Written by Haneef Shareef 

Translated by Fazal Baloch

 

After a very long time, he dreamed again, after about eleven years… He had not dreamt since he was thirty-five, and now he was an old man of forty-six. Today, as he was lying on his bed in the nephrology ward, he closed his eyes and had a dream.

 

Mother Mary and the angel appeared before him, like fond memories of his bygone days. The fog, dust, and haze were gone, and the days of scorching heat, burning hot winds, and thirst were over. Today, in the shade of the monsoon clouds, the two familiar old shadows emerged after a long wait. He recognized both of them. Even if he wished to, he could not forget them. What he had gained from his dreams during the first thirty-five years of his life were the two well-known and intimate faces… And today, Mother Mary and the angel, whom he had been desperate to meet in every dream since childhood, had returned home after eleven years of waiting.

 

As usual, Mother Mary was standing one step closer to him than the angel. She was silent. Moonlight had drenched her hair, and the signs of a long journey to her destination lingered in her eyes. He had etched Mother Mary’s eyes into his heart. Light was pouring forth from Mother Mary’s white robe. It seemed to him that she was surrounded by cotton flowers and wax moths. The entire ward was enveloped in the scent of camphor as well. He saw that Mother Mary was looking at his dialysis machine. The machine was making a rattling sound. The tubes attached to his arms were “breathing” his blood, which after passing through the machine by means of these tubes and being purified, returned to his body through other tubes. This machine was his kidneys, enabling him to keep pushing his book cart along.

 

He wished to go on a pilgrimage to Mecca at some point, and there he would have a dream. Under the overcast sky, in the gentle breeze, at the foot of the high mountains where the desert began, dressed in an Arab robe, he would hold the reins of Mother Mary’s camel, and before the end of the dream, ahead of the falling dusk, he would lead her across the desert. And then, by the fountains, under the shade of the blessings, he would marvel at flowing streams of milk and trees laden with figs and mulberries. Yet he knew that the pilgrimage was beyond his reach, as both his kidneys had given in. He could only keep his life dragging on with the support of the dialysis machine. He knew that once a week, he had to appear before this machine and endure the pain and solitude of the dialysis room. But he never thought that he would have a dream during his dialysis session on this very day.

 

He was quite astonished that the angel was still thirty-five. Not a day more or less. The Angel looked the same as eleven years ago. As far as he could remember, they had grown up together. Whenever they ran into each other in a dream, they mulled over the same plans, did the same things, and played the same games. They had traveled together from childhood until the age of thirty-five. It was the journey of half a lifetime. They shared the same age. Hence, he always used to think the angel was his twin brother, that he lived with Mother Mary, but sometimes would come out and look for him in the scorching heat of noon. He didn’t look like the angel, but he believed that he had been blessed with immortality and sent to earth. He traced his lineage to angels; he was created from fire, and these earthly folks were nothing. He was far superior. All the others were born from water and clouds. He was far above all visible and tangible things, and he constantly felt he was better than other human beings, but…

 

The facts were otherwise. He had spent his whole life selling books from his book cart, and Kamal always tried to convince him he was a liar. Kamal told him that selling books from his book cart was his destiny, and staring at people was his obsession. “In fact, when selling books you have sold yourself as well. But you refuse to believe it; you refuse to accept what I say. That’s why you’ve created your own world, an illusory world.”

 

He always argued with Kamal. He never wanted to see him. He never visited his house; he didn’t even walk past his clinic. If someone from his family fell ill, whatever illness it might be, he would stand in front of the Civil Hospital for two hours in the middle of the crowd in the heat, but he would never seek Kamal’s help. Actually, he and Kamal had become like the snake and the mongoose. Besides, he did not need Kamal. His dreams never forsook him. It never even occurred to him that he might need anyone else. And after losing faith in his own cousin Kamal, he never asked anyone to interpret his dreams anymore. He took refuge in the world of his dreams.

