The Child (Short Story)

 The Child

By

Tipu Salman Makhdoom

(Translated from Punjabi)

His heart swelled with joy as he gazed at the air hostess’s form, her slender waist seeming on the verge of tearing under the voluptuous curves above and below. All his anxieties, the emotional torment of seeing his dying mother, vanished instantly. He eyed her with a potter's discerning gaze. From the front, she was a graceful urn with two plump pots beneath her neck; from behind, it seemed two earthen jars of vinegar swayed beneath her waist. Since when did PIA recruit such eye candies? Fifteen years ago, it was all veiled aunties, hidden in their cloaks and scarves.

Before the plane taxied, he sent a WhatsApp message to his younger sister, informing her the flight would depart on time. He and his sister exchanged voice calls every week or so. Video calls were reserved for Eid and other special occasions. His sister had also left her job the previous year. He usually spoke to his mother during his sister’s calls.

His father’s death had distanced him from his mother but brought him closer to his sister. An eighth-grader at the time, he never understood why his father’s funeral procession began from another house. To shake off the morbid thoughts of a plane crash, he redirected his mind to the air hostess's curves and containers.

The plane ascended, then leveled off, and he unbuckled his seatbelt. He stretched his legs, leaned his head back, and the tedium of the long flight pushed his thoughts back to his dying mother. When his sister told him the doctors had almost given up hope, he instinctively heard the desperation in her voice, unspoken yet clear.

After his father's passing, their precarious situation spiraled towards ruin. His aunts squabbled with his mother. He would spend entire days sitting with his mother in court. They left their home to live in a small apartment. His mother worked all day and spent her evenings entangled in these disputes. He slowly transitioned from being his mother's son to becoming his sister's father figure.

After finishing his meal, he tried to sleep. Again, the same thought tormented him. After so many years, what would transpire when he finally saw his mother? His mother had never asked for anything when he left her at the airport, nor had she ever made a request during their phone calls. But what if now, standing by her deathbed, she asked something of her grown son? Did he have an answer? Worry and fear paralyzed his mind.

He opened his eyes to find the plane had already landed. All the passengers were gathering their hand luggage. He too began collecting his belongings. In the four years after his father’s death, some things made sense, others did not. He completed his A-Levels, moved to America with his uncle, studied, got a job, and married. Everything was good, but there was a secret in his life that had prevented him from visiting his mother and sister even once in fifteen years. He had only sent dollars.

He dropped his luggage at the five-star hotel and messaged his sister that he was going to the hospital. He’d had a phone argument with her at the airport. His sister insisted it was the middle of the night and he should go in the morning, and that she would be there too. He tried to explain that according to his biological clock, it was daytime, and he wouldn’t be able to sleep now, but his sister kept repeating the same thing. Like him, his sister also feared that meeting. Both wanted to face the same fear in different ways. One feared something might happen; the other wished whatever transpired would remain private.

At the hospital reception, his sister had already informed them of his arrival, and he too had sent an email to the MD. He was being led with protocol. A male nurse walked ahead, followed by a female nurse. In the bright light, the long, empty hospital corridors appeared terrifying. On top of that, the clack-clack of four pairs of men’s boots and two pairs of ladies’ heels made the environment even more chilling. All the zombie movies he had ever seen flooded his mind.

With every step, he wanted to ask the nurses to leave him at the door so he could go in alone. But he felt that this request would not only be strange but also doubtful. Perhaps they would think he intended to murder his mother for property. He now regretted coming alone, and that too in the middle of the night. If his sister were with him, at least whatever was about to happen wouldn’t be in front of strangers.

Lost in these thoughts, they suddenly stopped before a door. His heart pounded like a galloping horse. This was the moment of decision. If he had anything to say to the nurses, this was his last chance. In this dilemma, the male nurse half-opened the room door. His hands and feet turned cold. He couldn’t speak. Now, whatever spectacle was to unfold, it would be before them. His thoughts and emotions froze. Let what happens happen; his nervous system had donned the cloak of insensitivity/dumbness. At that very moment, what the nurse whispered in his ear made his heart sink, and his eyes began to close, as if he had suddenly been overcome by a deep sleep.

