by Owen Mullen
‘And last, the third piece of luck was something I didn’t recognise at the time. I’m from a village to the south. Mundhi village. I was born there and would have stayed. I left because I could find no place for myself.’
He placed his hands on the table, palms and leaned back.
‘So here I am. Fortunate, blessed and proud. Thank you again for the honour. I accept it for myself, my father, and Mundhi, because without the last two, the first doesn’t exist.’
He sat down to more applause. Ali grinned. Gulzar Hafeez let a tear slip into his moustache. It had been a polished performance from a successful man. I could already see the headline.
-------
The lunch improved my mood and the beautiful doctor came into my head. My ego wouldn’t allow me to apologise, no matter what. Saying you’re sorry was announcing a weakness. It hadn’t occurred that it also revealed a fundamental flaw. So, why was I ready to do just that? The answer was that since our first meeting I’d thought about her all the time and wanted to see her again. That wouldn’t happen unless I was prepared to concede I hadn’t been at my best. Not a full-blown ‘I’m sorry’ but as close to an apology as I would come. In truth, I was more wounded by her closing comment than I would have believed possible.
I was told you used to be good
That hurt. Because that was my opinion too.
I made the call before the booze took me to another place. She seemed surprised to hear from me. Within seconds her memory marshalled her defences. When I suggested we meet, she said, ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
Silence on both ends of the line.
This was my last opportunity to connect with this woman.
‘Look, Simone, we got off to a bad start, my fault, but we can do better. I want to hear what you’ve got to say. I’ll help if I can.’
And here she was striding towards me. Gliding towards me.
Today’s outfit was black and gold; everything else about her was the same. She could have been one of those “Bollywood” stars I’d heard about – cool in the heat, chic amid squalor.
But I wasn’t the same. For a start I was sober. Almost. The dark-blue blazer, tan slacks and sky-blue shirt open at the neck spoke of a more considered approach to the day. On the table, a bottle of water, half-poured, completed the reincarnation. Simone Jasnin took it all in. Her expression showed nothing. Of course, she was pleased I was capable of raising my game. Pleased she might be, but flattered only a little, she was used to men making an effort to impress her, it had been like that her whole life.
‘Simone!’ I kissed her on the cheek.
‘Mr Buchanan.’ She wasn’t ready to forgive.
‘I’m glad you could come.’
I was struck again by how beautiful she was. ‘Sparkling water, no ice no lemon, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
I ordered from a cruising waiter, for her, nothing for myself.
‘Cheers.’ I raised my glass. ‘Let’s pretend this is our first meeting. Best forget the other time. No excuses, my fault. Deal?’
‘Deal.’
We sipped our drinks allowing the truce to settle round us. I leaned back in my chair. ‘What do I know about you? French mother, Pakistani father. You love this country. You’re interested in women’s rights. How am I doing?’
‘Well.’
‘You’d like my help, and, oh yes, you heard I used to be good. Anything missed?’
‘Not that I can think of.’
Despite her fermenting resentment, she laughed, and we were back at the beginning.
‘So why here, why Pakistan?’
‘This is my home, my father’s home, I love it here. It’s a wonderful country. And this is where I’m needed, where I can make the most difference. France has many problems and the resources to solve them. Pakistan doesn’t, not yet. It’s up to those with commitment and belief to lend their weight to cure the ills.’
‘And what are those ills, Doctor?’
I used her title and lifted the conversation to the level she wanted, for the moment at least. ‘Too many to list. The one that concerns me is the treatment of women in this country.’
‘Not health issues? I’m surprised.’
‘I’m engaged with health issues every day. I’m already doing what I can in that area. I believe I’m in Pakistan to make my contribution as a professional, and to work for change as a woman.’
Her beauty heightened when she was serious. Her mouth turned down and her skin took on the smoothness of alabaster. I already knew I’d help her in anything.
In everything.
‘How long have you been here, Mr Buchanan?’
