Imran · Second Shift · Pulse Beat
He came to the hospital on a Saturday afternoon, in a clean shirt, with a bag of oranges. She met him in the corridor outside the cafeteria. Imran Qureshi was thirty-two, round-faced and shy, with a…
He came to the hospital on a Saturday afternoon, in a clean shirt, with a bag of oranges.
She met him in the corridor outside the cafeteria. Imran Qureshi was thirty-two, round-faced and shy, with a quiet laugh. He worked at a bank branch in Thane and spent his weekends repairing radios. He had asked her to marry him twice, once by letter and once on a bench in Marine Drive, and she had said not yet both times.
"I brought oranges," he said, unnecessarily.
"Thank you."
They stood in the corridor with the smell of floor cleaner and boiled rice. A trolley rattled past. "Fatima," he said. "I want to ask you something and I want you to be honest."
"All right."
"Are you ever going to say yes?"
She looked at his kind, worried face, and at the oranges, and at the ward doors behind him. "I don't know," she said at last. "I want to. And I want something else. I don't know how to want both."
He nodded slowly, as if she had confirmed something he had known for a long time. "Then I'll wait one more year," he said, and put the oranges in her hands.