From The Table

“Tu paire saNbhaal,” the Edhi para-medic said to the driver.

They put a soiled blanket reeking of cadaver intimacy over me. Then he grabbed my head and the driver the feet. My body was still warm and some droplets of urine dribbled out from the bottom of my jeans to the ground.

“Bhenc---ud, marnay kay liyay yahaaN aajatay haiN,” the hardened para-medic grunted. Unknowingly, but fairly accurately.

I was here, there, everywhere. My body was dead but I was alive. It was a strange sensation to follow my body in the groaning Suzuki ambulance to the Abbasi Hospital. At times I was in my old body gazing at the roof of the ambulance in the stifling heat with electrical wires protruding from where the lights were ripped out. And then I was flying over the ambulance, to the side, behind, front through the windscreen over my dead body and through the rear windows, back over the ambulance, hovering, feeling, seeing, sensing.

At the hospital they picked me up by the head and feet and threw me down on a rusted stretcher, wheels squeaking love songs for some grease. Not Alfred J... As my head fell on the cold floor of the mortuary I felt a wave of pleasure start from the head and then pass through the rest of the body. Then they switched off the lone dirty bulb and closed the door behind them.

Sometime later the lone bulb was turned on and a jamaadar entered with a jharoo. He leaned the straw broom against the wall and took out a pair of pliers, a screw driver and a pocket flash light. He forced open my mouth to look for any gold fillings. Disappointed at not finding any he kicked my ribs.

The first time I had a toka (toke+vodka) ---well, several to be fair, suburban Fairfax, fall ’88, that first time I felt the same out of body experience. We were in the third year of marriage. My third, her second.

They took my body to the autopsy room, ripping open my clothes before dumping me on the cold slab. Rigor mortis must have started to set in. My body was getting stiffer. They threw another soiled blanket over me.

The bright examination room lights were switched on. I tried to focus at the face --- the masked face haloed by the quartz and that perfume --- I could almost name the perfume --- it was Rasheeda’s favourite perfume, she had chanced upon it up on that jaunt in San Andres. What is the name? So when you are dead the memory still remains imperfect. Hmmmm...She yanked down the blanket none too gently and put a cross on my chest.

I was only another destitute for her. Another homeless, unloved, unclaimed anonymous cadaver Edhi brought to the morgue. Another body to keep scalpels in use and rust free. Another body to carve up dispassionately: to hone the rustic skills. Only she was passionate in an impassioned way. Another cross above the belly button. Markers to open me up? Force of habit, it must be. What does it matter how long the incision is? My body is not going to be entered into some beauty pageant. There are no heirs or survivors pacing the corridors or breathing down her neck.

She struggles with clamps, opens the chest walls and cuts loose my once aching heart. I get a closer look at her. She is beautiful in a natural way. But why is she dressed up as a teenage hooker at the corner of Jarvis and Wellesley wiggling ass in high stilettos, bending over whispering 50 for a blow, 100 for a f--k, 200 for round the world.

I can sense trouble behind the moisturized foundation layered cheerfulness of her demeanor. Another time, another occasion I would have helped her out of her trouble. Hah, I haven’t changed even after death! Could not straighten out the mess in my own life. Ever willing to help friends. Three failed marriages, one great relationship, two maybe five children all came to this. Just in a flash my life changed...

Oh, I recall now. It was the Evening Mist, ever so delicately sprayed between her cleavage, behind the ear lobes, back of her head just below the hairline. She is troubled. My initial suspicion is confirmed. She wants to rouse the dead! My lids were pinned open. She looked into my eyes, perhaps looking for my soul. I was just behind her, in her, over her, to her left and to her right. I was everywhere but behind my eyes. I sensed the desolation behind her eyes. In-laws? Father? Mother? Shahid? Nasir? Fari? Ken? Damn, there I go trying to help her resolve her demons. Damn, even when I am dead!

Her eyes tell me, “I've had my share of suffering at the hands of men, bending down to them; succumbing to their will; enduring their looks...”

My glassy eyes don’t.

