Karachi, You're Killing Me!

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Karachi, You're Killing Me! Page 18

by Saba Imtiaz


  ‘I just want to know what happened, okay,’ I say. ‘But see, I didn’t talk to him.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Zara says. ‘Just remember how hurt and upset you were, and if you don’t recall, just go online and search for his fucking exclusive and tell me if it doesn’t make you want to kill him.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ I say, but I don’t sound convincing even to myself. What is wrong with me?

  Sunday, May 3, 2012

  Headline of the day: ‘Dissident cleric rushed to hospital after eating toxic halwa’

  9 a.m.: There’s no time to process what happened last night. I’m woken up by the sound of my phone ringing, which after one has only gone to bed at 4 a.m. after about a dozen drinks, sounds like the trumpets I anticipate hearing on judgment day. Check the display. Saad’s mother. ‘Beta, I’m just leaving the house, are you ready?’ Fuck. I’d forgotten Saad is moving back to Karachi today, and his mother had asked me to accompany her to the airport. I’m so hungover that even the thought of getting out of bed is making me want to hurl. Somehow manage to throw on a t-shirt and harem pants—the closest thing to pyjamas that is considered acceptable to wear in public.

  Saad’s mother sighs as she stares out of the window. ‘Never did I think I would be so worried at the idea of him being back,’ she says, fiddling with the bracelet on her arm that she hasn’t taken off since her husband died. ‘Look around us. Everyone is driving like a maniac because they don’t want to risk stopping at a traffic light and being mugged.’

  ‘There’s nothing we can do,’ I say, hoping my oversized sunglasses are shielding just how hungover I am. ‘I know, beta,’ she says, before she starts flipping through a lawn catalogue she has in the car. ‘Do you think I can pull off floral prints at my age?’

  Saad is possibly the only person smiling in the arrivals area. Everyone else looks like they’ve just been handed a death sentence. One girl walks out, peeling off layers of cardigans and shawls, much to the amusement of Saad’s mother. ‘Where did she think she was coming back to, Siberia?’

  Saad bounds up and hugs his mother, and then me. His mother starts sniffling right away. ‘Uff, Ammi, are these tears of joy?’ She looks at him despairingly and I grab one of Saad’s suitcases. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  Five hours, two plates of biryani, and three cups of tea later, I’m sitting in a corner of Saad’s room as he unpacks. ‘Hey, I bought you something,’ he says, tossing a bag at me. Inside is a gorgeous tan leather satchel.

  ‘Thanks!’ I say, ‘But you really shouldn’t have, silly.’

  ‘Oh, I also bought something for Zara,’ Saad says.

  ‘Zara? Did she ask you to get something for her?’ I ask. Zara has a never-ending list of requests for people coming to Pakistan, featuring shampoo, make-up, and about twenty skincare products, as well as dark rum and red wine. ‘No, it’s just a gift. I was thinking now that I’m back, maybe we can hang out or something. Did you see the photos she posted on Facebook the other day? So. Much. Hotness.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. I’d forgotten about Saad’s Zara thing, even though she’s never done more than flirt back when she’s had too much to drink. The thought of the two of them together still irks me. Why can’t Saad pick someone I don’t know, someone following the same identikit pattern of a 20-something, incredibly well-dressed girl whose knowledge of politics is gleaned from the five links she sees on her Facebook feed, and who he’ll inevitably get bored with in three weeks?

  ‘Let’s have coffee tonight,’ Saad suggests. ‘Invite Zara too?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say, and take out my phone to text and ask her if she’s free, praying that she is stuck at work, has a prior engagement, anything. Am sorely tempted to not message her at all, but cannot risk running into her in the evening, given that Zara and I only frequent three cafés, having blacklisted the rest for not having a smoking section, being too popular with families, and serving instant coffee and charging us for gourmet cappuccinos. Zara replies immediately. ‘Yeah, I’m free. Let me know when.’

  Saad smiles when I tell him we’ll see Zara tonight, and suddenly I feel terribly exhausted. Is Saad’s cheeriness getting to me or last night’s cocktails and Jamie-induced drama? ‘I’ll meet you in the evening. I’m going home to nap and change.’

  ‘Sure,’ he says, lifting up a mountain of shirts to stuff into his cupboard. His mother is going to sneak into his room when he goes out and get her maid to clean the closet anyway, so this is a fairly fruitless exercise.

