Story by Abdul Qayum Sarbazi: translated from Balochi Fazal Baloch
The doctor checked the unconscious child’s pulse and said, “You have almost killed the child before bringing him to the hospital.”
He lifted the child’s eyelids and examined his mouth and throat. Then he placed a thermometer in his mouth and rolled up his shirt slightly. Looking at the child’s hollow stomach and protruding ribs, the doctor began critiquing the parents in a stern tone. “He is suffering more from starvation than illness. If you cannot take care of your children, why do you bring them into the world?”
The doctor removed the thermometer from the child’s mouth and blinked arrogantly before continuing to scold the father. “May God guide you. Such a high fever. He is standing at the edge of death. Why didn’t you bring him here earlier? Though I know people like you are not entirely to blame. This is what happens when people have too many children and assume they will somehow grow up on their own. Such children do not become responsible human beings; they become a burden on society. But what do you care? For the sake of ‘momentary pleasure’, you bring children into the world only for others to carry their burden.”
The boy’s father lowered his pale face and listened silently to the doctor’s taunts. It was nothing new to him. He had long grown used to harsh words from the police, the coast guard, and the dealer. Rubbing one palm against the other, he let out a weary sigh and looked helplessly at the doctor. His eyes drifted toward the swollen veins in his hands and feet before he sank into a dark cloud of worry.
The doctor cleared his throat, washed his hands with soap, dried them on the hanging towel, and resumed his sermon. “The way you treated this child… not even do we treat our worst enemy so harshly. Anyhow, I will give him two vitamin injections. He also needs glucose. There is barely any sign of life left in him, but I will do whatever I can within my capacity. The rest depends on the boy’s fate.”
The boy’s father lowered his head even further as darkness clouded his already blurred vision. In that moment, a terrible wish rose in his heart: that the earth would split open, the four-storey hospital building would collapse, and everything would be buried beneath the rubble.
After wallowing in helplessness and grief for a short while, he slowly regained control of his breathing and looked again toward the doctor. His eyes faced the merciless man like those of a beggar pleading for mercy. The doctor ran his tongue across his lips as though sharpening a blade on stone and continued coldly: “This is not how a child should be raised. Children require care, sacrifice, and hardship. For breakfast, they should be given half-fried eggs, milk, butter, and bread. At lunch, boiled beans and minced meat. In the evening, fresh fruits and salad. For dinner, meat, chicken soup, and rice. And before going to bed, a glass of milk.”
The boy’s father’s already pale face darkened with despair. He shifted slightly, crushed beneath hardship and helplessness. The doctor glanced at his wristwatch and continued his barrage of words. “At this moment, the child is still not out of danger. Deposit five hundred rupees at the counter in advance for emergency medicines and treatment. The final bill can be settled later.”
The father felt as though he had been stung by a scorpion. His senses were already numb, and whatever strength remained in him now seemed to disappear completely.
For the first time, he spoke. Looking at the doctor with helpless eyes, he said softly, “I do not have five hundred rupees.”
The doctor struck him again with his words. “This hospital is not for the poor and needy. You see all these people working here? They have to be paid. Medicines come from companies, and they demand payment immediately. Do whatever you think is best, but let me make one thing clear: your child will not survive without medicine. If he dies, his blood will be on your hands.”
Then, lowering his voice slightly, the doctor added, “I took pity on your condition and asked for only five hundred rupees. Otherwise, we charge one thousand.”
The father’s dry lips trembled beneath tears that came too early and too painfully. Even the violent tides of the sea seemed less cruel than the doctor’s words. To him, the doctor appeared like a disciple of the Angel of Death, hardened by the complete loss of compassion. Closing his eyes, the father fell at the doctor’s feet and pleaded in a voice heavy with pain: “All I have is two hundred rupees. I do not know whether such a small amount means anything to you, but it is the cry of a helpless father’s soul.”
The doctor’s face darkened with anger. His arrogance swelled again as he replied coldly: “If your money is so dear to you, then take the boy’s dead body home. Perhaps you do not believe my words, but do whatever suits you.”
The boy’s mother stood silently in a corner, numb like a statue. Ever since they arrived at the hospital, she had not uttered a single word. Life had shown her only one face: hunger, poverty, humiliation, and endless helplessness. So she remained quiet.
The boy’s father was not very old, yet he looked far older than his years. He had spent his entire life in patience and endurance. And it was all the poor could afford. But sometimes humiliation becomes heavier than patience itself. Once again, he saw the bitter truth before him. A doctor, whose hands were meant to heal like those blessed by God, had turned his noble profession into a business. To the poor, such men seemed no different from heartless merchants or cruel officials.
Yet the father felt it wiser, perhaps easier, to fall at the feet of this “angel of death” if it might save his child’s life. Swallowing the anger rising inside him, he spoke softly:
“My helplessness lies before you as clearly as an open road. I listened carefully to all your words and hold them with respect. You said that people like us bring children into the world for ‘momentary pleasure’. I have only two children. One lies before you, struggling at the mercy of death, while the other plays in the dirt back at home. Luxury and comfort are sweet words, doctor, but I have never truly known them. The land has nothing to offer us. It is the sea that feeds our children. The old days were much better for people like us, but as time passed, the chains of circumstance tightened around our lives”.
He continued, “I returned home today after spending twelve days at sea battling rough tides. We managed to catch some fish, but the coast guard took their share as if it were their right. Some were taken by the police and customs officers, and whatever remained was bought by the dealers at miserable prices. In the end, my share came to only two hundred rupees. When I reached home, everything was in chaos. My wife was almost unconscious. One child lay unconscious with fever while the other cried from hunger. My wife told me the boy had been burning with fever for a week, but she could not take him to a doctor because she had no money.”
After revealing the bitter truth of his life, he placed the crumpled two hundred-rupee notes on the doctor’s table and said: “I leave both the money and the boy with you. If he survives, he will find his way home. And if he dies, bury him with a handful of dust, because I do not even have enough money for his funeral.”
With these words, he walked away.
The doctor stood silent, staring at his own reflection in the mirror.
.
Fazal Baloch is a Balochi writer and translator. He has translated many Balochi poems and short stories into English. His translations have been featured in Pakistani Literature published by Pakistan Academy of Letters and in the form of books and anthologies.
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