The Mansion of Unfinished Things
By Mahek Khwaja
It’s the 14th of December, and outside the special care unit, Christmas blooms early. Ward boys and receptionists dangle lights like stars on forgotten branches, dressing trees in tinsel hope. I pass them with a smile, making my way to the general surgery ward, where my mother rests, her surgical drain hooked neatly to the bed rail. The nurse, delicate as clockwork, checks her vitals and adjusts the cannula while I wait, standing at the curtain’s edge like an accidental observer.
Across from me, a woman, unfazed by her hospital gown, demands her attendant’s attention. “No lipstick? No hair colour?” she exclaims with the urgency of someone ordering life essentials. Her illness was not enough reason to let her appearance falter. Nearby, another patient conspires with the nurse, her voice hushed as she pleads for chaat masala to liven her bland soup. The nurse, juggling paperwork and patience, reminds her she’s just had gallbladder surgery.
In the corner, an on-call doctor murmurs that patient C-17 cannot be discharged yet. A scar from her neurosurgery marks her not just with pain but with the shadow of a husband who beats her. She is already on risperidone—another layer to the fortress of her mind. The words hang in the air, heavy, until they are interrupted by a sudden blur—a man, like a dam on the verge of bursting, racing to the washroom. One finger presses the final crack of the urine flood as his attendant, probably his wife, in a comic ballet, chases behind him, juggling slippers and a slipping headscarf.
A father hovers over his daughter, eyebrows knitted in concern, as he carefully asks the doctor, “So… those eyelashes… they’ll stay intact, right?” Nearby, a son draws circles on his mother’s palms, a slow, hypnotic lullaby to coax her into sleep. My mother, relieved of the constipation that had gripped her two days after surgery, sleeps peacefully. Her small victory gives me time to sit in the lounge and scribble verses onto a page.
Beside me, a woman with fiery red hair leans toward another, sharing the latest saga of her husband’s delusions. “After the renal biopsy, he’s been acting like the hospital’s a mansion. You know, he’s trying to figure out how much they’d sell it for.” She half laughs and half marvels at the thought, as though she’s still considering if he might be right, while his sugar levels spike 450.
And here I sit, in this lounge that smells of antiseptic and quiet worry, trying to write poetry. But the receptionist’s gaze, fixed and lingering on my breasts, pulls me from my thoughts, his stare as deliberate as the beeping machines that line the halls. I feel my bosom and realize wearing a very loose bra yet my nipples stand up like wildflowers breaking through a perfectly manicured lawn. Then, the on-call doctor calls my name, summoning me back to my mother’s bedside. I rise, leaving behind a half-scrawled poem, a half-polished verse—unfinished like so many things in this ward. The red-haired wife looks at me, her eyes wide, as if she too wonders if my grip on reality is as loose as her husband’s on his.
I wonder if she thinks I’m just another patient, wandering in and out of the strange mansion we all inhabit here.
MAHEK KHWAJA is a Karachi-based writer and editor with a background in English Literature and medical publications. Her work has appeared in journals such as Hektoen International and explores themes of healing, identity, and cultural expression. She draws inspiration from personal experiences, including caregiving, to write reflective poetry.