As Ghalib entered his interlocking suite of rooms in the manor house, near-silent footsteps followed in his tracks. It was an old game. Ghalib skirted the pantry, which housed double freezers and a supply of snacks. There were biscuits, chocolates, potato chips, cans of diet soft drinks, and fruit heaped in baskets. He lingered briefly to collect a few items, including a handful of chocolate bars for the person in pursuit.
The boy, Saqib, stood framed in the doorway of Ghalib’s bedroom. Tall and slender, he remained motionless, yet there was a studied air of insolence about him. Whenever Ghalib singled out one boy in the village, that boy’s social posture was immediatebly transformed: “I am the chosen one,” the new favourite’s attitude said. Saqib knew that the events in this room would unfurl as they had countless times before. Ghalib’s reclining figure was as deceptive as the sketches of nude women on the wall above his bed. The temperature was high on this June night, but Ghalib’s bedroom was kept comfortable by the air conditioner hung high on the stucco wall. The only evidence of heat shone through Ghalib’s eyes, which were hidden behind his spectacles. The teen’s body language spoke volumes: part braced and attentive, part fraught with anxiety.
“Come here,” Ghalib commanded in English. He was paying for the boy’s education at a privileged school in the village.
“Press me, boy, press me,” Ghalib commanded.
Saqib walked briskly over to him and hovered near his legs. He started massaging Ghalib from the ankles upward, his strokes firm but slow. He gathered the mounds of calves in both hands and pressed down. Ghalib sighed, removed his glasses, and placed them on the pillow beside him.
“Are you studying hard?” asked Ghalib in a languorous voice.
“Yes. I am the first in my class,” Saqib replied.
“Well done!” Ghalib’s arm shot up, holding out a chocolate bar.
Saqib leaned forward, gripped the bar with his teeth, and jerked his head away. Ghalib immediately rolled onto his back and burst out laughing. Saqib pulled the chocolate bar from his mouth and tore the wrapper off.
“None for me?” asked Ghalib, sitting up against the pillows.
Saqib continued to eat, without looking at Ghalib, until the last chunk of chocolate disappeared in his mouth. He then rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand and looked up.
“Your teeth will rot,” Ghalib said, adopting the air of a stern headmaster.
“Rot?” Saqib did not know the word.
“I am rotting; the flame is fading.” Ghalib pointed his index finger right at Saqib’s face. “You will bring life to me!”
Saqib did not understand all of the English words, but he understood “you.” Silently, he removed his T-shirt.
IN THE MORNING, the billowing fold of Ghalib’s belly spilled over the bed; the boy — almost skeletal, all bony arms and legs — lay curled up by his side. They could have been a grandfather and grandson sleeping side by side. The bedroom door always remained locked until mid-afternoon. No one dared to knock.
By the time Ghalib pressed the bell by his night table to order his breakfast, the boy had vanished, leaving the crumpled wrappers of many chocolate bars at the foot of the bed. He worked his way with gusto through a glass of lassi, fried parathas, and an omelette, and then summoned his valet to draw his bath. It was three in the afternoon and Ghalib knew he had visitors waiting.
Ghalib had to finalize his decision to sell a parcel of land and had summoned the estate’s overseer to handle the transaction. He dressed slowly in his room, slipping into a starched white shalwar kameez and a pair of highly polished shoes. Ghalib strolled toward the shade of the large tree in the front patio, where chairs and a circular table had been arranged. His stout estate manager, dressed in pristine white clothing with a white muslin turban wound around his head, sat on one of the chairs. Ghalid’s valet had placed his three telephones on the table. The manager leapt up when he saw Ghalib and clasped his outstretched hand in a double-handed shake, bowing his head slightly. Ghalib ordered tea for the manager, then lifted one of the phones and scrolled through his missed calls. When he saw Khalid’s number his pulse jumped. He was certain that his latest acquisition had arrived and Khalid wanted to discuss transportation and payment. Ignoring the manager, Ghalib walked away and called Khalid immediately.
“Hello, Khalid! Deliver it yourself and come for a few days. I shall throw a party for you,” said Ghalib.
