The Place of Shining Light

by Nazneen Sheikh

  “I use it every morning,” Hassan replied.

  “So I am sending a strong man?”

  “I think so.”

  Khalid was amazed at how his own sprits had lifted after talking with Hassan. He rose and clapped an arm around his son’s shoulder, and they walked out together.

  “Go pack a few clothes. Faisal will have a car ready with instructions and money.”

  As Hassan headed to his room, Khalid quickly grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

  “You are not to discuss this with anyone — especially your mother.”

  Hassan agreed.

  KHALID TURNED TOWARD the large pavilion that housed the family’s gigantic swimming pool. His family sat on cane armchairs, watching Hassan’s two children play with their toys. Tea had been arranged by Safia, and she looked expectantly at Khalid as he approached.

  “You pamper everyone with these treats, but you stay away yourself,” she said.

  “I had some business with your favourite son,” Khalid said as he sat down next to her.

  “Good. He should be part of your entire life,” Safia said, pouring tea for him.

  “He will be all right,” Khalid replied, wanting to reassure her.

  Safia looked at him silently. Khalid felt as though he was looking at Hassan’s face, the resemblance between his wife and son was so striking. Yet Hassan had a height and an angularity that reminded Khalid of his own father.

  A few minutes later, Hassan joined them. A bulging black gym bag swung on one shoulder and a camera bag on the other.

  “I have come to say goodbye.” He spoke to both his mother and his wife.

  His children shrieked with joy at the sight of him, and abandoned their toys to run to his side. Hassan dropped the bags and took them, one at a time, and tossed them into the air before ruffling their hair and releasing them. Then he scooped up his bags and smiled at Khalid, who was sipping his tea.

  “Where are you going?” Safia asked as she stood up.

  “I have to take some photographs for father’s art brochure,” he said.

  “I am sending him to Gilgit,” Khalid added.

  “Well, it is a beautiful place. Take your wife with you, Hassan. Have a little holiday with her,” Safia pleaded.

  “I will take her next time. I am going to be in rough places. This is not a family trip.”

  Safia walked to her seated daughter-in-law and hugged her from behind.“He will take you next time,” she whispered in her ear. “I will see to it.”

  Khalid glanced at his silent daughter-in-law. He knew that she no longer loved his son. Yet the young ages of her children and the genuine love she displayed for both him and Safia prevented her from leaving. Like Safia, she was fascinated by Kahlid’s dream of completing all of the museums on his property. Khalid knew that she resented being supported by them; he also knew that she had no say in the matter as Hassan flitted from one hare-brained scheme to another. The baroque splendour of the estate had seduced her when she arrived as a bride, yet Khalid knew that one day she would want to be free of her gilded cage.

  Khalid spent the rest of the afternoon with his frolicking grandchildren, and savouring the peace of Safia’s companionship. He knew he had gambled on his son Hassan. If Hassan was successful in finding Adeel, Khalid would leave for Gilgit immediately to reclaim his sculpture. He now viewed Adeel’s actions not as theft but as just another deal he had to make. Adeel knew the sculpture was valuable, and he would never make the mistake of selling it in Pakistan, thought Khalid. The man had to know that Khalid’s own network would immediately report any such sale, regardless of where the deal was made.

  Khalid’s thoughts were interrupted when Faisal appeared by the pool. There was a car outside with two men — obviously from the isi — who insisted on seeing him. Hoping it was news about Adeel, Khalid left the family tea and hurried out to meet them.

  THE TWO MEN shifted uneasily in the ornate chairs placed before Khalid’s desk. One had a pockmarked face with a drooping moustache. The other had oily, slicked-back hair and a bulging stomach that strained against the confines of his cheap leather jacket. Faisal hovered in the background, holding a tray of green tea. The teapot was Turkish. It had an ornate dragon’s-head spout that was intended to disarm visitors. As Faisal poured the tea into fine china cups, the men stared in amazement.

