Abundance

In order to list Sakeena for a transplant, Ramzan learned that they needed to complete a workup, including a heart examination, colonoscopy, ob-gyn clearance, even a dental exam, all in the interest of avoiding infection after receiving a new organ. But first they needed Sakeena to agree to a transplant; so far, she had only consented to some liquid medication that Gupta prescribed. This was what Ramzan was mulling over as they prepared to be discharged from the hospital the next morning,just as Fareen called from New York. She had been calling every few hours, asking once, twice, fifty times what level of urgency this was. Should she jump on a plane right away—take time away from her Wall Street work—or could her visit wait until the following weekend? Was Mom at urgent risk? If not, Fareen could come Thursday night, stay until Monday morning,and if it was possible to wait these four days it might make a difference for her because it was November, year-end was near, reviews were underway, and Fareen was being considered for a promotion to managing director. It is not too urgent, Ramzan half lied, not wanting to alarm Fareen. It was nine months they had left, not nine days. Plus, there was the likelihood of a transplant. What felt important, too, was that Ramzan did not want to stand in the way of Fareen’s promotion, which he understood was rare, to earn the title of managing director at age twenty-eight. The magnitude of opportunity available to Fareen had become clear over her six years working at Goldman Sachs, from hurried phone calls home—sometimes every few days, sometimes weeks apart—usually late at night while she sat in the back of a car shuttling her home to Brooklyn from the office. Take your time, beta, Ramzan said. Mumma will get better. I have faith in Dr. Gupta already.

Arriving home, though, while Ramzan gently guided Sakeena from their parking space to the front door, he began to realize just how much their lives had changed. Before he could even turn on the lights, Sakeena rushed to the bathroom, due to the lactulose—laxative—prescribed by Dr. Gupta, four doses daily to reduce the ammonia. A half hour later Sakeena was forced to go again, and continually at such intervals that Ramzan wondered how she would be able to sleep.

That night, again Sakeena turned with dreams.

Adnan, she called. Come, Adnan. In the night canteen, there is a man who roasts the very best corn. He’ll rub it with lemon and chili!

Ramzan listened with curiosity. Was she dreaming about Adnan because he had traveled to Rawalpindi with her years back, for her father’s funeral? But that was almost twenty years ago. Did her hesitation about the transplant have anything in common with her reluctance, as far back as their engagement, to leave Rawalpindi?

Sakeena’s dream reminded Ramzan, too, how she did not like to break from tradition. In Rawalpindi, when they were first engaged, soon after Ramzan was selected for the visa lottery to the U.S., she wanted to go out for food only to her beloved night canteen, where her family had eaten every Sunday for as long as she could remember. Six years later, when they were finally married in Tampa—with only Ramzan’s chacha, his father’s younger brother, standing in for family—Sakeena embraced the whole circumstance, even her own parents missing, as happening exactly as it was meant to happen, the way their grandmothers in Gujarati villages might have left everything to God. In Sakeena’s mind, her arrival to the U.S. was not the product of work, or sacrifice, on her part or his. It was simply written.

The next few mornings, leaving the management of their Dunkin’ in the capable hands of Kawal—who in her second trimester thankfully had some energy—Ramzan took care of Sakeena, rubbing her shoulders and earlobes while she dozed, bringing her four doses of lactulose daily.

One morning after breakfast, Sakeena seemed especially tired, so Ramzan insisted that she lie down on the living room sofa, letting the TV fill the room with the calming voice of a painter she often watched, today depicting a hillside of trees descending toward a lake. Close your eyes and sleep few minutes, Ramzan said.

Suddenly, though, while Ramzan was cleaning the kitchen, Sakeena felt the urge to use the bathroom. In her weakened state she called for Ramzan, and he came, but as he helped her rush across their gray carpet, Sakeena froze mid-stride. She could not hold it any longer. Down her leg, under her favorite nightgown, came loose stool, clumps of it falling across the carpet. This while Ramzan could only say, It’s okay, jaan. It’s alright. This is not your fault. I don’t want you to feel, jaani, that this is at all your fault.

He brought home two different brands of adult diapers from Walmart.

Diaper? Sakeena said when she saw them. You want me to wear diaper? It made him uncomfortable, too, but what choice did they have? Stop taking the lactulose? Let her die from the ammonia?

Perhaps due to her lack of energy, Sakeena agreed to wear the diapers, though Ramzan could see they upset her. How can I drink this poison? Sakeena said holding her disposable cup of lactulose the next day. How can anyone intentionally take medicine that forces you to need diaper?

It’s only one dose, jaani.

No more!

Ramzan felt some hope that Fareen, due to land from

New York that night, might talk some sense into Sakeena. Kawal, too, would soon arrive to cook daal and brown rice for dinner. Setting aside the lactulose, Ramzan turned his thoughts to Adnan, who held a special influence over Sakeena but who still had not responded to anyone’s messages.

