“A lunch has already been arranged. He will not have much time,” Soody said, patting Ghalib’s forearm in appreciation.
Soody did not linger, so Ghalib fortified himself with two more drinks and looked around the room. His geriatric companions, trussed in Western clothes, sat in the ruined splendour of their faded lives. Many would even stay to dine in solitude. Ghalib found them depressing. He knew that his decision to enter politics would save him from a similar fate. He quickly summoned a waiter and ordered dinner, informing the man that his chauffeur would collect it in half an hour.
WHEN HE ARRIVED home, he gave quick instructions to his staff for the departure. They would have to leave tonight in order to arrive in the country and prepare for the next day’s rally. A little over an hour later, two cars rolled out of the gates carrying supplies and many members of his staff.
During the drive, Ghalib thought of Khalid. He wondered why he had not heard from the man and decided to call for an update.
Faisal answered the phone.
“He is asleep, Mian sahib. We travelled to Peshawar and back in one day.”
“Wonderful! Wonderful! Tell Khalid I am heading to the country and when I return I will come to Barako to collect the sculpture myself,” said Ghalib.
“Of course,” replied Faisal.
“Also tell him that I expect a huge donation to my political party. He may need a favour one day.”
THE NEXT MORNING, Ghalib dressed quickly in a pristine white suit and stepped outside to behold a colourful sight. Nur Hyat stood beside two cars plastered with political posters. The photos of Ghalib’s face had been touched up with a generous spill of hair. A red, green, and black party flag sailed out from the side mirror near the driver’s door. The entire domestic staff was milling around in the front courtyard, looking at the cars, while a clutch of villagers stood outside the front gate. The estate manager’s black Jeep, also festooned with posters, was parked nearby. Ghalib adjusted his dark sunglasses and climbed into the back seat of the car. As he raised his left hand, waving in a stately fashion at the villagers, he began to feel the excitement of the carefully constructed pageantry. The villagers waved back, believing that greater glory would appear for their region through Ghalib’s political success.
As they approached the city of Sahiwal, a snarl of more poster-emblazoned vehicles reduced the speed of Ghalib’s mini-cortège to a snail’s pace. Ghalib preened in the mirror, imagining the sensation of success he would feel once the elections were over. Politics, he thought, was a lot of fun. When they reached the property where AK would be received, Ghalib’s cars were stopped. He got out, waved to the gathered crowd, and walked with his chauffeur toward the main gate, where the party officials greeted him respectfully. Cameras clicked and television stations filmed his arrival. AK appeared at the entrance soon after, with a head of windblown hair, a gaunt face, and an air of unease. An aide beside him pointed to Ghalib, and AK stopped and clasped Ghalid’s outstretched hand in both of us own. Ghalib simply smiled, realizing that he had nothing to say.
The women’s rally was conducted in a large space behind the house under a tented marquee, complete with a stage and microphones. The day was hot, and Ghalib was still tired from his preparations and drive the night before. He pulled a carefully pressed handkerchief from his pocket and patted the sweat from his face. Was it really worth it, he wondered, to wait for the rally to end and then partake in a crowded lunch — where the invited few would fight with the gatecrashers to get close to the leader? He lingered for half an hour and then immediately walked out and headed to his car.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Ghalib’s car was driving toward Harappa, a small village located twenty-four kilometres west of Sahiwal. Harappa dated back to 2500 bce; it had been the most vital part of the Indus Valley civilization. It was a place Ghalib visited secretly. He had managed to purchase an entire hillock just before the government sealed off the area to any speculative land sales. Archaeological excavations in Pakistan were now state-sanctioned, and relied heavily on resources from developed countries. Ghalib, however, had acquired a vast collection of antiquities by teaching the local people how to dig and what to look for. His long-term plan was to secure his political power, and some international interest, so he could unearth an entire treasure trove through a more professional excavation of the area.
