The Place of Shining Light

by Nazneen Sheikh

  “The ‘whom’ has already been decided, Ghalib. Proper guidance has been arranged,” chimed in Qudsia.

  “Who knows? With the right allegiance, your last book of poetry could wind up being part of the curriculum in the English departments of all our universities,” said the bureaucrat, a faraway look in his eyes.

  Ghalib was not at all surprised by their comments; it was all part of the parry and thrust of politics. He looked over their shoulders, trying to see if the girl was still in the room. His chauffeur had informed him earlier that Qudsia’s party had been delivering envelopes of money to the homes of rural Punjabis. With soaring food prices and inadequate salaries, mothers with an average of five children would leap to spend the money on groceries and clothing. Then they would turn up to put a thumbprint on the ballot paper for the party that had sent them the money.

  Ghalib’s university days at Oxford, which the cynical bureaucrat had also attended, flashed through his mind. They had returned to Pakistan armed with progressive liberal ideals; over the years, however, these ideals had all but eroded. Personal ambition, greed, and ego had nudged aside the heady dreams of nation building. For the briefest moment Ghalib felt a twinge of revulsion for both himself and the posturing buffoon who stood before him. Murmuring excuses, he excused himself from the conversation to go look for the young poet, but she had disappeared. He lingered for another half an hour and made a mental note to remind his secretary to check his emails regularly.

  GHALIB LEFT FOR Islamabad and Khalid’s estate at Barako the next day. His valet sat in the front seat with the driver. A fourteen-year-old named Billa — the replacement for the runaway Saqib — sat next to Ghalib in the back seat. Spirits were high as they headed for the motorway. His staff of three had been told to wear fresh, neat clothing. Billa’s wardrobe had been personally selected by Ghalib. The boy wore snug brown trousers and a fitted white cotton shirt. On his head sat a jaunty American baseball cap. When the car stopped at a petrol pump, Ghalib took him into the gift shop and lavished him with potato chips and chocolate bars. Spying a pile of embroidered cloth caps hailing from the province of Sindh, he bought six and made his staff, and Billa, wear them. For Ghalib, the pageant had already begun.

  WHEN THEY ENTERED Barako four hours later, the gates were wide open. Khalid, wearing a wan expression, was seated in the little garden near his office, waiting for them.

  “Are you still having the dizzy episodes, Khalid?” asked Ghalib.

  “I am getting better. Let’s have some lunch.”

  It was a leisurely lunch. Khalid announced to Ghalib, and the other guests, that the party would begin at nine that evening. The musicians and dancers would arrive at eight, and his Mughal pavilion would be illuminated at sunset. Two of Ghalib’s close friends from Islamabad had arrived for the party, as had the brigadier.

  After lunch, Khalid escorted Ghalib to his suite in a pool-side pavilion that housed three bedrooms. When Khalid swung open the heavy wooden doors to the bedroom, he noticed Ghalib’s avaricious glance at the collection of Kashmiri enamel and silver vessels displayed on a shelf. For years Ghalib had wanted to purchase items from Khalid’s Kashmiri collection, but Khalid had always refused.

  As his valet unpacked, Ghalib amused himself by taking in Billa’s awe as the boy looked around the gigantic forty-foot bedroom. It was a remarkable backdrop for the boy’s nubile beauty, he thought.

  “What do you think of all this, Billa?”

  “Is this how all the rich people live?” he asked.

  “Yes. But what is here is not just money, it is history.” Ghalib laughed.

  “What is history?”

  “You have to go to school for that,” said Ghalib, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  “You promised that I would not go back. I will never go to school.” Billa’s voice rose in panic.

  “It’s all right. Come here. I give you my word I will arrange some other kind of education for you.”

  The boy stood in the centre of the room. His eyelids fluttered before closing for a moment, but not before Ghalib saw the memory of pain in his eyes. Billa had been sent to a madrassah outside the village, a place where he had been regularly exposed to corporal punishment and sexual abuse by the sole teacher. One evening, he escaped and walked the fifteen kilometres back to his home. His devastated mother ended up at Ghalib’s country home, begging the estate manager for justice. The manager had brought the boy to Ghalib, who had ordered that Billa be taken care of in his personal household. The deeply traumatized boy had started to heal only when he was confident that all he would receive from Ghalib and the house staff was gentle affection. Within days of his arrival, the sparkle in his mischievous eyes was restored. The boy was illiterate and Ghalib’s plans to have him home-schooled had yet to materialize.

  “There will be music and dancers who will entertain us tonight, Billa,” said Ghalib, trying to cheer him.

  “I will dance with them,” announced Billa, walking toward the bed.

  “Would you like to play cards?”

  “Yes.”

  Reclining on the bed, Ghalib dealt out cards and watched his young pupil master gin rummy. It was an exercise laden with affection and some tutorship. When the card games were over, Ghalib dozed off as the boy silently massaged his feet. Eventually, Billa crept away to explore the mysteries of Khalid’s house of many pavilions.