  9 p.m.: Waiting for Saad and Zara to show up. I’ve actually dressed up for coffee, I’ve even applied some makeup and worn dangly earrings. Saad and Zara enter within a minute of each other, and I stir my coffee as they catch up and Zara squeals over her gift (a really beautiful patterned silk scarf). Saad hasn’t even noticed that I am not in clothes that resemble pyjamas. I get the uncomfortable feeling of being the third wheel on a date, which is ridiculous. This is just friends having coffee.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re back,’ Zara says, ‘Now you can knock some sense into Ayesha too.’

  ‘What’s that?’ I ask, just as Saad looks at me questioningly.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, she didn’t tell you? After all that’s happened, Ayesha wanted to talk to Jamie last night!’ In that moment, I could actually reach across the table and stab Zara. I know she’s not saying this to be spiteful, but she has no idea how much Saad hates Jamie and how annoyed he’s going to be with me.

  Saad looks at me incredulously. ‘You were what? Where? Did you call him?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ I say, trying not to be defensive. ‘We ran into him at a concert last night and he came up to say hi, and I did ignore him before Zara chased him off.’

  ‘And you would have talked to him, Ayesha, I saw the look on your face.’ I shoot her an annoyed look that’s supposed to communicate ‘shut up’, but she doesn’t seem to get it.

  ‘I cannot believe you,’ Saad says, shaking his head. ‘Ayesha, seriously? I mean, the man screwed you over in every possible way—you were a mess. Why would you even want to talk to him?’

  I really don’t know what to say. ‘Because I’d still like an explanation…’ This sets Saad and Zara off who begin ranting about how I am turning into a weak person full of self pity. I listen to this for about five minutes before I snap. ‘Fine. I get it. Can we move on now?’

  Zara begins telling the story of her mugging. Even though Saad has just heard the same—albeit dramatized—account over dinner, he laughs hysterically, and I force myself to smile.

  After a couple of hours of stilted conversation—at least, I feel its stilted, Saad and Zara look like they’re having the time of their lives—Zara realizes she has to be up at 7 a.m. tomorrow. ‘Saad, can you drop me home?’ I ask. I really want to explain to him properly what happened with Jamie and how I feel.

  But the minute we get into the car, Saad starts off again.

  ‘I’m really disappointed in you.’

  ‘Yeah, I got it the first five times you said it,’ I shoot back. ‘There really was no need to gang up on me like that. I wasn’t planning to grovel or whatever. I’d just really like to tell him to his face what an asshole he was.’

  Saad looks at me like I am speaking a foreign language. ‘Why are you overreacting?’ I ask, wishing he would drive faster so I can exit his car and escape this discussion. ‘I’m not,’ he says, ‘you are. I just don’t want you to inflict more misery on yourself.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I don’t plan to,’ I retort.

  ‘Sure,’ Saad says exasperatedly, and then lapses into silence. I stare out of the window until we stop outside my building. ‘Bye,’ I say, and he half-heartedly waves back.

  Wednesday, May 6, 2012

  Headline of the day: ‘Prayers of general’s pir did not help’

  I don’t hear from Saad for the next few days. We’ve had these passive-aggressive arguments before but not over something this silly. I keep typing messages to him and delet
ing them. Saad’s not going anywhere, I think, so I’m not driven by the same sense of urgency I usually have to patch things up before he leaves town again. He’ll come around.

  5 p.m.: Check my e-mail. The Al Jazeera editor has recommended me to a colleague at an academic journal, who wants me to write a two thousand-word essay for… eight hundred dollars. That’s enough money to keep me afloat for another month. I’m just about to reply saying I’d love to do the essay when my phone rings. Kamran.

  Why is he calling me? Pick phone up hesitantly, convinced he’s calling to tell me that the paper is suing me or some such thing. ‘Hi?’

  ‘Ayesha! How are you?’ Kamran’s voice is oozing the warmth he usually reserves for old-moneyed folk who hold the key to his membership being approved at the private colonial-era club that he’s been angling to get into for years. ‘I’m fine, Kamran. How are you?’