Adnan, beta, we have not heard from you in some time. Are you okay? Ramzan typed into his phone, trying not to feel alarmed by Adnan’s silence. The stream of messages on the screen, going back several weeks, all originated from Ramzan, mostly forwarded GIFs—“missing you” lit up over a rising sun—and one image he forwarded that honestly moved him, a poem that probably any grade school child in the U.S. would be familiar with but one that was new to Ramzan. “Two roads diverged in a wood,” in which the agency of the writer, taking the less traveled path, spoke to Ramzan. What if he himself had never applied—and reapplied—for that visa lottery at age twenty? Ramzan was never sure about Adnan’s thoughts—after the trouble Adnan had gotten into, also around sneakers, at age twelve, he kept some distance from Ramzan—but Ramzan wondered if the boy felt any kinship, foregoing college, going abroad for this shoes venture, with Ramzan’s own agency at that age. Seeing his sent message on the screen, Ramzan could not help but think of Kawal’s many failed attempts at contact. Perhaps this was something more than being busy. Despite the gray area in which Adnan conducted his shoes business—which they did not discuss but all understood—he had always been regular in calling Sakeena.

When Ramzan’s phone rang soon afterward he felt hopeful that it was Adnan, until he saw Faru over the caller ID.

I’m sorry, Daddy, Fareen said. I have to postpone until tomorrow. I’ll be at the office till midnight probably. There’s this deal—

Faru? You cannot come?

She is too busy for Mummy? Sakeena shouted from the sofa, still filled with fire after refusing the lactulose.

No, Daddy, I—I’ll be there tomorrow. It’s just this deal is really taking shape so it’s not a good idea for me to leave. Especially with decisions coming up. I just need to be at work tomorrow, then I’ll grab a late flight.

Ramzan did not bother to ask the expense of a last-minute flight. He only respected that Fareen’s work was urgent, that her influence on Sakeena was important. They were fortunate that she was in such a position to come see them at all.

*

Friday morning, Sakeena appeared more focused—according to her, because she refused lactulose. She came into the kitchen at peace, pleased to make chai on her own, sit and enjoy it in her steel cup and not have to run to the bathroom. After seeing her so energetic, Ramzan decided to go into Dunkin’ to catch up on work.

Returning home, he was greeted not only by Sakeena still active, but also by the vibrant smells of cooking. Fareen would arrive that night; Ramzan knew there was nothing like the anticipation of children coming home to inspire Sakeena, even if it meant spending the whole day crushing cashews into dust then pressing them with sugar and ghord and moist ghee, before shaping twenty balls of sweet ladoo to slow roast in the oven. There was fresh dough shining on the rolling board for chapatti; cut pieces of ripe strawberries and kiwi and mango and green grape halves in a large bowl for fruit cream; some pots simmering on the stove, one with diced onions in oil for saak, and nearby, chopped tomato and potato and cilantro and chili. At the counter, Sakeena was slicing slabs of goat meat into small cubes. Ramzan froze. Whatever joy he experienced seeing Sakeena so active drained from him. Red meat. At the stove, she was making white rice—both foods Gupta warned were like poison for her. Ramzan tried to remain calm.

This ghosh ka saak, Ramzan laughed. I understand it is for Fareen, her favorite, but jaanu, what will you eat? What will you and I eat—I will avoid meat with you, and rice, too, because remember what Gupta said, that these foods cause ammonia risk? Kawal brought brown rice from Publix. Why don’t we make—

Dhey! Sakeena said. Will you stop? A human being eats this food her whole life, and now you want to forbid it?

Ramzan approached her, turning his hands up, as if in compromise. Hesitantly, Sakeena accepted his hands. She let Ramzan embrace her from behind, she let him touch one hand to her stomach.

But really, jaani. We cannot let you eat ghosh.

She pushed him away. She nearly elbowed him, actually, leaving him feeling like she was unafraid. Unafraid of whatever lay ahead.

When his phone rang, Fareen probably on her way to LaGuardia, Ramzan could not answer fast enough, retreating from Sakeena. Faru jaan, I cannot wait—

But what he heard was Fareen crying. A memory struck him: in school she was at the top of her class but there were nights when Ramzan would come downstairs to find her weeping over precalculus problems. These nights, she allowed him to comfort her but this stopped abruptly when she was fifteen. One cool January night when Ramzan was at his most vulnerable, their Dunkin’ at the brink of going under, and Fareen blossoming with beauty, running around with her first boyfriend—Hussain, in fact, Kawal’s husband now—this was the last time Fareen allowed him to console her.

What happened, jaanu? You missed your flight?

I—I don’t know, Daddy. I’m sitting in the bathroom at work, I could make the flight if I left right now, but—I don’t know what to do.

Jaani, tell me, what is the problem?