  THAT EVENING AS the festivities began, Ghalib walked toward Khalid, who was sporting brocaded clothing complete with a turban decorated by a gem. Safia stood by his side dressed in a pale green chiffon dress with gems blazing at her throat, wrists, and forehead. Ghalib circled her to examine her braid, which hit at her waist and was encased in links of solid gold encrusted with minute gemstones. Ghalib looked at Khalid, who stood proudly beside his wife.

  “It is exquisite. I dare not even ask its value.”

  “Oh.” Khalid rolled his eyes theatrically.

  “Where is your son Hassan?” asked Ghalib.

  “Can you believe it, Mian Sahib. Khalid has sent him to do some work in Gilgit,” said Safia with sadness.

  “Gilgit?” Ghalib looked at Khalid, who avoided his eye contact.

  “I think the dancers have arrived,” Khalid said quickly, ushering them toward the path that led to the white marble pavilion.

  The footpath led them to a square space that featured walkways and bridges arranged over a square marble pool. In the centre of the pool, a fountain shot up a spray of water. Coloured lights strung along each column illuminated the main pavilion. Circular tables, sprinkled around the area, were set for dinner with white linen. A gilded settee, where Khalid and Safia would sit, was placed in the centre of the square. Ghalib was led to a front table next to Faisal. Another guest was already seated — a man sporting a dinner jacket and puffing on a pipe. They shook hands, but before they could be introduced, something colourful caught Ghalib’s eye. He squinted and then smiled. Four stunning transvestites with manes of shining hair and voluptuous bodies stuffed into shimmering outfits clapped and swayed like courtesans as they arrived and began to entertain the guests.

  As the sumptuous buffet was served and a troupe of musicians played, the dancers took turns giving solo performances. Ghalib spied Billa hiding behind a column, intensely studying the dancers’ movements so he could duplicate them later. Ghalib rose to his feet as Billa materialized by his side, mimicking the feminine movements of the dancers perfectly and filling Ghalib with uncontrollable mirth. Khalid, Safia, and their family members began to dance as well. The only person who was not dancing was the pipe-smoking man. He sat sipping whisky and watching the frivolity with half-closed eyes.

  “Come on, man. You need to dance,” Ghalib said to him when he returned to the table.

  “I’m not much of a dancer, I’m afraid.”

  “Are you from the government?” asked Ghalib.

  “I am
with the service,” he replied.

  “Are we talking about the army?”

  “I do special work for the government,” replied the man evasively.

  “Are you Khalid’s brigadier?” asked Ghalib, certain he had hit the nail on the head.

  “I don’t know what you mean. His art collection is spectacular, isn’t it?” said the man, deflecting the conversation.

  “Do you collect?” asked Ghalib.

  “No. Khalid acquired quite a fine piece recently, and I have been assisting him with it. It’s been a difficult undertaking,” the brigadier whispered.

  “That is most unusual. Khalid is an old hand in the art business. Are we talking about a painting or sculpture?” Ghalib pressed.

  “It is a sculpture. Quite old,” the brigadier said. “Would you like a whisky? I am going in to refresh mine.”

  Ghalib watched him head toward the main pavilion with a mixture of anger and sadness. Khalid had not been truthful; he did not have the sculpture in hand. Meanwhile, the sale of Ghalib’s land had gone through and the money had been deposited in his personal account. Ghalib had to get to the bottom of the situation right away. He rose to find Khalid and saw him disappearing into the white marble salon where a bar had been spread out. He walked in and found Khalid narrating an anecdote to an admiring audience, including the brigadier.

  “Khalid, it has been quite a party. I think I may turn in early, but just need to tear you away from your friends for five minutes,” Ghalib said.

  “Come on, Ghalib. I have brought in entertainment just for you. We are going to be up all night,” Khalid cajoled.

  “Well, come by my room later then. That’s where I will be,” Ghalib said and walked out.

  Ghalib did not have to wait long. He was sitting next to the pool near his rooms when Khalid approached.

  “Well, I hope you enjoyed the night,” Khalid said, sinking into the chair next to him.

  “What are you hiding from me, Khalid?”

  “The person who went to Afghanistan for the sculpture returned to Peshawar and has disappeared with the sculpture,” Khalid replied.

  “I thought this was properly organized, Khalid. My God! Has the wretched man stolen it?” Ghalib asked, outraged.

  “That is the mystery. He has the best reputation in the country for this sort of work. I fear there has been a double-cross somewhere.”

  “Have you checked with the person who arranged this for you? Perhaps another buyer has surfaced?”

  “I thought of that myself, and I have people looking for him, but the situation has become a little wild. I think the Taliban has gotten involved as well.”

  “What do you mean, the Taliban?” Ghalib almost choked.

  “Ghalib, I am going to find the agent. He left Peshawar and headed north toward Gilgit.”

  Ghalib was speechless, but he was certain that Khalid was now telling him the truth. He knew Khalid had the resources for the hunt. It was common knowledge that the Taliban were utilized periodically by the isi as well.

