HIJR

T H R E E

"But what if my selfishness ends up hurting my loved ones too?" The question lingers in the air, heavy and unresolved.

Amma stands briskly, breaking the heavy mood. "Enough now, get up!" She claps her hands lightly, a small smile playing on her lips. "I'm making breakfast, and you need to eat. You've barely touched food in three days, you silly girl."

I chuckle as she walks out, leaving the room lighter than she found it. I wish she had answered my question, though. My mind still swirls with too many unanswered ones.

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As the bus hums over familiar bumps, each one feels like an old friend greeting me in the rhythm of the ride. Tonight, I'm on my way to see Maham. A conversation with Amma earlier has left a whisper in my soul, urging me not to hide away but to step forward, mend what's broken. Solitude isn't always the refuge it promises to be.

Tomorrow, I return to the bustling corridors of the hospital. But with Maham's shift tonight in the General Ward, waiting felt unbearable. Maybe, I was also seeking an excuse to wrap myself in Karachi's evening glow. 

As dusk settles, Karachi transforms; its streets become veins of light, pulsing with life. After all, it's the "city of lights."

This bus, with its creaks and sighs, might lack comfort, but there's an odd peace in these timeworn seats — a rhythm to the rattle that cradles my restless thoughts.

Inside, life unfolds in different worlds — a group of friends chuckling over shared memories, a young lady staring out the window lost in thoughts of tomorrow, someone else tugging at the edges of a smile as they scroll through their phone. Here, in this small space, our mismatched lives overlap for a brief journey.

The sound of a baby crying at the back mixes with a local song playing through crackling speakers, adding to the night's soundtrack. It's a soundtrack that somehow fits perfectly with the vibrant life flowing outside.

The streets are alive with people milling around, stopping at roadside stalls for a quick bite. I remember the times Baba took me to similar stalls every weekend. We'd eat chaat and ice cream near our old home — our little father-daughter ritual. I was always demanding, always wanting new shoes, which Baba got for me even when money was tight.

Now, as the bus winds through the city, I'm surrounded by memories. Each stop brings back a flood of moments with Baba — simple, happy times I wish I could live again. If only I could hold onto Baba, just once more.

The conductor's call jolts me back, announcing my stop. With just a short walk to the hospital left, I have a few more moments to ponder the memories and what-ifs that linger in the twilight air.

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The hospital's corridors are unusually still tonight, the bustling daytime activity of OPDs and labs now surrendered to a more reserved nighttime quietude. The air carries only the soft footfalls and murmured conversations of late visitors and overnight staff.

I spot Maham by the tuck shop, just off the main entrance. Her body is angled away from me, her stance rigid — a clear indication of her annoyance. Hesitantly, I approach, hoping to break the ice.