The Place of Shining Light

by Nazneen Sheikh

  They reached the large shed-like structure in ten minutes. It was padlocked from the front, but a light flickered from somewhere above. Sher Khan walked along the edge of the shed and saw a small wooden staircase. He climbed it quickly, tucking his holster further under his jacket toward his armpit. Sher Khan approached the wooden door and pushed it open. A man stood on a landing, facing him.

  “Are you police or army?”

  “Neither,” said Sher Khan, pushing back the hood of his jacket.

  “What do you want?” asked the man. “This is my property.”

  “I think you helped my friend this morning,” replied Sher Khan.

  “What friend?”

  “It was the man who drove the brown truck.”

  “Many trucks come here. This is a small business. I would have noticed. There was no brown truck,” the man replied.

  “It is all right. He is in trouble and you helped him. He could not reach me or I would have given him one of my own cars,” Sher Khan said, stepping closer.

  “Who are you?” the man said fearfully, stepping back.

  “We are all brothers,” said Sher Khan as he pulled his revolver out.

  AN HOUR LATER, Nadir received a call from Sher Khan.

  “You will be looking for a needle in a haystack, Nadir,” said Sher Khan, recounting all of the information he’d gathered from the man at the truck-decorating company.

  “I will not fail to find him,” Nadir replied. “There is only one road heading north.”

  SIX

  DEEP IN THE HEART of Punjab Province, a tall man promenaded along the dusty lanes of a small village adjoining Ghalib’s estate. His mission was to be seen so that he might create a combination of fear and awe in the hearts of the simple people. Nur Hyat, recently hired by Ghalib, fulfilled a time-honoured role in Pakistani politics: he ensured the vote bank. This meant that he guaranteed that the constituency, or halka, would deliver its votes on Election Day. Nur Hyat was six feet five. He sported glistening waves of short hair and a neat, clipped moustache. His pale-pistachio-coloured shalwar kameez suit was as theatrical because his cuffed, swirling trousers were made of nine yards of fine cotton instead of the usual three.

  Nur Hyat was a jack of all trades. He sold carpets, supplied prostitutes, and even represented people when they sold their lands. Recently, however, he had fallen on hard times. Ghalib had summoned him, sniffed out his desperation, and promptly given him his current assignment. A modest expense account cemented the alliance between the two men. Nur Hyat was also given permission to enter both of Ghalib’s residences, where meals would be served to him. On the odd occasion, he would also have the rare privilege of sharing a meal with Ghalib himself.

  Nur Hyat’s skills lay in his loquacious manner, twinned with his ability to argue a point to exhaustion. In order to escape the unchecked flow of his rhetoric, listeners acquiesced quickly. This was how Nur Hyat convinced the villagers to vote for his man. He often hinted at the great rewards that would come when Ghalib won. These false promises lit the flame of hope in the breasts of the downtrodden people who had been suffering silently since the creation of Pakistan. With his theatrical panache, Nur Hyat worked to build their confidence as well.

  “Your needs are known,” he would croon, “and they do not escape the eye of your patron. He is the only one who will take care of you.” When some daring soul piped up and commented that this had never happened, Nur Hyat would promise that Ghalib would be the one to change all of that. He would get government money for them, but he would have to first win the election.

  Nur Hyat’s other task was to completely discredit Ghalib’s opponents. Here, the storyteller in him rose to the occasion.

  “The other party will seize all your farmland and build factories run by machines. You will not be able to feed your families!” he would roar.

  Sometimes, he would pull out a wad of 100-rupee notes and put these in the hands of the women. This amounted to an extra three kilograms of vegetables. The money was always taken, confirming to Nur Hyat that votes were beginning to be secured.

  At one of these speeches, a hard-eyed man with the body of a wrestler stepped forward.

  “Other people have also come here to ask for our votes. Why should we give them to Mian sahib?”

  “Because Ghalib is the best man for the job. He is like a father to all of you and his family has been here for generations. You see that great house?” said Nur Hyat, sensing trouble.

  “Yes, we know all about that great house,” said the man, and then spat viciously at Nur Hyat’s feet.