Reaching Harappa and walking along the side of the hill was almost a spiritual experience for Ghalib. He was more comfortable here than at any political rally. As his footsteps left imprints on the baked earth, he imagined he could feel vibrations from the vast collection of artifacts buried beneath. The museums in his country were a scandal, he thought. There was little respect for antiquities. The three main museums of Pakistan, still housed in colonial buildings, had never beened modernized — and the collections suffered. Graduate degrees in museum sciences were not sought in this country. Museum directors drank copious amounts of tea in their shabby offices while semi-literate men acted as custodial staff. Many senior museum bureaucrats regularly dined in the homes of people who had pilfered entire collections, yet no action was ever taken.
Ghalib almost wished for a shovel so that he could dig for himself. His ownership of this mound of earth — which, he believed, held an unimaginable fortune — could solve some of his more tedious financial problems. Keeping his dreams close, Ghalib paced the perimeter of the knoll for an hour, drawing curious looks from his chauffeur, who was no doubt wondering why they were here. Eventually, Ghalib reluctantly climbed down from the hillock and returned to his car.
Ghalib was exhausted on the drive home. He had consulted his naturopath in Lahore about his fatigue and had been prescribed a special diet. He found the regimen distasteful, however, and so did not follow it. In addition to diabetes, there was also the possibility that he had kidney stones. For years now, Ghalib had concealed most of these infirmities from others. He refused to air out any of his health concerns in public. As a result, a kind of denial had set in, and he had not been entirely truthful with the psychiatrist he saw in Lahore. In weak moments, he often worried that the full canvas of his life might suddenly fold up without any warning. This was one of those moments. Instead of heading directly home, Ghalib asked his driver to take him to a local Sufi shrine.
Ghalib climbed the long flight of marble steps leading up to the shrine with some difficulty. He felt his heart flutter and he sank breathlessly onto a bench in a pillared arcade where a group of musicians sang Sufi songs. Clusters of visitors strolled in the shrine’s the top pavilion, often dropping money down at the musicians. The small chamber that housed the burial site of a saint drew the biggest crowd. Ghalib was usually led to this chamber by staff. Today, however, he was content to just sit quietly and listen to the devotional songs. His chauffeur had positioned himself in the long line of people queuing for the shrine. While waiting for his elevated heartbeat to slow, Ghalib watched a man dressed in black with a drum and ropes of beads strung around his neck. Rows of bracelets encircled his wrists, and his fingers were encrusted with silver rings. He moved toward Ghalib and joined him, sitting cross-legged on the ground.
“Something has been stolen from you,” he said softly.
This statement startled Ghalib. For a moment, he looked ahead silently, sorting out his thoughts. Then he turned to the drummer and spoke. “What do you think it is?”
The man slumped forward and pressed both hands to the side of his head. Ghalib watched him curiously, wondering if it was a game to earn some money.
“Buth . . . statue . . .” The man breathed heavily, his head still bent.
“Did you say ‘buth’?” Ghalib asked.
“Yes.” The man raised his head and fixed his eyes on Ghalib. “It comes from far.”
“Who has stolen it?” asked Ghalib.
“I have seen it in the back of a truck. I see a man and a woman.” The man’s pupils were dilated.
&nbs
p; Sufi mystics often claimed to follow the path of divinity. But Ghalib knew that they also indulged in the use of opiates. Ecstatic fervour, they believed, was the path to God.
“Perhaps you know something about me?” Ghalib ventured. He wanted to keep the man talking without revealing too much.
“I am the messenger. I have been sent to you,” the man said, pointing a finger at Ghalib.
“Do you sing?”
“Only my drums sing. I will make you dance.” The man looked up and smiled at him.
“Come to my house. You can play your drums for me there,” Ghalib said.
