Mohammed Hanif: Our Lady of Alice Bhatti

♦

Here, seated in front of the interview panel, Alice looks at the lizard and is surprised to notice that its front feet have five toes. Fourteen months of staring at lizards on the Borstal walls, Alice Bhatti berates herself, and I never noticed they have five toes. It’ll be a miracle if I get this job.

Senior Sister Hina Alvi chimes in with her betel-nut-soaked voice. “Dears, we have to use work-experience girls sometimes. Otherwise how would we manage?”

She manages to give both words — ‘girls’ and ‘experience’ — a whole new context.

Ortho Sir moves forward in his chair, clasps his hands, and fixes his eyes on the file in front of him. The alien on his head seems to have decided to make this planet his home.

“Postnatal care?” His eyes are level with Alice Bhatti’s breasts. “Inverted nipples. How do you deal with them? Should you deal with them? Have you any personal experiences to share?” Ortho Sir rolls his tongue around his gums as if there might be nipples stuck between his teeth.

Lewd gestures, whispered suggestions, uninvited hands on her bottom are all part of Alice Bhatti’s daily existence. She has a whole doctrine perfected over the years to deal with all of that, but there is something about this parched tongue tracing circles around the receding grey gums that makes her shudder. It is in this moment that Alice Bhatti realises that even if she gets this job, she might end up castrating someone. Or at least gouging a pair of eyes. Or slashing a tongue. Or pulling up those gums with pliers to cover the shame of the naked teeth.

She looks up at the lizard again. It has moved but it isn’t going anywhere. It stays stuck to the wall like an emblem that has forgotten its purpose.

Alice Bhatti had woken up that morning to the sound of Joseph Bhatti sawing a large wooden beam he had brought home last night. That was the only thing he had brought home all month, and he was now busy cutting it into a cross as big as an electric pole. She had woken up thinking she’d better get this job.

But she hadn’t woken up thinking of a tongue going around, licking imaginary nipples. Has she missed something about the gesture? Is she overreacting?

As she walks out of the room at the end of the interview, she stops by the boy, Noor, who is still scribbling. He lifts his eyes to acknowledge her presence for the first time. “Is your mother dead yet?” she asks with the indifference of someone who has just flunked a job interview. Then she lowers her voice to a whisper. “There is a police van outside. I hope they are not here for you.”

“If there is one thing I have learnt about our hospitals it is this: when these doctors get drunk, they suddenly remember their principles, their stupid oath… what is it called? That Hippo-something.” Inspector Malangi puts an arm around Teddy Butt’s shoulders. “Even doctors who work in this slaughterhouse. You would think the mornings are a safe bet. But look at us now. We are being fed medical ethics for breakfast.” His hand traces the immense bulging shoulder that won Teddy Butt the title of Junior Mr Faisalabad three years ago.

Like most people in local governance, Inspector Malangi knows that an arm around someone’s shoulder is the first step towards law enforcement. His battered blue police Hilux is parked close to the steps that lead to the A&E of the Sacred, a handcuffed man lies face down in the cabin, and three members of his team with rusting Kalashnikovs slung on their shoulders are leaning against the vehicle. Inspector Malangi seems unsure of all that he has learnt in thirty-six years of policing this city. With his walrus moustache and sunken eyes he could pass as a high-school headmaster, but with three stars on the shoulder of his black cotton shirt, his low-slung police belt and an ancient Beretta in his side holster, nobody is likely to mistake him for anyone except the head of the G Squad trying to finish his shift and go home. The Beretta is only decorative, though. He has drawn it sometimes and fired it close to people’s ears when they were not paying attention. But otherwise every time he has had to use a weapon himself he has felt that he has failed at his job.

He walks towards the rows of concrete flowerpots, leaning on Teddy’s shoulder as if trying to physically convey to him the burdens of his duty. “You may not wear this uniform.” He fingers the epaulette on his black police shirt. “But now you are a member of this family. You may think, what kind of family am I stuck with? But then everyone says that about their family. You may not love your family, but as far as I know, this is the only family you have got.” The concrete flowerpots are full of dried-up twigs and discarded medicine bottles and the occasional sprouting syringe. The whole abandoned gardening effort looks like somebody’s good intentions got corrupted on the way. Inspector Malangi breaks a twig and starts poking his ear with such concentration it seems he is digging for an answer deep inside.

Teddy Butt is attentive and solid on his feet. When Inspector Malangi puts an arm around your shoulder this early in the morning and declares you a family member, you have to feel and behave like a loyal family member.

“So I have got a criminal but no crime that I can prove right now. Or at least that’s what that whatsisname medico-legal Malick thinks. Did anyone tell him what happened in Garden East? When he is sober, you can get him to sign his own mother’s post-mortem report. The bastard never looks at anything before signing, but half a bottle of Murree Millennium in his stomach and he is telling me I need some evidence, that suspicions of sabotage and intents of mass murder can’t be proved in a medical lab. I have got Abu Zar in handcuffs but I can’t keep him because a drunk Choohra doctor suddenly decides that he is not going to play God any more. What does he want me to do? Shoot myself in the head and then ask for a certificate that this fellow has hurt me in the line of duty? For three months we have been looking for the man responsible for the Garden East attack and I know it’s him.” Inspector Malangi gestures towards the back of the van, and the man there moans like a dying animal.

Teddy Butt looks towards the tiny office adjacent to the Accidents and Emergencies department. A battered ambulance is parked outside, with its driver asleep with his head on the steering wheel. The board outside the medico-legal’s office reads, No arms or ammunition allowed inside the duty doctor’s office . Teddy stares at the tiny shack as if sizing up an enemy bunker.

“Why don’t we book him for drinking?” he says. He likes saying ‘we’. It makes him feel as if he is the one putting handcuffs on a renegade doctor who will not cooperate with the law this early in the morning. It makes him feel an integral part of the family.

“Yes, we can book him for half a dozen things. Do you even know how much a bottle of Millennium costs? How can he afford Millennium on his salary? Probably steals and sells kidneys. OK, Teddy, say we book him for that, what if his replacement doesn’t drink but still has principles? Look, his shift ends in half an hour. And then you’ll have to deal with Auntie Hina Alvi and, trust me, she has more principles than I have pubic hair. She has probably got a cock too. That woman scares me.”

Teddy Butt is not sure if he is supposed to laugh, so he chuckles as if clearing his throat. He is new to the squad, an honorary member, and is still learning the rules. He squeezes his empty hand into a fist and starts lifting imaginary dumbbells. He does this in cases of extreme darkness. When he did it last, he had gone to meet Inspector Malangi hoping to find work as an informer. He had taken a box of sweets with him but had found himself in a lock-up with half a dozen starving addicts in extreme withdrawal.