The Place of Shining Light

by Nazneen Sheikh

  At midnight, Ghalib held a mujra, which had its origins in the Mughal culture of undivided India. Accompanied by musicians, courtesans sang innuendo-filled songs designed to arouse sexual desire. Whether it was a poem being performed, or movements from the classical Kathak dance, a strict etiquette was followed. The courtesan was treated with great respect, and the audience was given licence to make extravagant gestures of admiration.

  The dark-haired singer settled on the carpet and tugged at her scooped neckline as she snapped her fingers at her accompaniment for the right rhythm. Then she cupped one hand, brought it to her forehead, and whispered “adaab” to Ghalib, who was seated right in front of her. Ghalib leaned forward, dropping strands of jasmine around her neck. The two teenaged boys giggled, while Nur Hyat let out a throaty sigh. The woman was more spectacle than songstress. From her wrists — encircled with tinkling glass bangles — to her henna-festooned feet, she heaved and writhed as she sang. Ghalib clapped and swayed in time with the music, occasionally indicating which songs he wished to hear. At 3 a.m., he told himself the night was still young. He knew he could last until dawn, when the singer’s heaving bosom would become his pillow.

  IT WAS 6:30 a.m. when the hysterical farm manager burst through the main gates of the estate, waking the sleeping guard and insisting that he lead him to Ghalib immediately. He raced up the stairs to the rooftop terrace where the carpets were littered with sleeping bodies. Ghalib’s was not among them. The manager kicked Nur Hyat, who opened his eyes and scowled.

  “Where is Mian sahib?’

  “Be quiet.” Nur Hyat whispered, pressing a finger against his lips. “He cannot be disturbed.” He closed his eyes again.

  The manager ran down the steps, where he spied Ghalib’s valet sleeping outdoors.

  “Wake up,” he said, shaking the man. “There’s been a catastrophe! Our master has been robbed! I have to speak to him at once.”

  “His door is locked. No one can enter,” replied the valet.

  “Bang on the door. Do it now,” demanded the manager.

  Ghalib heard the knocking. At first, he thought it was the workmen banging on wood. Gradually, however, he realized the sound was coming from his own door. He propped himself up on one elbow. The scent of cheap perfume surrounded him as the room spun and tilted. He was still drunk, and it was going to take him a few minutes to extricate himself from the mayhem in his bed —including the singer and one of the boys. He could hear the urgency in his valet’s voice beyond the locked door. Thoroughly outraged at being disturbed, Ghalib bellowed at the door, then rose, knotted a sarong around his waist, and pulled on last night’s shirt. The jasmine garlands that he had draped over the singer were now around his neck. He chuckled, pulled them off, and tossed them on the bed as he made his way to the door.

  An hour later, the front courtyard had been transformed into a crisis centre. While Ghalib and his entourage had been enjoying their night of decadant pleasure, a sizeable portion of his fortune had slipped away. An entire potato crop — worth millions of rupees — had disappeared from his storage facility. Now, Ghalib sat with three phones spread on the table before him, along with a mug of scalding tea. He was still trying to digest the news. The sale of the valuable potato crop had been intended to make a dent in his enormous bank loan, but now it was not to be. Ghalid shook his head. One had to give credit where credit was due. The theft had been masterfully planned. The farm manager, aware of Ghalib’s terrace bacchanal, had retired to bed early. When he awoke at 6 a.m., a villager reported that two long transport trucks had been seen at the storage area in the middle of the night. A visit to the facility had confirmed the news. The potatoes were, indeed, gone. Despite knowing that he’d probably be fired over the theft, the manager had run straight to Ghalib’s house to confront his fate.

  Ghalib spoke to the police in Sahiwal. Then he lined up all of his employees in the courtyard. He asked them to reveal any conversation or local gossip they might have heard about the theft. Calmly, he told his farm manager to keep an eye on the nearby markets: the thieves would undoubtedly try to sell the stolen potatoes, and that would lead to their arrest.

