Razia

by Abda Khan

  ‘Give my salam,’ Sofia instructed Ali.

  ‘Sofia is here with me. She sends you her salam. OK, Mum. I’ve got to go now. Love you too. Bye.’

  Sofia abruptly took her head off Ali’s shoulder.

  ‘I swear you tell your mum you love her more than you do me,’ she said.

  37

  ISLAMABAD

  When Ali got to his family home in Islamabad, he was immediately accosted by his sister, who crept up from behind him. He wrapped an arm around her and patted her head with his free hand.

  ‘Welcome back to Pakistan, bhai!’

  ‘It’s good to be home, Sis.’

  Whilst Ali spent most of his life in the US now, this was still home for him. The aroma of the traditional food being cooked in the kitchen wafted his way; another reminder that he was back home. His apartment in New York lacked any such comforting homely touches.

  The driver walked in behind him and took Ali’s bags up to his room. Ali’s mother rushed from the kitchen into the large, marble-floored hallway, and went over and kissed Ali softly on his forehead. He immediately noticed that her face bore a wide, twinkly smile, and her eyes danced joyfully. It had been some time since she had last seen him.

  ‘It’s so good to have you home, son. It’s been far too long. You always rely on us to visit you, but you need to come over more,’ said his mum.

  ‘Well, that will be even more difficult for him now he is marrying Sofia, as he will be laying roots in New York,’ said Ali’s father, who had wandered into the hallway and stood right behind his wife.

  ‘As-salamu alaykum, Aba Jan,’ said Ali.

  ‘Wa alaykumu as-salam,’ replied his father. He was taller than Ali, and had an overbearing presence. His hair was now receding, and he had rather large, bulging eyes. Ali’s father did not move from the spot on which he was stood. Ali did not attempt to move towards him either. There was no embrace, not even a handshake.

  They all proceeded into the dining room, where the maids had laid breakfast. The food looked even more enticing than it had smelled. There were freshly made aloo parathas, and plain ghee ones, aromatic cardamom and cinnamon desi tea, fried eggs sunny side up, spicy scrambled eggs, keema handi and hot buttered toast. They all sat together, and started to tuck in. Ali’s mum couldn’t help fussing over her son, just as Ali had expected, and she started piling his plate high with the food.

  ‘Slow down, Mum, or you will fatten me up so much with all this desi food that I won’t fit into my clothes when I get back to New York!’

  ‘You never fuss this much over me, Amee!’ complained Ali’s sister, in response to which she was shot a stern look by her mother.

  ‘Of course I do! But because you are here all the time, and it is a regular occurrence for you, you neither notice nor appreciate it! Kapathi!’

  ‘Yes, you pest! You just don’t appreciate it!’ added Ali.

  Ali’s sister let out a giggle; her mother joined in, reluctantly at first, but soon the laughter of the two women filled the room. Ali smiled at them, and then he started to eat his food. He realised in that instant how much he missed them both; missed their homely touches, their comforting words and their jovial nature.

  His father let out a short but loud, and probably unnecessary cough, which resulted in them all turning to look at him where he sat at the head of the table. Once he had the attention of all three of them, he placed his floral china teacup down on the saucer, raised his head slightly and began to speak.

  ‘Son, I am proud of you,’ said Ali’s father. Ali could pretty much guess what was coming next. ‘By agreeing to marry Sofia, you have done a very good thing. And that good thing is that you are going to unite two strong families that will become all the stronger for the union. Her father’s business is very much thriving; he now has thirteen grand malls all over Pakistan, not to mention his numerous luxury hotels. And as for our side, our factories are going from strength to strength.’

  Ali took in a deep breath and braced himself for what was coming next.

  ‘You know, it was always my ardent wish that you would one day join, and eventually take over, the family empire; I cannot deny, as you well know, that I was sorely disappointed when you opted to become a lawyer instead. I was not only disappointed. Truth be told, I was angry. However, that said, this decision of yours to agree to marry Sofia does go quite some way to make up for your past mistakes.’

