Tell Her Everything

by Mirza Waheed

Genres: General Fiction; Family Life

Synopsis

The acclaimed and award-winning novel, Tell Her Everything, is a heartbreaking, brilliant, and emotionally absorbing novel about ethics, filial love, and the corrosive nature of complicity.

As he prepares for a visit from his estranged daughter, Dr K, a retired surgeon enjoying the comforts of retirement in London, rehearses the conversations he will have with her over the course of her visit. It’s been years since he has seen her. He spent much of his time polishing the confession he wants to make to her.

As her visit gets closer, he recalls the country, a prosperous oil monarchy,  he left India for to make his home and career. A dream job, the hospital he worked was just a ten minute walk from home. He had access to a lifestyle that he would never have had back home. Money and success came quickly, but the price was  steep and often unbearable, especially to a wife and daughter who watch him walk the perilous path of lifelong ambition. 

TELL HER EVERYTHING is a tense, visceral and moving novel about a father's love for his daughter and a medical professional grappling with remorse, shame and despair. Recalling the work of Ishiguro, Coetzee and Kafka, it asks: Where does one draw the line between empathy and sacrifice? Between integrity and survival. Between prosperity and love?

Release date: February 7, 2023

Publisher: Melville House

Print pages: 240

Sample

1

I DID IT FOR MONEY.

I’ll tell her. She may or may not understand, but I’ve decided to tell her everything, the whole truth, as straight as possible.

In fact, I don’t think anyone can fully understand. It’s not really understandable that I spent more than two decades in that town and I didn’t know the townspeople. Was it a town or a proper city, I do not know for sure. How do I explain to people that I, a grown man, not wholly unsociable, spent most of my time, over twenty years, between my home and the hospital? And home was less than a mile away. How do I explain that I lived in that mile for years without really getting to know the local people or cuisine, or what customs existed among those people? The reason is this: I lived from procedure to procedure, from case to case. That’s what.

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There was just one tree on the street, at the lower end where the hospital compound ended. Sometimes I stopped beside it. Its bark was the colour of cement.

When I arrived there all those years ago, it was almost always hot. Even when it was not. A small gap in the cold shield created by countless AC vents sometimes let in a quick reminder of the heat. Of how hot it really was. After about eight years or so, I began to feel cold. It’s the truth, Sara, I’ll tell her. All those cold draughts had probably crept into my marrow over the years. That lasted a few years too, during which I wore a light leather jacket—you might remember. You were four or five then.

In those early days, I had quite a lot of time on my hands. It took five minutes to reach the hospital, ten if I walked, which I often did. No one else walked, apart from the cleaning staff, Jan and the others, who lived in concrete cabins at the edge of the compound. They walked or pushed their trolleys. I looked at them and wondered if this was the colour of their skin or a consequence of having worked in these parts for years. Every time I saw any of them, I wanted to make sure they had a large wet towel around their neck. I was glad when they did.

There wasn’t much to do after work—you weren’t born yet—so Atiya and I watched a lot of TV. A lot of good and bad TV. Chinese, Malaysian, Turkish, and Indian films with subtitles. If you think Bollywood is melodramatic, you need to watch Turkish films from the Eighties. There was nothing else to do. There were no cinemas in the area. None at all. Yes, there were a few restaurants by the canal on the other side of the town, my colleague and only friend Biju said, but they were very expensive. Actually, money wasn’t the issue, they were just too far away and I was afraid of taking Atiya out for long. I’ll explain later. Many years later, when I finally ate at two of them, I was glad I hadn’t taken her. The canal smelled of bleach. I didn’t trust it.

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 My friend Biju, single, with no obligations back home in Kerala, spent a lot on eating out. Almost every day after work, he went in search of a good meal and sometimes returned home having had two dinners. ‘I can’t go to bed with a disappointing taste in my mouth. It’s against my principles,’ he said. ‘You should join me some day, boss … Okay, at least come along to Gold City when I go next.’ Every month, usually on the first weekend after payday, Biju would disappear. Only after we had him over for dinner a couple of times did he say he went to Dubai to eat at expensive restaurants. ‘Say whatever about the city, boss, but you can eat, buy, do anything and everything you want. I had this Japanese beef curry and Japanese beer, and I just didn’t want to leave, boss.’