‘Ralph, please call me Ralph. Three years.’
‘And in that time who have you talked with, socialised with, done business with? Men or women?’
‘Both.’
‘Really? Both? Are you sure?’
I sipped from my glass. The ice had melted. I looked over the rim. ‘No, you’re right, my contact is with men.’
‘Have you wondered why that is?’
‘Because that’s the way here, isn’t it?’
‘Wrong. You have few contacts with women because that’s how men want it.’
I was listening now.
‘The history of women in Pakistan is the history of oppression. All about power and inexcusable excess.’
‘Go on.’
‘In this country, women are the property of men. Let me do something shocking for a female here. Let me buy you a drink and tell you the everyday circumstances of life that exist in this country, the world outside refuses to believe. And when I finish, if you don’t see it as I do, I won’t ask for your help. You’re not in a hurry, I hope?’
I was a newspaperman and she was a lovely woman with a tale to tell with her hand in her pocket to buy me a drink.
No, I wasn’t in a hurry.
-------
She told me her truth, truth it had taken her whole life to see. A reality I hadn’t noticed though it had been in front of me every day. When the drink arrived – Chivas this time – a feeling of peace settled round me.
The gorgeous creature opposite spoke in a soft, confident voice while the whisky, dark and potent, waited for me. I relaxed in the over-stuffed armchair; it was going to be a very pleasant day. Her hands went to her head, adjusting the black and gold chador.
‘What do you know about this country?’
‘I haven’t given it much thought.’
A sad half-smile darkened her face and she gave me a history lesson for the best part of an hour, while I listened and tried to make the whisky last. There was no doubting the doctor’s sincerity, but she hadn’t convinced me she wasn’t just another kind of extremist – a man-hating feminist zealot. I hoped not.
When she finally stopped speaking, I reluctantly challenged her. ‘Examples?’
‘Examples! The entire life of a woman here is an example.’
‘Specific examples.’ I was a reporter now.
The doctor wasn’t fazed by my sudden professionalism. Her charm, the offer of a drink and perhaps more had taken her this far. This was the end of that road, from now on her argument needed to persuade on its merits.
‘While the birth of a boy is celebrated, the birth of a girl is a time for mourning. The father feels shame, the mother feels guilt.’
She shifted in her seat and moved closer, speaking quietly, conscious of being overheard. ‘In 1985 the president of Pakistan set up a commission to look at the status of women in this country. The commission’s conclusion is written on my brain. It said, “The average woman is born into slavery, leads a life of drudgery, and dies invariably in oblivion. This grim condition is the stark reality of half of our population simply because they happen to be female.”’
She studied my face for a reaction and found none.
‘Of course, the government suppressed the report.’
I waved a familiar instruction to the waiter. The gesture deflate
d her. She continued, sounding more confident than she felt. ‘You need facts. In Pakistan women have a shorter life expectancy than men. We have the lowest female/male ratio in the world because of the poor health of women. In most families females eat after the males, causing girls to have a much higher malnutrition rate than boys. A girl will eat half what her brother eats but do twice the work. Anaemia is widespread, 97.4 percent of all women in Pakistan are anaemic.’
The doctor fired off the damning figures. The waiter arrived with the drink. She tried to keep her annoyance in check. She was losing me.
‘Do you know the Hudood Ordinances?’
‘No, what’re they?’
‘A set of laws applied to the crime of zina, sex outside of wedlock. Adultery, fornication and rape. Offences of rape are called zina bil jabr, literally it means ‘forced adultery’.’
She played her big cards. ‘According to the Human Rights Commission of Pakistan, every two hours a woman is raped in this country and every eight hours a woman is gang-raped. These figures are based on reported incidents. The real figures are much higher.’
‘Shocking.’ It sounded like a programmed response.
‘Under this law women who’ve been raped can be charged with adultery or fornication. The way the law is applied the victim has to be able to produce four adult males of impeccable character as witnesses to the crime. If she cannot, and none ever can, the woman is prosecuted and the rapist goes free.’
