B005OWFTDW EBOK

  I suppose the image of the magnified nipple and the blurred contours of the breast preoccupied me more than she did, but then, she wasn’t in a very preoccupying state of mind. Always on the phone, always talking about him, her work, her return. Her breasts. She liked me photographing them. Breasts that had begun to stir me only in the frame. At least I didn’t get off on images of other women.

  That day on the beach? It excited her, seeing herself magnified. And colour-filtered. Image pre-processing, not to be confused with post-processing, to enhance maximum photorealism. To make the infeasible feasible. She lay on her stomach; I drizzled sand on the mound of her buttocks. It cascaded down her curves, featherlike, matching her skin tone. When we viewed the images together, the texture of the sandspill on her flesh made her wet. We were nestled between the same cluster of rocks where I’d found her the first time, on the far side of the cypress grove. There were others around, though none in our nest, or so we thought. She rolled back onto her stomach, raised her hips high into my groin. The sand scrubbed my erection. I heard the figure behind me, his breathing. I could feel it on my neck. I assumed she mistook it for mine or would have stopped. There was no way she could have seen his shadow on her spine.

  Later, we both lay on our stomachs a long time. When we eventually got dressed, we didn’t speak of it. He came when I did. Perhaps she hadn’t noticed.

  We still call it a fault line, here where the subcontinent conjoins with Asia. I told Farhana I’d seen glaciers mate once before, and I had. The first time, I’d been in love with a girl called Rida, which means inner peace. I gave her purple roses that left blood marks on our lips. By the end of the year, I’d no idea where she was, or what she was doing. By the following summer, I was thinking of her less, and the memory kept on receding, creeping downhill, like a carefully constructed secret.

  I knew where Farhana was and what she was doing. She was in Wes’s cabin and they were eating breakfast. It was their laughter I could hear. My cabin was only growing colder. Soon Irfan and Zulekha would knock on my door. It would be time to return to the ice-bride and ice-groom, to see how they were settling in their new home.

  The night she left. She lay sprawled across the bed, her legs bare before me. I didn’t stir. ‘I hoped that might change,’ she whispered. ‘Here.’

  Now I saw her draped across a different set of sheets. The memory was an extraordinarily happy one. It was a memory from before our troubles and it took place in a purple house and it began with legs. Hers were steep legs built by steepness. Mountain legs; San Francisco legs. The white, tennis-ball calves tapering tidily to the ankles against dark sheets. I traced their stocky slant with a fingertip and moved higher, to where her sartorius cut a ribbony dialogue on her flesh, snaking across a taut inner thigh. I called her my ice queen, whom I alone could melt. And we’d heard our ascent – the rush of wings, higher, higher, through a smooth, silvery sky! And our fall – deeper, deeper, down a silky, slippery skein. Whooshoo! Whooshoo!

  Months later in a cabin in Kaghan it was the sheets, not her calves, that shone. Her legs receded in the dark.

  When we got to a place from where we could look across the valley, Irfan asked the driver to stop. We walked to the edge of the road and climbed up a set of rocks. Our armed escort stayed in the jeep.

  ‘Does this look familiar?’ asked Zulekha.

  I nodded. We were facing the hill we’d climbed seven years earlier, the first time I saw the mating of glaciers, that time with Rida. The two ice blocks we’d seen then were now one white smudge of triangle in a fountain of black gravel.

  How quickly they grow, I thought. Seven years ago was five years before I met San Francisco, or Farhana.

  On the slopes were scattered a few sheep and goats, and closer, juniper trees whose leaves were still burned by shamans on special occasions. The afternoon sun fell just at the lip of the glacier. As I photographed it, I thought of one of the first things I’d learned about seeing through the lens: normalize the view. Which meant the right exposure on the area the human eye is most inclined to drift toward, which, at this moment, was that sliver of bright light at the edge of the white smudge.

  ‘It looks young,’ said Wes. ‘It has to be sixty feet thick to be called a glacier.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what you call it,’ muttered Irfan. ‘I’m glad the tradition of marrying glaciers is coming back.’