  Finally, Ali’s dad was a tad proud of him – although only he could convey a compliment in such a critical way; Ali felt it was like a dagger in the guise of a flower.

  For his entire life, right from his decision as a child to take up swimming instead of cricket, or his choice as a teenager to learn to play an electric guitar instead of taking classical music lessons, or his decision to become a lawyer instead of the big boss factory owner, Ali had always felt that he could do nothing right. And whatever his accomplishments, whether it was his academic success, or coping with living in the States as a teenager without his immediate family around, or securing a job with a top law firm in New York – his father had never congratulated him.

  Unlike the two women of the house, who shared many similarities with each other, Ali knew that he and his father were as diametrically opposite as it was possible to be. His father’s cold nature, condescending tone of voice and mean choice of words were, Ali hoped, in huge contrast to his own character. Ali had been more influenced by his mother’s warm, engaging personality, which was free of any of those traits that signified a sense of self-importance or grandeur. Ali desired to be nothing like his father. He wasn’t driven by money; perhaps because he had never been without it, or maybe because he found his father’s constant pursuit of it so off-putting. The truth was that his father had never really understood him, or even tried to do so with any sincerity. And Ali had certainly never understood his father’s desire for more, more, more, even though he had enough worldly riches to last him a hundred lifetimes.

  Amir’s office was located on the second floor in a dated, old-fashioned office building in central Islamabad, a stone’s throw away from the law courts. There was a good turnout. Ali knew that Amir was well connected in the legal fraternity, and well respected for his professional, and honest, approach to his work. Amir made no bones about the fact that he was a lawyer for one reason and one reason only – to help those in society who needed his help the most. Ali saw him as a sort of champion for the underdog, a dedicated human rights activist, a prolific women’s rights campaigner and a strong advocate for reform. Consequently, Amir had friends in high places, but Ali also got the feeling that he had a fair few enemies in those upper echelons too.

  Amir had managed to make a name for himself as soon as he had started working, when he was fresh out of law school, after he took on a notorious case of a family seeking justice for the rape and murder of their daughter at the house where she had worked as a maid. The brutal sexual assault had been followed by the strangulation and then dumping of the body in a squalid side street in the centre of Rawalpindi. Rapes were committed daily, and most never gained any attention, but this case was different. The victim’s family alleged that the young woman had been raped and murdered by none other than the son-in-law of the chief minister of the province. The money, power and influence of the family had caused every attorney to give the case a wide berth, every attorney except for Amir. After much persuasion, the senior lawyer at his firm gave him permission to pursue the case, which he did with rare vigour, and with a depth of analytical thought seldom seen in most lawyers, let alone in a lawyer as young as he was. Amir’s meticulous attention to detail, his hounding of the police to ensure they were accountable for every piece of evidence, however miniscule, and his dogged resistance to all the bribes, inducements and threats that were flung his way, added to the fact that the trial had been presided over by one of the few judges who did not fear the rank or influence of the defendant’s side, meant that against all the odds and predictions, he won the case and ensur
ed justice for a victim and her family who had felt they were voiceless and invisible.

  After that, Amir went from strength to strength, and he was soon recognised as the unofficial people’s champion, a lawyer who cared deeply for the most deprived and defenceless in society. Ali worked hard in New York, but he didn’t think he could ever compare himself to Amir, who worked on the ground with some of the most disadvantaged in society. As Amir worked the room now, Ali could see the magic he possessed; he had a deeply caring and yet charismatic quality about him which was rare, and it wasn’t hard to see why he was adored by those around him.

  The launch party was simple but very well attended; it was in stark contrast to the lavish parties Ali was used to attending back in New York where the champagne flowed freely, although he himself was teetotal, and blini canapés topped with smoked salmon and caviar were handed out like candy by the pretty, and often scantily dressed, waitresses. Ali tucked into a large samosa which he first dipped into a zingy tamarind sauce.