 

But the season is not always blessed; the clouds don’t always bring mercy. One evening when he was thirty-five, while he was pushing his book cart home, he felt a stabbing pain around his waist. Glowing embers were running down his sides. Thus began the never-ending visits to the hospital. He couldn’t help stretching out his hand towards Kamal; he became needy of other people’s help. Who would have offered him free dialysis for eleven years, if the nephrologist at the Civil Hospital had not been Kamal’s friend? You could put it like this: if he hadn’t been Kamal’s cousin, the headmaster would have thrown him out of school, just like when a schoolchild skips class after the recess bell.

 

Death lurked closer to him for every step he took. He thought that he actually was not one person. Rather, his body housed two people. Both got up early in the morning, had their breakfast, and set out for their daily duties. Gradually, he felt a heaviness come down on his shoulders. He constantly told Kamal that he felt as if he was carrying a corpse, and his shoulders were weighed down by the burden. His strength was finished, and he lamented that people around him would never share his burden. Kamal always invited him to his home, treated him to tea, and saw him off at the clinic. People noticed that he walked with a visible uneasiness, as if he was carrying a funeral bier on his shoulders and the other end of it was dragging on the ground.

 

His family witnessed something else. He lay curled up in his bed as if a baby was sleeping beside him and he was afraid he would roll over in his sleep and suffocate it. He spent his nights in great agony. And then came the completely sleepless nights, as a gift. Sleep had forgotten the address of his eyes. During those years, his relatives had forsaken him. Mother Mary and the angel had forsaken him. Mother Mary did not send him any message, and there was no trace of the angel. The afternoons were as hot as fire and the nights as cold as ice.

 

He waited for many months. He deliberately tried to catch a dream and planned to write a few letters, but to no avail. His fears grew, and again he resolved to go on pilgrimage. He bought a clay piggy bank and started saving money. But he never shared his plan with his family. Eleven years passed, and the dialysis machine became an integral part of his life. Whenever Kamal and the nephrologist met, they always pondered what it was that kept him alive. Usually, after two years of dialysis, patients get fed up with it and seek emancipation in death. But it seemed that he had the strength to carry this burden year after year. The desire to go on a pilgrimage had made him stronger day by day.

 

He knew that he was a prisoner of this city. He could not leave Kamal’s realm. He knew that on each occasion of mourning, his family lengthened their prayers for the dead more and more. He felt as if they had been mourning someone for all of the last two years. He didn’t know who was about to die. After all, he was about to go on a pilgrimage. He feared that while he was performing the pilgrimage, someone else might breathe his last here and die, as his dreams had done.

 

He was complaining to Mother Mary and telling her about his last eleven years of loneliness and sorrows. He was about to ask the angel where he had been when someone placed a hand on his cold forehead. He opened his eyes and saw that the doctor was doing his rounds. He was accompanied by two interns, the nurse, and the registrar. The doctor was asking him something, but his voice did not reach him. Besides, it seemed to him that the doctor had seventy heads. He hated the doctor intensely. The doctor and his team had interrupted a dream that had returned after eleven years. He closed his eyes to recapture the dream. But there was no sign of the dream. It had vanished like a road lost in the fog. Half-heartedly, he opened his eyes again.

 

The doctor was still standing by the head of his bed. The ward boy was noting his blood pressure while the nurse was busy scrawling something on the medical chart. He saw someone he recognized. It was Kamal, who was sitting on his bed.

 

He wanted to tell Kamal: “You were lying when you said I’m alone in the world, that I’ve built up a fake world for myself, that Mother Mary has left me, that the angel is not my twin brother, that he has forgotten me. In my own home, you called me a

 

 lunatic. You called me a dream digger. I didn’t say anything, not a single word. My dreams had abandoned me. I had no witness to call upon. The door of my seeking had been closed. But today I again received the tidings that I am blessed with immortality. I am the last living being from the city of the angels and I have mistakenly landed on earth. Fire is the light of my eyes. If I want, I can reduce the whole world to ashes. And you, Kamal, you never believed me. You thought I was out of my senses. But today I announce before you that I am superior to these earthly folks. I am a descendant of heaven. You all are dependent on me. It is because of me that life goes on. Without me, nothing would exist in this world. Not you, not the doctor, and not this tormenting, rattling dialysis machine. These clouds and colors all owe their existence to me.”

