He sat there, waiting, like everyday. Since morning at 7 when he woke up he had an odd feel that something was wrong. He couldn't put his finger on it. Everything was as it always was. When he woke, as usual his mother had already laid his breakfast. His young wife had placed his clothes where they always were. The dishes clattered as always in the makeshift kitchen on the side. He sat to eat his breakfast and as always his mother started talking about how she needed more money to run the household. Now that his wife was expectant they needed more food, more milk, more money so that some of it could be stashed away for the baby to arrive soon.
He listened, as always, quietly, chewing his breakfast slowly. Breaking his bread with his teeth, bit by bit, nodding every time his mother took a pause between her morning jab about how little they had. If it wasn't for the nagging feeling in his gut, everything would have been the same, as always. But he didn't feel quiet right today, he tried to figure out what was it that was not as usual? what was it absence or perhaps presence of which has stirred this strange anxiety in him. A ripple in his otherwise placid life.
He searched his wife's face for a hint, for something unusual, reconfirmed with her about when she was due. She wasn't due for another four months she said looking almost offended at his lack of concern for the baby. He changed, left the home, still thinking of what bothered him. He looked at his mobile phone, "8:30" it said, he was out of the home at the usual hour of the day, He unlocked his fruit cart from the usual parking spot in the shared compound and went about his business.
He stopped after walking the usual 30 minutes to his usual spot, started unpacking the oranges from the crates he had packed last night. He looked at his phone again at usual 9:30 am he was all set to start another day. The wait has started, it was another hour before the first customer arrived, "how much for the oranges?" "the same", he replied, "a dozen for rs. hundred". "Thats too much", the man exclaimed. He played the futile game of bargain, at least that will keep the customer here for a few more moments. He finally sold a dozen for rs. 80, taking his time packing them, anything to keep him busy for longer.
By 12 in the maddening heat of the city, he had forgotten all about the nagging feeling he woke up this morning with. Sitting under the meager shade of his fruit stall. he waited, hoping to land another customer soon. At three he took a short walk asking the hawker next to him to keep an eye on his stand. He wandered aimlessly. The day wasn't any different since morning, he has sold a baker's dozen of oranges since morning. Each transaction a calculated 4 minutes 35 seconds with what seemed like eternities in between. But this was his life, everyday he waited hours before he could sell the target amount of fruits to make enough profit to last another day.
His life was a sum of hours of perpetual wait salted with instances of gratification. As a new born he had to wait until his baba was done to be served his moments of suckling, as a child too he was served food when baba was done. He would have gone to school but then baba died leaving a widow and a four year old behind with a destiny to wait. After baba, he waited the whole year for Eid, the only time his maternal uncle would come with a full serving of biryani, the only meal of the year when his heart contented before his plate was empty. His uncle would also bring a cheap toy as Eidi which would last him a few months until it broke.
He also waited for a few moments of quiet that lay between him drifting off to sleep and his mother starting to snore softy. This was the only time he could see no lines of worry on his mother's forehead, it was the only time she would shut up, not completely but enough to given him a few minutes of peace.
He also waited seventeen years, saving every penny he nicked from his daily wage from ustad to make enough to afford himself the ability to have his own employment. He had thought this would be a turning point in his life. Now that he was self employed, amma would finally feel adequate enough to task for Tabasum's hand in marriage. He would make her compensate for everything he missed out in his life. She would submit to all his whims, fulfilling all his demands like an obedient wife, showering him with unconditional love that he never felt his mom had the time to.
It seemed that fate has finally granted him some immunity, Tabasum was all that he had dreamed of, an obedient, loving wife with patience of a saint. She listened to him endlessly, paying attention to everything no matter how trivial, fulfilling all his wishes no matter how impractical. One time just to test her limits he woke her up in the middle of the night asking her to squeeze him fresh orange juice. She looked surprised but obliged nevertheless. All was well for a couple of months, until he found out that she was pregnant.
The wheel once again began to rotate backwards, Tabasum was sick most of the time, unavailable for his whims, amma's concern for money had tripple folded and thus was her rant about it as well. He still remained hopeful, he wanted the baby to arrive. This was one entity he wanted to wait for, "unlike baba I would let Tabasum cater to his/her needs first", he thought to himself. "I will also help out in looking after him/her" he promised himself. "It would be someone who would wait for me to come home, my wait would finally be reciprocated", he thought excitedly.
All was well, however he didn't feel right this morning. While strolling, he was reminded of the nagging feeling pulling somewhere deep in his subconscious mind. He wanted to go home, stay with Tabasum. "What if she needs me to take her to the hospital", he thought. But he had to make the target amount if he wanted to be able to afford the baby. After all he had his phone with him, if there was an emergency amma would call him home. He convinced himself to go back to his cart and managed to stay and sell for another few hours before he could not take it anymore. It was almost as if he was being called by someone, he had to go home. He started packing his cart then thought otherwise. "I could always sell on the way" he thought and started to move.
He moved towards home, the vendor next to him quizzically looking at him. "I have to go home early today" he explained. His fellow gave him an understanding nod and pretended to be occupied. Moving forward he was able to sell a couple more dozen of oranges and almost thought it was a good idea to keep moving. At least it wasn't a perpetual wait, he felt better as he walked along the road and decided to take a longer route home thinking that he might be able to match his target after all.
On the far end of the bridge that he was now climbing he saw a similar sight. Aaqib sat at the edge of the bridge, his head in his hands, his legs folded across his chest. Many called Aaqib a mad man, he was very handy when he was in his senses which however wasn't the case most of the time, He knew Aaqib saw things, talked to beings that were invisible, fought with his inner demons out loud, but he also knew Aaqib as an intelligent listener. At times when he could not take it anymore, he actively sought Aaqib who willingly listened to his rants offering him a cigarette while also telling him its not good for him to smoke. Twisted man this Aaqib was, when he sought solitude he would vanish for weeks and then suddenly make an appearance in their lives fixing someone's faucet, or stove knob or something. The very next day women would steer away their children as he screamed and kicked unseen demons and then often, one would find him on this bridge, legs crossed, face in his hands.
He moved towards him, in exchange for a few oranges Aaqib will share his cigarette, a story or two and maybe an advice on how better to run his cart business. Perhaps, he could talk to Aaqib about this nagging he felt, he would know, with his inner demons and all he seemed the most equipped person around to consult. He approached Aaqib, he looked different today, there was something about his posture, it almost seemed like he was crying. He came forward, called his name, in response he heard him grunt, muffled sob, almost a groan. "Aaqib tu theek hai" he called out. Aaqib didnt look up, he came further close, now worried for the man. "Aaqib" he called again. He looked up, his face twisted with pain, he grunted asking him to leave. He came further close attempting to put his hand on his shoulder trying to console him. Aaqib further backed into the wall, " Jao, Jaaaao! Jao!" he said to him. "Please", he whispered to someone invisible next to him then he looked at him stern and asked him to leave. He didn't go, instead offered him a hand to help him up, Aaqib took the hand, looked at him in the eye and begged him now to not leave him alone. He promised he wont go anywhere. Aaqib hugged hum tight, said thanks and jumped off the bridge with him still strangled in embrace.
Aaqib the madman died that night, as for him, fate was never this kind. He waited on the single bed he was placed three months ago. His son was named Rustam by his mother, who often stayed by his side constantly talking to him about financial worries. Tabasum was too busy taking care of the baby and finding whatever means of income she could scourge. The fall led him perpetually immobile and as always perpetually waiting.
