‘Tell Her Everything’: A doctor reflects on a dark past in Mirza Waheed’s new novel

You see, Sara, it had to happen...I couldn’t have prevented it, could I? It could have been anyone, and it was me. It had to happen to someone, and it was me. Think about it. Of all the men in the world, of all the doctors in the world, of all the fathers in the whole world, I happened to be the one present in that place at that time. Someone or the other had to do it. It just so happens that that someone was your dad.

That’s how I look at it now, anyway. I didn’t choose to be there, did I? It was all predestined, don’t you think?

You know, I was quite young when I left home for England. Who was to know I wouldn’t last even two full years here then? Anyhow, I was such a star in the neighbourhood when people heard I was going abroad. Abbu walked in the streets as if he’d vanquished all his troubles and foes and become the badshah of the locality. After all, I was the first person in the entire clan to be going to a Western country. Some distant relatives had spent years working in the Gulf, but no one had seen a proper foreign city. And to top it all, I was headed to London. Vilayat, as my mother said to anyone who listened or didn’t listen. Ammi gave alms so many times a day to stave off the evil eye that Shabi, my sister, joked we’d soon be begging for food ourselves. For weeks, aunts, uncles, neighbours and family friends came to congratulate my parents. Everyone brought sweets that practically oozed type 2 diabetes.

Shabi said I shouldn’t feel too flattered, as nearly everyone who came to visit was fishing for a match for their daughter or niece. “You think these women who have never set foot in our house would be landing wet kisses on you if they didn’t have marriageable daughters or sisters?”

I said it was flattering nonetheless.

“Let’s see how flattered you feel when you meet one of the girls.”

“Please spare me,” I said.

“No, no, you must. I know a few of these worthies, brother. One is so bright, so bright..that she spent five years doing her Matric just to make her mark. Another is properly stunning, until she opens her mouth, that is. Breathtakingly beautiful, ha-ha. I know her a little better than I know the others. Shall I arrange a date, marriage- material bro?” Shabi could be ruthless like that, but she was also very protective of me. It was through her that I met Atiya. You know that, right? They went to the same teacher-training programme in Meerut, Atiya’s town, and became friends on the first day.

So, you see, I left home for England, but look where I landed. Fate moves in small circles over our heads, just to toss us around, don’t you think? It was destined to be me. And it’s not as if it was my main occupation. Oh no, far, far from it. I had a perfectly ordinary job on most days. How did it all begin? When was the first time? What did it feel like? I’ll come to it all, I promise.

I’ve been meaning to say this for so many years, Sara. I’ve thought and rethought the words so many times that the perfect words may have already escaped me, or they never arrived. And maybe they never will. That’s why I will just say it as it is. As it was.

~~~

I was there, Sara, I was there. In the thick of it, in the middle of it all. I’d do it and then get back to routine work.

Even though what was routine and what wasn’t became mixed up sometimes. I’d do it, and then have tea and biscuits with my colleagues. Of course, I couldn’t tell them all at first. What could I tell them? That I was the chosen one, selected to do it, and that I was paid extra? Please don’t ask how much. It’s embarrassing.

Once or twice a year, or every couple of years, it felt as if a small battle was going on somewhere nearby and I was on call to have the wounds fixed and dressed. I was there: closing the wounds, healing the wounds, then seeing those faces at night. There were, of course, the dreams. I’d wake up startled, having seen one of the faces in the dark. Sometimes they shook hands with me. Even in my dreams, I’d remind myself to shake hands properly. Not the limp, passive shake that can be construed as a sign of weakness, disinterest, or a lack of manners. I would’ve just shaken a hand and I’d be wide awake, confused, sometimes holding my other hand. In all honesty, it didn’t happen every night. Some nights I slept normally.

~~~

One day, they brought two people whose time was up. Let me work out what year it was. Sometimes certainty deserts me, but this I remember clearly. It was my third year over there and I think a few months after Sir Farhad decided to have such cases shifted from Corrections to the hospital. You weren’t born yet.

The two men had been convicted of selling stolen electronic goods. I didn’t always know the deeds of those we attended to. This was also one of the few occasions when those I had to supervise were natives. I brought it upon myself, I admit, I’ll tell you about it.

Anyhow, earlier that day, I was walking back from the toilets when I saw the Chief Secretary. He rarely came to see me for anything else, so I went along quietly. He always smelled of green cardamom. We first went to Sir Farhad’s office on the first floor, which was unusual, much as I liked being in his enormous office. As I entered, Sir Farhad stood up and said, “It should’ve been quick, that was the idea, wasn’t it, but the Great Judge wants to preside over the proceedings. It appears to me that he wants to observe and make sure. I don’t understand why. I am here. Am I not? Who am I?”

“You’re the boss,” the Chief Secretary said, but Farhad didn’t even look at him.

“I believe he wants to be acknowledged as the preeminent jurist of our time, and it appears to me that that’s the reason why he hasn’t shown any leniency. The father and son are our people, somewhat known in their neighbourhood. I may have known of them too. There were suggestions from some quarters that perhaps the honourable judge might be kinder to the father, or at least be open to the idea of commuting the punishment. Although, according to me, if anyone deserves mercy, it has to be the son. He has a full life ahead – fruitful employment, marriage, babies, and service to the community. However, the Great Judge has made it a point that there’ll be no amendments to the decree just because they are our own, as it’s against the law. And he is the law...So there we go. I am the administrator, and he knows I can’t go against his decision without a major breach of protocol. Clever old fox.”

At first, I thought the Director was talking to me, but he was actually speaking into the space-age apparatus on his desk. Or maybe he was dictating to a machine linked to it. He spoke in English. Sir Farhad was a mysterious man and remained so until the very end. He smoked now, and walked up and down the length of his desk. He lit another cigarillo, took only two or three drags, and stubbed it out. This was the first time that I’d heard he was “The Administrator”.

Not only did he run the hospital where I worked, but he also ran the town where I lived! Why hadn’t I been told? I felt silly. This was also the first time I’d seen someone smoke a cigarillo.

I should ask Sara if she smokes, shouldn’t I? Perhaps not. That’s not what good fathers do, put their children in a spot. It’s best not to ask and not know. Don’t ask, don’t tell, as they say.

“Thank god, you’re here, Dr K, let’s go,” Sir Farhad said and left the room. He’d started calling me Dr K a couple of months after I joined; it was probably the one thing I didn’t like about him.

We followed him to his personal lift and went up to the top floor where the refitted hall was. The lift was meant for his exclusive use. It smelled of cologne. I tried to look for vents from where the scent came, but there were only the AC vents in the ceiling. Maybe the cold air meant for this lift was premixed with scent, because I didn’t detect any scent in the other lifts, apart from the smell of cleaning liquids or sometimes Biju’s cigarette and post-drinking breath. It hadn’t occurred to me before, but I was curious now about how they managed to air-condition the elevators as they moved up and down.

Just a procedure, just a small procedure, I kept telling myself, as we went up. I remember feeling the same sort of nervousness I used to feel in high school when it was time for the science viva voce. I would know everything, but to appear in front of the teachers and answer their questions felt like walking through a tree. My mouth would feel so dry that I worried whether I’d be able to open it at all. The viva took place in the hall on the ground floor of our college. The cursed door was right in the centre. There was nowhere to hide after I entered. I would walk the ten or twelve steps to the desk on which my notebook was open, a record of all the science experiments for the term. One of the teachers would always fiddle with it. They’d smile but, uff, by the time I somehow managed to walk up to them, I’d be dizzy. I rarely did well in the viva.

Excerpted with permission from Tell Her Everything, Mirza Waheed, Context.