Nadia Kabir Barb" />
  • ABOUT
  • PRINT
  • PRAISE
  • SUBSCRIBE
  • OPENINGS
  • SUBMISSIONS
  • CONTACT
The Missing Slate - For the discerning reader
  • HOME
  • Magazine
  • In This Issue
  • Literature
    • Billy Luck
      Billy Luck
    • To the Depths
      To the Depths
    • Dearly Departed
      Dearly Departed
    • Fiction
    • Poetry
  • Arts AND Culture
    • Tramontane
      Tramontane
    • Blade Runner 2049
      Blade Runner 2049
    • Loving Vincent
      Loving Vincent
    • The Critics
      • FILM
      • BOOKS
      • TELEVISION
    • SPOTLIGHT
    • SPECIAL FEATURES
  • ESSAYS
    • A SHEvolution is Coming in Saudi Arabia
      A SHEvolution is Coming in Saudi Arabia
    • Paxi: A New Business Empowering Women in Pakistan
      Paxi: A New Business Empowering Women in Pakistan
    • Nature and Self
      Nature and Self
    • ARTICLES
    • COMMENTARY
    • Narrative Nonfiction
  • CONTESTS
    • Pushcart Prize 2017 Nominations
      Pushcart Prize 2017 Nominations
    • Pushcart Prize 2016 Nominations
      Pushcart Prize 2016 Nominations
    • Pushcart Prize 2015 Nominations
      Pushcart Prize 2015 Nominations
    • PUSHCART 2013
    • PUSHCART 2014
Fiction, LiteratureSeptember 11, 2015

Let Me Go

I Have No Space to Give Birth to My Baby

I Have No Space to Give Birth to My Baby by Meezan Rehman. Image Courtesy: ArtChowk Gallery.

The light is fading in the room and I stop reading my book to gaze outside the window.  Another day and another sunset. This time the fusion of oranges, pinks and blues is worthy of an artist’s canvas. If only I could paint, I would immortalise this moment. Sadly I am no artist so my memory will have to suffice. A few moments and then dusk starts to fall on the world outside.

Despite the overhead lights, the room feels dim…rather miserable if you ask me. I reach over and switch on the light by the bed. It flickers momentarily then comes on. I look at the face resting on the pillow and the harsh glow of the artificial lights give him a greyish pallor and the tubes emerging from his mouth and nostrils obscure part of his face. He is barely recognisable with the purplish bruise around one eye and gash across his forehead.

His eyes are still closed. They have been closed for over a week now. After the car accident the doctors decided to put him in a medically induced coma. They told me that his head injury was severe and there was swelling in the brain. According to them, this was the best way to let his body try and heal although from what I can tell they think the chances of him regaining consciousness are slim.

A fumbled encounter in the back seat of a car with a man who swept me off my feet gave me one of the best things in my life—my son.

It was disconcerting at first but over the last week or so I have become accustomed to the noises the various machines surrounding my husband constantly make. The rhythmic beeping from his heart monitor, the whirring of the ventilator—it’s all background noise.

I stand up and the book on my lap falls to the floor with a slight thud and slides under the bed. I can pick it up later. One of the nurses said that talking to him or reading out loud might help so I bring a book with me to the hospital.

My lower back and shoulders are aching from all the sitting but even with a bit of stretching and walking around the room, the pain remains obstinate. Give it time and your body turns on you and things you take for granted become herculean tasks. Everything starts clicking and creaking like an unoiled machine. Right now I feel more like a hundred and five than fifty five.

The hands on the clock above the door of the room are moving particularly slowly today. I think the clock is mocking me. Even the seconds seem to be moving in slow motion. “Ha ha ha, only six o’clock,” it says.

Two more hours and I can go back home.

Even after thirty five years I can hear my mother’s voice telling me that I had made my bed and must therefore lie in it. I was foolish, immature and oh so stupid to have been seduced by a few sweet words and a roguish smile. I have no one but myself to blame.

A fumbled encounter in the back seat of a car with a man who swept me off my feet gave me one of the best things in my life—my son. However, back then people didn’t look kindly on unwed mothers and I thought I was the luckiest girl alive when he said we should get married and be a family.

“No child should come into this world without having both parents”, he used to say.

My second son came soon after the first and I felt complete. I had everything I wanted.

Unfortunately time taught me that the man I had given my heart and soul to didn’t really love me. I just kept deluding myself into think that he did.

Well, two more hours and I can go back home. I can breathe. I feel like I have more than paid my dues by now.

At least the boys will be here soon. ‘Boys!’ I smile to myself. They stopped being that years ago. They’re grown men now with their own families, their own lives. Despite the fancy suits and manicured beards all I see are two little kids who used to show up from school with scraped knees and elbows and spend hours fighting imaginary dragons and monsters. How I miss them.

