Razia

by Abda Khan

  After the main course, the families decided that they should carry out the engagement ceremony, before they all moved on to dessert.

  Ali and Sofia sat in the middle of the head table, with their parents on either side of them.

  Ali’s father stood, with his usual air of self-importance, and the guests all looked in anticipation towards him, as he proceeded to make the announcement. Ali took in a deep breath for the moment had now arrived.

  ‘Bismilla ar-rahma niraheem. Alhamdolillah, we are all gathered here today, on this auspicious occasion, to witness the mangni of Ali and Sofia. I am so very proud to be stood here in front of you, as this union is one that fills my heart with joy.’ He looked towards Sofia’s parents, who smiled, and looked equally pleased. Ali’s mum gently stroked her son’s arm. ‘So, without further ado, I think we should proceed with the formalities of the engagement ceremony, an act that will bring the two families one step closer to being bound in an everlasting alliance. Over to you both.’

  Ali and Sofia stood and faced each other. The moment had come for the official presentation of the ring. Soft traditional music played in the background, the strokes of a melodious sitar danced playfully with the gentle, bouncing beats of the tabla. Sofia smiled at Ali; she looked the part beautifully, thought Ali, as he really focused on her properly for the first time this evening.

  Ali carefully took out of his pocket the distinctive blue Tiffany box, which had been so precisely tied with a crisp white ribbon. Sofia’s smiled widened as Ali started to open the box. He opened it slowly, and savoured the moment; all eyes were on her, eagerly awaiting her reaction. However, her beaming smile suddenly faded when she saw the ring. He wasn’t sure why her smile vanished, but he continued nevertheless; he took the solitaire diamond ring set in platinum out of the box and placed it on her finger, to the cheers and applause of the guests. The two sets of parents hugged and embraced each other, and there were shouts of ‘mubarak’ from them and the guests.

  However, Sofia’s face continued to look childish and sullen, which Ali couldn’t fathom; he had never seen such an unattractive expression on her face before.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Ali whispered in her ear, whilst the merriment around them continued, and they took their seats again.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Sofia replied.

  ‘Are you sure? If it’s nothing, then why the glum face?’ Ali asked.

  ‘Well, it’s just that …’

  ‘What is it?’ Ali asked again, smiling at everyone, but waiting for an answer.

  ‘Is this a two carat diamond?’ Sofia asked.

  ‘Yes, just as you wanted,’ Ali replied.

  ‘No, I asked for two and a half.’

  Something inside him snapped, like a rubber band that had been stretched just that little bit too far. He suddenly saw the dark dingy room in the jail, where he had listened to prisoner after prisoner recount misery after misery. He looked around him and saw the extravagant room that he was sat in right now, and then he saw Sofia’s dismal face and the diamond ring.

  ‘Are you serious?’ Ali raised his voice.

  ‘Be quiet,’ she whispered in his ear, ‘everyone is looking.’

  ‘No! I won’t be quiet! This is a complete joke!’ Ali said, standing back up. ‘I just put a frickin’ two carat diamond ring on your finger, as my commitment to you for our forthcoming marriage, as my pledge to be your husband and to agree to spend the rest of my life with you, and all you can say is that you wanted two and a half carats? No thanks, no kind words or loving gestures?’

  Sofia looked at Ali in total shock.

  ‘There are people out there, all around the world, who are fleeing wars, and starving to death, and being tortured, and there are men and women and kids and babies who are homeless and have nothing to eat. What the hell, why look so far away? There are people sleeping rough just around the corner from this place, right in this city, and all you can think of is the size of the shitty stone?’

  ‘Ali! What are you doing? Sit back down,’ his father ordered sternly.

  Ali looked around the posh room, and out towards New York City in the night sky. He looked at everyone around him. It was as though they were all holding their breath. They all waited; waited for him. No one moved. No one uttered a sound. Ali turned and looked down towards Sofia; she was without remorse, and he felt sickened.

  Ali’s father broke the silence.