Her voice had a bitter edge, her lips drawn thin and tight. ‘This farce,’ she almost spat the word, ‘isn’t treated the same as any other crime where DNA is accepted as proof. The courts prefer the literal four adult male witnesses however unlikely it may be to provide such proof.’
Something over her left shoulder caught my attention. Her tone lost its vigour. ‘Rape is used as a weapon of punishment and revenge. It’s rare for the police to make an arrest. Often, they’re part of it. No one is ever convicted. And that’s only the start of it.’
Her words trailed off; she was close to defeat. When she agreed to meet me again she’d been confident she could persuade me to join her. She’d been mistaken. When I spoke I wasn’t unkind, or harsh, but negative just the same. ‘Simone, what you’ve told me is truly awful, despicable and wrong. It’s a national wrong, a cultural thing. You want me to write about it, tell the world. If I do, I guarantee two responses. It’ll pass most people by because it’s too much, too big, and too far away. Those left will see it as an attack on Pakistan. They’ll be angry, all right, but not at the laws, not at the conditions of women in this country. And nothing will change.’
Her expression was impassive, the way little girls look when they’re scolded. I said,
‘“One death is a tragedy, a million is a statistic”. Do you understand?’
‘Joseph Stalin.’
‘Was it?’
‘Yes, and yes, I understand.’
‘People can’t relate to inhumanity on a grand scale, it’s too impersonal.’
She said, ‘Too impersonal? All right. Another Chivas, I think. Forget the many. Let me tell you the story of Afra.’
Chapter 20
Most mornings started with a drink, a reviver, something to help me feel human.
Not today.
A telephone call sorted it. I told Jameel Akhtar what I had in mind. No fuss, no problem. When did I want to come?
I thought of Simone Jasnin. Meeting her had left me with mixed feelings. She was accomplished, passionate, exciting. The stuff about gender inequality and abuse of women was difficult to relate to, but the tale she’d told was packed with human interest, with a horrendous crime at its heart. An unpunished crime. Even better.
Except it was old. News usually meant new. I wanted to help the doctor for reasons of my own but I needed a way in and couldn’t see it.
In the taxi, I marshalled what I knew about Jameel Hafeez, most of it was already well-known. He was from the Punjab and had come to the city to find his only relative. Now he was managing director of his father’s company and Businessman of the Year. No details. Nothing about who he was. Or who he had been: a mystery man.
The car nosed through the traffic. At times, Lahore’s infrastructure groaned under the weight of its residents, tumbling over itself in its eagerness to grow. Spreading like spilled paint, fast following the disaster Karachi had become: a hellhole of squalor and crime. I could have relocated to Islamabad. I’d chosen Lahore, the cultural centre of the country, the seat of the Mogul Empire, the Sikh Empire and the one-time capital of Punjab – not for its rich history or because it was a city of academics and dreamers. But because here, I’d be left alone.
When the shit hit the fan for the last time in the UK, the foreign correspondent job was the last resort. If it had been possible to send me to Outer Mongolia I’d have been there. Only my reputation – fading memories of past victories – kept me in the game at all. I realised I was lucky, though I didn’t feel it.
The car that brought me disappeared into the never-ending river of vehicles. I pressed the intercom and waited. A brass plate said Ravi Restaurants Ltd, no doubt after the nearby Ravi River, and when the door buzzed open, an alert woman greeted me.
‘Take a seat, Mr Buchanan.’ Her efficiency impressed. A man appeared: late twenties, dressed in a business suit, his hand outstretched in welcome. He said something to the receptionist and turned his attention to me. ‘Thank you for coming. This way please.’
I followed. He knocked and we entered a stylishly-furnished room. Jameel Akhtar Hafeez, Lahore Chamber of Commerce’s Businessman of the Year, sat behind a desk. He rose to shake my hand. ‘Mr Buchanan, good to meet you. Thank you, Ali. This afternoon at two.’
