Razia
Page 14
Ali then shifted his attention to what had happened after Razia left London.
‘Now we need to focus on what happened during your journey back to Pakistan,’ said Ali. ‘You must tell me every little detail, however trivial it may seem to you.’
‘Yes, Ali bhai, I will try my best. When I came off the plane at Islamabad, I only had a small suitcase and a handbag with me, both of which Farah ji kindly gifted to me. As I entered the airport building, two ladies in uniform came up to me and asked me my name. I told them my name, and they said that they were going to take care of me, and take me to a place to rest between the flights. They said they had been instructed to look after me until I boarded the next flight, and that I was not to worry about a thing. One of them took my suitcase and said she would look after it for me, and the other lady took my arm and showed me the way to another part of the airport.’
‘Just as I thought,’ muttered Farah. Razia and Ali both looked at her. ‘Sorry,’ she added calmly, but inside, she was raging at the thought that Razia’s innocence had been exploited to this extent, by people who were supposed to look after her.
‘Where was that, where did they take you?’ asked Farah quickly. Ali shot a stern look at her, and she in turn glanced towards Razia and waited for her to answer.
‘I don’t know the name, but they took me to a very nice place, with beautiful soft brown and cream coloured armchairs, and shiny square and round glass tables, and big televisions, and a nice, clean washroom. And they gave me lots of tea, and pastries and biscuits.’
Poor Razia, thought Farah. She would have had no idea at all; she must have been so mesmerised by the shiny surroundings and personal service, and understandably so. She had probably never even dreamed of such luxury, let alone seen it.
‘OK. It sounds like they took you to the Rawal Lounge. How long were you there?’ asked Ali, whilst looking down, as he continued to make notes.
Farah observed that he didn’t look up much; perhaps Ali was trying to hide some emotion, even anger, that he might be feeling, she pondered to herself.
‘I was there for about an hour, I think,’ Razia replied.
‘What happened after that?’ intervened Farah, as Ali continued to scribble his notes.
‘Nothing, really. The lady who had taken my small suitcase came back with it. I was told to go to the security desk by the exit doors, to get in line to board the flight to Lahore. There was a policeman there with a small dog. The dog kept sniffing my suitcase, and barking. They opened and checked the contents of my suitcase. The clothes were all there just as we had packed them, but they found something wrapped inside one of the items of clothing. They said they found drugs. I was so shocked. I have never even seen drugs. I don’t know how they got there.’
There was now a nervous edge to Razia’s voice. Farah could sense that she was reliving the moment and feeling the pain of it all. Farah felt for her desperately, but knew she must remain collected.
‘Did you get the names of the women in uniform who accompanied you?’ asked Ali, now looking intently at Razia.
‘No. They didn’t say who they were. They were wearing some badges that had some writing on them, but I didn’t really look at them.’
There was a brief pause. Damn, thought Farah. The names would really have helped. Yet Farah had to acknowledge that she really couldn’t blame Razia for not noticing them; she had put her complete trust in the women.
‘OK, please continue, Razia, you’re doing really well,’ remarked Farah, who was listening intently, and at the same time trying keep her frustrations in check.
‘The police took me to a police station for a short while and then brought me to this prison, and that is all I can tell you.’
Razia’s face suddenly darkened. Her eyes began darting from side to side. Farah could see the panic rising.
‘How long am I going to be in here?’ Razia placed her hands on the table in a prayer pose, and began to sob. Farah reached her hands out across the table towards Razia.
‘Are they mistreating you in here?’ Farah asked.
‘My room is overcrowded and it is always noisy; there are so many women in there, some with lots of children, and they cry day and night – the mothers and the children – they all cry and wail, and I don’t get any sleep. There is so much misery. None of us have done anything wrong. There is one woman who has been here for seven years and she is still awaiting her trial. What if that happens to me? I don’t want to stay here for seven years. I cannot be here for seven years. Or maybe it will be more than seven years? Then what? I want to start my life with Ahmed. I want to see my mother. Please, I’m so scared. I …’
Razia’s voice trailed off. Farah quickly got up and walked round to her, and tried her best to console her. She placed her arms around her and held on tight.
‘Hey, listen. I have come all this way, and I have brought the best lawyer with me, and all of this is with the sole aim of getting you out of here. Please, you need to be strong. It’s going to take a bit of time, but we will get there. We will get you out of here.’
She noticed Ali looking at them both. He was quietly watching Farah cradling Razia. Perhaps it was not something he would usually do for a client, she thought, but there didn’t seem to be any sense of disapproval on his part as far as she could make out. He just observed silently.
‘But I don’t know if I can do it any more. I can’t take this place. You have to help me, Farah ji, you simply have to. I am losing the will to live!’
‘Don’t talk like that. You will get through it. We are here for you. Ali and I will fight to get you out of here. And I’m sure Ahmed will be waiting for you when you get out.’