  ‘Man, these samosas are amazing. Fluffy yet crispy pastry, and the spicy keema filling is just on the right side of hot; not bland, and not so fiery as to take my head off! And the imli chutney is perfect. Some things just aren’t the same abroad.’

  ‘No, I guess they’re not, yaar!’ Amir responded, as he smiled and patted his friend on the back. ‘That was quite a description! I’m not sure now whether you came back for me, or for the food! But it is good of you to come, I really do appreciate it. So, what are you going to be doing whilst you’re here?’

  ‘Nothing much. I was hoping to hang out with you for a bit, if you can have a few days off work,’ said Ali.

  ‘Sorry, old friend, I just don’t have the time. It’s taken me a while to finally get here, to fly solo, and now I must crack on. I’m as busy as busy can be. But you can join me on the job if you want; that’s if your prim and proper Western sensitivities will allow you to slum it with us plain and simple sorts!’

  Ali knew Amir was joking, but he had to think twice about Amir’s last comment. Had he really lost touch to that extent? he asked himself. He thought about his corporate law team back in New York; the building he worked in was in a prime location within the heart of the financial district, and he carried out his legal work in plush offices that overlooked the New York Stock Exchange. The meetings took place in state-of-the-art conference rooms, or over fine dining in one of the many high-class restaurants nearby.

  ‘Hey!’ Ali protested. ‘I may live in the Western world, but I haven’t forgotten where I’m from.’

  ‘But are you aware of how bad things really are over here?’ Amir asked.

  Ali had left for the US as a teenage schoolkid, and only came back occasionally. Even then, whenever he did return to Pakistan for his brief visits, he stayed within the confines of luxury: an air-conditioned mansion, several air-conditioned cars to choose from, modern marble-floored shopping malls, and the best restaurants in town.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Ali.

  Amir looked at him a little sceptically.

  ‘It’s pretty full on, a lot of dashing here and there, court to court, jail to jail, sitting in smelly rooms with smelly clients. It can be a bit ugly to tell the truth. You sure you want to?’

  ‘Of course, man.’

  Ali nodded his head eagerly, but he did wonder; was it really going to be all that bad?

  ‘OK, in that case, be here first thing,’ said Amir, with a wide smile on his face.

  That first visit to the prison was something that Ali would never ever forget. He had never before strayed from within the circles of privilege to see the ‘real’ Pakistan, the places where you would find the most disadvantaged in society, be it in a government hospital where patients shared beds, or a prison that had dozens of inmates crammed into one cell, or a slum-like village with open sewers where children played in filthy water.

  On this first trip to a Pakistani jail, it was a hot, dry day, and the journey was full of anticipation on Ali’s part. As he sat in the car, he tried to picture the prison based on what he had seen in the movies or little glimpses of images online; prisoners lining up eagerly for their food or squabbling over cigarettes smuggled into the jail was what Ali pictured in his head. He couldn’t quite manage to form any coherent image in his mind as to what the inside of the jail would be like.

  The first thing that hit Ali when he walked into the room was indeed the smell. An awful, unforgettable, rank smell that was so overpowering it was almost suffocating. He felt as though he was going to pass out. The prison meeting was in a tiny, filthy room, with terrible lighting. It wasn’t possible to discern what colour the walls must have originally been painted, for they were now a cauldron of shades; dirty grey and murky brown, speckled with large splatters of black in big patches and small specks. Ali was a million miles away from his corporate boardroom.

  The prisoner sat before them and cried, having been framed by his landlord for a murder that had been committed by his landlord’s son. The prisoner was hideously thin, very dark, and had bloodshot eyes. He rested his skeletal hands on the table as he spoke.

  Amir asked insightful questions, and took down every detail the prisoner uttered, rarely looking up from the notebook in which he scribbled so fast.

  ‘I believe you said one of the villagers saw you walking past his house at the time that the murder supposedly took place?’ asked Amir.

  ‘Yes, and he is my only alibi,’ replied the prisoner, ‘but he is refusing to give a statement.’

