From a very young age, Hanif Shankar grew up surrounded by clocks—it was his father’s ardent practice to check the time before doing anything, a habit Hanif adopted at the age of six. He studied on time, ate on time, and slept on time. By twenty-two, he had outpaced everyone in the family and become its first barrister.
It wasn’t enough to earn him envious looks from his colleagues. Even at home, his parents learned not to keep him — they knew Hanif measured the length of every conversation, and if it ran over his schedule, he would stay up the whole night making up for it.
It wasn’t long before Hanif’s father died on his way back from his brother’s house, his rickshaw struck by a reckless bus. Hanif spent less time mourning and more time rigorously adjusting his schedule and planning the funeral.
1
It was the third year after his father’s death that his mother’s dementia began to worsen. The doctors were grim: slowly, she would start forgetting everything—names, places, tasks, and faces. The only one who could act as her compass now was Hanif.
But how could he help her when most of his day was spent at the office? He considered hiring someone to look after her, but his mother refused.
“Even in marriage, I never once depended on your father. I never depended on my parents. Now you’re telling me I have to depend on a stranger to get through the day? I won’t accept it.”
“Then let me get you a notebook,” Hanif said. “You’ll carry it with you always and write down every moment so you don’t lose track of what’s happening.”
His mother laughed softly. “Baba, I’d rather live forgetting than measure how much time is gone and how much is left. It’s a depressing way to live. Even if I forget, I want to live as myself for as long as I can.”
Hanif had no ground left to protest.
2
Two weeks into November, Hanif’s mother called him at the office and asked him to take her to her hometown village as soon as possible.
“Why, Mother? Has something happened there?”
She shook her head. “I just want to see my sister.”
A thick lump rose in Hanif’s throat.
On the way, his mother kept mistaking him for his father.
“Dulal…” she’d say. “What time is it?”
He couldn’t answer her. Something was breaking inside him. The only way to keep his mind still was to take out his notebook and jot down the hours and the things left to do. But even that didn’t last. Halfway there, his watch stopped working. His phone had no battery left. His mother wasn’t carrying a watch or phone either.
The tension that had been sitting in his stomach all morning sharpened into something closer to panic. Not being able to see the time, Hanif felt the urge to vomit—to empty himself out completely. Images flashed before him: missed conversations, missed pills, a calendar full of unfinished tasks.
He couldn’t wait any longer. Something had to be done.
He left his mother in the driver’s care and walked a few blocks until he found a shop that sold batteries and light bulbs. A short man, no older than twenty-five, stood behind the counter scrolling on his phone.
When Hanif asked if he fixed watches, the man looked up with a frown.
“I don’t know much about clockwork. I can only change the battery.”
“That’ll do,” Hanif said, exhaling in relief, and handed over his watch.
Once the new battery was in, the watch started ticking again. Hanif paid and left the shop in good spirits. But before he’d gone even a quarter of the way back, the hands froze once more.
He returned to the shop.
The man studied his face for a long moment. Then, quietly, he said, “When they break down, that’s the time of your life, don’t you think?”
Hanif couldn’t make sense of what he’d just heard.
“I can't—to hell with you,” he said and stormed out.
3
By the time Hanif returned to the village, his mother was standing by a pond, gazing at her own reflection in the water.
“I can’t remember my name,” she said. “All these people—can you tell me my name, if you know me?”
Hanif fell silent.
“Mother…” he said feebly, refusing to accept what was coming. “It’s me. Your son, Hanif. Your only son.”
“Hanif? Aren’t you… you look like Dulal. Dulal, what is the time?”
“It’s not Dulal, Mother. It’s Hanif.”
“Why are you wearing a dead watch, Hanif? Dulal never used to do that. What good will it do?”
Hanif looked down at his wrist. He didn’t know the time or what he was supposed to do next. All he knew was that he was late for the first time in his life—late to something important, and, just like his mother, he couldn’t say what it was.
Munanzila Tarannum is an English literature student at BRAC University and an aspiring writer of fiction and poetry.