The deal, Daddy—but is Mom okay? I could still get to the airport—but the deal is live. A new bidder came in, and I could leave and hand it off, but, Daddy, it’s serious—it’s a hundred million dollars—a hundred million of just PNL; the debt financing is over a billion—PNL that I could bring in. It may be ten years, God, before another deal like this comes around, another deal this size involving power plants I cover—

Hm, Ramzan could only say. He felt overwhelmed, Fareen confiding in him again, plus these uncomfortable numbers. Numbers that felt difficult to understand or believe. Normally Fareen spoke with composure about her work, discussing megawatts and transmission lines racing across deserts, and reporting promotion after promotion, every two years since age twenty-two, Fareen whispering over phone calls from bathrooms or stairwells her bonus numbers, sums paid to his daughter which she seemed genuinely shocked by, numbers that made Ramzan stagger at what was possible in this country. It’s all locked up in stock, Daddy, she would say, her modesty a gift, her tone as if to celebrate his own small part in her achievement. It’s pretend money. You can’t touch it for three years. Ramzan appreciated these gestures, though he wondered if she knew that hearing such amounts, whether bonuses or dollars of debt some company was willing to borrow, made him sick with envy, for all he had not accomplished here.

I think the deal will put me over, Daddy, for consideration, you know? For MD. I mean, nobody gets it their first time up but this could do it, maybe? Plus, I’m a woman, one of two women up for it, us and thirty guys in Fixed Income. Oh god, she sobbed. Daddy, what do I do?

What could Ramzan say? He wanted to wipe her tears away with his fingers, like she was small again, pressed delicately to him and seeking relief from math problems. Ramzan imagined her sobs echoing inside the ladies’ room of Goldman Sachs, there on the thirty-second floor of a glass-and-steel tower. Ramzan wondered if other women were there after six on Friday evening. If other women populated her trading floor at all. From how Fareen described so many men at her work, he imagined she felt completely alone there.

First tell me, Daddy—God, I’m so selfish—is Mom okay?

Mom is okay, Ramzan said. She is stronger—clear in mind. She wants very much to see you. She’s making ghosh ka saak.

Oh—Fareen said.

Jaani, what you should know is—

But Ramzan couldn’t bring himself to put Sakeena’s refusal of lactulose on Fareen. He couldn’t tell her that he was worried Sakeena would not see the cardiologist—whom they had received an appointment to visit on Saturday—or the dentist or ob-gyn to receive clearance for the transplant. Ramzan could only picture Fareen standing before the bathroom mirror, Sakeena’s carbon copy, nearly the same age that Sakeena was when he was finally able to bring her to the U.S. At so many of Fareen’s trumpet concerts, Ramzan felt that it was some version of Sakeena, delicate limbs, eyes rimmed by long lashes, who was playing those piercing notes so beautifully from the stage.

What you should know is, jaani—Mom is—stubborn these days. It’s okay if you don’t come now, but come soon. Please.

You’re sure?

You have an opportunity there. You have to stay the weekend, is it? To complete this deal? Can you come after the weekend? Or next weekend?

I think so. I’ll be dealing with this competing bid. But—she paused. I don’t know how long it’ll take. I need to be here to push it along. If I’m not speaking to the client every few hours, vetting every change by Legal, getting fresh numbers from the traders, it may not get done. Some of the other banks—They’ll take the deal at a loss to build experience. They’ll do anything to close a deal this size, or, at the least, to prevent us from closing it.

You must close it, jaani. Ramzan did not know exactly what this meant, but he said it, for Fareen’s sake. You must close this hundred million dollars. Mom—she is okay, but please, come soon. She needs you to convince her to be sensible.

Faru is not coming? Sakeena asked after Ramzan hung up. Sakeena was standing nearby and overheard much of the conversation.

Her work, Ramzan said.

The energy that had lifted Sakeena to cook and prepare two desserts in anticipation of Fareen’s arrival drained from her. She abandoned the kitchen where so many of her dishes sat half prepared, purposeless.

Jaani, why don’t we eat together and go to bed early? Tomorrow, Gupta secured us an appointment with the cardiologist. Ramzan was hoping to reveal this after Fareen arrived—with her help.

Sakeena remained still. In her silence, it appeared she had begun to process that they indeed needed to see the cardiologist. They needed to complete the workup. They needed to make sacrifices—lactulose,and most importantly, the transplant—to extend her life.

But Sakeena shook her head. Nehi, she said.

What do you mean, no?

Nehi. She was incredibly calm. Nehi for appointment, nehi for lactulose, nehi for transplant. How many years I have left I don’t know, but I know for certain that this medicine and this procedure was not intended for me.

Ramzan looked to her, pleading, but Sakeena’s eyes only stared into their reflection on the glass patio door. Naseeb, again, then. Her usual excuse against action. In the past, he’d found ways to overcome her resistance, even if rooted in the spiritual, in the name of the greater good. This was different, Ramzan realized, from convincing Sakeena to part with Rawalpindi, which she had no desire to leave. Their love young and swelling, opportunity in the U.S. possessed such allure that she allowed him to convince her that emigrating was worthwhile. This was different, too, from the fertilization procedure before Fareen. Sakeena had wanted children desperately enough to let him persuade her to agree to intervention. But now, she could not be forced to undergo a cardiology exam. He could not force the transplant. The only way to convince Sakeena to extend her life was to have all three children come home. Ramzan needed Fareen and Adnan to come home.

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From Abundance by Hafeez Lakhani. Used with permission of the publisher, Counterpoint Press. Copyright © 2026 by Hafeez Lakhani.