Ghalib headed toward the burial chamber and stood at the marble latticework window embedded in one wall. He cupped his palms and recited the Fateha, the prayer for the dead, and savoured the peace this exercise induced. The drummer had not followed him, but was waiting for him outside. Local folklore insisted that miracles did occur at Sufi shrines, and Ghalib felt that the saint had singled him out for his encounter with the Sufi mystic. When his chauffeur appeared by his side, Ghalib told him that the drummer would be coming with them. He then instructed the chauffeur to give alms to some of the people sitting against the walls of the shrines.
THE DRUMMER SAT in the front seat next to the chauffeur. When the huge wooden gates of the estate swung open, he turned around to Ghalib and gave him a large smile. In that moment, Ghalib realized that the man had not chosen him in the shrine because he had any prior knowledge of who he was. When Ghalib got out of the car, he ordered refreshments for the drummer, then excused himself so he could call Khalid again.
“Khalid, I want the truth. Do you have the sculpture?”
“Yes. It is coming. It will be here soon,” replied Khalid briskly.
“Was the person whom you sent to collect it travelling in a brown truck?”
For a moment there was silence.
“I will check and let you know. Relax, Ghalib. Sometimes delivery takes longer than we anticipate. All is well. Do you have the payment?”
“Yes, I do. I have sold land for it, my friend!”
Khalid laughed, then said goodbye quickly, leaving Ghalib to wonder if his friend was lying to him. Ghalib was now convinced that something was wrong. All of his recent conversations with Khalid were briefer than they had ever been in the past. Ghalib decided to rest for a while, in order to gear himself up for the long evening ahead that he would share with the drummer from the shrine.
THAT EVENING, FADED carpets were spread over the bricks in the front courtyard. The household domestics sat on the ground in front of the drummer, while an armchair was brought outside for Ghalib. Next to him on a table rested a bottle of inferior whisky, Pakistani vodka, and numerous cans of beer. Ghalib nodded to his valet, who dipped his hands into a large straw basket and drew out garlands of miniature roses threaded with jasmine. As he distributed them, the drummer held up his hands, wanting the garlands to be wrapped around his wrists. Then he rose and fixed his eyes on Ghalib. He began to play a familiar Sufi elegy, swaying from side to side with the rhythm. Ghalib was hypnotized by the flowers that encircled the drummer’s wrists, and by the gentle voices of his staff, who had joined in by singing the words. Within fifteen minutes, they were on their feet, pulled by the drum’s steady beat. Ghalib’s staff circled, dancing around the drummer as he twirled.
Ghalib sipped his beer and watched the faces of the dancing servants. Each of them wore a smile, as the party was a release from their assigned chores. Two of the teenaged boys broke away and danced together. The drummer encouraged them by quickening the music’s pace. Mesmerized, Ghalib joined in, circling each boy’s head with a 100-rupee note before tucking it safely into a shirt pocket. A generous amount of whisky was mixed with cola in a glass and offered to the drummer. He emptied the glass in one long swallow before flinging it away, not once breaking the frenzied rhythm. Ghalib sank back into his chair and enjoyed the concert for the next two hours.
When the performance ended, a chair was brought out for the drummer. He set his drums aside and proceeded to down another glass of watered-down whisky.
“You are blessed. You have a great gift,” Ghalib said, before dropping a five-thousand-rupee note on his lap. The drummer ignored the money and fixed his bloodshot eyes on Ghalib.
“There are those who would harm you,” he whispered.
“Me? Why?”
“There is a curse. I see it in this great house of yours.”
Ghalib laughed, trying to lighten the mood. He had to determine if the man’s earlier prophecy was valid.
“I have a friend—”
“Your only friend is up there,” the drummer interrupted, pointing to the sky.
“Yes, but we also have to live here,” Ghalib replied, indicating the ground.
“This world is nothing. People come and go. This also goes.” He picked up the money and tore the note in half.
Ghalib ignored the uncivil gesture. “I want to thank you for playing the drum for all of us.”
“Give me more whisky and I will tell you how you can thank me.”
“Let us talk,’ Ghalib said, then caught his valet’s eye. “Bring another drink for our guest.”