  ‘Here winter temperatures are rising,’ said Farhana. ‘More snowfall, less melt. So, after seven years, that could be sixty feet.’

  So she’d guessed that was the one.

  ‘Seven years?’ said Wes. ‘Doubt it.’

  ‘They’ve always made do without science,’ said Zulekha.

  Wes shrugged. ‘How far are we from ours?’

  Ours.

  ‘Not far. But if we want to return before dark, we should leave.’

  Farhana and I were left alone. I lowered my camera.

  ‘That is the one, isn’t it?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  Below us, a row of military trucks raced up the highway, slowing to examine our group. I could hear them call out to Irfan, asking questions, waving their guns as casually as cigarettes. I let Irfan tackle them.

  Ahead, a farmer was watering his wheat field. The sun was creeping off the glacier’s lip and onto the dark gravel. He stopped to enjoy the light, just as we did. A goat grazed at his feet, her bells chiming through the valley. Gradually, the black earth immediately before them ignited, as if the sun had chosen that precise point upon which to rest its fingers, enfolding the man and the goat. We kept at our lookouts, squinting into the glare, waiting for the sun to release the captives. From the corner of my eye, I noticed a rolling, as of a rain cloud. It was the glacier, sliding into shadow.

  GRANTA

  THE HOUSE BY THE GALLOWS

  Intizar Hussain

  TRANSLATED BY BASHARAT PEER

  ABDULLAH M. I. SYED

  Attention: At Ease, 2007

  Lambda print mounted on aluminium. 41 x 5cm

  Edition of 3

  Photography: Maheen Zia © Abdullah M. I. Syed, 2007

  General Zia ul-Haq had taken over Pakistan. Piety filled the air; there was much talk of religion: praying, fasting. The General threw a party to break the Ramadan fast at the house of his figurehead Prime Minister, Muhammad Khan Junejo. I was among the writers and journalists invited. We had broken the fast, were eating, when the muezzin gave the call to prayer. The General rose hastily, leaving his food, and walked off to the prayer room. Most of the invitees followed. I seemed to be the only one left behind. I looked around and found Ahmed Ali Khan, a newspaper editor, sitting under a tree in a far corner of the lawn. A few others joined us, while the pious dictator and his guests prayed.

  The next evening we were back at the Prime Minister’s house. Junejo had thrown his own fast-breaking party. The same crowd filled the lawns, all except the General. The muezzin gave the call for prayer. The Prime Minister promptly rose from his plate and left for the prayer room. I looked around: a few followed him but the majority stayed by their plates. Prayer is an obligation for Muslims, but it seemed who invited you to pray made a difference.

  The General’s call to Islam had the strongest effect. Before him, Prime Minister Zulfikar Ali Bhutto had attempted to raise the banner of Islam in Pakistan, but without much success. He decreed the Ahmadiyya sect non-Muslim, made Friday a public holiday, banned horse racing and alcohol. Bhutto wasn’t a praying, fasting man, and his flirtations with Islamism remained suspect.

  General Zia aggressively nourished the Islamism Bhutto had midwifed. Overnight, bureaucrats began showing up in mosques and rows of the faithful became a feature of the offices. At my newspaper, Mashriq (the East), there were a few devout men. The moment the call for afternoon prayer sounded, their pens would stop and they would leave for the nearby mosque. And now, the moment the editor appointed by the General stepped out of his cubicle, every reporter and editor would rise from
his seat and head for the mosque. The madman stood with a razor on our necks. Rumour had it that two lists were being made: those who prayed regularly would be considered for promotion; those who didn’t …

  The Arts Council of Lahore promoted theatre, painting, music and dance. Maharaj Ghulam Hussain, a maestro of the classical dance, Kathak, would waltz into the Arts Council building every evening, casually waving his stick. He would sit cross-legged in a small room, chew betel-nut leaf, and lord it over his small class of dancers.

  News came that the dance class had been banned. The Islamists had been attacking the Arts Council. I was on the board and we had a meeting that week. ‘Why have you banned the dance class?’ I asked the chairman. ‘We haven’t banned it,’ he said. ‘We have moved the class to the basement, away from peering eyes.’ The chairman paused. ‘Don’t write about that in your column. That would make us cancel the class.’

