Fifty Minutes…Misbah Naveed/RJ.Ahmed

پچاس منٹ.
مصباح نوید
Fifty Minutes

English translation:: Rashid J. Ahmed

Dressed in a bright white uniform, droplets of sweat beaded on her straight nose, Nurse Nasreen Afzal held one hand of a woman in labor while placing her other hand gently on the woman’s belly. In a soothing voice, she instructed, “Take deep breaths.” As the pain intensified, Nasreen felt her hand bones creak under the woman’s tight grip. Night shifts paid more, but they were also more demanding, with a heavier workload. Newborns seemed reluctant to enter the world during the daylight hours. Most births occurred at night.

Tonight, Nasreen had already swaddled two newborns in their tiny, pink frocks and handed them to their mothers. When she hesitantly offered her congratulations, she received a shy smile and a faint “Thank you” in response. There was no opening of wallets, no pulling out of banknotes. Visitors offered comforting words that did little to soothe the invisible wounds. “It’s God’s blessing,” they would say, and assure that a house with daughters was a guaranteed paradise. Prayers came as long, cold sighs of hope, “May God grants her a good fate.”

The pain finally bore fruit. Nasreen handed the baby to the father, who distributed red notes to all the staff in joy at the birth of his son. Nasreen quickly grabbed the notes, rolled them up, and stuffed them into the inner pocket of her small purse before anyone could count how many she had received. The money revived her fading energy. With a radiant complexion and erect posture, Nasreen quickly handed over patient charts to the day shift staff. She then went to the nursing room, pulled out her black shawl from the cupboard, and with a swift movement that sent a shiver through her entire body, wrapped it around her. She draped the shawl over her head and neck in such a way that only her eyes were visible.

With her bag slung over her shoulder, she walked briskly out of the hospital. She always lost count of her steps but knew she would be home in fifty minutes. She conversed with herself the whole way. Even though her own self didn’t listen to her, she kept talking. Her thoughts swung like a pendulum between the present moment, the calculations of past days, and the measurements of days to come. Her steps continued steadily. “Maybe I should take a rickshaw home today,” Nasreen thought, but she ignored the sputtering sound of passing rickshaws and kept walking. “May God grant good fates to daughters, but sons are born in the homes of the fortunate.” The banknotes in Nasreen’s purse rustled restlessly. “I’ll buy some fruit for the kids today.”

After getting married, she had three children one after the other, thinking they would grow up together.

Attention! Love and affection are luxuries for the wealthy; here, it’s a big deal if basic needs are met. Mothers-in-law and unmarried sisters-in-law take care of the children. It was the month of chait. The bright sunshine of the sun was beginning to cast shadows. The air wasn’t scorching hot yet. Still, sweat trickled down Nasreen’s  neck, slithering like a snake down her spine, pooling at her heels trapped in pump shoes.

“May the shadow over your head live long, my dear daughter. May there be blessings in your sustenance,” shouted a beggar sitting on the sidewalk. The hope for blessings in her livelihood made Nasreen open her purse. Without saying a word, she took out a note and placed it in the beggar’s hand. “The sustenance you ask for me, ask for yourself. Why do you beg in front of people like us?” Nasreen thought to herself, biting her lower lip. Vendors on the sidewalk, busy sprinkling water on their vegetables and fruits, looked up at Nasreen, hoping for their first sale.

Nasreen bargained at various stalls. She didn’t like the fruits at one place; the prices were too high at another. The children’s voices echoed in her ears, “Mama! I want to eat Mood (Am rood, Guava). Mama! Bring Talia (Kaila, Banana).” Nasreen consoled her restless heart, telling herself that children could be pacified with sweet and sour candies. Afzal’s salary barely covered the rent and bills. There was no need to buy such expensive fruit. Resolutely, Nasreen moved on, starting her journey through the inner alleys.

In the heart of the city, this old colony was tangled and dirty like the intestines of a stomach. Small kids sat on the drainage channel in front of the houses, relieving themselves. There were piles of garbage everywhere, with sanitary pads peeking out of torn and half-opened bags. Nasreen pulled her scarf over her nose and breathed a sigh of relief. A ragged man coming from the front was scratching himself under his shirt at lower of his belly button with his left hand. Seeing Nasreen, he started twisting his thin mustache with his other hand. Nasreen thought of the mice that had infested her house; their tails waving in corners and cupboards.

At the corner of the alley, there was a small grocery shop. Standing at the threshold of the shop, Nasreen asked, “Brother, do you have rat poison?” Then she remembered and bought soap and toothpaste featuring a smooth-skinned model. Holding the shopping bag in her hand, she moved through the increasingly narrow alley, feeling embarrassed. Now, only one currency note was left in her purse. “Afzal is right; you have holes in your hands. Money doesn’t stay with you.” He was right to empty her purse of every note and coin as soon as he got paid. The shopkeeper’s eyes lingered on the rise and fall of Nasreen’s heavy hips under her shawl. Nasreen turned the corner. The sky was adorned with colorful kites. Electric wires bunched together, crossing walls and roofs. If a kite got cut and trembled in the air, boys with skinny legs in long shorts would jump over the wires, cross the small walls separating the roofs, and reach the other roof. The thin paper kite would get torn in the tussle. Suddenly, a shout of “Bo kata!” arose. A cyclist, distracted by the kites, collided with a golgappa vendor’s cart. A clay pot toppled over, spilling sour water everywhere. The vendor quickly righted the pot and cursed, “Oh, you sister fucker….

The cyclist’s leg was trapped under the bicycle, and his head was submerged in dirty water. As he struggled to stand and free his head from under the cart, he noticed Nasreen and began cursing teri maan, teri behen, with more fervor. Embarrassed, Nasreen quickly covered her face with her scarf. Her grey eyes, terrified like a deer caught by hunters, darted around. She managed to keep her shoes clean from the bubbling filthy water in the drain, but the splashing water from a pothole stained her white uniform. Nasreen spun through the maze-like alleys like a top.

“My Queen, just say the word and I’ll give my life for you,” she heard as she pressed herself against a wall, narrowly avoiding Ghafoor’s shoulder. Ghafoor, with his thick mustache, tall stature, and dark complexion, worked as a bus driver. Their paths would briefly cross in these narrow lanes when he left for his shift and she returned from hers.

Noor Mahal stood at her dilapidated door, one panel open, peering into the alley with a mocking smile on her thin lips. Her crescent-shaped eyebrows and freshly dyed hair, with traces of black dye visible on her forehead and ears, made her presence known. She watched the encounter at the corner of the alley, her sarcastic laughter echoing through the neighborhood.

Nasreen’s scarf hung loosely from her shoulders like the wings of a bird after a long flight. Her feet moved quickly, almost frantically. She glanced at the watch on her wrist. In the race between time and her steps, she had already fallen fifty minutes behind, but there were still countless steps left to take on the earth.

افسانہ : پچاس منٹ
مصباح نوید

Rendered into English from Urdu by
Rashid J. Ahmed