  ‘Excellent, but listen, we all miss you around here. Someone sent me a link to your Al Jazeera work, I’m glad you’re doing so well, but come on, you need to get back to the world of beat reporting. So come back into the office tomorrow, and we’ll talk?’

  It’s too early for Kamran to be drinking so this is actually a serious call. ‘Kamran, I’m very happy freelancing,’ I say. ‘I don’t think I want to come back.’

  ‘You’re happy? I mean, sure, the freelancing is fun for now but it’s not a stable income. I mean, what are you going to do about money?’

  ‘Kamran, we never got paid on time, surely I’ll learn to live.’

  ‘We’re changing all that!’ Kamran exclaims. ‘I mean, we can’t hire you back at a higher salary because you weren’t eligible for a raise, but you’ll definitely get paid on time. Look, all of your friends are here; this is what you’re meant to do. This is your paper as much as it’s mine. This is where you learnt everything.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Kamran,’ I say resolutely. ‘I’m going to have to decline.’

  ‘Oh,’ Kamran’s tone changes. ‘Well, I hope there’s someone ready to hire you when the freelancing work runs out.’ I can just picture his condescending smile. ‘We might not be able to later.’

  ‘I’m sure I’ll be fine. Good speaking to you, bye now!’

  Check Twitter to find that Kamran has posted a series of snarky tweets about ungrateful reporters. Reach for my phone to text Zara but we haven’t spoken since we had coffee with Saad. But there’s no reason for her to be pissed at me. And I really need to gloat about Kamran’s call and turning down his offer. Send her the link to Kamran’s tweet on WhatsApp.

  ‘Ha, that’s hilarious. GTG, am at Atrium to watch movie with Saad.’

  Saad and Zara are hanging out without me. Clearly he moved fast. I feel an inexplicable sense of hurt at the idea of them having fun while I’m at home replying to e-mails.

  7 p.m.: Wonder what film they went to watch.

  7.30 p.m.: Will just check online to see what’s playing at the cinema. Did they go to watch the cutesy animated film for kids? The Bollywood romcom? The big-budget action thriller? Why is Saad hanging out with Zara and not me, or any of the dozens of friends he has in the city?

  7.40 p.m.: Why am I at home alone? Why have my two best friends deserted me? Why am I still single? I invested so much time and effort and flirting only to be screwed over by Jamie. I am never chasing after a guy again.

  8 p.m.: Maybe Jamie is still in town and will want to hang out. No. Cannot call him and make a fool of myself. Or worse, risk another fight with Saad.

  8.30 p.m.: Watch television to distract myself. There are screaming politicians on every channel. One has just accused another of ‘questionable morals’. On another channel, a legislator is shouting at politicians who want to negotiate with militants. Imran Khan is telling an interviewer he sees ‘nothing wrong’ in being on the same stage as right-wing extremists. One talk show host is hurling abuse at the president. I can feel the onset of a headache, but the problem with talk shows is that they can be terribly compelling in the manner of the Jerry Springer Show. I’m expecting the shrill host to intercept a thrown chair at any minute.

  9 p.m.: Surely Zara is free by now. Text her again asking if she’s free later. ‘Can’t do, am just grabbing a meal with Saad and then I have to be home.’

  11 p.m.: My mind is exhausted with the arguments going on in my head. Wish I had a sleeping pill so I could doze off and not have to think about this. Don’t have any booze either. The only other option is Benadryl, but surely I have not reached such a low point yet. Maybe I will just watch TV instead.

  Finally fall asleep at 4 a.m., only to be woken up an hour later by the cat, who is demanding I relinquish my pillow so she can nap on it. Attempt to put cat on the floor. Doesn’t work, she jumps right back on the bed. End up trying to fit myself on the sofa while the cat stretches out on the bed and falls asleep.

  Thursday, May 7, 2012

  Headline of the day: ‘Big black ghost lands many factory workers in the hospital’

  I wake up feeling sick and exhausted from thinking about Saad and Zara. I’m checking my phone for any signs of activity from the two—surely they tweeted about the movie, or posted selfies on Instagram, or shared an injoke on Facebook—when an e-mail pops up. It’s from a girl called Carla at the BBC, who says I was referred to her by Andrea. They’re looking for a fixer to work with their correspondent on a story about crime in Karachi next week. It’s three days of work, and I’ll get paid $150 a day.