  The General issued a proclamation: the word alcohol shall not be mentioned on the radio or the television. I was a regular on literary and cultural shows on Radio Pakistan. One day, as we were about to record a literary discussion, the producer, Shakoor Bedil, instructed, ‘Please don’t read any poem that refers to liquor.’

  Liquor makes frequent appearances in Urdu poetry in the context of romantic love and longing. But intoxication refers often to the love of God and love of the Prophet in the Sufi tradition of Islam. The great Urdu poet-philosopher Sir Muhammad Iqbal, who is also Pakistan’s national poet, has written extensively in that vein, including a stirring poem, ‘Saaqi Nama’ (‘The Book of the Cupbearer’), which speaks about the transformative wine of political and social consciousness that makes the young lead the old.

  I wanted to have a little fun. ‘Can we speak about the wine of mysticism?’ I asked the producer. He was in deep thought. ‘Can you avoid it?’ he pleaded. The subject demanded that I refer to Iqbal’s ‘Saaqi Naama’. ‘Would that be all right?’ I asked. The producer was torn between the General’s orders and the moral authority of the national poet-philosopher, who had come up with the idea of a separate homeland for India’s Muslims which eventually became Pakistan in 1947. The producer rose from his seat, brought his hands together desperately and cried, ‘Have pity on me! I will lose my job.’

  Along with religion, an unthinking nationalism had become the other god of Pakistan. I was back at Radio Pakistan to record a discussion on Islamic cultural heritage. At some point I referred to the Taj Mahal as one of the highest points in Islamic architecture. The producer was overcome by a bout of anxiety. He stopped the recording. ‘Leave the Taj Mahal out! The authorities will object,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’ I was irritated.

  ‘Because the Taj is in India!’ he replied.

  I refused to leave the Taj out and abandoned the panel. The other panellist burst into a fit of rage and left the studio, hurling a torrent of abuse at the dictator and Radio Pakistan and the censors. I began to leave and the producer repeated his familiar gesture of helplessness: ‘Have pity on me! I will lose my job.’

  The producer was right. Wavering from the General’s censorship regime would have cost him his job. I got a better sense of the absurdity and ruthlessness of the regime when I mentioned bhutta, or corn on the cob, in a radio feature. The script editor made a minor mistake and the censors mistook it as a reference to Bhutto, the Prime Minister, whom the General had overthrown in a July 1977 coup and hanged two years later, in April 1979. The producer was removed from that programme, despite several explanations.

  The censors didn’t change their ways, even under later democratic regimes following the General’s death in 1988. When Benazir Bhutto ruled Pakistan in the mid-nineties as a democratically elected prime minister, intense ethnic violence between the natives and the mohajirs (the Indian Muslims who had migrated to the city after partition and the creation of Pakistan in 1947) scarred Karachi and several other places in Pakistan. Pakistan Television screened a play I had written that examined the ethnic violence. It stopped abruptly during the broadcast. Advertisements followed. And then another show aired.

  Some time later, on an official’s insistence, I gave the script of a play to state-run Pakistan Television. The play, The Eighth Question, was a fantasy based on the ancient legend of Hatim Tai, in which a rich and beautiful woman, Husn Bano, decides to marry the man who could answer seven questions she asked. I was told the play was very well-written, but it didn’t run. Some bureaucrat thought that Husn Bano would remind people of the Prime Minister, Benazir Bhutto.

  A change in management at Pakistan Television followed. A friend got the top job and I reminded him of The Eighth Question. He ran it a few weeks later. Husn Bano did not remind anyone of Benazir Bhutto. The bureaucrats who had been raised under General Zia’s martial law had become so sensitive to any hint of offence or dissent that they outdid the censors with their own self-censorship.