Farah didn’t want to make promises she couldn’t keep, but she also didn’t want to leave Razia feeling worse than she had found her today. As they took Razia away, still sobbing and pleading for help, Farah knew in her heart that the few morsels of assurance that she had thrown Razia’s way were just empty words, for she couldn’t in all honesty make any guarantees. She could hope, and she could pray. She wasn’t certain of anything beyond that. Ali claimed to be the best lawyer around; clearly he knew the system well, and he made all the right noises about trying his best for Razia. But Farah had to ask herself two questions. Firstly, how well did she actually know him? The answer to that was simple: she didn’t know him at all. And secondly, why had Razia look so freaked out upon seeing him? This latter question she could not answer, but was determined to investigate.
28
That evening Ali had offered to take Farah out for a dining experience which, according to him, she would never forget. Although she wasn’t entirely sure about spending the whole evening with Ali, she nevertheless accepted the invitation gratefully, as being away from home, she didn’t know where was safe to eat, and where was not. She felt like a bird whose wings had been clipped; technically she could do whatever she wanted, but she knew that as a foreign woman alone in this country her choices were severely limited. Practically speaking, she couldn’t really do anything much alone. She was in a place which, despite being the land of her roots, was to all intents and purposes foreign to her, although her parents would be aghast if they heard her say such a thing. Also, she didn’t mind spending additional time with Ali because it would allow them to continue discussing Razia’s case.
Ali drove them himself, and the twenty-minute trip turned into a twenty-minute mini-conference about Razia. Farah expressed her wish that she had checked properly about the flight change, or, better still, accompanied Razia.
‘There was no way you could have known what was in store for her,’ said Ali. ‘I honestly think that they would have got her with or without you.’
‘They?’ asked Farah.
‘By “they” I mean the Mansur family, but, yes, Zaheer more specifically in this case. They are a brutally powerful family, and they are used to getting whatever they want, by any method they choose, so I really don’t think you should feel guilty.’
Ali pulled up by a bustling street-food market. Farah knew that Lahore was recognised by all of Pakistan as food central; a culinary heaven, with a proud history behind its array of Lahori specialities, they included chicken haleem, lamb nihari, mutton paya and the famous halwa chana puri breakfast. However, from the appearance of the market it seemed to Farah that Islamabad was now beginning to catch up.
When Farah stepped out of the car, the thing that first struck her was the sticky warm evening air. After a few seconds she noticed that the atmosphere was tinged with an off-putting roadside smell, a putrid aroma. It made her feel quite queasy. However, as soon as they crossed the road, this was quickly replaced by the very different aromas of the foods that were being cooked nearby and which carried through the air; spicy, sweet, fragrant and pungent.
The open-air food bazaar was teeming with people. It seemed that the somewhat sleepy daytime Islamabad only came to life in the evening, or at least it did so here. There was a certain amount of theatre that accompanied the scene, as chefs created their dishes with much drama: the sizzle of the food hitting the oil, the spices and herbs being thrown into the pans from a height, the tossing and the turning of the ingredients, all accompanied by copious amounts of noise. She had never seen such an alluring sight before, and very much enjoyed getting a glimpse into this part of her cultural heritage.
Farah observed the people around her, just as she liked to do in England. There were groups of friends wandering about, whole extended families sitting and enjoying their meals, and couples walking around slowly, chatting away. They were all out savouring not only the food, but also the more subdued evening air, which, although still warm, was far cooler than the unbearable daytime heat. The people here tonight were different to those she often observed back home; the groups were bigger, there were more generations in each group than she would see back in England, and they were a much livelier bunch.
Ali led the way to a stall that, according to him, made the best tandoori chicken and naans in the world.
There were three men working away behind the stall. They all looked hot and sweaty. The man at the front took the orders and served the food, and the two behind him were busy sticking their hands in and out of the blazing hot tandoors, as they produced brightly coloured seared, tender chicken pieces on the bone, which were placed on top of hot naans that were as fluffy as white clouds speckled with the chars of the fire in the tandoor. The naans were first generously spread with desi ghee, and then the succulent chicken was placed on top. Alongside this was a generous helping of a lemon-juice-drenched red onion and tomato salad, fresh lemon wedges and a zingy green chilli mint and coriander chutney.
Farah and Ali took their plates and nimbu pani drinks, and strolled over to a table and sat down opposite each other. They started eating the food in the only way that Punjabi food should be eaten: with their hands. Hands were the best tools for tearing strips of sunset-red coloured chicken from the bone, which was then tucked inside a ripped piece of naan along with the salad and chutney, and then every mouthful was savoured fully. It was very simple food but it tasted spectacular; the sharpness of the lemon, the spice of the marinade on the chicken, the crunch of the onions and the contrast of the mellowness of the naan with the heat of the chutney all produced a popping taste sensation, like a multitude of firecrackers going off in your mouth. Farah had eaten food of this type in restaurants back in England, but the authenticity of this food and the purity of the ingredients left her feeling defrauded, as though she had been eating a fake version back home this whole time. This was the real deal.
They were both so hungry that they ate without much conversation initially. Once their hunger subsided a little, the talking started.
‘This is an amazing place,’ said Farah. ‘It’s so lively, and atmospheric. And this food is awesome. My parents would love it.’