“Do you have the payment in hand?” said Khalid.
“I am making arrangements as we speak,” Ghalib lied.
There was silence for a few seconds and then Khalid spoke.
“There is a small delay. I may even need the payment before delivery this time.”
Ghalib laughed. “Hold the items I have sent to you to be sold as the deposit. The mangoes are ripening in the orchards and are waiting to be eaten. Bring Safia with you.”
“We shall see. I have a busy evening. I have some visitors here,” Khalid said before ending the call.
Ghalib was concerned. Khalid had not been his usual affable self. The call was brief. No pleasantries had been exchanged. And it was the first time Khalid had asked about his payment or demanded money in advance. Was Khalid trying to raise the price of the sculpture at the last minute? Khalid knew very well that Ghalib would never let the sculpture go. Perhaps he had another buyer and demanding payment before delivery was simply a ploy. He looked over at the estate manager, who was sipping his tea placidly.
“I need the money for the land immediately,” Ghalib told him.
“Well, sir, that is what I have come to discuss. It is a great mistake to sell that parcel of land. The farm account is not that healthy at the moment. We need to see how strong the yield is this year,” he replied.
“You were given instructions two weeks ago,” Ghalib said. His voice had taken on a distinctly cold tone.
“Yes, but I thought I should give you correct advice as your estate manager.”
Ghalib looked at him with loathing and tried to control his rising tide of anger.
“I need the sale to be executed immediately and the money transferred into my personal account. Not the farm bank account.” Ghalib rose from his chair and walked away without looking back.
Ghalib was used to leveraging bank loans when his crops did not yield enough profit. He was also used to bartering with Khalid and some of the other art dealers with whom he did business. He sat on a magnificent fortune, but the bills for his art purchases were shocking — they often robbed him of operating cash and the funds required for the salaries of his domestic staff. The maintenance of his three large homes also suffered. Over the years, unwashed carpets, stained upholstery, and dust-laden display cabinets had reduced his homes to a state of splendid squalor. But Ghalib was oblivious to it all. He had stopped entertaining and lived largely out of his gargantuan bedrooms. And while he would often rearrange his art and sculptures, he almost never replenished his household linens.
Ghalib walked toward a huge side garden, which flanked a course for miniature golf. Next to that stood the unfinished home he was building for his married son. Behind the house was a small mosque, also incomplete. The magnificent turquoise tiles designed and ordered by Ghalib from the city of Multan covered only half of the building. Ghalib walked to the front patio, where he found fifteen men seated in a circle. The volunteers of the political party for which he was supposed to be campaigning had also come to see him today.
Straightening his posture, Ghalib strolled toward them as they looked up at him uneasily. The men had been asked to bring votes for Ghalib’s candidacy come election time. They now wanted to know what benefits their support would bring. They mentioned the need for schools, the lack of electricity, and their need to access water to irrigate their small parcels of farming land. They even hinted at their wish for administrative positions at the grassroots level.
Ghalib doled out prom
ises, convincing even himself that, if elected, he would make good on them and fulfil all of the group’s requests. But in the back of his mind, Ghalib’s thoughts turned to Khalid. The memory of their brief phone conversation sat in the pit of his stomach like an undigested meal.
FOUR
FROM A SAFE DISTANCE, Adeel watched as the truck was disguised. Two men had already sprayed a coat of metallic blue paint over the entire body. The large shed in which they worked was an auto repair shop that also did some bodywork. The men in the tattered clothes who worked there were Peshawar’s master artists. Using stencils, they festooned the truck with garish flowers and prancing animals. When they were done, the formerly brown truck would be unrecognizable, and would blend seamlessly with all of the other gaily decorated vehicles moving through Pakistan. Adeel had paid the shop owner an extravagant amount to perform the service. To accommodate Adeel further, the owner had also supplied a new licence plate and fake registration.
As Adeel waited for the paint to dry, he changed his clothing and left the shed to go visit the local bazaar. The black scarf wound around his neck was woven into a loose turban, and dark glasses shaded his eyes. His beige trousers and leather jacket had been replaced by a billowing shalwar kameez and was topped off by a wool waistcoat.