The valet threw an angry look at the drummer. He mixed a weak drink and placed it down with hostility before collecting the two halves of the note that had been thrown on the ground. Ghalib took a sip of his beer and wondered for a moment if he had not been generous enough.
“Tell me what you saw in your mind. It is important to me.”
“You are a sick man.”
“No, I am fine,” Ghalib said coolly. “Tell me about the truck and the man who is in it.”
The drummer emptied half of the glass and then set it down on the ground in front of him. Again, he slumped forward and pressed his hands to the sides of his head. He took longer this time, and after a while his shoulders began to twitch, as if he was trying to get rid of something that disturbed him. Finally, his movements stopped and he straightened up, facing Ghalib.
“This ‘buth’ will save them. He is looking for escape. He is a warrior. He will reach the other side, but the woman will put him into trouble. There is so much light around them. So much light,” the drummer murmured.
“But where are they?” asked Ghalib.
“I see them on the other side of the world. I am tired, Mian sahib. I must sleep,” the drummer said as he rose from the chair.
“You can sleep in my house. You will be comfortable,” Ghalib said, getting up as well.
“Do not harm them, or an even bigger curse will fall on your house.”
Ghalib instructed his valet to find a place for the drummer to sleep. He knew the session was over and that it was not wise to push his luck further. The valet whispered that it was not a good idea to let the man stay indoors. Ghalib refused to accept his suggestion and walked back into the house, where he telephoned Khalid again.
“How was your political rally?’ asked Khalid.
“A waste of time, but I had to show my face. When are you expecting delivery?”
“I would say in two days. I have never known you to be so impatient before,” Khalid said irritably.
“I hope there was no act of violence with respect to the statue’s acquisition or delivery,” Ghalib added.
“Violence?”
“Yes. I mean that no one was killed.”
“Well, I had to get some help from our special friends, but they always respect my instructions,” replied Khalid.
“There will be an election soon. I am running for office and cannot have any links to the Taliban,” Ghalib said curtly.
“There have been some unforeseen expenses. I think you should send half of the payment to me now, Ghalib,” said Khalid.
“Don’t discuss payment with me, Khalid. I will make the entire payment on delivery,” Ghalib said furiously.
> “Then you’ll have to wait.”
Ghalib walked to his dressing room and searched amongst his jumble of medications. When he found the correct vial, he shook a Valium into the palm of his hand and swallowed it. He returned to his bedroom to find his valet standing at the side of his bed.
“The drummer has left,” announced the valet.
“Why? Were you rude to him?”
“Saqib has left with him,” the valet said nervously.
“This is impossible. Search for them at once,” Ghalib commanded.
Many hours later, it was confirmed that the drummer and Ghalib’s favourite teenaged companion had indeed disappeared together in the night. To Ghalib, both losses were insufferable. He fought off the consoling effects of the Valium, organized a search party, and posted a large reward. No one could fathom why the reward was so high. Everyone knew that there were many drummers hanging around at shrines, and that a sixteen-year-old pampered village boy could be replaced by at least a dozen others.
TEN
THE PAPER BUNDLE PRESSED under Adeel’s arm was comforting. The freshly cooked chapattis wrapped in newspaper allowed him to blend in with the other men lined up at the shop. He walked away quickly after his purchase, then jogged back to the house. When the threat had presented itself, there’d been no time to plan an exit without arousing suspicion. He wondered now if the woman would follow his cues without instruction.
Two motorcycles were parked in front of the house. He entered the small back room and headed toward the stone staircase leading up to the roof, curious as to whether his companion had managed to cook the chicken or ruin the meal. Two men stood at the foot of the staircase; in his peripheral vision, he caught sight of another two men standing with the old man. He calculated the risk. Five men pitted against the round of bullets in his revolver and his speed in letting the chapattis slip to the floor so he could raise the gun.
“My wife has cooked chicken. Let us go up and eat it.” He nodded to the men and transferred the bundle to the front of his body.
The Place of Shining Light Page 11