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.
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