  Ghalib dismissed the workers and the manager, and leaned back in his chair, cup of tea in hand. He had done all he could do for the moment, but the actions taken had not quelled his concerns. Would his present financial crisis hamper his purchase of the statue? How could it not, when such a sizeable amount of cash was required? Ghalib thought for a moment, formulating a new plan. He placed his mug on the table and rose from the chair, resolved that his day would not be entirely ruined by the theft. He would go visit his bank manager in town.

  THE TWO MEN had an affable meeting. Ghalib did not reveal the true purpose of his visit. Instead, he hinted that his village could well do with a local branch of the bank. He had a choice corner plot of land that he could make available at a reasonable price, he told the manager. They decided that lunch should be had to discuss the proposition in more detail.

  In a nation of gastronomical delights, Sahiwal had not been left behind. Chinese cuisine adapted for the Pakistani palate was a spicy favourite with many people in the region, and the town boasted a particularly good Chinese restaurant. When the sumptuous dishes of seafood, beef filet, and chicken arrived, accompanied by fried rice and soups, Ghalib tasted each one. The men ate for close to an hour in absolute silence, despite the crisis that had brought them together. Unbeknownst to Ghalib, the news of the potato theft had spread like wildfire. The bank manager had received the news by text as he drove to the restaurant, and he used the information to his advantage. He picked up the bill while Ghalib graciously inclined his head. As he settled with the restaurant’s owner, he did so safe in the knowledge that his most fashionable and aristocratic client would be selling his land to the bank at an even cheaper rate than he thought. And, of course, it would now be the bank’s duty to tighten the terms of Ghalib’s outstanding loan.

  SEVEN

  ADEEL OPENED HIS EYES. The cold air had woken him up. The small heater was not running, so he knew the electricity had been turned off at some point in the night. It was almost dawn when he sat up and saw her folded like a child in a fetal position against the wall. She had slept with her shoes on. He entered the small toilet, peeled off his clothes, and washed himself as best as he could in the cracked hand basin. When he was done, he opened the faucet that was stuck in the wall over the trough and clenched his teeth as the cold water poured over his body. After drying himself, he dressed quickly. When he re-entered the room, the woman was awake and seated against the wall; her face was pale.

  “We have to leave at once. Do you need to use the toilet?”

  She got up gingerly and stepped across the room in her new shoes. When she emerged a few minutes later, she picked up the wool blanket and draped it over her head, holding the edges of the blanket like a shawl. Her high cheekbones stood out sharply — a physical confirmation of her Tibetan ancestry.

  Not for the first time since meeting her, Adeel considered her body language; it seemed overly defensive, which made him wonder if she had experienced physical abuse at some point or another. Was it the husband she had run away from, or her father? A desire to console and reassure her overcame him, but there was no time.

  “Let’s go,” he said, and led the way out.

  They rolled out of the sleeping hamlet at 6 a.m. and headed to Chilas in the Gilgit Valley. It would be a 250-kilometre trek through the Babusar Pass and, factoring in road conditions, Adeel estimated a four-and-a-half-hour journey.

  Adeel pulled out the round of cheese and the package of dried apricots he had picked up in Peshawar and put them on the seat next to her.

  “Here,” he said, pushing the cheese and his folded penknife toward her.

  She unfolded the knife and examined it carefully. He wondered if she might decide to plunge its four-inch blade into his chest; instead, she sliced a perfect wedge
of cheese and held it out to him.

  “No. No. You eat first.” He brushed her hand away.

  “Food is given to the men first,” she said quietly.

  “Why?” he said angrily.

  She scowled at him.

  “I will not eat before you,” he said more gently.

  She turned her face away and gazed out the window. Adeel wondered how long she would hold out. He knew he could outwait her, but why was it so important to him that she eat first? He knew he had to control these feelings that she evoked in him. Again he considered dropping her off somewhere, but he knew it was too late for that. Every trace of last night’s dinner had long since been digested; he knew they were both hungry, but her stubbornness won the day.

  “Fine!” he said, exhaling heavily and reaching for the slice of cheese she had placed on the dashboard.