Close up, the new star seemed boyish, too young to be running a growing group of businesses. ‘So, you want to interview me. How very flattering.’
‘Not really, you’re a man of some achievement. My aim is to find out about Lahore’s latest success story.’
‘Is that what I am? I hadn’t noticed.’
I didn’t believe him.
‘Can I offer you, coffee? Tea?’
I hesitated. ‘Tea’s fine. No milk, no sugar.’
He pressed a button and spoke. Quicker than I thought possible, tea arrived. The receptionist left the tray on the desk between us. Hafeez thanked her and poured two cups. ‘Cheers.’ He grinned. ‘Isn’t that what you say?’
‘Yes, cheers.’
It tasted like tea ought to taste and seldom did.
‘You’re Scottish. I’ve never been to Scotland. I’d like to go. Do you miss it much? Pakistan must seem very backward to you, very dull.’
Before Simone Jasnin I would’ve agreed, especially with the last part. ‘Not at all. Pakistan is an absorbing country. Fascinating. In some ways better than home, in other ways not as good. You know, the same as anywhere.’
‘True. Now, how can I help you today?’
I took a notebook and pen from an inside pocket. ‘I intend to write about you. I think you’ll be interesting when I know more.’
‘Okay, shoot.’ Hafeez smiled at his phraseology. ‘I watch a lot of television.’
‘I’ve heard so many stories it’s difficult to find a starting-point. Why don’t you talk about yourself and if something occurs to me, I’ll ask.’
For the next half hour he told me about his journey to the city, the search for his uncle, and the education Gulzar had insisted he have. At the end, he spread his arms. ‘So now I’m Jameel Akhtar Hafeez. The luckiest man in Lahore.’
I scribbled as he spoke. ‘When was this?’
‘Eight years ago. I was twenty, unworldly and naïve with no idea where I was going in life. I shudder to think what might have become of that boy. Where would he be now?’
The irony of his question didn’t escape me: he’d been on his way to a glorious future as I was leaving a glorious past. He poured more tea for himself. I placed a palm over my cup. One was enough. ‘And since then?’
&n
bsp; ‘Since then I’ve continued what my father began, and we’ve been blessed. We live in a time of change and opportunity. We’ve been able to harness some of that opportunity with the result our businesses have flourished. Ravi Restaurants has many avenues opening up in front of it. Exciting times, Mr Buchanan, we live in exciting times.’
I studied the entrepreneur. With him success was not loud gesture and extravagant talk, but rather, a quiet attitude focused on a clear vision.
‘And Jameel Hafeez, the man, what of him? How does he live in these exciting times? Hobbies? Interests? A woman perhaps?’
Jameel shook his head. ‘Business leaves little time for much else.’
Common knowledge. Maybe he was a workaholic who preferred business life to distractions like women. My instincts told me that wasn’t so. Chic Logan had described it.
the same story as everybody else, the one that sits on top, the obvious stuff
‘So, you arrived in Lahore, where did you come from?’
‘From a village in the Punjab.’
‘What’s its name?’
‘Mundhi.’
A bell went off in my brain. I didn’t believe in coincidence. Mundhi village. Afra’s village. And this man’s name was Jameel. The Jameel? Hafeez had mentioned the village in his speech. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘It is much like any other in the Punjab.’
‘Who were your friends?’
‘The usual ones. Boys I played with after a day in the fields.’
‘No females to catch a young man’s eye?’
The question seemed to irritate Hafeez. ‘None that I recall. Can we move on?’
‘Of course, but our origins tell a lot about us. “The child is father to the man”. Do you know that expression, Mr Hafeez?’
‘No.’
‘What about family?’
‘My mother died. There was only me.’
‘Were you lonely?’
‘I don’t remember being lonely. No, I was never lonely.’
‘So life in Mundhi was good. You were happy. You liked the village.’