  What an era General Zia had brought to Pakistan! The echoes of prayer and the roar of public hangings. I lived by the Jail Road in Lahore. You could see the prison complex from my terrace. One morning as I walked about on the lawn I was struck by a group of labourers at work in the prison yard. I walked closer and saw they were nailing together planks of wood. By the afternoon, I realized they had been building a gallows. A sea of people swept towards the prison complex. Men went about searching for terraces and balconies that would have a good view of the hangings. Many eager onlookers eyed my terrace. They begged and pleaded with me. I insisted on refusing them the spectacle. The time for the hanging came. I looked out at my terrace. A group had found its way there anyhow. I stared at them. They were oblivious to me, lost, watching the hangings. I could not bring myself to look at the gallows. I stared, instead, at the spectators on my terrace. Three men were hanged that afternoon. Everyone was invited.

  GRANTA

  BUTT AND BHATTI

  Mohammed Hanif

  MUHAMMAD ZEESHAN

  High Notes, 2005

  Gouache on paper. 15 x 21cm

  Courtesy of the Asal Collection, © Muhammad Zeeshan

  Teddy has brought a Mauser to his declaration of love. He has brought a story about the moon as well but he is not sure where to start. The story is romantic in an old-fashioned kind of way; the Mauser has three bullets in it. He is hoping that the Mauser and the story about the moon will somehow come together to produce the kind of love song that makes old acquaintances run away together.

  Before resorting to gunpoint poetry, Teddy Butt tries the traditional route to romancing a medical professional; he pretends to be sick and then, like a truly hopeless lover, starts believing that he is sick, recognizes all the little symptoms – sudden fevers, heart palpitations, lingering migraine, even mild depression. He cries while watching a documentary about a snow leopard stranded on a melting glacier.

  He lurks around the Outpatients Department on a Sunday afternoon, when Sister Alice Bhatti is alone. She pretends to be busy counting syringes, boiling needles, polishing grimy surfaces, and only turns round when he coughs politely, like you are supposed to do when entering a respectable household so that women have the time to cover themselves. Sister Alice Bhatti doesn’t understand this polite-cough protocol and stares at him as if telling him, See? This is what smoking does to your lungs.

  Teddy Butt is too vain to bring up anything like stomach troubles or a skin rash, both conditions he frequently suffers from. Boldabolics play havoc with his digestion. His bodybuilder’s weekly regime of waxing his body hair has left certain parts of his body looking like abstract kilim designs. For his first consultation with Sister Alice he has thought up something more romantic.

  ‘I can’t sleep.’

  He says this sitting on a rickety little stool as Sister Alice takes notes in a khaki-coloured register. ‘For how long have you not been able to sleep?’ With any other patient Alice would have reached for the wrist to take the pulse, would have listened to their chest with a stethoscope, but she knows that Teddy is not that kind of pat
ient.

  ‘Since I have seen you,’ is what Teddy wants to say but he hasn’t rehearsed it, he is not ready yet.

  ‘I do go to sleep. But then I have dreams and I wake up,’ he says and feels relieved at having delivered a full sentence without falling off the stool.

  Alice Bhatti wants to tell him to go to the OPD in Charya Ward, that is where they deal in dreams. The whole place is a bad dream. But she knows that he wants to be her patient and Senior Sister Hina Alvi has taught her that when a patient walks in with intent you listen to them, even if you know they are making up their symptoms.

  She can also see the outline of a muzzle in the crotch of his yellow Adidas trousers. He looks like a freak with two cocks.

  ‘What kind of dreams?’

  Teddy has only ever had one dream, the one with a river and a kaftan-wearing God in it. The dream always ends badly as a drowning Teddy discovers that he can’t walk on water even in his dream. God stands at the edge of a silvery, completely walkable river and shakes His head in disappointment as if saying, it’s your dream, what do you expect me to do? But somehow bringing up God and His kaftan and His disapproval right now seems inappropriate. ‘I see a river in my dream.’ He conveniently leaves God out.

  ‘A river?’ Alice Bhatti taps the pen on the register without writing anything.

  Teddy feels he is being told that his dream is not sick enough.

  ‘It’s a river of blood. Red.’

  Sister Alice looks at him with interest. This Teddy boy might be a police tout but he has a poetic side to him, she thinks.