned out to be cancerous. What happened next? We immediately wrote to Munna's company. Not only did the company grant Munna six months' leave with pay, but they also took on all the expenses for his chemotherapy and three operations. The company didn't let my son lack for anything. It was as if a rich man's child was being treated. When he was writhing in pain, they gave him such expensive injections that he'd become completely calm and fall asleep. They gave them without hesitation. Every week, the company's HR officer would come and pay the entire bill, without even questioning the hospital about how such a bill was incurred. One day, Munna's general manager even came to check on him. Two operations were done here, and one in Karachi. But we didn't have to do anything at all. The company bore the cost of taking Munna to Karachi for the operation, and then bringing him back."

Silence descended once more for a short while. Then, a young boy spoke, "Should I get breakfast for Uncle?" "Yes, yes, go," his brother said, "bring puris and lassi for your uncle. Then we'll take him to the graveyard for Fatiha." The boy left, and silence settled again. "I didn't even have to sell my motorcycle, little brother," his elder brother continued. "I pray for the company. May Allah always keep this company and its owners safe."

Listening to the elder brother, the young boy sitting in the corner recalled last year's funeral in the neighborhood, where a father repeatedly fainted from grief over his young son's death, and couldn't stop weeping and talking about his son for weeks. On the other hand, hearing these very words from his brother, the younger brother's mind went back to their elderly father. Until he fell into a coma, their father would cry himself to sleep every night, remembering how their first son, when he was two, needed an appendix operation, but by the time they gathered money from people, days had passed and the boy's appendix burst. People always told them that until they buried the child, their father would kiss the little corpse's feet and weep uncontrollably.

When the puris and lassi arrived, the two brothers began to eat.