The Night Before Goodbye

When Mahnoor woke in the morning, there was a new kind of silence in the house. Abbu had come home safe and well, and Ammi now knew the secret. Mahnoor opened her notebook. Last night's final line was still there: The wire broke, but Abbu was saved. She thanked God in her heart and thought that today might be better than the days before. Yet in one corner of her heart there was also fear. Miss Shireen had said there would be no deal tonight.

A child's happy shout came from the roof. Mahnoor ran up. The little boy from the second house in Lane Number Four stood on the roof, holding his lost blue slipper in his hand. "I found it! I found my slipper!" he shouted. The wind had carried it to the roof, exactly as the radio had said. Mahnoor looked at Hashir. Hashir said softly, "The first item came true."

Mahnoor put a small tick in her notebook. Her hand trembled a little. An item coming true was both a joy and a responsibility. If everything the radio said was true, then every silence of the radio must also mean something.

Before noon, Iqbal chacha's son arrived on a bicycle. He carried a small piece of paper. "Zoya Baji," he said, "a message came from your mother. The bus to the city leaves the morning after tomorrow. You must go on that bus." The time of the bus was written on the paper. Zoya took the paper and went quiet. Mahnoor's heart sank. The morning after tomorrow was very close.

"The day after tomorrow?" Hashir asked. "So soon?" Zoya smiled and said, "The holidays are ending, little one. School is opening in the city." But her smile did not reach her eyes. Mahnoor held her hand. "When you go, this room will feel so silent." Zoya said, "I will go, but these nights will go with me."

In the afternoon, the auntie next door opened her old trunk. Everyone in the lane saw that she held an old photograph in her hands. In the photograph stood a small girl with white flowers in her hair. Tears came to the auntie's eyes. "That is me," she said, laughing. "As a child, in this very lane." Mahnoor said in her heart, the second item has come true too.

The auntie showed the photograph to Dadi. Dadi looked at it for a long time. Her eyes grew wet. "Old things never die," Dadi said softly. "They only wait for someone to look at them again."

In the evening, the children of the lane began playing again beneath the neem tree. Their laughter echoed through the lane. For the first time in three days, someone had heard such open laughter. Hashir played with them, and Zoya clapped. Mahnoor stood beneath the tree and watched it all.

At that moment the sound of an engine echoed from the end of the lane. Miss Shireen's large truck had arrived. This time the frame of lights was even taller than before. Miss Shireen stood before the camera and said, "Tonight there will be no darkness! The lights will burn all night!" One light after another came on. The lane grew bright as day, but a kind of darkness settled in Mahnoor's heart.

Inside the house, Ammi called the children to her side. "Tonight I will stay awake with you too," she said. "But explain one thing to me. This voice... why is it your Dada's voice?" Dadi took Ammi's hand. "Child," she said, "Kareem read the news in his youth. His voice stayed in the walls of this house. When the city falls asleep, that voice speaks again." Ammi nodded, as if her heart had accepted the answer.

After dinner, the three children sat in Mahnoor's room. The notebook lay open on the table and the radio sat silent. "Tomorrow night," Mahnoor said, "we will ask the radio questions." Hashir looked at her in surprise. "But it never answers questions." "We know," Zoya said. "But asking is also a kind of goodbye. We will ask, even if no answer comes." Dadi stood in the doorway, listening to these words.

Dadi came inside and sat beside the children. "Write your questions down," she said. "Whatever is in your heart, put it on paper. I will not stop you." Mahnoor wrote: Dada, can you see us? Hashir wrote: Will the radio ever speak again? Zoya wrote: Will we ever sit together like this again? Dadi looked at the three papers and smiled, but there were tears in her eyes.

"Dadi," Mahnoor asked, "did you never ask a question?" Dadi looked at the radio. "I asked one question, years ago," she said. "And I found my answer in that same silence." She said no more. Mahnoor understood that Dadi's story was not finished yet. Perhaps that story would be told tomorrow night.

Outside, the lights were burning at full strength. It was almost eleven o'clock. Hashir looked out of the window. "Aapa," he said, "the lights show no sign of going out." Mahnoor closed her notebook. "Wait," she said. "Darkness chooses its own time." There was hope in her heart, and fear too. If darkness did not come, the radio would not speak.

At ten minutes to twelve, the lights began to flicker. First one light went out, then another. The generator beside the truck began to cough, as if its breath were stopping. The driver shouted, "The generator has overheated! It will have to cool down!" Miss Shireen said angrily, "Fix it now!" But the generator coughed twice and then fell silent. One light after another went out.

There was a commotion in the lane. The driver said the generator would need half an hour to cool down, and that its fuel had run out as well. Miss Shireen got into the truck and went to fetch fuel. After she left, the cameraman sat down inside the van. Lane Number Four slowly sank into complete darkness. No bulb was lit, no torch was lit. There was only the faint light of the moon, and even that hid behind the clouds.

The three children, Ammi and Dadi gathered in Mahnoor's room. The radio was on the table. Hashir picked up his phone, then put it down again. Its battery had died long ago. Mahnoor opened her notebook and gripped her pen. "It is not twelve yet," she whispered. "The radio speaks only at twelve." The silence in the room was so deep that everyone's breathing could be heard.

At twelve o'clock, there was static. The radio's dial lit up with a soft, warm glow. The same calm voice came from it, exactly like young Dada's voice. "Tomorrow's news," the voice said. Mahnoor gripped her pen firmly. No bell rang. "First item: tomorrow morning, Zoya will pack her bedding, and Mahnoor will give her an old book that belonged to Dada. Second item: tomorrow evening, Dadi will tell her story, the story she has not told anyone for years. Third item: the morning after tomorrow, the electricity will return, and the radio will fall silent." Then the voice stopped. The dial's glow went out.

A deep silence filled the room. Ammi held Mahnoor's hand. There were tears in Zoya's eyes. Hashir whispered, "Only two days?" Mahnoor wrote her final line in her notebook: The electricity will come the day after tomorrow. The radio will fall silent. She put down her pen and looked at the radio. "Dada," she said softly, "can you hear us?" No answer came. The dial was dark.

Dadi placed her hand on Mahnoor's head. "The voice has done its work, child," she said. "Now it is our turn. Tomorrow night we will ask our questions, even if no answer comes." Zoya wiped her tears and said, "And I will leave the morning after tomorrow, but tomorrow night I will be here." Mahnoor nodded. There was a strange ache in her heart, as if something dear were slipping from her hands.

At ten past twelve, the sound of an engine came from far away. Miss Shireen was returning with fuel. At the end of the lane, the truck's headlights began to show. Mahnoor looked out of the window and wrote one more line in her notebook: Tomorrow night, saving the darkness will be hardest of all, because Miss Shireen will come prepared. She closed her notebook. Two days were left. Only two days. And tomorrow night was the night of questions.