‘Then you will have to bring them here,’ Ali said.
‘Hmmm,’ said Farah absent-mindedly, as she continued to take in the sights and sounds that surrounded her. Even though it was dark, she noticed that everything around her was bright and colourful, from the food to the lights around the stalls, to the clothing and jewellery worn by the women who looked so pretty and relaxed. Added to this was the traditional music that played in the background. She liked it here. She liked it very much. And now she was beginning to understand why her parents always saw themselves as Pakistani first, for she realised in an instant that they would fit in with this crowd beautifully.
Their seating area was now crowded, and an elderly couple approached their table, as two of the seats were empty. They asked if the seats were free and Ali told them to go ahead.
The lady was short and cute and very Pakistani looking, and on close inspection she didn’t look as old as she probably was. She was still svelte, and very stylish. She had a pretty sky-blue flower-print scarf wrapped around her neck. Her red nails were beautifully polished. She smiled at Farah, who smiled back. The old man was grumpy, and had his head down as he tucked into a plate of chicken pilau rice, so much so that all that everyone else at the table could see was the round shiny bald patch at the top of his head.
‘It is a lovely evening, isn’t it, my dear,’ said the lady to Farah.
‘Yes, it is,’ Farah replied.
‘Seeing youngsters like you two takes me back,’ continued the old lady. ‘It was our forty-fifth wedding anniversary last week. It only seems like yesterday that we got married. How long have you two been married?’ asked the lady, looking at Farah initially, and then towards Ali.
Farah’s face and mind went blank, as she tried to work out if she had heard correctly. The lady had assumed they were married, and Farah wondered if this public, family-style arena was not the sort of place where unmarried couples would usually hang out, hence the question.
‘Do you have any children?’ continued the woman.
‘Oh, erm,’ muttered Farah, ‘actually we’re—’
‘A year!’ Ali declared. ‘We’ve been married just over a year. How time flies, doesn’t it, darling? A year has passed so quickly. But it’s too soon for children yet, wouldn’t you agree, dear?’ he said, smiling at Farah.
Farah threw a cold glance at Ali, although she felt she couldn’t now contradict him without the lady asking ten further questions.
‘Oh my goodness, you are still practically honeymooners!’ said the old lady, as her eyes lit up and she raised both hands excitedly. ‘How lovely.’
‘Yes, lovely,’ said Farah, ‘anyway, we must be off.’ She glared at Ali.
‘What? Already, darling?’ Ali teased.
The old lady continued to look at them with a dreamy smile.
‘Yes, already,’ said Farah, and got up from the table.
‘Khuda hafiz,’ they said to the couple. The old lady waved goodbye. The old man continued to eat his food.
When they were far enough away, Farah couldn’t contain her annoyance any longer.
‘What did you do that for?’ Farah asked him; she was infuriated at the way he had just laid claim to her as his wife. She didn’t feel there was any need for the tall tale.
‘Oh, come on. It was just a bit of fun. She had already assumed we were a couple; imagine how disappointed she would have been if I had told her otherwise. Anyway, on a serious note, if I had said we were unmarried, she would have assumed we were dating, and then she would have asked fifty questions, believe me.’
‘Maybe,’ Farah said. ‘But one thing is for sure.’
‘What’s that?’ Ali asked.
‘I’m going to have to watch you. You are far too convincing a liar for my liking.’
Ali let out a brazen laugh. But Farah wasn’t joking; she would have to watch him. The evening had been lovely in some ways, but it also made her question how honest Ali really was. If he c
ould lie so easily to an old woman, it begged the question: could she really trust him?
29
Zaheer Mansur sat in the reception area of the government building in Islamabad. He anxiously fidgeted with his mobile phone, checking for messages that weren’t there, flicking from screen to screen, from email to browser. He had been waiting for over half an hour, having arrived punctually, after being summoned by the minister’s top aide. He had only just set foot back in Pakistan when he received the phone call informing him where and when he must attend, and who he would be seeing. This man was today going to tell him his fate. Without realising it, Zaheer let out a quiet grunt as he thought about the power that this man had, or thought he had, to decide his destiny.
The room in which he sat restlessly was very plain, and lacked any noticeable charm or character. Zaheer was sat on a dark wooden chair. The dull yellow walls were bare, aside from a round digital clock, which was hung slightly lopsided. There was a large brown plant pot in one corner, with a sorry-looking plastic display that did nothing to make the room look any cheerier.
A young woman entered the room. She had a high ponytail which swung from side to side as she walked. She wore red high-heeled sandals, and was dressed in a dark grey salwar kameez. She told Zaheer that he could now go into the office which was down the hallway and second on the right. He acknowledged her half-heartedly, with a dismissive nod.
Zaheer walked up to the room; he quickly went through the key issues in his mind, and feeling prepared, he knocked on the door. He heard the muffled sound of the word ‘enter’, and went in. He was greeted, somewhat coldly, by the man who was sat on the other side of the desk, a Mr Hamid. He had never met him before, but then he never usually had cause to meet civil servants of inferior rank in this way.