  “Mr. Khalid, you met with the Iranian ambassador today?” said the man with the moustache. He balanced his teacup on his knee, unable to take his eyes off the pot.

  “I had promised to take him boating. Show him a place right in Islamabad where one can relax,” replied Khalid.

  “Yes, but isi wants to know what you gave to him.” This time, it was the man with the bulging stomach who spoke.

  “Nothing but the pleasure of my company,” replied Khalid sharply.

  “Um . . . the box . . . .” The man’s voice trailed off.

  Khalid was stunned. The ambassador had been followed. These men had probably watched the boat with binoculars. He could feel the bile rising in his stomach.

  “Why am I being watched?” Khalid said angrily.

  “All diplomats are watched, Mr. Khalid. We cannot be too careful, you know. Pakistan has many enemies.” The man with the moustache shrugged.

  “Why don’t you ask him what was given to him?” Khalid said, resisting the urge to throw both men out.

  “The government of Pakistan wants you to co-operate.” The moustached man spoke sternly.

  “Let’s settle this. Faisal, call the brigadier,” Khalid ordered and then got up from his chair.

  Both men shot up from their seats. They stood silently watching as Faisal dialed the phone and handed it to Khalid.

  “I am serving tea in a seven-hundred-year-old teapot to two of your baboons,” shouted Khalid into the phone as soon as the brigadier answered.

  “Khalid, control your temper. They are just doing their job. Give the phone to one of them.”

  Khalid handed the phone ceremoniously to the man with the moustache. The exchange was brief.

  “Mr. Khalid, I am just doing my job. There is no need for insults,” the man said as he placed the phone on the table.

  “Well, I have more important things to do. My private life is no concern of yours. Faisal, show the gentlemen out.” Khalid skirted past both men and left the room without looking back.

  AT DUSK, KHALID sat on the parapet of the half-constructed burial tomb and looked up at the violet sky. Piles of bricks and tools were littered about, but if he raised his eyes, he could see the distant hills that surrounded his property. For a moment, he felt that his universe was under control. When the stars came out, he thought, Safia would release her hair from her long braid, and the paintings in their bedroom would light up like fireflies. He wanted to climb the stairs to their bedroom, but he could not budge. The day had sucked every ounce of energy out of him.

  He heard the soft patter of Safia’s slippered feet behind him.

  “I don’t like this burial tomb. It is very depressing. What is the hurry, Khalid? We will live long lives. In sha’Allah,” she said.

  “I want you by my side forever. Come sit with me.”

  “I don’t like this talk of death. I have come to give you a message.”

  Khalid turned and smiled at her. As her hair shifted around in the evening breeze, he sighed. Did she know, he wondered, that she was the most treasured thing in his life?

  “Hassan just called from a strange phone and asked me to give you a message,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “He has reached Peshawar and is spending the night in a small modest hotel and will drive to Gilgit in the morning.”

  “Good!” said Khalid.

  “Why is he staying in a small hotel? They never have clean sheets. Is he trying to impress you by not spending too much money?”
she asked.

  “Did he tell you the name of the hotel?”

  “No.”

  “It’s all right. I have a surprise for you. We are going to throw a party. I will give you your surprise there,” Khalid said, and slid down from the parapet.

  “A party! “ Safia clapped her hands like a child.

  “Yes, with dancers and musicians. We will invite Ghalib from Lahore.”

  “I don’t need anything, Khalid. I have everything I need,” Safia said as she wound her arm through his.

  As Khalid looked at her hand, resting on his arm, he saw it spin away. He tried to move — to reach out and clasp it — but the world continued to spin, as if in slow motion. He struggled to stand, to gain some sort of purchase, but to no avail. He was falling, away from Safia, away from everything.

  TWELVE

  GHALIB HAD DIFFICULTY WALKING up the winding staircase of the Alhamra Art Gallery, but his desire to see the second-floor exhibition spurred him on. At the entrance, the Middle Eastern diplomat who had opened the exhibition was surrounded by a flurry of press and television cameras. A large crowd had also gathered. Rather than lingering to see who was in attendance, Ghalib hurried past; offering early would give him an advantage when it came to buying what he wanted.