  ‘Why is that?’ asked Amir.

  ‘I can’t say for sure, but I think my landlord had paid him money to keep quiet. The man has a poorly child; his son has kidney problems, and I think he has been promised money for the treatment if he keeps quiet.’

  Amir sighed as he wrote.

  As they left the jail, Amir explained to Ali that it was far too easy for the rich and powerful to do this in a society where money talked. Bribery and corruption were rife; the rich could pay off just about anyone, and consequently stay out of prison, just as long as someone else would take the rap. Ali had always had an inkling about the injustice that existed here, but seeing it with his own eyes was a different thing altogether. Something that the accused had said in that room that day had always stuck in Ali’s mind: ‘Jail is full of people who haven’t killed anyone, and outside is full of murderers who roam free.’

  It was not just the visit to prison that Ali would forever remember; the whole week in Pakistan with Amir had been an unforgettable experience for him. Whatever he did back in New York, however hard he worked, it was always done in ultimate comfort, and he always dealt with the privileged. He never had to consider the woman who was locked up just because she wanted to marry the man she loved, or the manservant who was incarcerated on trumped-up charges so the master could get away scot-free, or the children who were born into and spent their formative years in prison with their mothers because there was nothing else that could be done for them. Their childhood was robbed from them, they were locked away in the grimmest of conditions, when they should have been out playing. It was all so wrong, so unfair, thought Ali; there were so many grave problems here, and to some extent, Ali was relieved that he would soon be leaving them behind.

  38

  NEW YORK

  Ali arrived back in New York with his parents two days before the engagement was due to take place, with just about enough time to sort out the last-minute details, including picking up the diamond ring. He found it difficult to take his mind away from Pakistan though; thoughts of some of the people he had seen whilst shadowing Amir occupied his mind. He realised just how fortunate he and Sofia were, but that didn’t detract from the sadness he felt about what he had witnessed.

  He had a rough idea of what the engagement function would be like. Although Sofia had tried to run all the details past him, much of it had bounced straight off him, without penetrating his mind or memory. It was going to be very much her day, as she had been given free rein
to plan the party exactly as she wished.

  The exclusive fifteenth-storey rooftop function room at the hotel was the venue for a seated dinner for forty. Ali knew it was a special place indeed; it afforded unobstructed, enviable views of the star-studded Manhattan skyline. The view of the city was so clear, so vivid in its colours and textures, that it was almost as though one was looking into a painting, rather than seeing the city itself. The image, though alluring, seemed to Ali like a glittery façade: pretty, but ultimately phoney and insincere.

  The food was ‘fine’ dining in the best and most Western sense of the word. There was not a traditional curry or biryani in sight. This decision had been made to please Sofia, rather than to cater for the food tastes of the majority of the guests, Ali included, but that didn’t detract from the fact that the dishes were exquisitely prepared and served. Ali wasn’t surprised by Sofia’s menu choices; she was not one for cultural attachment when it came to such decisions.

  The guests sat at the immaculately arranged tables; the tall candles and luxurious fresh flower centrepieces were neatly placed, as were the polished cutlery and crystalware. The generous number of uniformed waiting staff began to arrive with the drinks and appetisers. For the first time, Ali thought about how much money had been spent on this event; an eye-watering amount. He reflected on the poverty and in-justice he had seen in Pakistan, and just couldn’t marry the two in his head.

  Ali and Sofia did their rounds, meeting and greeting the guests, who were mainly from the upper echelons of Pakistanis settled in and around New York and New Jersey; some had come from further afield in the States, and a few of their parents’ very good friends and closest relatives had even flown in from Pakistan. Ali entertained talk about their Pak-American businesses, their children’s Harvard graduations, their latest multimillion-dollar contracts, their involvement in high-level politics, and yet he found it difficult to focus on the detail of anything that was being said. He mainly listened, nodded and added a few words here and there; the troubles of Pakistan which he had witnessed were still uppermost in his mind.