I knew Biju went to get drunk but I didn’t tell anyone. I liked him. I also knew he had worked out some kind of arrangement with the admin people, who frequently let him slip in and out.

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 The first year went very quickly. We bought quite a few appliances and a brand new Pajero, which was the main reason I preferred to walk, despite the heat. After a while, I mean after the initial excitement, it felt silly to start such a large car, get it out of the garage, which wasn’t easy because of the clutter the previous owners had left, and then drive for a mere five minutes.

You see, Sara—I’ll definitely say this to her—it’s only now, with the knowledge that comes with age and experience, that I can say I’m pleased I left in the end. While I was there, I didn’t have the benefit of distance to look at things with clarity. Certainly not at the beginning. Of course I had the wisdom to make sure you left early. But what I, you, we, lost over there can never be fully understood, let alone recovered. We only have each other now, and I hope you understand that. Of course you do, of course you do. Why would I ever doubt that?

Before I lay it all out, before I recount everything, I should appeal to her heart; bring her closer to me. It might even be time to have a drink with her. That would be grand, wouldn’t it? We’ll sit here in the balcony, savour the breeze from the river, and I’ll tell her everything. Every single thing. We’ll look at the lights of this glorious, saddening old city, and talk. I’ll point out the new skyscrapers to her. She might like them. Many people in the city aren’t too fond of the towers and call them all sorts of names. What about you, she might ask? I’m sure she will. Oh, I don’t mind them. Lights in the sky, lights in the distance, are always welcome. They add colour to the big smoke at night. I don’t get what people have against tall buildings. Do they worry that the skyscrapers will spoil their view of a clear and blue sky, eh? I’m sure you like them, Sara, you must be used to them … Yeah, I don’t mind them, Dad. I mean I don’t notice them much. In America, we don’t, like, go on about skyscrapers much, you know. They’re just there, she’ll say, and probably smile.

Sara has Atiya’s smile, a slight upward curve to the left of her upper lip. So tiny, only I can spot it. Of course only I can spot it. I doubt anyone else remembers Atiya’s smile so minutely.

I think I’ll tell her about those early days first, about the hospital, my work, about Sir Farhad, about Biju, other colleagues, etcetera. We can surely have an ordinary conversation before I move on to the other stuff. I must tell her. This year, I am ready at last and I’m sure she is too. She should know the whole thing. I hope she isn’t too upset. Why would she feel upset with a story about her mother and father! I think she’ll like to stretch out on the settee, or perhaps relax in my rocking chair, and admire the views across the river. I’ll cook for her, and I’ll look at her every now and then from the kitchen.

2

AT WORK, I ALWAYS STARTED the day with a large coffee. It was free and very good coffee, made lovingly by the machine attendant. Zoheb loved his work, anyone could tell from the way he wiped the smallest drop from the steel frame. He was from Sylhet, in Bangladesh, but left the country soon after completing a diploma in mechanical engineering, he said. Biju, always quick to pounce on a poor joke, called him Barista Bengali. Like me, Zoheb was a double migrant. While I’d just moved from London, he had, until a couple of years ago, worked in a vast bakery in Rome, making pyramids of croissants from midnight, he said. ‘I worked six days, Dr Saab, six days, often doing double shifts, didn’t see a lot of daylight or of Rome. Here they pay me more than twice for half the work! And I was sick of eating misshapen croissants for lunch and dinner five days a week.’

Of course, here, I mean over there, he had to keep his head down at all times, something he didn’t mention. But I felt he was genuinely grateful. I knew I was.