The dirt-infested and malodorous bazaar greeted him at end of the alley. Adeel walked up to a small store and purchased a phone card. Then he hunted for a telephone booth; he found one within a short distance.
He dialed his mother’s number.
“Ami-ji. Don’t talk. Just listen. I have to be very quick.”
“Adeel, Adeel my son.” His mother’s voice burbled with joy.
“I am doing a very special job. I cannot come to see you and may be gone for a long time. Wait for me and I will send for you. Never repeat this conversation to anyone.”
“Are you safe, my son?”
“Yes, I am. Please forgive me but I must go right away.”
“Adeel, I love you,” said his mother, and Adeel knew there were tears rolling down her face.
“People may come to you asking about me. You are to tell them nothing. Do not believe anything they tell you about me. ”
“Are you wearing your taveez?”
“It never comes off my neck.”
“Then nothing will happen. I will wait as I always do.”
As Adeel hung up the phone, his fingers reached for the amulet his mother had given him when he was sixteen. The fine leather cord had softened over the years and now had the texture of silken thread. At the centre of the amulet was a piece of agate etched with an Arabic prayer. When Adeel stroked the prayer stone with his thumb, he did not think of God but of his beautiful mother’s face. After his father had died, Adeel had dedicated himself to caring for her. He knew his mother was a woman of great courage and fortitude. She would miss him terribly, but she would wait, and keep his secrets.
Adeel’s next mission was to locate a bank, so he hailed a taxi and asked the driver to take him to another section of the city. Twenty minutes later he stood before the automatic teller machine of the Habib Bank and withdrew as much cash as he could. He then searched for the post office, bought a padded envelope, and put another card and the money into it, along with a note to his mother telling her to use the cash whenever she needed it. Adeel walked toward the main road. He found a motorcycle rickshaw and headed back to the garage.
In the shed’s dank and gloomy interior, the toxic fumes of the cheap spray paint still lingered in the air, while the truck stood like a bird of paradise in the middle of the room. The garage owner greeted Adeel with a broad smile, then shouted over his shoulder, drawing out of the shadows a man holding a large ball wrapped in leaves. He parted the leaves to reveal a glistening round of Peshawar’s famous cottage cheese, made from rich buffalo milk. Eaten sparingly, it was a supply of protein that would last for days.
An hour later, Adeel headed north out of Peshawar in the painted truck, travelling at high speed through small towns and across long, barren stretches of road. He mentally noted the changes of climate and topography, convinced that a destination where he could find temporary shelter would present itself. He knew he needed to avoid settled communities at all costs, but beyond that, he had no idea where he was going to spend the night.
Adeel headed toward the province of Hazara, an area of soaring mountains, deep gorges, pine-clad forests, and a sparse, largely ignored population. In the back of the truck, along with the sculpture and the cheese, were additional food supplies he had picked up at the bazaar: oranges, bags of walnuts and dried apricots, hard, dried rusks of bread, and a bag of cucumbers. He would not pick up any meat until he reached a cooler climate. He knew how to light a fire, and could roast a sliver of meat on the tip of the combat knife he carried with him.
Adeel had hidden his long-range rifle under the seat, but his revolver was concealed under his waistcoat. He was moving through a territory that was not as inundated with violence as the rest of the country. However, there had been an incident of sectarian violence the previous year when a busload of men was slaughtered simply because they were Shia. The police and military were unable to keep the zealots or the underworld bosses in line.
Adeel despaired over the slowly eroding face of the true Pakistan. He raged internally at the hordes of bearded and ill-kept men who now roamed through the country, some even occupying seats in government. Most of them had no higher education to boast of, yet they ruled their equally uneducated and underprivileged constituents with an iron hand. These were the men who insisted that the state needed to be ruled by the church, but most of them had learned the Koran by rote, without true comprehension, because it was written in Arabic. These men lumped outmoded cultural taboos together with acts of shocking social injustice and declared them religious edicts. It was perplexing to Adeel how they managed to hold 187 million people hostage to their ideas.