  “Hey! Watch your mouth,” Nur Hyat said, slowly unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt and pushing up his sleeves.

  The two men faced each other while the small crowd stirred uneasily. Nur Hyat had been raised on the streets, and he was confident that a couple of blows would make the man retract his insulting gesture. Of course, he had no intention of getting into a physical altercation, but by rolling up his sleeves, he was indicating his ability to do so.

  “Dalal pimp,” hissed the man, spinning on his heel and swiftly walking away.

  Nur Hyat smiled thinly, rolled down his sleeves — taking care to button them at the cuffs — and then raised his hand.

  “That man is a fool. He will die poor. You,” he said, pointing his index finger toward the crowd, “will give your vote to Mian sahib and reap great rewards.”

  GHALIB SAT ON his bed propped up by pillows, telling his cook which dishes he wanted him to prepare for a special lunch he was having. A disgruntled cabinet minister, Soody, who had resigned in a fit of pique, had joined a new political party. He was an acquaintance of Ghalib’s, and the one who had convinced him to run in his constituency. The new party was garnering a lot of media attention, declaring its mandate to end corruption and give birth to accountability in a nation that had survived for almost sixty-four years without either. The leader of the new party was a Pakistani man named Ashiq Khota, who had existed on the fringes of the political arena before revealing his new ambition to lead the nation. Word swept through the country, and opportunists of every stripe joined his party. He had a youthful appearance and a tall, muscular body. This was a pleasing contrast to the country’s heavily jowled, overweight, and greying politicians. AK, as he was called by everyone, had never held public office, and his record was clean. He blustered when at the podium, hurling colourful invective at the government and his various rivals. For close to a year, he had comically addressed his assembly of followers by mixing metaphors that his largely unlettered audience could not understand. He promised that a magic wand would clean up the nation, delivering a brand new Pakistan. His audience was made up of hordes of young, uneducated men who viewed political rallies as the prime venues for a new form of sanctioned hooliganism. They tore down barriers, jumped on the speaker’s stage, and vandalized public property, all while terrorizing the more genteel attendees. They also waved party flags, danced to sentimental political songs, and created horrendous traffic jams. AK’s canny social media team uploaded video footage and set the online world in Pakistan spinning. Facebook and Twitter support blossomed until, eventually, the artificially created popularity ratings became fact rather than fiction.

  Ghalib, for whom opportunism was an act of both genius and survival, felt his new political aspirations would add lustre to his life. If he were to be gifted with a cultural portfolio, perhaps the seasonal depression that had plagued him for years would be lifted. He had to admit that the thought of riding around in a poster-emblazed car, lifting his hand to wave to the people, carried a certain seductive grandeur. The new party also had a modern buzz about it. The people coming for lunch would give Ghalib advice about campaigning for the new party and advise him on how to run his headquarters, or dera, as it was called locally. In return, Ghalib would dazzle them with his sumptuous country home and the copious amounts of food served at his table. Th
e long dining table seated about sixteen, which in itself was an impressive display of china and flatware.

  AN HOUR LATER, Ghalib greeted his guests with a lavish welcome. A smile flitted across his face when he heard the three party officials admiring the central salon. The abundance of ancient sculptures, vessels, and tapestries — lit perfectly by colourful, handmade wooden chandeliers — earned approving gazes. Ghalid could almost hear their thoughts: they knew they were in the home of a man who would serve the nation well. A local lawyer who had put in many hours to promote the party in the nearby town of Pakpattan was also present.

  The lunch was a roaring success. A plan was immediately devised for organizing cricket matches for the local teenagers. These matches would be hosted by Ghalib, who would hand out cash rewards to the winning teams along with gilt-covered plastic trophies. Ghalib’s visibility, including the brief speeches he would make, would be his training ground for the upcoming elections. When the lunch was over, Ghalib retired to his room.