  Ghalib stood before the large canvasses, utterly mesmerized. The artist in him was completely humbled by the masterful control displayed in the brush strokes. This man is a genius, Ghalib thought to himself. He felt sure that the work would be avidly collected. There were close to fifty canvasses mounted, and it took Ghalib five minutes to purchase four of the best works. The artist came up to him, conveying his gratitude, and invited him for a private tea downstairs. Ghalib offered his congratulations but declined the invitation for tea; he had a snooker match at his club in half an hour.

  As his driver pulled away from the gallery, Ghalib thought of Khalid and wondered if he should call him to suggest investing in the new artist’s work. Although he was peeved with Khalid, who still hadn’t delivered his sculpture, he decided to call.

  “There are delays at the border, Ghalib. Don’t worry, it will be here soon,” said Khalid.

  “How are you, my friend?” asked Ghalib after the issue of the sculpture had been addressed.

  “A little like a woman. I have these dizzy spells.”

  “Have you seen a doctor?”

  “Yes. He called it labrynthitis. It happens once every few years. It will go away by itself.” Khalid chuckled.

  “Well, be careful. You don’t want to fall and break something,”

  “Not to worry. Safia kept me in bed for a day. It’s the best way to deal with it. Ghalib, I am throwing a party for Safia. You must attend.”

  “What is the occasion?”

  “A Guth Jamai.”

  “Good heavens, Khalid!” Ghalib was intrigued.

  “I have acquired the ornament from one of my Indian dealers. It is twenty-two inches long. Safia has not seen it yet.”

  “I have to see it. Who have you invited?”

  “I have invited the family and a few close friends. You have two days to get here. Your rooms will be ready for you.”

  “Well, let’s hope the sculpture gets there in two days as well.”

  The Guth Jamai dated back to the Mughal period. During the ritual, a solid gold, jewelled ornament was used to cover the braid of a queen or royal princess. Ghalib shook his head; Khalid’s acquisitions never failed to amaze him. With the current price of gold, the piece must have cost a fortune. Besides, Mughal gems were not readily found anymore. Some had wound up in museum collections; others had simply vanished. Ghalib admired Khalid’s romantic heart as well as his loyal adoration of his wife. An event of this nature would require some pageantry. It would be a chance to dress extravagantly. Ghalib knew exactly the outfit he would take along. The pristine air of Islamabad and the surrounding hills would be a good change, he thought. Khalid, a fellow nocturnal soul, was delightful company for Ghalib, and even his staff members loved visiting the estate in Barako; Khalid was a generous host.

  The invitation to Khalid’s extravaganza, combined with the acquisition of four new works of art, lifted Ghalib’s spirits considerably. He played a superb game of snooker at the club. Not even the memory of his missing teenager disrupted his concentration. He had taught Saqib to play, but the boy’s act of disloyalty had changed everything. Rather than dwell on it, Ghalib reduced his thoughts of the teenager to specks of dust and mentally brushed them away. The Sufi drummer had obviously offered something to Saqib that Ghalib had not, and thinking about it was a waste of time.

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Ghalib was absorbed in the morning papers that accompanied his late breakfast. The new political party to which he belonged seemed to have cornered the press. The media was in love with the party’s leader. AK had done a bit of a U-turn, switching seemingly overnight from a lightweight womanizer to a born-again Pakistani. From every paper a half-page photograph of his craggy, lined face and ruffled hair peered out at Ghalib. He hoped that Nur Hyat was succeeding at gathering votes. Ghalib felt that change was in the air. His habitual boredom was beginning to vanish. Politics heralded excitement and promised a new lease on life.

  That evening, Ghalib was on his way to a dinner party at the home of a powerful woman named Qudsia. She was the special adviser to the top bureaucrat of his province and belonged to a competing political party that hoped to win in the upcoming elections. Ghalib knew the stocky, white-haired woman would serve not only dinner but also a heady amount of political gossip. It would be marvellous for Ghalib just to sit and listen.