  ‘Ali. Whatever has happened, or has been said, by either of you, put it behind you. It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘No. Sorry,’ said Ali, as he shook his head firmly. ‘This does matter. It may not matter to anyone else, but it matters to me. I’m sorry, but I can’t do this. This is a complete sham. I only agreed to this stupid match to please you. Out of respect for you, as my father. I agreed to it because it is what you wanted. You never bothered to ask me what I wanted. But I’m telling you this right here, right now; I can’t spend the rest of my life with a woman who measures happiness and success with such shallow concerns like the size of her diamond ring, or the latest hideous designer trends, or the need for Botox.’

  Ali slowly looked around the room as all the eyes continued to observe him. He felt as though he was in a room full of complete strangers; he couldn’t relate to anyone. None of these people meant anything to him right now.

  ‘Sorry to ruin your evening, folks, but this party is over.’

  And he walked out of the room.

  39

  ISLAMABAD

  It had just gone 7 o’clock. The night had descended as a shroud over the day; the view was now akin to a sea of stars, as the lights shone away in the distance. The Shah Faisal Mosque continued to glow in its own commanding space, as its illuminated boundaries and minarets blushed brightly.

  Farah thought for a few moments about everything Ali had said. She wondered at the amount of courage it must have taken for him to go against his family, and particularly his father, in this way; she had once hoped for a similar display of courage from Tahir, but it had never materialised.

  ‘Wow! That’s quite a story,’ she said.

  ‘Isn’t it just,’ Ali said slowly.

  ‘But you didn’t say how you ended up back in Pakistan. Did you literally run away from it all?’

  A tinge of sadness glazed over Ali’s face.

  ‘Just a few weeks after Diamondgate, something tragic happened, that brought me back here.’

  Farah didn’t say anything. She allowed him to take his time. She could see that whatever it was, it had affected him deeply.

  ‘Amir was killed. Here, in Islamabad.’ Ali almost choked the words out.

  ‘Oh no. I’m so sorry to hear that. What happened?’ asked Farah.

  ‘What always seems to bloody happen to good people in Pakistan!’

  Ali let out a stifled sigh. He continued to look into the distance.

  ‘He was on a demo against police and judicial corruption, along with other lawyers, and members of the public. It was a very large gathering, and it was getting tonnes of media attention. The camera crews and news reporters were all there. He was one of the organisers of the demonstration. But he was “run over”,’ Ali said, quoting and unquoting with his index and middle fingers on both hands.

  Farah could see the pain in his eyes. And she could hear that same pain in his voice, as he struggled to speak.

  ‘You don’t think it was an accident?’ asked Farah.

  ‘It’s hard to know with any certainty exactly what happened, but the witness statements seemed to suggest that somebody had called him on his mobile phone. As a result of this call, he left the large gathering and started to walk away from everyone, I assume he was walking to wherever it was that the caller had asked him to go, for whatever reason, Lord knows. As he crossed the road, a car came out of nowhere at high speed, and crushed him into a pulp.’

  Farah tried to imagine Amir being called to his death in this way.

  ‘The driver escaped from the scene and was never fou
nd; neither was the car. No one caught it on camera because Amir had walked away from the cameras, which were glued on the opposition party leader, who had suddenly turned up to support the rally and was making an impassioned speech. It was deemed to have been an unfortunate accident; just a hit and run.’

  ‘Obviously whoever carried this out did a thorough job in making it look like an accident; we both know accidents always leave traces,’ said Farah.

  ‘I agree. It was an execution that had been planned to precision. From what I’d heard, Amir had taken on a few too many influential people, and someone decided they would shut him up for good. So, you see my concern about your trying to take on these sorts of people with online petitions and the like.’

  Farah looked away for a second, unable to meet his gaze. She fidgeted with the hem of her dress. She felt guilty about having had such a go at him about that petition, for thinking that he was being controlling and patronising; she now understood that he was only trying to protect her.

  ‘Did you ever find out why?’ she asked him.