  She immediately cut another slice and held it out to him. He grabbed it and jammed it against her mouth, the steering wheel spinning dangerously in the wrong direction.

  She removed the pieces of cheese rolling off her chin, threw back her head, and laughed. Then she cut another slice and held it out to him. This time, though, she leaned away. In that moment, Adeel could no longer hold back his laughter. He had never engaged in such play with a woman before — only with his cadet friends at the military academy years ago. Every time his mother had suggested that he get married, he ducked the conversation. He did not want to make the same mistake as his brother and marry the wrong woman.

  “What is in your truck?” she asked through a mouth full of dried apricots.

  “What do you mean? Nothing,” he said, shocked to be on the receiving end of such a direct question.

  “I know there is something there. I can feel it. Here,” she said, tapping her heart.

  Adeel was dumbstruck. He knew she had not had a chance to look inside the back of the truck. She was just fishing for information.

  “It is precious to you? Is this why you are taking it far away?”

  He remained silent for a while, then cleared his throat. He knew he was about to take a great risk; what he didn’t know was why.

  “Do you want to see it?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she replied, carefully folding the bag of apricots.

  Adeel drove in silence, staring at the mountains rising sharply ahead and the river splicing through the valley below. His reckless offer had aroused her curiosity, and allowed grave risks to enter his plans. Still, he knew that he wanted to show her the sculpture.

  “Are you religious?” he said after a while.

  “No. I cannot understand anything. The boys went to the mosque, but the girls stayed at home.”

  “You say the prayers?”

  “No. I pretend if I have to.”

  He was surprised by her honesty and continued questioning her.

  “Come on, your mother must have taught you something.”

  “My mother bled to death giving birth to me. I was raised by my father. He taught me how to light a fire and cook. That is all.”

  “Is your husband going to look for you? Did you give him a child?”

  “No. He married another woman and his family threw me out of the house. I will live in these mountains and take care of myself,” she replied, turning away.

  “You will freeze to death. Nothing grows in the mountains,” he said, slowing down the truck.

  Adeel stopped where the road widened a little. A moment later, he and the woman stood behind the truck. He moved quickly, opening the back door and climbing in before he could change his mind. She followed right after him, and he reached to help, pulling her up by both arms. The shawl slipped from her head and she wound it around her neck like a long scarf. He turned, then, and slowly lifted the pile of woollen blankets. Behind him, her sharp intake of breath startled him. Her hands reached forward as she stared at the statue in wonder.

  “I know what this is,” she said as she stroked the neck of the sculpture, tracing the length of its marble drapery. Then she pressed her fingertips delicately around the face.

  “What do you know about it?” Adeel asked.

  “In Swat they destroy them. You must keep it hidden,” she said.

  “I will take care of it. It will not leave my side,” Adeel replied.

  “So you are like me. Kafir! Unbeliever?” She bent over the sculpture again.

  “I have stolen it,” he confessed.

  “It’s all right. I will help you. We will make a shrine for it with a big light,” she said. “Then you will see how truly beautiful it is.”

  “We will both be hunted, and killed if we are found with it. Come on, we must go.” He re-arranged the blankets over the quilt and made his way back to the cab of the truck.

  Adeel knew that the hunt for him must have begun. He was placing his faith in the region he had chosen to travel, but he knew he would have to find shelter in the hamlet of Chilas. But what to do with the woman? She could not pass for a relative; she looked nothing like him. The people of Gilgit, where she was from, had distinct Indo-Aryan faces, in which Tibetan, Chinese, and Tartar bloodlines mingled. She would have to masquerade as his wife.

  Adeel drove ahead, considering his new plan from every possible angle. For a while, the road was clear and they made good progress, but a little way outside Chilas, a Jeep, heading toward them, did not pass. Instead, it stopped, blocking the path. The driver got out and ran up to their truck.

  “Do not go to Chilas! Turn around,” he shouted at them.

  “Is there a problem on the road?” Adeel asked.

  “Passengers were pulled from a bus and killed.”

  “Why?” asked Adeel, dreading the answer.

  “They were Shia!”