  “How are you, my dear Ghalib.” Qudsia greeted him warmly upon his arrival and led him to the living room.

  “I feel splendid! You know I have decided to run in my constituency for the new party,” he replied.

  “Yes, I have heard. Is this wise?” she said, looking at him sternly.

  “Wisdom is not my strong suit, Qudsia. I think it is guile,” Ghalib replied, laughing.

  “Well, then you would be a fool not to run with the winning party. It will be a clean sweep,” she whispered.

  “Is that so? But our chap is gobbling up all the press,” Ghalib replied.

  “Whoever takes Punjab takes Pakistan.” She raised her head and faced him squarely.

  “Has Punjab been taken?”

  “Yes. You can say it has been delivered!”

  “Well, there’s nothing like a good fight,” Ghalib replied with a smile, though he now wanted nothing more than to escape from her smugness.

  “With our party, your entire village will get electricity. Perhaps even a new school and a medical clinic,” she added.

  “I believe I am part of a new winning team,” Ghalib said, knowing he was being courted.

  “Rubbish! If an election was held tomorrow, the Punjab would deliver the country into our hands for the next five years.”

  “So, money has already been spread around?”

  “Running for elections always has expenses. You know that, Ghalib.”

  “Well, I am ready to serve my country. A cultural portfolio was what I had in mind. Perhaps it may come my way.”

  “Yes, I know all about Soody’s reckless promises. Think about joining us. Come, we must meet the others,” she said, holding her hand out toward the dining room.

  “Who is that beautiful creature standing in the corner?”

  “She is somebody’s niece who is wasting her life writing poetry,” Qudsia snorted.

  Ghalib immediately changed direction and walked toward the lanky girl who leaned against a door in the corner of the room. As he approached, she looked at him with large brown eyes. Her face was framed by a chin-length cap of shining dark hair that caressed the edges of her jawline.

  “‘She walks in beauty, like the night,’” recited Ghalib.

  “‘Of
cloudless climes and starry skies,’” she carried through.

  “‘And all that’s best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes,’” Ghalib finished.

  She gave him a faint smile.

  “I hear you write poetry.”

  “The real poet is coming. His name is Ghalib something or other,” she replied.

  “Are you waiting for him?”

  “Not really, but Aunt Qudsia mentioned him.” She was looking over his shoulder toward the other people in the room.

  “I am Ghalib something or other.”

  “Oh, I am sorry.” She flushed.

  “Can you recite one of your poems to me?”

  “No, I am not very good.” She flicked at a strand of hair that fell across her eyes.

  “You should be painted,” Ghalib said, pointedly ignoring her discomfiture.

  “Do you paint?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I hate these people. I am supposed to become a doctor or study law,” she said suddenly.

  “Here is my card. My email address is on it. Send me a poem and then we can see where you are going. Don’t worry about other people.”

  She took the card and carefully tucked it in the bag slung over her shoulder.

  Ghalib observed her angular beauty and felt a current of desire whip through him. Then she lifted her head and met his gaze. “I may,” she whispered, before darting away.

  Although he felt like dashing after her, Ghalib saw Qudsia advancing toward him accompanied by a powerful bureaucrat.

  The pair approached him and the man struck a playful punch on his shoulder. “So, Ghalib, I hear you have entered the political fray, but with the wrong group.”

  “This nation is ready for a change and I intend to serve the nation,” Ghalib replied with a flourish.

  “Don’t tell me you have been duped by all the media hype.”

  “Well, today’s papers indicate that my party is picking up steam,” replied Ghalib.

  “We have a bored press. Attending a political rally is entertainment for the hordes of unemployed, illiterate young men. The circus does not come to town so this is the next best thing. Never make the mistake of thinking the public will know how, or for whom, to vote.” The bureaucrat spoke with an air of contempt.