“What is there for them to know? Why do they need this knowledge?” Hina Alvi’s voice is low, as if she is talking to herself. “Will it improve the conditions in the hospital? Will it save somebody’s life?”
“It’s your personal choice and I know that you are not the first one. And who can blame people if they choose to hide their religion? All I am saying is that you have done a good job of it. I never suspected — ”
Alice Bhatti is cut off sharply by Hina Alvi. “What would you have suspected? Is this some kind of illness that a trained nurse like you should have detected?”
Alice Bhatti keeps quiet and desperately wishes that Little would wake up and start to cry so that she can get out of this awkward situation. She wants to be understanding, she is understanding, but she also knows that whatever she says will come across as some sort of inquisition.
“I slept with Mr Alvi. I was married to him, hence the name. I pray to Lord Yassoo because I was born a Christian.”
“You took his name?” Alice Bhatti asks in the hope that they’ll talk about her marriage. Maybe she’ll tell her something more about Mr Alvi. Why can’t they just be two colleagues talking about their bad marriages instead of suspecting each other of bad faith?
“What’s wrong with taking your husband’s name? Everyone does it. And if you think I should have gone back to my maiden name after my divorce, then you try changing your name on your ID card and see if you can do it in one lifetime.”
Alice Bhatti feels that this conversation has already gone too far. “Yes, I know. That’s why I never thought of changing my name. Do you want me to make some tea? Is there anything else around the house that I can help you with?”
“Oh, stop trying to be a considerate house guest. It’s so irritating. That’s why I never have people over. Either they are rude and want to be waited on and leave filthy cups and plates behind. Or there are others who just want to take over your house and rearrange the furniture.” Hina Alvi is staring at her as if trying to decide whether she can trust this girl with her kitchen or her life story.
“I am only trying to help,” Alice says and turns to go back to her room. She is already wondering how she can escape this place without offending Hina Alvi any further. She is also wondering who are worse: Catholics, or Catholics pretending to be not Catholics?
“Hannah. That was my name. Hannah,” Hina Alvi says, slightly lost, as if she has just remembered a word that she hasn’t used for a while.
“I guessed that much. Easy enough.”
“Massey. Hannah Massey.”
“Bishop Massey’s daughter?”
“You are quite naive, even for a Sacred nurse. No wonder the whole city thinks you are some sort of idiot-saint. Do you actually believe Bishop Massey’s daughter, any bishop’s daughter for that matter, would be slaving away at the Sacred? She can buy a hospital in Houston if she wants. Actually she runs a bed and breakfast in Houston.” Hina Alvi laughs. “Imagine. Madame Massey always had her breakfast served to her in her bed and now she runs a bed and breakfast. They are distant relatives but still very embarrassed at their poor cousin who went and married a Muslim. If I was a bishop’s daughter, I would probably not change my name either.”
“I am no bishop’s daughter, not even related to a common priest. But it never occurred to me to change my name.”
“Well I like the name Alvi. And changing back to Massey might give someone the idea that here is a Musalman abandoning her faith. And you know how much they disapprove of that. Listen, I am a fifty-one-year-old single woman. That is a whole religion in itself, with its own rituals. It has its own damnation and rewards. I don’t think I need to shout Lord Yassoo’s name on street corners to prove who I am. Can you make some tea now? Two tea bags for me, please.”
♦
Next morning, over breakfast, Hina Alvi is relaxed. With her washed hair draped in a towel, she helps Alice to bathe Little, who can’t seem to make up his mind whether he likes being immersed in warm water or not. One moment he giggles, the next moment he begins to cry his lungs out.
It’s after Hina Alvi has made breakfast of toast and fried eggs and Alice has made two cups of tea that Alice musters up the courage to talk about her pregnancy. Hina Alvi isn’t surprised, and if she has any sarcastic insights to share about contraceptives and nurses, she keeps them to herself. Her advice is measured and to the point. Alice needs to tell Teddy immediately. The only thing marriage is good for is children. Men change after they have children; they don’t necessarily become better human beings but bearable human beings. Sometimes they become responsible and grow up, even bums like Teddy have the potential. Alice must not give him the impression that she is planning to leave him, even if she is planning to leave him.
“You go, make him a meal and wait for him to come home. Then sit down at the table with him and tell him with a smile. Tell him he’s going to be a father. They like the sound of that. And if he continues to be an absentee dad, then we’ll kick him out.”
Alice Bhatti is not sure if this is such a good idea. She has just cleared out her wardrobe, she doesn’t want to lug her stuff back to Al-Aman and pretend nothing has happened. And what would she do with Little? She can’t leave him with Hina Alvi.
“I’ll take him with me to the Sacred. I have got enough slaves there to take good care of him.” Hina Alvi is precise with her instructions. “And when you are done, come back to work. We will both wait for you there.”
Twenty-Eight
Inspector Malangi brakes hard to avoid running over a spotted dog that jumps from the pavement and starts to limp leisurely across the road. The car stalls. He has been planning to get his battered Toyota overhauled soon or replace its engine (or get a new chassis and a new body as well, but he has been wondering whether if he replaces both it would still be the same car). He restarts the car but before he can move forward, the traffic light turns red. Inspector Malangi hears the knock on his car window and rolls it down to shoo away a boy who, in his thick jacket, is clearly overdressed for the weather as well as this kind of work; he is offering him a trip to Mecca in lieu of five rupees. Since when did beggars start wearing Klashni jackets at traffic signals? Inspector Malangi wonders. He has just given and received his farewell presents at the G Squad headquarters. His short speech had ended with a plea to ‘forgive and forget but remember me in your prayers’.
He is feeling generous, like people do when embarking on a new life, and his hand automatically reaches for his wallet as he prepares a short lecture about the curse of begging and the dignity of work. The boy opens his jacket, flashes a rusty-looking Mauser, then bends down, puts his neck through the window and whispers, “Hands on the steering wheel.” The traffic signal starts its countdown: 90, 89, 88…
Inspector Malangi almost pities this boy who, with a gun tucked inside his jacket, thinks that he has got the situation under control. If Malangi presses the accelerator down to the floor, he’ll probably find the boy’s decapitated head in his lap, leaving a writhing, headless body on the road. But he knows that boys this age don’t understand the velocity of life. There was a time when he would have done something like that just to teach the boy a lesson, but he has left that life behind. He wants to spend his retirement working on his children’s maths, a subject in which they have consistently underperformed, despite private tuition. After thirty-six years of public service, the only thing Inspector Malangi has learned is that the next generation needs to do better at maths than you.