  Adeel did not press the man further, just pointed his finger forward and took his foot off the brakes. The driver, realizing that his warning was not about to deter Adeel, returned quickly to his Jeep and moved the vehicle aside. As Adeel drove on, he pulled an automatic rifle from under his seat and placed it between him and the woman. Sectarian violence was an aberration in the country. More and more often these days, blood was spilled in the name of Islam — and with each act, the pages of Pakistan’s history book seemed to turn backwards. The Taliban, who were mired in medieval confusion and frustrated by a lack of political power, radicalized their brand of Islam by teaching men to sow the seeds of genocide. Murder was rationalized with phrases like “holy martyrdom” and “holy jihad.” And now, in response to this latest act of violence, security forces would no doubt be rushing toward the area, looking for the perpetrators of the crime. Adeel and his passenger needed a place to hide, at least for a while.

  OUTSIDE CHILAS, THE bus had shuddered to a stop. The passengers were unconcerned. Police checks were a way of life in this country. The two women who sat shrouded in their burkas, only half of their faces revealed, were the first to sense that the policeman who had jumped into the bus and pushed his way past the bewildered driver was not behaving like a real policeman. He went down the aisle barking a question: “Shia? Sunni?” Two turbaned men armed with revolvers followed him in. One by one, eight men were pulled from the bus and led to the road, where they stood in an uncertain clump. Within the bus, there was not a sound. The remaining passengers averted their eyes, looking out the windows at the mountains, the sweeping valley, and the stone-edged river below. The full-throated cry of “Allah-o Akbar” rang out as the three turbaned men, standing a mere foot away from their targets, lifted their revolvers. Eight bodies with blood-splattered heads fell forward, hitting the gravel-lined road. Not one twitched or moved. Somebody wept softly in the back of the bus. One young man had been saved by a woman who had claimed he was her son. The driver repeated a prayer for the dead under his breath.

  Out on the road, another cry of “Allah-o Akbar” rang out. This time, it was the policemen’s turn to toppl
e. Their bodies fell on top of the men they had shot just moments before. Eight turbaned men darted over the incline at the side of the road, rifles bobbing on their shoulders. Within seconds, they had vanished.

  When help finally arrived from the regional security force, some of the men vomited despite their training. White sheets were thrown over the corpses, but the blood seeped through the covering, making designs that looked like poppies and roses.

  ADEEL DROVE RAPIDLY. He knew the woman had heard the news, but she had not reacted, except to nudge the rifle a little closer to him.

  “They will be gone. They kill and hide quickly,” he said, glancing at her.

  She did not respond.

  “We have to find a place and hide this truck. Do you know this area?”

  “No. My father does not live in this region,” she said quietly.

  “I can leave you in the village if you are afraid, but I need your help for a little while longer,” he said.

  “Can you shoot the Taliban?”

  “Yes. I am trained. Don’t think about them,” he said firmly.

  “You have protection with you. The statue will protect us. Buddha,” she said solemnly.

  “Not Allah?” he asked, surprised.

  “The Taliban, they are his people,” she said scornfully.

  “If anyone stops and asks questions, you have to pretend to be my wife.”

  “No,” she protested. “You said they kill and run away!”

  “I mean, if you are asked by the police, army, or people on the street. You have to be strong. Are you strong?”

  “See that mountain,” she pointed up. “I can climb that in my bare feet!”

  “I mean in your head. That is what matters,” he replied.

  An army truck appeared behind them. Adeel knew it would be better to let it overtake him as soon as the road widened. He understood the confusion and frustration that must be rampant within a military continually sabotaged by the Taliban’s surprise attacks. There would be solemn photographs in the newspapers with a figure from the High Command offering some lame excuse to the masses. The driver of the army truck leaned on his horn. Adeel moved his truck closer to the cliff side of the road. As the army vehicle shot past, Adeel turned his head sideways and lifted his arm to hide his face. The woman crouched lower in her seat. The man on the passenger side of the military vehicle glanced at them briefly. As soon as the truck had overtaken them, it slowed down. Eventually, it stopped completely, forcing Adeel to do the same.