Dangerous Territory [Completed]

The Hospital

We were taken to the hospital, treated, prescribed some medicines. Thankfully, Mr. Iqbal and Adil were there with us, but before heading for home, I assured both the men that we’d be fine and can take off from here ourselves. I voiced a general gratitude in their direction, Adil wasn’t really meeting my gaze. Mr. Iqbal reminded me though that we didn’t have a car, and to let them drop us at home would be better than to take a cab. I considered and then agreed, grudgingly because I couldn’t anymore take the weight of their favors on my heart. It was a debt I couldn’t repay. 

Mr. Iqbal put a hand on my head, giving me a prayer, and I had to hold back the tears that the gesture aroused. Adil on the other hand didn’t say anything, didn’t even come out of the car, didn’t grant me a glance. I kept my eyes on him, waiting for him to look up, but he drove the car out of our house, and taking a turn to the right disappeared from our sights.

The workers of the house swarmed us when we entered, asking questions regarding our well being. When they had made us sit in the living room and offered drinks, their concern shifted from us to Father. In a manner of helping us remember - as if we had forgotten - they informed us that he was moved to a private room and that the doctors had said that he wasn’t getting any better. We should take some rest, one of the maids advised, and then visit him in the hospital. But of course Bisma and I had no plans of resting, so I told the driver to get the car out while we’d change and freshen up. 

On the way, Bisma was already crying, and even though it hurt me to see her so grievous I had no words to console her. I couldn’t say he’d get better or everything will be alright, because I didn’t know if it would. I just didn’t know.

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His mouth covered with the oxygen mask, several tubes and wires surrounding him and the continuous beep of the EKG, eyes closed and all the muscles of his body unmoving - that was my father; helpless. My Father who had the entire city running on his fingers, my Father who never had to look up to someone, who never thought twice before doing anything. And sadly, this was my Father who had ruined his own brother. I felt unable to move my eyes from his slackened face, and kept staring while leaning against the wall. I saw Bisma sit down beside him, cover his wired hand with her own and then wipe the tears that trickled down her cheek. 

Only when my legs had begun to hurt, I allowed myself to take a seat on the chair in the corner of the room, and while my heart seemed to be taking its beats with dread, slow and stretched, Bisma got up and exited the room. After a few minutes she walked back in, took a prayer mat from atop the small drawers in the corner, wore the scarf securely around her head and spread the mat on the floor. And then she prayed. 

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I slept on the chair while Bisma had dozed off on the prayer mat. Sunlight was streaming in through the gaps in the blinds, illuminating the room. He looked just as he did yesterday. His mouth was covered with the oxygen mask, several tubes and wires were surrounding him, but the continuous beep of the EKG that had sounded all through the day had now stopped. The room was silent, save for the whispers of death. 

We didn’t get to say our last words, a last goodbye just as we hadn’t got to say it all to Uncle. 

Our Father was no more.

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Everything was once again a blur. I didn’t get to think and ponder over my actions, and over what was happening around me. Bisma was in a state of denial, shaking her head and repeating the same words under her breath all through our drive to home.  I had wept a little but immediately the obligations had started to speak, for I was the elder, hence I was supposed to arrange everything. The doctor was called, a death certificate was arranged, he was transferred into the ambulance, and off we were onto the road. I sent a text message to Ramsha and Bilal, and after a pause to Adil as well. 

Once at home, all the house workers came to help without needing to have told. A charpoy was quickly arranged and Father was laid upon it in the lounge. All the furniture was moved to other rooms to make space for the visitors. Ramsha and Bilal arrived with their parents and as they consoled me, they also let on that I didn’t need to worry because all the preparations for the funeral would be done by them. I told one of the maids to inform all of my father's friends and employees. Ramsha’s mother asked where Bisma was, I didn’t know. I was taken to the dining room, made to sit on a chair. My hair was stroked. Everything was happening in a clinical, almost robotic way, at least it seemed like that to me. But then I heard a loud wail, like that of a wounded animal. My heart jumped to my throat. 

“Who was it?” I found myself asking Ramsha. 

“I don’t know. Let me go check.” 

I saw her turn around and walk out of the dining room. I wondered where Bilal was. Maybe he was busy in the preparations with the other men.

“It was Bisma.” Ramsha was saying, as she was walking back towards me. “Ma went to her to console but she leapt away, saying this isn’t true,” for some reason she hesitated, “that what’s happening is not true.”

For very long we sat on the chairs, as the voices of men talking loudly echoed along the walls. And when I was taken back to the living room, it was all covered in white - white sheets on the floor, and white limp body of Father, and white furniture. Blurred vision, and white limp body of Father. People I didn’t know read beads, and Qur’an, people I didn’t know prayed for my father. And then some time later, men came in. They lifted the coffin up onto their shoulder and started towards the doors that stood ajar. Reciting the Kalma they took Father farther and farther away from home, and I sat there on the floor, watching them leave, never to bring him back again.

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Bisma burned in fever for three days. Ramsha and Bilal’s mothers stayed, Ramsha did too. When Bisma finally awoke though, when she was a little better, I asked them to not worry themselves any more, that they could go back to their homes. I assured them I’d be fine. But they weren’t just yet ready. I kept insisting on them, for their profoundly warm presence was overwhelming me. Sometimes people around you are so nice you can’t take it anymore. Their mothers left on the fifth day, Ramsha stayed. 

And days went on.

She didn’t leave, Bilal too was more often with us than he was at his own home. They were adamant to not let us be until we’d be fit to come back to life. I thought something was amiss. Something that could bring closure. Something that could fill the gap in our lives.

And then he came.

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