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You see, Sara, you may not be able to appreciate this fully. I come from what’s sometimes called a humble background. It’s shorthand for low income. My parents were poor. For someone like me, then, it’s a life-changing moment when income exceeds expenditure for the first time. Yes, that’s exactly the way I want to put it. You begin to think and act differently. The shoulders, tense for a lifetime, suddenly lose the grip of that coil inside. You don’t have to worry about a shortfall, about borrowing more, or how to avoid a creditor. The first time is just delicious, even life affirming, if I may say so. Your back relaxes. In less than three months of working in Sir Farhad’s hospital, we had extra cash in the bank account—can you believe that? Atiya and I actually hugged. I had tears in my eyes but I didn’t cry. And it is to that moment, when I became aware of the possibility of saving money, making it grow actually, that I owe everything. You think this apartment would’ve been possible had I not worked over there?

We have moved from relative poverty to being a highincome household within my lifetime. Don’t you find that remarkable? I do. You’ll inherit abundance, my dear, not dearth. You’ll be free, not tied to your parents’ debts and dignity.

You probably don’t even remember how much your school fees were. When I was a teenager, I wrote letters for our rich relatives so that I could pay my own fees. I didn’t want it to be a drain on our limited income. My father, may he rest in heaven, used to write letters to supplement his income, so one day I said, ‘Abbu, I can do a few too, for pocket money, that’s all.’ He didn’t say no. It was the most laborious way to earn money; some part-time trade, like selling socks and undergarments (hosiery, I mean) door to door, would’ve brought more money for much less work. But reading and writing was all we knew, Sara.

Uff, more than forty-two years have passed since those days, but I remember everything. Would you like to hear about it?

One day, Abbu and I sat in our relative’s showy living room—they had no taste whatsoever—writing his business and personal correspondence. I was seventeen, I think. The family owned and ran shops in Muscat, and exported brassware from Muradabad. As I sat there writing ‘Thanking You in Anticipation’ and ‘Yours Sincerely’, I couldn’t help looking through the sliding door that led to the dining room. They sat at a long glass table, eating, chatting, laughing, while my father and I drank tea and ate biscuits. Why do I remember that day more than the others, Sara? Why? Take a guess … Because that moment told me I had to cover the distance from our table to the other side and become those people. With better taste, of course.

No! I didn’t take an oath, nothing dramatic like that, my dear. Come on. I simply understood something. Maybe it had something to do with the look of discomfort or shame on my father’s face. (I really don’t know how to describe it.) Or maybe my own sense of a humiliation that I shouldn’t have felt. What I remember clearly is thinking, ‘No. This is not the life I want to live. This is not the life I want to hand down to my children.’

What were the letters like, Dad? I mean, you know, like, what did you have to write?

I know Sara won’t be able to resist. She does have something of her mother’s sense of humour, after all. Oh, classic desi stuff, dear: sentimental, a bit over the top, as they say nowadays, O-T-T, isn’t it? I hope this letter of mine finds you in the best of health and wealth and I beseech the Almighty to bless you with everything you wish for, both in this world and in the hereafter.

Come on, Dad, they didn’t really say best of wealth, did they?

Yes, they really did. Wait, there’s more. A few years later, Abbu said his cousin had quietly asked him to write letters to his second wife or mistress whom he had hidden away in Muscat. I’d just graduated and was on an intern’s stipend at the local government hospital. My father wasn’t one to talk much about such matters, but when I joked and moaned about those awful letters, he burst out: ‘Mister, you had it easy. I was writing “my daaarrling, the love of my life, my truest wife, I miss you more than ever, your absence is like a cold knife in my side …” to some poor woman in another part of the world. Sometimes, that sinner, may he rot in hell, asked me to write nice stuff on my own. I had to invent endearments for a secret wife on behalf of my unlettered cousin.’

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Almost every evening, as I walk in the balcony, looking at the river below, the lights on the opposite bank, buses and cars that crawl like glow worms on the Waterloo bridge, I recall the kind of satisfaction and, how do I describe it—worrylessness?—Atiya and I felt that day, all those years ago, in our house over there.

How I miss her, how I wish I could share this moment, this light that spreads over me every evening, with her. This I had dreamt of, to retire and come back to London with her. Atiya would probably not approve of the wine, but she wasn’t so narrow-minded as to ask me to stop. I seriously doubt it. The void she left, as I said, keeps growing. I don’t fight it, I never have.