Haroon Bijli

The old man turned the key to the door slowly so that it would not make any sharp noise. Yet, he couldn’t prevent the annoying clack at the end of the turn. He stepped inside to find his wife fast asleep on the sofa-cum-bed with the the TV on mute. He took the remote from his wife’s clasp and turned it off. Then, with a set of movements honed by years of practice, he lay his wife down on the long side of the sofa, and extended its back to make it a bed. She did not wake up.

He washed up quickly, did his ablutions and sat down for the night prayer. His phone kept buzzing with notifications, but those could wait. These few moments of prayer were his own, where he allowed himself to be at peace no matter how much the world wanted him.

His wife stirred as he folded the prayer mat. Half awake, she asked, “are you home? There’s supper on the table.” Which he knew, and she knew he knew, yet had to be said. He touched her face gently. “Go back to sleep. Will have it.”

He opened his phone as soon as he began his dinner. There were several messages from friends and family groups that he was part of. A couple from his manager. These could wait. He scrolled down the feed. No new messages from his children.

He finished his dinner and cleared the table. He hated throwing away food, but keeping the leftovers in the fridge only postponed their disposal. They had told her several times not to send this much for the two of them, but Mehrunnisa could never understand. She was afraid of sending too little to her in-laws and incurring their wrath, always erring on the side of caution, even to the extent of cutting her own family’s portions. The old man knew this but felt helpless.

He tidied up the kitchen and switched off the lights, except for the night lamp next to the sofa bed. He turned the TV on and switched to a news channel, on mute. He did not pay any attention to it, though. He propped a few pillows on the wall and positioned himself on the bed so that he could lift his wife’s feet onto his lap and massage them. The years of working standing up, had taken their toll, and her feet were callused, sometimes swollen if she had been walking too much during the day.

His wife stirred again as he began massaging her feet. She thanked him and asked if their youngest had gotten in touch. He said no, but he hadn’t checked all the messages on the phone yet. “I will tell you when he does,” he assured her. She went back to sleep.

He scrolled his phone with his left hand while still massaging with the right. All the family groups had the usual commotion. Genial, older relatives placating younger ones, young ones wanting to change the world, some with a definite view of what was right and what was wrong, and so on. He searched for replies on his messages asking for news of his son, their youngest, but after a few replies expressing concern, the urgency seemed to have died down. His daughter had not messaged yet; he assessed she would have finished her duty a few minutes ago.

He glanced at the TV absently and was about to doze away when his daughter buzzed. She had had a tiring day, she said. The hospital was apparently losing staff and everyone had to cover up for those who had left. The second message was about her youngest sibling. She said she didn’t know why he wasn’t replying even though it seemed he’d seen the messages. Neither do I, said the old man. “Anyway, I hope he is fine. Not able to get any update from the family groups.”

“Those family groups are useless. Why are you still there,” she texted.

“Well, most of them are in the Gulf, so thought I might get some news,” the old man replied.

“Aftu is probably the last person to tell them anything,” she replied. “You want something else too from them, no?”

That topic always came up with her, whichever way their conversation started.

“I am telling you again, please don’t look for anyone from there!”

“Yes darling, I won’t,” he texted. “Why don’t you go to sleep?”

“I have some good news,” she said. “Got a reward for my performance.”

“Congratulations!”

“Thanks. It’s nothing, just a voucher for a meal for two,” she replied, after adding a heart to her father’s greeting.

“Well… why don’t I look for someone you can take,” her father said.

“Ha!”

The old man chuckled.

“Am sending the voucher to you. Take Ammi. They have a branch near there,” she said.

“Okay, but these are for young people, no? What will we do there… we don’t eat anything these days, can’t even finish what Mehrunnisa sends.”

“No, Abba, please take Ammi there. Your anniversary is coming up. Just go there, eat something, feel nice, okay. Now good night. Assalamu alaikum.”

The old man kept the phone away and lay down next to his wife with a smile on his face. His wife stirred again and asked him if he’d had his dinner.

“Yes. You know, Qamar, for one thing we did not do well, we did two others quite okay,” the old man said.

“What?” his wife replied.

“Never mind,” said the old man as he rubbed her forehead. “Go back to sleep.” He knew she would wake up much before he did and there would be breakfast on the table, never mind those tired legs and muddled mind. Old habits die hard.

In the days that followed, he received news from one of the family groups that one of them had met his son and that he was still looking for a job. The relative also said that it seemed as if he did not have his phone with him. The news was of great relief to the old man and his family. Though they would have loved for him to be in touch, little joys were always welcome.

His anniversary had come and gone, but the old man decided that the news was good enough for him to finally redeem the voucher his daughter had sent him. He stopped over at a nearby photocopier shop to print out the voucher. The printout made the name of the restaurant clearer; it was one that he frequented and knew the people there. The seats were comfortable, and the main hall was on the ground floor, which made it easier for his wife.

On the evening of the dinner, he asked his wife to put on her best. He came early and changed into his one remaining white shirt instead of the faded T-shirt he wore for work. They took a rickshaw to the restaurant. As he got out, he asked his wife if she would fancy some Chinese food, proper Chinese, not the old rice dunked in cheap sauce they occasionally bought from a cart nearby and shared with their grandchildren when Mehrunnisa was unwell. She did not seem to register the difference and said it would have been less effort for her to cook at home.

The old man shrugged it away as they approached the usher at the main entrance. The usher first asked him to come via the side entrance for delivery takeaway but stopped mid-sentence when she noticed his wife. She quickly stepped out of her counter and escorted the old couple to a four-seater at a quieter corner of the restaurant. The waiters and captains seemed to take a pause to look at the couple, and the old man noticed that some of them nodded in recognition. He nodded back. Qamar noticed.

“Do you know these people? Are they from your old job?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “They are from my current job.”

Qamar appeared puzzled but let it be. The captain came to take their orders and gave his recommendations and said that the old man would know these dishes, they were the most popular in the area. The coupon was generous, said the captain, who asked them not to worry about the bill. Even so, the couple picked on the food and did justice only to the ice creams that were part of the dessert. As they got up to leave, most of the staff came around to ask about the meal, and several wanted to be introduced to his wife. The warmth surprised the old man. He didn’t know that anyone would recognize him when he was not in the food app uniform, leave alone notice him. After all, he had never been to the front entrance even once.

As he waited in the street to hail a rickshaw, the usher came from behind to hand over a takeaway bag. “Some goodies for the grandkids,” she said before hurrying back to her station.

Qamar now wanted answers. “What is your job, how come these people are nice to you?” she asked.

“Well,” said the old man, “The rice you didn’t eat enough of? They serve over a hundred of them every day to people at homes. I deliver some of them.”

Qamar was not placated. “What kind of a silly job is that and that too in your old age,” she muttered.

A rickshaw halted. The old man helped her into the seat. He was glad he didn’t really have to answer the question.

Note: I wanted to write the opposite of this short story with the same name. Do read it.