"Sir, Madam has been given a sleeping injection. Please don't wake her before morning."

He looked at the nurse for the first time. She was a very beautiful girl.

Seeing his mother, what he had anticipated did not happen. What happened was something he hadn't even conceived of. He yearned to run and embrace his mother, to sob uncontrollably. But he did not. There were three reasons for this abstention. First, at the very moment he felt the urge to do so, the nurses were still there, and he hesitated. Second, because he hadn't even considered this possibility, the moment passed in indecision. Third, he was frightened by the skeletal frame, connected to machines through wires and tubes. He felt as if his mother had melted away to such a degree that she might suddenly melt further and disappear entirely. The staff quietly departed, and he sat down on the chair by the bedside.

Just six months ago, he had seen his mother on a video call; she had seemed somewhat frail, but now she was merely a bundle of bones. He stared at her. With the oxygen mask and tubes in her hands, and wires attached to her chest, she looked like an insect trapped in a spider web. Time began to tick by, second by second. He had expected to be shocked if something happened during his first encounter with his mother. Now, sitting on the chair without anything happening, he felt as though he had already received a massive shock.

Sitting on the chair, he grew bored. He still wished for morning to come quickly so his sister would arrive. But now, he felt no agitation. A heavy, tired sleep began to descend upon him.

He had started earning in his fourth year in America. Until then, his uncle had supported him. He spoke to his mother weekly. Each time, she would ask if he had sent money. He never had. This never angered him.

The door opened a crack, then more, just a little more. First a quarter, then half, and then she entered.

"Sir, do you need anything?" the nurse asked softly. He shook his head no, trying to smile but failing. After the nurse left, he walked around his mother’s bed. The shock notwithstanding, seeing his mother in this state brought him neither sorrow nor joy. Sitting on the second chair, he took out his phone from his pocket.

In the early morning, Nikky arrived, bringing him breakfast. Even seeing Nikky, he didn't feel the kind of emotional storm he had anticipated. In his imagined scenario, there was no hospital, no skeletal mother. Nikky, on the other hand, was quite emotional. She hugged him and cried for a long time. He felt as if Nikky's tears contained pain and loneliness, along with fear. After a while, his head started spinning, and he remembered that it was his night. He left, saying he would return in the evening.

Four days passed. He would arrive in the evening, Nikky would have dinner with him and go home, and he would stay with his mother until morning, watching her sleep, or engaging with social media. In the morning, he would go to the hotel and sleep. Slowly, this routine began to suit him. When he went at night, he spoke mostly with Nikky, who would get her mother a sleeping injection before leaving. In the morning, before his mother regained consciousness, Nikky would be back, and he would make his exit.

Two more days passed in this manner.

It was just one o’clock when the nurse arrived. The midnight injections were given at three, he observed with surprise. The nurse stood by the skeleton’s head.

“I came to check if everything is alright. Would you like some tea?”

He smiled and nodded yes. Every night, she offered him tea, and he always refused. Today, he was also ready for this offer. Ten minutes later, she returned with two cups. He smiled and took one. Placing her cup near him, she began to adjust the skeleton's mask. Sometimes she moved the tube attached to the mask, and sometimes she bent to listen to its breathing. She stood between him and his mother, and as she bent, strange thoughts came to him. It had been eight or nine days since he left home.

She pulled up a chair next to him and sat down, explaining, as she drank her tea, that she lived in a hostel. Her night duty was permanent; she slept alone all day. Over the past six nights, many smiles and small jokes had been exchanged. As she spoke about her hostel, she began to ask about his hotel. The implication was clear now. He chuckled and said they both slept alone, and during the day too; they needed to find a solution. She laughed. By the time the tea was finished, their morning program was set. She would come to his hotel at ten.