  Ali took in a deep breath, which he held on to for a few seconds before he exhaled.

  ‘You don’t have to go on if it’s too painful.’

  ‘No. It’s OK,’ Ali assured her. ‘Amir had decided to represent a young Christian man who had been accused of blasphemy. You must know what it’s like in this country if you even mention the word “blasphemy”, let alone stand accused of it. This young guy worked at a factory. There was some sort of a dispute between him and some of the other workers, they colluded to accuse him of making derogatory remarks about the Prophet Mohammed. If you’re found guilty of that here, it’s punishable by death, unless the madmen kill you first.’

  Farah continued to listen intently.

  ‘The workers went to the factory boss, who in turn went to the police. The factory owner was a very powerful and exceedingly corrupt guy; he had friends in high places. This young Christian man never really stood a chance. As soon as the accusations were uttered, he was arrested and dumped in prison, and no one was prepared to represent him. No one, except for Amir, of course.’

  ‘Actually, I think I read about this case,’ interrupted Farah. ‘I remember the reports of how this man had supposedly committed blasphemy, and the ensuing political and public pressure that had been put on the courts to sentence him to death.’

  ‘Probably, the world’s media were all over it. In the end, it became very personal, especially for the factory owner, who began putting himself out as some upholder of Islam, a modern-day warrior fighting against blaspheming scoundrels. He in fact had political ambitions and seized upon this opportunity to kick-start his political career. He knew that it was imperative that he was seen to win this case; he is indeed now in a position of power within the government. Anyway, Amir rattled people. He was adamant that he would bring out the truth, adamant that the case should be a turning point to dissuade people from using the blasphemy laws as a means of religious persecution or as an easy way to wage personal wars or vendettas. But he never got to finish it.’

  ‘That’s terrible,’ said Farah. She felt an acute sense of sadness at the loss of this beautiful life of a talented young man who represented all that was good. And then her thoughts turned to Razia, another loss of a good and innocent life. In Razia’s case, she still felt guilt as well as sorrow.

  ‘What’s even worse is the fact that he wasn’t the only one killed. The young Christian guy was executed.’

  ‘Good God!’

  ‘I know. It sends a shiver up your spine, doesn’t it? But that is Pakistan. A tale of two halves. The good and the bad. The breathtakingly beautiful and the downright ugly.’

  Farah looked straight ahead at the striking night view. It gave her goosebumps; this was Pakistan, she thought to herself. A melting pot in which there was so much to love but also much to loathe.

  ‘So you came back to continue Amir’s work?’

  ‘Initially, it was just meant to be a short visit. When I came over for his funeral, I was told by Amir’s father that, in his will, Amir had left the law firm to me. He had said that he understood that because I lived in New York I wouldn’t be able to see to the day-to-day running of the firm, but he wanted all major decisions to be made by me. I couldn’t believe he had entrusted it to me. I knew how much having his own firm had meant to him. He had worked tirelessly. As soon as his father told me that, I suddenly had this urge to carry on his legacy. It didn’t fade when I got back to the States. I felt miserable over there. I felt lonely, and stranded; someone without purpose. I was working all the hours God sent, but for what? I couldn’t honestly say what it was for. Yes, the money was brilliant, but what else? Money was not enough.’

  Farah hadn’t seen him in this light before; she tried to imagine the unhappiness he must have felt at being part of a rat race that gave him no personal satisfaction.

  ‘So I quit my job. I quit New York. I moved back and took over the law firm. I came back home.’

  ‘Wow. How did that go down with your family?’

  ‘My mum was overjoyed to have me back. So was my sister. Above all, they both just wanted me to be happy. But things were awkward with my father, and to be frank, they still are. He can’t forgive me for backing out of marrying Sofia. We barely speak. But the one advantage of being a rich kid is that your father has such a large mansion that you can go days without having to set eyes on him!’

  They both let out a laugh, and then stared into the distant canvas of bright flickering lights in the dark, still night.