  Dash off an e-mail to Andrea to say thanks. She has really turned into my fairy news mother. She keeps sending me links to fellowships and ideas for stories that I can do. She’s offered to write a recommendation letter for me whenever I do want another job and texts me every other day with snarky comments about Islamabad’s social scene: ‘Isloo is out of red wine after the cops shut down the Koreans’ bootlegging ring. It is a fucking disaster’.

  She replies to my e-mail instantly. ‘No need to say thanks. I’m frustrated with how limited the work at NBC is. The least I can do is help someone else tell a good story!’

  Carla’s asked me to line up some interviews, including with someone involved with the criminal justice system. I call up the prosecutor at the anti-terrorism court, who sounds delighted to hear from me. ‘Come over. I have a charge sheet you’ll find very interesting.’ It’s vague, but he’s passed on gems in the past such as a list of targets from a Lashkar-e-Jhangvi suspect.

  When I get to court, the guard greets me so exuberantly I’m almost embarrassed. ‘After so long! No, no, no need to give your bag, we know you!’ he says, as I hand over my handbag and notebook. ‘Chai? Order chai for madam!’ he barks to the sentry who is writing my name down in the logbook. ‘No, thanks, not right now,’ I say, and quickly head out to the courtrooms. The prosecutor is busy in a deposition, so I head to another courtroom and listen to a police officer describing how he led a raid on a kidnapper’s hideout.

  The judge, who I’ve never seen before, calls for a recess after the police officer has been cross-examined. ‘Shukar, shukar,’ the officer says as he hurriedly leaves the dock. The lawyers clutch their stacks of cardboard files and begin walking out, and I spot a lawyer who would probably be a good fit for the BBC interviews. ‘Wait, you, the girl in the back,’ the judge calls out. The court typist—who I’ve spent several hours harassing for transcripts in the past—raises an eyebrow. ‘Yes?’ I say, finally finding my voice.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ the judge calls out.

  ‘I am a..’

  ‘NO, NO—come up front.’

  I walk up and stand next to the typist. ‘No, not there,’ the judge says exasperatedly. ‘In the dock.’

  ‘Oh. Okay.’ I have no idea what is going on here. Am I going to be charged with contempt? There’s a mad medley of Pakistani and Indian films playing in my head, the melodramatic Mohammad Ali screaming for insaaf and Sunny Deol’s ‘tareekh pe tareekh’ monologue. I half expect to be asked to swear that I’m telling the truth, the whole truth, so help me g
od.

  ‘So, what is your name? What are you doing here?’

  I stammer my name and profession, and explain how I often come to court to take notes on proceedings. The judge listens, takes off his glasses and then starts cleaning them with his robe. The typist muffles a giggle. ‘I see. Well I don’t know how the other judges operate, but I really like to know who everyone is in the courtroom. You know this is a very high-profile courtroom, we’re not listening to cases of marriage disputes here, but cases involving bomb blasts and extortion.’

  ‘I understand,’ I say.

  ‘You’re free to go. Don’t be offended, I question everyone the same way.’

  I head out and bump into the prosecutor. ‘What happened? I heard the judge was grilling some journalist! You should have told him I invited you.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say, and follow him into his office. It’s a small room filled with filing cabinets, three grimy desks, and the coterie of exhausted prosecutors and clerks who huddle around them, drink endless cups of tea and try and figure out how they’re going to deal with suspects who send them death threats from their jail cells. We set a time for his BBC interview, and then he surreptitiously hands me a folder. ‘Transcript of a phone conversation from jail. Remember that guy who we found guilty of killing a journalist? His case is up for appeal and he’s discussing it with someone from his party. Very interesting stuff.’

  I know it’s pointless to try and ask how I’m going to verify the information. I’m mentally running through a list of contacts—the press club spy, Saad’s uncle who used to be the head of the police—when the prosecutor leans in. ‘The jail warden is willing to talk about this. But I can tell you right now that his agenda is very clear. He wants the guy out of his jail and transferred to some small town.’

  I stuff the file into my handbag and get up to leave. I never quite know how to thank someone for leaking a government document. ‘This is very kind of you,’ I say, and leave.

  The guard stops me as I walk by his check post. ‘Madam, the traffic is insane outside. Why don’t you wait for a bit?’

 

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