Sunita · Second Shift · Pulse Beat
Her friend came to visit on a Sunday with a tin of sweets and a long, anxious face. "I've been offered a position," said Sunita. They were sitting on the roof of Zainab's building, in the evening…
Her friend came to visit on a Sunday with a tin of sweets and a long, anxious face.
"I've been offered a position," said Sunita. They were sitting on the roof of Zainab's building, in the evening, with the sounds of Kurla below: auto-rickshaws, a muezzin, someone selling bangles. "In Dubai. A private hospital. Three times the salary."
"Sunita, that's wonderful."
"Is it?" Her friend looked out over the washing lines. "I don't want to go. But I'm thirty-two. I have no savings. My mother is ill." She laughed, shortly. "You're studying, and I'm going to Dubai. Isn't that strange? Six years ago, we were the same."
Fatima took her hand. "You didn't have a registrar."
"I didn't have you. I didn't have the thing. I thought you were mad. I'm sorry."
"There's nothing to be sorry for." They sat together as the light went out of the sky. "I wouldn't have survived the first year without you saying I was mad. It made me want to prove you wrong." She squeezed her friend's hand. "Go to Dubai. And send me your lecture notes on cardiac nursing."