Mohammed Hanif: Our Lady of Alice Bhatti

The morning outpatients are beginning to mill around, occupying prime positions right in front of the barred windows, under the signboards that warn that spitting, chewing paan, attacking paramedical staff and talking politics are punishable offences. Some have spent the night adjacent to the window and are still yawning under their worn-out shawls. The patients and their families under the Old Doctor have broken some branches from the tree and started breakfast fires. They look like a ragtag army that has lost its way and is running low on supplies, the kind of army that can’t make up its mind whether it has besieged a castle and is waiting for reinforcements to launch the final assault or just waiting for an ambush to relieve the men of their misery. Something will definitely need to be done about these fires. Noor makes a mental note. He is also the self-appointed health and safety adviser to Dr Pereira.

He notices that the police van is still parked outside the A&E building. A small police party stands around looking glum, as if waiting for bad news. Teddy Butt is sitting in the back of the van, his thumb in an oversized bandage. He looks drowsy and doesn’t respond when Noor waves to him.

The medico-legal Dr John Malick has finished his night shift but seems reluctant to go home. He stands outside his office looking at the sun, which is struggling to break through the morning smog. He seems to be complaining to the sun for coming out too early. It is as if he has lots of things to do that can only be done at night, things that will have to wait for his next night shift. Dr Malick is the kind of doctor who actually believes in healing himself. He usually makes this face when his duty hours end before he can finish his nightly bottle of Millennium.

“Has your jailbird got the job?” Malick shouts to Noor, trying to stifle a yawn.

“She’s got it,” Noor shouts back. “A temporary one. You didn’t hear it from me. And please take care of my friend Teddy. He has hurt himself again.”

“Congratulations. All the jailbirds are going to end up here,” Dr Malick shouts back.

Alice Bhatti goes on her first visit to Charya Ward alone, but returns an hour and a half later kicking and screaming in Teddy’s arms. No one warns her what awaits her in that forgotten loony bin, no easing-in time, no guided tours, and no orientation course. A slow Monday in A&E, and Sister Hina Alvi thrusts a clipboard in her hands, papers frayed at the edges as if somebody has been chewing on them. Sister Hina Alvi is broad and philosophical in her brief, even sympathetic, which is a surprise, because she usually blames the patients for their own plight. “They eat too much, drink too much, lust too much, can’t stay indoors when they hear gunshots out on the road; they are attracted to bomb blast sites like flies to…” She usually finds a rotting seasonal fruit to complete her analysis of the state of the national health. But today she seems in a generous mood. “These boys in Charya Ward are suffering from what everyone suffers from: life. They just take it a bit more seriously, sensitive types who think too much, care too much, who refuse to laugh at bad jokes. Same rules apply. No touching, no personal information. They can be a bit talkative and lovey-shovey. And although you look like somebody who doesn’t need any more love,” Sister Hina Alvi looks Alice up and down as if trying to decide the right dose of love for her, “people can be greedy. Even if you need it badly, you are not likely to find it there. Just remember it’s called a nuthouse and there’s a reason for that.” She opens her handbag, takes out a heart-shaped crimson pouch and starts preparing a paan. “But as far as I am concerned, the whole country is a nuthouse. Have you read Toba Tek Singh? Nobody reads around here any more. Manto wrote about the nutters in a charya ward and then ended up in one himself. His own family put him there.” She counts out three silver-coated betel nuts and places them on a leaf, rolls it and puts it in her mouth.

Alice notices that Sister Hina Alvi never offers anyone else one of her paans. She might spend the whole day surrounded by patients and doctors but she is solitary in her pleasures, always glowing with some personal insight, content in a world that makes sense only to her and happy in the knowledge that she doesn’t need validation from anyone. “I don’t know if you have done any psy-care, but there is only one rule you need to remember: you have to tell them that everything is normal. They might have buggered their own sister and then buried her alive, but you must tell them that it’s normal. They obviously did it because some god told them to do it. Of course I don’t think it’s normal for them to do it or for their god to ask them to do it. But in that ward you have to pretend everything is normal. That’s all you need to know about psychiatric care.” Sister Hina Alvi takes out a lime-green handkerchief from her purse, wipes it gently around her lips, and then examines it for stains. “Do you smoke?”

Alice, who pretended to smoke an occasional biri in the Borstal, just to win the respect of her fellow inmates, is startled by the question. “No,” she says. “I tried it at school and it made me nauseous.”

Sister Hina Alvi gives her a benevolent smile, as if they share a secret now and agree that it should stay between them. “Every girl does something. I really worry about those who say they don’t do anything. I worry about the ones who actually don’t do anything. Usually they end up with something worse than cancer.”

Alice Bhatti has an odd feeling that she is back in the Borstal being accused of not being woman enough. If only she could strip and show Sister Hina Alvi the knife wound on her shoulder or tell her about the time she kicked in the groin a Borstal warden who was in the habit of throwing their pens on the ground and then making them pick them up so that she could take a peek down the front of their shirts. Maybe some other time.

Alice Bhatti glances at the clipboard. It holds a standard-issue form with standard-issue names. Nothing there to reveal that these people live on the other side: six Mohammeds, three Ahmeds, two Alis. “Whom do I hand over to after the shift?” she asks cheerfully, as if really looking forward to the beginning and the end of her shift. Sister Hina Alvi takes out a set of keys and gives her two chunky ones. “Lock up the door, then lock the key in this drawer, and keep this one with you,” she says, patting the drawer. “I need to go to the waxing person. If you ever decide to get waxed, let me know. There is a first-time discount with my girl.” She winks, gives Alice a bright smile and walks off, swinging her bag, the queen of a sick charya world.

Alice goes out after Sister Hina Alvi, but then retraces her steps and stands in the doorway examining the list. It is blank except for the medication column. Everyone, it seems, is on a single dose of lithium sulphate 10mg. At least they treat them all equal, she thinks.

She stops by Noor’s station, where he is hunched over a register, scribbling away as usual. “Who are we dispatching today?” she asks. He looks up and gives her a busy smile. Whenever Alice sees Noor, she sees a boy in torn shorts trying to sell cigarette butts to women in the Borstal, then running back to Zainab with half a banana or a piece of toast with a little butter on it, and then them both sitting in a corner and going through a ‘no, you eat, I already ate’ routine.

“Psy ward,” says Alice Bhatti, fanning herself with the clipboard. “I think I am supposed to collect some lithium sulphate from you.”

“Don’t worry,” says Noor, burying his head in the ledger. “I’ll send it with a sweeper. We always do that. That’s no place for a decent woman like yourself.”