  As he sat in his bath, Ghalib fantasized about the magnificent Buddhist sculpture Khalid would soon deliver. He had been perusing the new Sotheby’s catalogue and planned to write a letter to an art dealer in London in order to ascertain the current value of the piece. He also thought about a slender fifteen-year-old girl in the village who had caught his eye. Ghalib knew that she would not be delivered to him. For her, he would have to indulge in a little courtship. The mother had made no secret of her loathing for Ghalib. As he soaked in the warm, soapy water, he decided to pay a casual visit to the girl’s house later that evening, armed with a stack of presents to dent the mother’s resistance.

  DUSK WAS A mysterious time of the day. Pale light settled on the mud and stucco homes of the village. The whine of farm tractors ceased, along with the sound of small children playing in the lanes. Wearing a fresh outfit, Ghalib was on his way to the young girl’s house. He sat in the back seat of his car, accompanied by squares of colourful fabric that rose in a tidy pile next to him. Each square contained enough material for a suit of clothes, along with a diaphanous length for the matching dupatta. The fabrics, carefully chosen by Ghalib, reflected his exquisite taste. The artist in him had selected vibrant magenta, turquoise, and emerald green. Next to the fabrics rested two one-kilo boxes of local sweets, wrapped in tissue paper fastened in place with gold ribbon. The pièce de résistance was a clear plastic box containing a cheap pink-quartz watch, along with two tubes of lip gloss. He knew these items would pierce the heart of a fifteen-year-old village girl like an arrow.

  The car stopped at the end of the narrow lane. A tall, lanky man walked up to the car and greeted Ghalib.

  “Ah Nilu, it has been a long time and I have come to visit your family,” Ghalib said.

  Nilu grinned as his eyes flickered over the gifts that the chauffeur was holding in his arms. This game was as old as the hills. Nilu knew his teenaged daughter would bring unlimited bounties to the family. All he had to do was wait and see how the negotiations would be carried out. He had been apprised of the landlord’s interest weeks ago, but his wife had mounted a stubborn resistance. Over the years, an endless line of teenaged girls and boys had been selected and sent to the Ghalib’s house, where they functioned as sex slaves and performed domestic duties. Once the novelty wore off, Ghalib would pay for a marriage to a more suitable local. Despite the unpleasant nature of these arrangements, most parents allowed Ghalib to have his way; they knew his displeasure could render them homeless and jobless in an instant. The girls who were selected would be fed a more nutritious diet than they would have at home, and be provided with clothes and gifts they could share with their families. It was the fathers who made these decisions about their daughters. In Nilu’s case, however, his wife simply refused to entertain the idea. Unlike the submissive women in the village, she raged at the thought of this arrangement. The lack of social justice for women was a flame that consumed her. She loathed Ghalib, and she would not allow this to happen to her child.

  Ghalib followed Nilu, who pushed open the wooden door embedded in the mud wall that encircled his tiny home. Two rope beds and a wooden armchair furnished the small central courtyard, along with a large tree to which a goat was tethered. Hidden under the lush, cascading foliage was a wooden wheelbarrow that Nilu filled with the local fruits and vegetables he sold on the main road.

  “Please sit, Mian sahib. I will ask my family to greet you,” said Nilu, gesturing to the wooden chair.

  Ghalib asked the chauffeur to place the gifts on one of the rope-strung beds. A gaunt woman with dark skin emerged from inside the house. She threw a furious look at her husband and sat down on the bed that was farthest away from Ghalib and his gifts. She stared straight ahead, refusing to make eye contact with Ghalib. Then, a slender girl with her head wrapped in a black cotton shawl emerged. She sat on the bed where the gifts had been placed, but turned her back to Ghalib.

  Ghalib murmured soft greetings to both the mother and daughter. He studied the girl’s back and examined her dirty feet, dangling near the floor. When she’d entered the courtyard, her astonishing beauty had been clearly visible. She had an oval face with a small stud glinting on one side of her nose. Ghalib thought she could use a long soak in his bathtub. The thought of her rising, sylphlike, with drops of perfumed water dripping off her body made him dizzy.

  “Look, Shehla. I have bought you some gifts. Why don’t you show them to your mother,” he cajoled in a soft voice.

  The girl sat with her back to him, but the fingers of one slim hand pinched the lowest pile of fabric and then quickly withdrew. Her mother rose silently and walked to the open mud hearth. She squatted to light the fire for tea.

