Jinnah Hospital

Rushing past the lush farm fields to the right and the distant residential colonies on the left, Jamil listens to Akbar who is pleading that the only way to save the country is to implement a system of governance based on the principles of Islam.


“After all, why was this country made?”


Jamil takes a peek at the speedometer before offering a stare of disagreement to his friend as they speed past the sign on the motorway stating: ‘Lahore 5 km’.


“Bringing in religion will create intolerance. We were doing very well in the sixties. All we need to have is a strong leadership that will brush aside all these hindrances to progress.” explains Jamil.


“But the leadership has to inspire the people. And that can only be done through religion- the bond uniting the people. Otherwise, there will be chaos.”


“No. Leadership needs to control people. An illiterate people cannot be inspired. They have to be strictly controlled so development can occur with ease- thus avoiding chaos.”


***


Flies swarm around the juice canteen as the orders for thirsty relatives of Jinnah Hospital patients are processed mechanically with utter disregard for hygiene. Dried juice stains decorate the stall which is surrounded by decaying fruit peels. A tired guard helplessly watches as endless crowds enter and leave the building in the late hours of the evening.


Sitting on a chair next to the canteen constantly waving away the flies, Saeed is wondering if it would be better to take his ailing mother to a private hospital. The sight of her coughing blood had numbed his senses. That she was left coughing for half-an-hour before a doctor was available left him seething with anger.


His thoughts reflect the helpless state he is in.


She needs to be in a place where her old body can receive better care. I should take her to a private hospital. How much could it cost?


Saeed takes out his black handkerchief and opens it. Placed in it are two five-hundred rupee notes, three one-hundred rupee notes, two fifties, five tens and a one rupee note. 1,451 Rupees.


A short, burly middle-aged man with a thick beard carrying a sleeping baby in his arms and a white paper in his hand approaches Saeed. His forehead is decorated with painful frowns and the eyes hint of a soul that is saving its breath for someone else. His powerful physique is entirely deceptive.


“Bhai sahb. Don’t take me wrong.” says the man in a trembling voice.

“I do not need any money. My son is sick.”


Pointing to the scribbled sheet of paper he is holding, he continues, “Help me get these medicines for him. May God give you life-long happiness!”


Saeed puts the black handkerchief with the money back in his pocket and pretends as if the man with the child who continues to plead does not exist.


“My son is very sick. Please help me Bhai sahb.”


***


Jamil slows down the Pajero as they enter the exit ramp behind a brick-laden truck on whose back is an image of a fighter jet underneath which is written ‘F-16 Tayara’. The patch with the Pakistan Army insignia hanging on the rearview mirror of the Pajero sways as the vehicle makes a semi-circular turn.


Pointing to the image on the truck, Akbar quips, “Does that look like an F-16 to you?”

The two laugh.

“But it’s one hellva great jet. Simply beautiful!” says Jamil with a glint in his eye.


“Those Americans will never give those to us anymore.” says Akbar.


“We’ll just have to rely on ourselves now.”


“I’m proud that Pakistani defense products are being exported!”


“It’s a great achievement!”


Jamil puts the headlights on high beam as he hits Multan road and speeds up the car.


“We have no choice! We’re in a tight spot. Cornered on all sides. We need to maintain a united stance on Kashmir or else our primary cause will be lost!”


“What’s there to worry about our stance on Kashmir yaar? There is no way we can compromise on Kashmir. It is our right.”


“We cannot quit where we have spent so much energy and blood!”

***

Saeed stands outside the female ward having spoken to his wife Fazila who gives an update on the old woman’s condition.


“They have called another doctor to check on her.”


Saeed remains standing there, his sight having lost itself in the closed and now reappearing spaces between the thick but flowing crowd in the hall.


An old man carrying a cane can barely stand on his shaky legs as he searches for a ward no one will help him find. A wailing child is being carried across the hall followed by concerned family members. Some relatives sit on the floor against the wall, head in hands, condemned to wait. Others discuss which relative could remain with the patient and who should leave now to catch the bus back.

Saeed walks over to the open window, lights a cigarette, and watches the activities of the night outside.


The wagons blocking the traffic, pedestrians waiting for their rides, the pharmacies awaiting their customers, ice vendors, fruit and vegetable vendors, as well as the restaurant and khoka-valas, all follow the normal routines offering their services to the public hospital.