 

Kamal saw that he was pointing at the dialysis machine and trying to say something. He assumed that Hussain was complaining about his being late. Kamal addressed him by his name and kept repeating that he had things to do, that he was busy and only belatedly learned that the doctor had called him on the telephone. Kamal started coming up with excuses. It seemed that Kamal’s voice was reaching him from afar. As if he was speaking from behind a wall, as if his voice was coming through a tumultuous and bustling crowd, as if it was sinking into a marshland. He barely managed to tell Kamal that he was unable to hear his voice. Kamal spoke louder, but Hussain was only half-conscious, and he soon drifted off to sleep again.

 

Now he had a second dream. In it, he saw Mother Mary and the angel. Mother Mary looked as usual, but now the angel had aged; he was about forty-six and he had grown old like Hussain. Hussain smiled. He looked for Kamal in the alleyways of his mind, but to no avail. Darkness had descended upon the lanes of his mind, and the doors of the houses were locked. Before he could slip into contemplation, the angel came forward. He was carrying some fresh blooming jasmine flowers. He placed them on the bedside table. The fragrance of the fresh jasmine bore glad tidings to Hussain; it filled the suffocating room and his heart with refreshment. The angel came close to him, sat beside him, caressed his hair, wiped the froth from his mouth, and took Hussain’s hand in his own and placed it against his chest. Hussain raised his eyes and saw that Mother Mary was standing at the foot of his bed. She was in tears. The angel was looking down. His long hair hung loose across his neck, and his wings were at rest. The wax moths were melting and the cotton flowers were catching fire. But the fragrance of camphor was in full bloom. The dust and haze were thickening. It was the first dream during all his forty-six years in which he craved the companionship of a fellow human being. Silently he called out the name of an intimate companion, but in the shower of jasmine flowers, his voice only carried a short distance, and then the jasmine started pouring down. He found it harder and harder to breathe; he was caught in the trap of not getting any air. The flowers kept showering down and his breath got stuck in his nostrils.

 

The dialysis machine was rattling, and the tick-tock of the wall clock had gained momentum. The fan was running faster. Amid tumult and clamor, nurses and ward boys were hurrying to and fro. The doctor’s sweating forehead and sombre face disappeared in the fog before his eyes – a fog that was a deadly monster, a mist that was a demon. Abruptly, he was put under the oxygen mask by the doctor, the oxygen cylinder started working, but his heart had ceased to beat. His eyelids had stopped blinking; the life of his eyes had come to an end. He was no more.

 

The doctor looked around gloomily. Everyone was in a state of grief. The doctor placed his hand on Kamal’s shoulder. Kamal was in tears. His self-appointed enemy had departed, but had left him in tears. He closed Hussain’s eyes. He blew out the candle of dreams that had been lit for forty-six years. He covered his face with a piece of cloth.

 

An elderly woman who was attending a boy lying on the adjacent bed began to wail in great grief. The boy began weeping with her. Kamal, the doctor, and the entire staff, everyone was surprised. They didn’t know why this old woman was crying. How did she know Hussain? She was remembering how earlier today, before going to the dialysis machine, Hussain had looked at her with compassion, greeted her in a friendly way, and enquired about the boy’s health. The doctor and Kamal tried to comfort her, but…

 

It was a long time since Kamal had left the room. He had not returned, and no one else had come to the hospital. The dead body was still lying there, and the old woman was still sobbing unrelentingly. The rattling of the dialysis machine had come to an end; the tubes had been removed from his body. The wall clock was still ticking in the ward, and the fan had scattered the jasmine flowers.

 

A slightly different version of this translation was published in Borderless

Journal, 14 July 2020. https://borderlessjournal.com/2020/07/14/thusspake-the-vagabond/ (retrieved 1 February 2022).