But I tell her, cut it out babe. Life is a two way street. I wouldn’t be on this table for you to slice me up if it weren’t for the wounds, lately self inflicted but originally caused by your kind. Sure, marriages flicker and flounder and go on the rocks, mother and child go their separate ways, relationships bloom and go bust, but amidst all the probings in the dark I did find her. My beacon of hope. My lighthouse. My Nuri. I volunteered for rehab. Was mending my erratic ways. Even found that steady, late night, behind the counter job at a 7/24 coffee place. True, no comparison to the VP for Human Resources for the #33 of the Fortune 500. Was it after my second wife walked out or third?

I should have stuck to soft drugs. A toka here or there led to serious abuse. First self. Next close ones. I thought I was laughing and enjoying. Just reflected an intense loathing of the self at not being able to cope with life, pressures and relationships. It had to blow in my face someday. From a pedestal to the gutter the journey was a fast ride. And I laughed all the way down. No tears for this boy, missy.

Then Nuri picked me up literally from the Church and King corner where I was pan handling. Fed me. Bathed me. No more lining up for beds at the Scotts Mission to escape the bitter cold. Slowly the fog cleared in my mind. With realistic expectations I began a slow climb out of the morass. Told you I even started working. For a change I began to occasionally glance at the distant horizon rather than just over my back.

You wrote about the cadavers, “...I can do with them what I wish, how I wish, when I wish, without them being able to even utter a moan.” Pity you are cutting my insides to come to terms with the hurt in your insides. We drift --- a life long drift --- at the whims of time and tide controlled by Him, or him or her --- but seldom ourselves.

You are still not a bad person, I can feel it. Just look up. Not down at my innards.

Look up at those around you who are still loving, smirking, f--king, loathing, appreciating, eating, smiling, grunting, and abusing you and others. You have to stand tall, confront yourself first. Then look in their eyes. Fight your battles there. Let them know your hurts, hates, dreams and desires. One understanding look or nod will go a long way for you. Forget my cadaver. This is no sublimation. Nor a retribution. Our paths never crossed. It is a wasted effort.

One morning Nuri left for work early. Left a yellow sticky on the coffee percolator with this message: ‘love you, sleep well.’ She had a habit of leaving messages for me all around. Sometimes I would find them on my pillow, sometimes on the bathroom mirror. Reassuring for me and I guess for her as well. Last one ever. Some crazy demented parolee shoved her in front of the subway car at Old Mills. She died on impact. Metro’s finest came knocking at 11am. I was fast asleep. After they left I still thought I was dreaming. That was the first toka in over a year for me.

I was drugged and shocked. Faintly recall the funeral. Packed some books and clothing and headed for the Pearson International Airport on a Tuesday to take the other PIA back to QIA, Karachi. Bought a Silent Sam at the duty free to ease me through the long flight. When I came to next I was at a bus shelter in a new area of the city that wasn’t there 20 years ago. It was dusty, dilapidated and worn out like what I remember of the area between PIB and Golimar along the river. Or like the one behind the Columbus -- was it Ack Ack School? I had no bags, no papers, no money, no clothes. I soon found out I could live in that city without any thing.

Not even will.

Passersby occasionally threw money at me. Other squatters traded it with drugs. So I lived in those bustees, wandered and brewed my thoughts, consumed my organs for deadening relief, and died one day to end on your table.



Ja’nay dou yaar

marnay bhee dou

hum tou hu’aye azaad

tumharay jahaan say

freed finally of

all desires, whims

retributions

from friend and foe.

[ achcha bhee nahiN lagta hay

kahaaN ki yeh kaisi sharafat hay

takaleef pur auroN ki

bhala kaisa haNsna, haNsaana?]

SaNbh’lo aur saNbhalo

abhee waq’t guzra nahiN

Naz’r say pehlay apni hee milao naz’r

phir jhanko apnoN ki nighaouN main

kuch haal-e-dil

su’no aur su’naao.

Learn to Listen, Discern

the silent wails of Hurt.

Precious is this ability

rarer than sermons

from any minaret

any mount.

haal-e-dil su’no aur su’naoo

aur mooskurao

ikbar phir mooskurao

You can’t dance around or over me, cannot provoke me, arouse me or hear the scream of my soul. You could never hear that scream. I have stopped screaming...

Forget me. Another listless cadaver. Look after that fellow. He is good. You are not bad either. I am sure you can resolve the bothers. Learn to listen.