What should I do? Should I take her to the private hospital now? Will they accept her for the money I have?

A young teenage boy with a cigarette in his mouth taps him on his shoulder.


“Bhai sahb, maachis hai?”


Saeed helps the boy light the tobacco. They boy puffs one out the window and says he’s waiting for the tests on his father. A drug addict. Unlikely to live. The boy seems so calm about it.


“He cannot quit. I never see him at home. For the past five years, I’ve been repairing autos to support the family.”
Pause. Making his feelings clear, he snarls,


“Amee told me to be here.”


Amee. The one person who will not hesitate to sacrifice despite the never ending pains offered her. What are you waiting for Saeed?


Placing his hands in his kameez pocket, Saeed feels the handkerchief with the money and walks towards the ward again.


***


Jamil snaps the headlights from high beam to back warning the traffic ahead to make way for their speeding vehicle.

“They screwed us in East Pakistan. We’ll screw them in Kashmir!”

“Yeah, but you know the Bengalis wanted to leave.”

“F-ck them! Those bastards didn’t deserve to be part of Pakistan!”

Laughing, Jamil remarks, ‘Gittay!’


Suddenly a horse-carriage makes a sharp turn onto the road attempting to cross it causing Jamil to apply the breaks and honk the horn. The car safely skids for a couple of meters. Jamil curses at the tonga driver, firmly presses the gas pedal again and speeds ahead.


“How can these people question the existence of Pakistan?”


“Grante d we have a long way to go, but our loyalty should be here first and foremost!”


“It pisses me off when these so called ‘intellectuals’ ridicule the country after all that it has given them.”


“They think they represent the common man. Common man my as-!”


“The common person doesn’t give a flying f-ck about democracy. He just wants to meet his basic needs!”


“Chuutiyay hain!”


***


The young doctor calmly approaches Saeed followed by Fazila.
“I’m sorry. She was in an advanced state of bronchial…. She was in an advanced state of cancer.”


Saeed does not flinch while his wife covers her face with the chador and begins to weeps.


Saeed does not know how he is managing to walk down the hall toward the exit. The activities of the night greet him once more as he stands on the footsteps not knowing where to go, what to do, still feeling the handkerchief with the money. All noise seems to have gone dull. Every step feels like it should not have been taken.


***


“People should remember where Pakistan stood at Independence. Look how far we’ve come!”


“That it survived against all odds is in itself a miracle!” said Jamil as he forcefully shifted the gear down.


***


“Bhai sahb! Please listen to me Bhai sahb!” The hefty man carrying the baby has given in to desperation as he maneuvers his arms to join his hands between which rests the prescription sheet.


“My son is very sick. I don’t need your money! Just help me buy these!”


Saeed does not know what he is listening to. Or what he is doing. Taking out the handkerchief from his pocket, he places it in the hands of the desperate father. Sliding his back against the wall, Saeed slips down to the ground, and covers his face in his arms and knees.


The man with the ailing baby rushes towards the pharmacies taking large steps and passionately hissing to the sleeping boy.


“It’ll be all right son. You will be well again. God willing.”


He runs out the gate and through the maze of people waiting for their transport. As he steps onto the road, he glances to his right and is hit with a series of quick alternating beams of light blinding him to stop in the middle of the street. The oncoming driver applies the breaks but only manages to skid the speeding vehicle while pressing the horn.


The burly figure carrying the baby watches but cannot make out the screeching, sliding vehicle that slams into his ribs. There are gasps and screams from the crowd. The man is thrown back and falls down, a stream of blood spilling out of his mouth. The baby slips out of the man’s arms and rolls to a halt against the edge of the gutter.


Fluttering in the night air, the colorful currency notes spread out aimlessly toward the ground.


Akbar and Jamil stare out into the night toward the motionless figure lying on the road. It seems as if time has momentarily paused so that everyone can absorb the event.


Someone bangs a fist against the Pajero. The shock has given way to anger in the crowd as accusatory curses are spilled out against the occupants of the vehicle.


“Let’s get the f-ck out of here!” screams Akbar.


Jamil, with trembling hands, and breathing hard, obeys his friend and gets the vehicle moving forward out into the dark open road before the crowd outside the hospital manages to envelop them.