He scratched the under side of his bulging belly by putting his hand under his shirt which had come loose on the walk home. The unshaved hair there were clumped up by the sweat, moisture and gunk that had accumulated throughout the day. Almost as a reflex, he then sniffed his hand that had just been there and then put it back on his side as if nothing had happened.
Bashir yawned as he took the last steps to his home where his ravishing wife and his two adorable daughters would be waiting for him. The thought of them made him smile and then as an after thought made him nauseous. He looked at his hands before he rang the bell; the calluses were not enough to show the burden of the work he did. But he had to do it. For his family.
He didn’t need to ring the bell because his daughters were already there waiting for him on the other side of the door. Espying some presence outside, they had peaked through the slit in the side of the gate and opened it hurriedly. They hugged their father as he walked in. He pinched their cheeks and kissed them. Then he washed his hands and walked into the kitchen. His wife knew he came home tired from work and always had dinner ready. She saw him enter and meekly smiled. He smiled back and greeted her. He wished he could hold her close and fuck her as he once had when they were newly married; before Alina and Alishba had been born; before the shit had hit the metaphorical fan and before his belly didn’t come in the way of all of his hugs. Now he couldn’t do that, because if he did, he would break down and tell her everything, which would cause ruination.
They lived in a small city where not much happened, and whatever did happen was dissected and talked about for months till the next big thing that happened. His job too was simple albeit a little morbid one. He was responsible for dissecting the bodies in the autopsy room in the local hospital. He wasn’t really a mortician or a forensic scientist. He wasn’t qualified for the job. His only merit was assisting his father when he would go slaughter people’s animals during the Eid-ul-Adha. That had helped him learn how to use the blades deftly and without much fuss. He didn’t know in what capacity he performed the dissection, just that the goody-two-shoes doctors of the hospital didn’t want their abstract white coats sullied by the blood and shit and piss of the dead. Or maybe they just didn’t know how to do it. In any case, he was responsible for doing it, and it was alright. He got paid by the daily work and it was just enough to keep the family fed and his daughters to study in a decent English medium school. He got financial bonuses for every autopsy performed, as his task on other usual days was paperwork and running errands and maintaining the state of things. This bonus is what he looked for and what he also dreaded. Every time he had to lift the shroud from the face of the dead to begin the verification process and set the machinery of autopsy into motion, he felt like he was cheating. Bashir felt like earning money in this way was wrong, as if earning off of the dead was wrong and morally questionable. But then he thought of his wife, and his children, and his much more successful brother, and he knew he had to do whatever he could.
Right on cue, as Alina brought out the clothe they were going to spread and eat their food on, the bell rang. He didn’t pay heed to who it would be at this time. He was too tired and mentally preoccupied. He was taken aback however to see his brother stroll into the room.
He was as usual dressed in a crisp white shalwar kameez that he had changed into after work. His brother worked in the same hospital as him, but in a much better position. He was a clerk of sorts but everybody respected him, and at the end of the day, he didn’t have to scrape out the half digested slog from someone’s intestines out of his nails. His brother was also very generous and loving towards his nieces. It was always harrowing for Bashir to see his brother bring gifts for his daughters. He tried to smile and offer gestures of gratitude with exuberant displays of annoyance on why his brother had bothered again with the gifts. He liked to think that his brother saw through his facade. He did, obviously he did.
“Chachu, chachu what did you bring for us this time?”
A bat. He brought a bat for Bashir’s little girls. He didn’t bring a ball, and didn’t care that his girls had never shown any interest in cricket. He had brought a bat for them, and it looked slightly rugged near the handle, and scratched on the face. But in the dim light of a single energy saver and the droning of the fan on the UPS, the details died down. And at the end of the day, it was a gift. His daughters thanked him and started running around with the bat in the small room, till their mother chided them and told them to play with it tomorrow after school.
Bashir exchanged pleasantries with his brother. Some small talk of here and there. They had started eating dinner, which was as always a little too bland. But Bashir didn’t complain. He couldn’t complain even if he wanted to. He looked at his brother and saw a devilish snarl appear on his face.
“Guriya, where did the necklace go that I gave you a few months ago?”
A few months ago, his brother had brought a real gold necklace for Bashir’s elder daughter, Alishba. Bashir had insisted, nay, demanded that he take it back. He couldn’t bear the burden of gratitude of such an expensive gift. The girl’s mother had half jokingly confessed that they wouldn’t be able to gift Alishba such a gift even on her wedding if they were to start saving now. But his brother had insisted, and at the end of the day, he had left, leaving the necklace on the table. The girls didn’t understand the true value of it but knew it was a great gift. They gave it to their mother who put it in her jewellery box beneath the bed. And that would have been the end of the matter, but Bashir knew his brother better than anyone else.