I can understand that it must be hard for them to take the time every day to come by the hospital but they do their best and visit even if it’s for a little while. Come seven-ish, they appear and take it in turns to sit with their father. We’re not all allowed to be in the room all at once. So I chat with one or the other in the waiting area. Sometimes about the weather, at times a little about their work. I ask for an update on the grandchildren whom I haven’t seen since before the accident. More often than not they ask me if I need anything for the house or if my back is giving me trouble and then they leave. It has become a little ritual we go through but it’s one that I look forward to.

At least the two of us seem to have done something right.

All of a sudden the machines start going mad. I see his large frame shaking uncontrollably and I shout for the nurse. They are already in the room, the beeping and screeching of the machines have them running to the bed.

Somebody gently pushes me out of the way and out of the room. They are yelling things at each other and I don’t know what they’re saying. I see the doctor and he enters the room without even looking at me. I’ve seen him around the ward. He has a nice bedside manner, at least nicer than the doctor who was here last weekend. This one reminds me of an aging cherub.

The door closes behind him and I can’t hear what’s happening inside anymore.

Continue Reading

1 2 View All →

Tags

fictionNadia Kabir BarbStory of the Week

Share on

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Pinterest
  • Google +
  • LinkedIn
  • Email
Previous articleEucalyptus in Rain
Next articleLover’s Discourse – an exhibition in five rooms

You may also like

Billy Luck

To the Depths

Dearly Departed

Ad

In the Magazine

A Word from the Editor

Don’t cry like a girl. Be a (wo)man.

Why holding up the women in our lives can help build a nation, in place of tearing it down.

Literature

This House is an African House

"This house is an African house./ This your body is an African woman’s body..." By Kadija Sesay.

Literature

Shoots

"Sapling legs bend smoothly, power foot in place,/ her back, parallel to solid ground,/ makes her torso a table of support..." By Kadija Sesay.

Literature

A Dry Season Doctor in West Africa

"She presses her toes together. I will never marry, she says. Jamais dans cette vie! Where can I find a man like you?" By...

In the Issue

Property of a Sorceress

"She died under mango trees, under kola nut/ and avocado trees, her nose pressed to their roots,/ her hands buried in dead leaves, her...

Literature

What Took Us to War

"What took us to war has again begun,/ and what took us to war/ has opened its wide mouth/ again to confuse us." By...

Literature

Sometimes, I Close My Eyes

"sometimes, this is the way of the world,/ the simple, ordinary world, where things are/ sometimes too ordinary to matter. Sometimes,/ I close my...

Literature

Quarter to War

"The footfalls fading from the streets/ The trees departing from the avenues/ The sweat evaporating from the skin..." By Jumoke Verissimo.

Literature

Transgendered

"Lagos is a chronicle of liquid geographies/ Swimming on every tongue..." By Jumoke Verissimo.

Fiction

Sketches of my Mother

"The mother of my memories was elegant. She would not step out of the house without her trademark red lipstick and perfect hair. She...

Fiction

The Way of Meat

"Every day—any day—any one of us could be picked out for any reason, and we would be... We’d part like hair, pushing into the...

Fiction

Between Two Worlds

"Ursula spotted the three black students immediately. Everyone did. They could not be missed because they kept to themselves and apart from the rest...."...

Essays

Talking Gender

"In fact it is often through the uninformed use of such words that language becomes a tool in perpetuating sexism and violence against women...

Essays

Unmasking Female Circumcision

"Though the origins of the practice are unknown, many medical historians believe that FGM dates back to at least 2,000 years." Gimel Samera looks...

Essays

Not Just A Phase

"...in the workplace, a person can practically be forced out of their job by discrimination, taking numerous days off for fear of their physical...

Essays

The Birth of Bigotry

"The psychology of prejudice demands that we are each our own moral police". Maria Amir on the roots of bigotry and intolerance.

Fiction

The Score

"The person on the floor was unmistakeably dead. It looked like a woman; she couldn’t be sure yet..." By Hawa Jande Golakai.

More Stories

Happiness

“I truly/ Like this age of ergonomic skies, skies extending/ over pleasant mountain ranges + ordered lakes…” Poem of the Week (August 19), by Dominic Hale.

Back to top
One last love letter...

April 24, 2021

It has taken us some time and patience to come to this decision. TMS would not have seen the success that it did without our readers and the tireless team that ran the magazine for the better part of eight years.

But… all good things must come to an end, especially when we look at the ever-expanding art and literary landscape in Pakistan, the country of the magazine’s birth.

We are amazed and proud of what the next generation of creators are working with, the themes they are featuring, and their inclusivity in the diversity of voices they are publishing. When TMS began, this was the world we envisioned…

Though the magazine has closed and our submissions shuttered, this website will remain open for the foreseeable future as an archive of the great work we published and the astounding collection of diverse voices we were privileged to feature.

If, however, someone is interested in picking up the baton, please email Maryam Piracha, the editor, at maryamp@themissingslate.com.

Farewell, fam! It’s been quite a ride.

Read previous post:
Poet of the Month: Chelsey Harris

"It’s extremely gratifying to be able to change my own story if I want, or to be able to change...

Close