  Farah took the pause as an opportunity to reflect on the time she had spent with Ali today; she had seen a totally new side to him, which had taken her by surprise, but in a good way. She felt they had connected on a deeper, more personal level, and she was comfortable with that. She was comfortable with him, and even felt comfortable with Pakistan, despite everything she had learned there.

  The ringing of Ali’s mobile phone startled them both, and broke the tranquillity of the moment.

  ‘Salams, how are you? Yes, I can see you tomorrow … my office … no problem … yes … but what … oh … yes, I will. See you tomorrow.’

  Ali ended the call. He looked puzzled.

  ‘Is everything OK?’ Farah asked.

  ‘I’m not sure. That was a lawyer friend of mine. She’s coming to my office first thing tomorrow morning to see me. She says it’s urgent.’

  ‘See you about what?’

  ‘She wouldn’t say over the phone. She said she has to tell me in person. But she specifically asked that you are also present.’

  ‘Me? Why would she want me there? I don’t even know her.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly.’

  Farah had an uneasy feeling; she couldn’t help but worry that Zaheer, or perhaps his brother, was up to something, but the question was: what?

  40

  Farah sipped slowly from her cup of masala tea.

  Sat opposite her, behind his desk, Ali was busy on a telephone call, so she placed her cup on the desk, and wandered about the office. It was a good-sized room. In fact, it was spacious compared to most offices in London. There were files and documents everywhere. The clutter led to Farah feeling a solidarity with Ali, for she believed that lawyers were of a particular ilk, the same the world over – be it London, New York or Islamabad. If you didn’t trip over a file at least once a day, then you were in an extraordinarily tidy office, which was a rarity.

  There was one framed photo on the wall: Ali with Amir. The two were stood smiling, in a garden or park somewhere. Amir was a tiny bit shorter than Ali, and a tad darker. He had a neat moustache and wore smart black-framed glasses. She noticed the photo had captured the closeness of the two; the manly embrace, the beaming smiles, the jovial expressions on their faces. Farah thought about the immensity of the loss for Ali.

  There was a silver-edged, rectangular clock on the wall which had clearly not had its batteries replaced for some time, for the face was displaying
the time as 2 p.m. as opposed to 9 a.m., and the date was some six months past.

  There was a bookshelf in one corner. It was quite dusty; evidently Ali wasn’t one for the furniture polish. It held a good selection of law books, but also some non-legal books too: poems of Rumi, a book on Baba Bulleh Shah and a biography of the late great Abdul Sattar Edhi.

  As Ali came off the phone, there was a knock on the door and a middle-aged lady walked in.

  Ali walked over and greeted her, and then made the introduction.

  ‘This is Jabeen Baji, and Jabeen Baji, this is Farah.’

  After the exchanges of the salams and how are yous, they all sat down.

  Jabeen was in her early- to mid-fifties perhaps. She had short, frizzy black hair that had a thick cluster of grey strands. Over her dark blue dress, she wore an oversized black blazer.

  ‘Would you like some tea, Baji?’ asked Ali.

  ‘No, thank you, I would if I had the time, but alas, I cannot stay long,’ she replied.

  Farah waited anxiously. Why would Jabeen want her to be present?

  ‘I guess you must be wondering what I am doing here, and why all the secrecy. It’s a sensitive matter. I had to see you face to face, both of you.’ Jabeen spoke quickly, clearly and to the point.

  ‘I was at the Adiala Jail yesterday, in the women’s section,’ she continued.

  Farah sat up straight when she heard the name of the prison where Razia had been.

  ‘I had gone to see a client of mine. She put a request in saying it was urgent. I didn’t think there could have been much development in her case, but you know my nature, I have to check things out, so I went along to see her.’

  ‘OK,’ said Ali, ‘so, what happened?’

  ‘I was right in one respect; there was no progress with her case. However, she didn’t want to see me about herself, but she wanted to talk to me about one of your clients. I believe this client is now deceased – someone by the name of Razia?’