Before ten, he had reached the hotel, bathed, and spoken with his wife. Now, he was just waiting for the phone call from reception.

As he sucked on her earlobe, running his hand over her naked body felt wonderfully pleasurable. Not just her face and limbs were beautiful; the girl was taut.

A good routine had been established. In the mornings and evenings, he chatted with Nikky, his days were brightened by the nurse, and in the hospital, his mother slept under the influence of the injection. But this routine proved to be short-lived. On the fifth day, the doctor stopped his mother’s nightly sleeping injection. His mother was getting better.

That night, Nikky left after getting the other injections, unaware that the sleeping injection had been discontinued. He remained on social media for a while, then, bored, his gaze fell upon his mother, and two wrinkled eyes stared back at him.

Seeing him look at her, his mother pulled down the mask from her face. He rushed to her, his first thought being that his mother's condition was worsening, which was why she had woken up and was pulling at her mask. He brought his ear close to her lips to hear what she might say. His mother extended a hand and gripped his chin. He straightened his face in surprise, and tears flowed from his mother’s eyes. As if from nowhere, a storm gathered and began to rain from his own eyes. He clung to his mother and wept uncontrollably.

His heart felt somewhat lighter, and he pulled a chair closer, sat down, and held his mother's hand. The fog of insensitivity that had clouded his mind for so many days lifted, and a shower of childhood memories, and the conversations with his aunts and uncle, began to pour. He had never seen his mother cry since his father's funeral. Not when he left Pakistan, nor during audio-video calls. Nikky would cry, but his mother never did. He thought he was like his mother, insensitive! But today, both had cried insensitively, perhaps after many years.

"Why didn't we live together?" he mumbled, his head resting on his mother's hand, sniffing.

His mother said nothing, just stared at him with fixed eyes, tears still flowing. His nose running, having spoken the first sentence, and receiving no immediate reply, his courage grew. He lifted his head and looked at his mother. The waxy shell that had encased his mother had melted, and from within emerged a crying, sobbing mother.

"Why did you let me go?" This time, he asked with courage and a steady voice. His eyes demanded an answer, but they were not ready for the blow of that answer.

"I didn't have money to raise you!"

"You didn't have money to feed me?"

"I didn't have money to make you a great man like this."

His eyes and nose dried. The conversation had veered towards the very topic he had been avoiding.

"Where did...our money go?"

"Your paternal grandparents didn't give it to me?"

"Why didn't you claim your right? It was our father's money!"

"He himself had handed it over to them, for you all."

"Why...?"

Suddenly, it felt as though someone had placed a nail on his throat. The question remained half-formed, unable to escape.

"Your father no longer trusted me."

"Why did you leave him?"

For about ten seconds, no answer came, and he felt his voice had become quite loud with that question.

"I didn't...he left me!"

In front of him, his paternal grandparents never spoke directly about his mother, but from their conversations, he knew that his mother had left his father for an affair with her boss, and then his father, consumed by this grief, had died.

"Why?"

This time, the question was simply that.

"He suspected me."

Despite his efforts, he couldn't bring himself to ask if his father's suspicion was correct.

The following week was his last in Pakistan. This time, he boarded the plane alone at the airport, but he was happy. During the day, he enjoyed the nurse's company; in the evening, he chatted with Nikky, and all night, he talked with his mother—about his childhood, about America, about their Pakistan. His mother was now well, and she was to be discharged from the hospital in two days. The last week had been good.

Two months had passed since he returned to America. Now, he had a video call with his mother and sister every other day. Their visa process had begun. Suddenly, life had become seemingly perfect.

On Sunday night, after dinner, his little daughter insisted on watching TV with her mother. He picked the child up and carried her towards the room, explaining that she was no longer a small child, but a third-grader, she had school in the morning, and her mother was home, so she could watch the film.

"Why doesn't Mama go to work like all other mothers?"

For a moment, a scene flashed before his eyes. His mother lay in the hospital room, and beside her stood the nurse. Both were smiling, as if someone behind the camera had called out, "Say cheese!"