  “I have already had tea. Nilu, please tell her not to trouble herself,” Ghalib said. He noticed that the girl had turned sideways just a little, and her profile was now visible.

  “Shehla. It is Shehla, isn’t it?” Ghalib said.

  She looked over one shoulder quickly and glanced at him. In the split second before he turned away, Ghalib saw laughter in her eyes. He smiled broadly at Nilu. The mother returned to her spot.

  “Is Shehla going to school?’ asked Ghalib, knowing full well that the girl was illiterate.

  “She works with me in the fields at harvest,” said the mother sternly.

  Ghalib rose. He was not going to push his luck. His departure would determine if his opening gambit had made an impact. He knew the gifts would not be examined in his presence. But if he was permitted to leave them, the girl would fight for the watch and lip gloss and the mother would hang on to the fabric.

  “Goodbye, Shehla,” said Ghalib to her turned back.

  She made a sound. He thought perhaps she stifled a laugh. Then, in a muffled voice she said. “You better take your things with you.”

  “They are gifts for you . . . and for the family. I will not take them back.”

  Ghalib walked toward the wooden door without glancing back. It was only a matter of time before another flower bud would be pinned on his lapel. Hunger, deprivation, and the complete absence of social justice had given rise to a reckless greed in this country. For the poor, any shortcut to the privileged life of the rich was acceptable — especially for girls, who were always a financial burden. The only obstacle to Shehla was her mother, but Ghalid knew this could be overcome. If the woman could no longer find work at Ghalib’s estate, or at any neighbouring farm, she would likely change her mind.

  Ghalib’s chauffeur had witnessed many of these selection rituals, and had often played messenger while he ferried the girls back and forth in one of his employer’s many vehicles. Tonight, though, as he eased the car over the dusty potholes of the village lanes, he had a sense of foreboding. The girl was so young, and the image of his corpulent employer plucking her virginity made him shudder. He had five children of his own. Ghalib’s current object of favour was sometimes taken to the city home in Lahore, although her prese
nce was concealed once there. The chauffeur knew that she stayed in a tiny room on the second floor, close to Ghalib’s own suites. He also knew that male servants would often furtively proposition her, but he had no taste for this behaviour; he always kept his distance.

  “What do you think?” Ghalib inquired from the back seat. “Is the mother really a problem?”

  “Yes, she is. Let her go, Mian sahib, there are lots of other girls in the village,” said the chauffeur.

  “I cannot resist her. She is beautiful and I want her.” Ghalib’s tone was dismissive, matter-of-fact. “Tell Nilu there is a reward for him in this.”

  “Mian sahib, please ask your estate manager to talk to Nilu. I don’t want to, I have children of my own . . .”

  Silence filled the car. There was no need for Ghalib to respond. All it would take was a phone call to his household clerk, and a simple instruction: delay the chauffeur’s salary this month.

  RETURNING HOME EMPTY-HANDED irritated Ghalib. The night stretching ahead demanded some form of revelry. There was a female entertainer in the town of Sahiwal, thirty kilometres away. She was a singer who was not averse to being summoned on short notice. Ghalib fancied her easy charm, her husky singing voice, and her sexual compliance. The chauffeur — who would bear the brunt of Ghalib’s displeasure for the remainder of his stay in the country — was dispatched to bring her immediately as Ghalib busied himself by ordering carpets and cushions to be brought to the rooftop pavilion.

  Ghalib stood supervising the arrangements with a large beer stein in his hand. He was diabetic, and currently under the care of a somewhat untrustworthy naturopath in Lahore who had told him to drink as much beer as he wanted. This was Ghalib’s third stein, and he felt a pleasant euphoria wash over him as he imagined that he was a Mughal prince waiting for a courtesan to entertain him for the night. Nur Hyat would handle the tedious detail of the singer’s fee. His groom, who regularly beat him at snooker, would also be invited to the party, as well as two of the teenaged boys who were his current favourites. Ghalib’s spirits rose even further when he heard the sound of the car entering the estate’s gates. He clapped his hands in pleasure.