Adeel thought about his childhood and his family. His father, a minor employee in the railways, had been a handsome man with a clean-shaven face, partial to Western-style trousers and well-pressed cotton shirts. His beautiful mother’s head had never been bundled in headscarves or shawls. A gauzy dupatta lay draped across her chest and shoulders except during prayers, when it was draped lightly over her hair. They had no family car, only a motorcycle. On outings, Adeel and his brother rode sandwiched between their parents. Adeel could remember the sheen of his mother’s hair as it whipped though the wind, and the hands she placed around her husband’s waist as young Adeel pressed himself into her body. When his father died, Adeel had been sorely tempted to teach his mother how to drive the motocycle. But the changing face of Pakistan had made him cautious; the sight of his mother riding a motorcycle might easily incur the wrath of the community.
Adeel’s father had viewed his wife as a comrade-in-arms. He had taught her how to read and write, and would hand her a roll of banknotes whenever he received his salary, trusting that she would manage the family expenses. Adeel grew up knowing that his father’s small, worn leather wallet was nearly always empty except for his railway pass and faded wedding photograph. On one rare occasion, he was taken to a country fair by his parents and given a twenty-rupee note by his father.
“Go buy some bangles for your mother,” his father had said, winking at him.
Ten-year-old Adeel, unable to locate the bangle stall, bought a hair ornament instead. His father’s eyebrows scrunched together in silent displeasure, but his mother promptly fastened the ornament to her long braid.
“Where is the change?” his father had asked.
“It cost twenty rupees,” Adeel replied, frightened.
“You have been cheated,” his father declared.
Adeel remained silent and stared at his feet.
“The man saw a nervous little boy so he knew it would be easy to cheat you,” his father said. “Always stand confidently, and never let an
yone know that you are nervous or afraid.”
DRIVING STEADILY NORTH on the mountain road, Adeel noticed the temperature change with the elevation just as the first roadside marker, for the town of Balakot, appeared. The small town was located in a region where a devastating earthquake had occurred a few years ago. Large boulders had rolled down the mountain, destroying homes and schools. The death toll was staggering.
The mountain roads were too narrow to pull over on, so Adeel decided to pass Balakot before finding a place to stop. He wouldn’t be able to linger in the town, lest any image of his vehicle, or himself, were to remain in some local’s memory. His stomach growled but he kept driving. Closer to Balakot, the evidence of the earthquake’s destruction initially made the little town seem abandoned. Two local hotels, both with terraces overlooking the busy bazaar, came into view. The tantalizing smell of grilled kebabs rose in the air as he drove past. Adeel decided to continue north toward the Kaghan Valley. A vacation destination for many, the area offered trout fishing and mountaineering. Roadside vendors cooled bottles of soft drinks and watermelons under the water of the springs and small waterfalls that cascaded down the mountains.
Adeel stopped the truck next to a river, where he refilled his depleted water jug. He ignored the vendors and kept his turban low over his forehead. Then, someone behind him spoke.
“Are you going to Kaghan?”
“Yes, beyond it,” replied Adeel, not turning to look at the speaker.
“Can you give me a ride?” The voice was female, and Balti-accented.
“No. I am picking up a few people a mile from here.” Adeel climbed into the truck and reversed without looking at the woman who was trying to move closer to the window.
Adeel drove fast, avoiding the road that climbed higher to Naran, the magical holiday spot that sat on the peak of the mountain, and heading for the valley below. He knew the road ahead would be full of hairpin turns, so he stopped at a wide bend to eat. Adeel pulled out the cheese and a handful of dried apricots, then rolled up both windows, got out, and locked the truck. He disappeared into the thick shrubbery by the side of the road, where he ate and smoked two cigarettes as he lay on the ground. He removed his dark glasses and washed his face using the water he had collected in the plastic jug. Then he went back to the truck, opened the padlock on the back, and stepped inside. The statue lay there, rolled up and bolstered by wool blankets on either side. He pulled out one of the blankets and found a rough woollen beret. He took off his turban, replaced it with the beret, and draped the blanket around his shoulders. He now resembled the men of the region. His rest stop had taken about forty minutes.
The Place of Shining Light Page 4