Now, his wife explained that they had packed it in a sandook with other important stuff, and they would give it to Alishba when the time was right. She kept glancing at Bashir as she said this. So his suspicion was right. She had heard him get up that night, open the jewellery box and take the necklace with him outside the house. Oh well, he hoped she understood, and even if she didn’t, his conscience was clear. It was all for his family’s welfare.
His brother chuckled, licked his finger clean and burped. Suddenly, Bashir was nauseous again. He couldn’t look at the food on his plate. It looked half eaten. Like it had been inside someone’s body. He looked at the bowl of salan and it looked like human offal to him. He pushed the plate aside and got up.
“Alhamdulillah”
Everyone else had finished by now. His wife offered tea to his brother but he refused it on the grounds that he had somewhere else to be. His brother was not married. And perhaps marriage and family were the only exclusive luxuries that Bashir had and his brother didn’t. This sole thought kept greater feelings of jealousy at bay. But then he thought, maybe this is why his brother was so kind to his nieces: they were his sole family. The girls retreated to their combined room; finished their homework and slept. Bashir didn’t have the heart to do anything else but lie down on the bed and wait till his wife was asleep. She told him of the finances of this month and eyes closed he cursed himself for never letting his wife finish her education. He once again lusted for her embrace but knew such ideas were fanciful when he had other more important matters to attend to in the night once she had slept. His wife could only go on for so long talking to a log, and so she too fell asleep.
Bashir kept his eyes closed and waited for some more time.
It wasnt hard to not fall asleep, but it was hard to keep his mind off of things. He kept on imagining his brother’s hands over his daughters. He imagined them feeding their fat uncle the intestines of a goat, except the goat had the head of a human. And the bat was bathed in a coat of blood, and his brother kept on gilding it in gold and handing it to Bashir’s wife. He couldn’t stop thinking about the necklace. Or the clothes he had brought. Or the envelopes of money as gifts. Or the mobile he once brought which they had to sell because they didn’t want their daughter’s minds sullied. Deep down he knew that he was just projecting his own suppressed thoughts in a crooked way and that he should calm down. And yet every time, one shuddering thought brought him thudding back to the same state: they were all indebted to his brother one way or another, and he had a lot of influence and repute in the area. What would happen if one day he came to collect all his debt? And what would the payment be? How long could this possibly go on till people became wiser?
With these thoughts still trailing in his mind, he got up and walked outside the room, into the courtyard. He saw the bat leaning with the wall, and picked it up. He carried it in his hands as he walked out of the door of his house into the grim darkness of the eerie night.
----
He was on time to duty next morning, as always. As he was getting into the rhythm of work, one of his colleagues called him over and told him that they were waiting on him to perform an autopsy. Bashir nodded mechanically and went over to the autopsy suite, where he cleaned himself and got ready to perform the dissection. There were some people watching, and a bunch of doctors saying something but to Bashir’s expert hands and eyes none of that mattered. Not because he was proficient at what he did, that too was true, but it was because the only thing that he could see was the battered face of the victim, as if someone had beaten his head to pulp with a large blunt object. He heard one of the doctors say:
“It’s almost like the trauma to the face is from something like a cricket bat.”
After the autopsy was over and all the conclusions that had to be drawn were drawn, mainly that the body was that of an unknown beggar on the street, Bashir stood outside an office smoking a cigarette. He only smoked after autopsies. It helped calm his nerves. He saw his brother walking by with a file tucked under his armpit. Almost out of revulsion and hatred he called out:
“Razzak!”
The one who provides sustenance, Bashir thought and scoffed.
His brother looked vaguely surprised that someone had called him but the expression of surprise molded into a grin at the sight of his brother as he ambled towards him.
“I heard there was an autopsy today.” He said as he stopped to stand in front of him.
Bashir didn’t reply. He didn’t want to.
“I was thinking you should buy the girl’s some tennis balls to play cricket with.”
“I threw the bat in the landfill outside the airport.”
The look of mirth evaporated from his brother’s face.
“Why do you keep on dispensing away with my gifts like that?”
Bashir could barely keep his eyes open. He wondered if his wife had made qeema today. She might’ve. The food always looks like the bodies. It always does.
“You know, I really have to struggle to get those gifts for you.”
Why does the food look like the bodies? Why was he still fat if the thought of the food at home made him want to throw up?
His brother put a hand on Bashir’s shoulder, sighed and with genuine sincerity and calmness said:
“Come now brother, someone has to help you get those pay bonuses. Someone has to put the food on the family’s platter.”
Right then, Bashir threw up last night’s dinner.