  “What does your bloody pipe-smoking brigadier have to say about all of this?”

  “Not much, but I have also used my old friend Sher Khan in Peshawar,” replied Khalid.

  “Oh, Khalid! I know the leading Pathan family of that region. You should have told me,” Ghalib said in despair.

  “It is too late for that. Sher Khan blew up the truck, or his Taliban cohorts did. So the agent is hiding somewhere and has the sculpture with him. I will find him.”

  “How?”

  “I have a new plan. I have sent someone there to locate him. I will go myself to negotiate.”

  “Well, your brigadier has failed and so has your Taliban friend. Who is helping you now?” asked Ghalib.

  “I have sent Hassan.”

  “You are mad!” Ghalib exclaimed.

  “Not really, Ghalib. Sometimes it takes a thief to catch a thief.”

  THIRTEEN

  ADEEL HAD ALWAYS BEEN the master of his own destiny. Now, however, he found himself facing an unpredictable challenge: Norbu refused to leave. He had been determined to find a bus he could put her on, but when he told her of his plans, she darted away and disappeared into the thicket. He searched for half an hour without finding her. She was an expert at hiding, he realized, a woman who had learned to hide from men when she feared abuse. He was saddened to be mistrusted in this way, but he knew he would eventually find her. For the time being, he would let her hide. Their survival in the forest required a few essential items, so he decided to venture into town to pick them up.

  The ride into Chilas was relatively quick, thanks to a van that picked him up and dropped him off near the outskirts of the town. He quickly bought what he’d come to buy and made his way back to the road, intending to return to the campsite the same way he’d come to town — by hitchhiking. Unfortunately, no ride was forthcoming, so he set off on his own, alternating between walking and jogging.

  As he neared the cutoff, he thought about Norbu. He suspected that she was probably near the sculpture and so he headed straight for it, hoping to catch her unawares, before she could disappear again. As he approached the spot, however, he sensed movement behind him and turned around. Norbu was standing there with her arms full of tree branches.

  “What is this for?”

  “I’m making a shelter,” she replied.

  “You are a madwoman. You cannot stay here.”

  “They will not find us here,” she said.

  “You cannot stay here with me,” he cried out in frustration.

  “I have found a little stream. It is close by,” she replied, ignoring his outburst.

  He sat down wearily. She moved toward the temporary shelter he had created with the shawls and placed the branches on the ground. Before he could say anything, she walked away again, in search of more branches. He watched her movements silently for about ten minutes — back and forth, back and forth — and wondered if he should tell her that a fire could not be lit with the branches she had collected. Finally, he walked over to where she had settled, next to the shelter. She was sitting on the ground braiding a length of vines and branches. He was amazed at her skill. She raised her head, smiled at him, and patted the ground next to her. She knew that they would have to stay hidden for a while, she explained, so she was weaving walls for a forest dwelling. Adeel noticed for the first time how slender she was. Her fingers darted in and out as she wove, and when her palms turned outward, the sight of her chapped hands constricted his heart. He lowered himself and settled in beside her. He picked up the thin, leaf-laden branches and tried to duplicate her technique. The exercise was more difficult than he’d imagined. His clumsy labour could not match either her delicacy or her speed. When they were finally done, her shawls were replaced by the new “walls,” and the shelter was much more welcoming than it had been. It wasn’t much larger than a child’s playhouse, but there was enough sleeping space for two.

  She got up and surveyed her work proudly. Then she crawled in and placed one of her shawls on the ground inside.

  “Are you hungry?” Adeel asked.

  “It does not matter,” she said.

  “I will light a fire.” Despite her evasive answer, he knew she must be as hungry as he was.

  “What will we eat?” she asked.

  “I bought a few things,” he said, pointing to his black nylon bag.

  Norbu clapped her hands with joy when she discovered the clay pot, two spoons, rice, lentils, and small cone of spices that Adeel had bought in Chilas. As Adeel constructed a hearth out of three large stones, and built a fire beneath, Norbu busied herself with preparing the rice and lentils. Before long, the pot was boiling merrily. Both ravenous, they sat by the pot, unable to tear their eyes off it. They shared one large bottle of water and drank it sparingly. She examined the bar of soap that Adeel had also bought
with curiosity, casting a dark look his way.

  “You can use this to wash in the stream,” he said, handing it to her and trying not to laugh.

  “I washed already,” she said.

  “Without soap?” he inquired mildly.

  “That is none of your business.” Her voice was defiant and angry.

  “As long as you are with me, Norbu, everything is my business,” he said sharply.

  When he thought the food was cooked, Adeel lifted the pot with his scarf and placed it between them. He dug both spoons into the pot and slid it toward her.

  She pushed it back. “You eat.”

  “You taste it first. Tell me how it is,” he said.

  She relented, raised the spoon to her mouth, blew on it, then tasted it and made a face.

  “What is wrong?”

  “No salt!”

  “You don’t need salt,” he said.

  She threw him a scornful look and slid the pot back toward him.

  “You eat it! I don’t want a woman around who is going to faint from hunger,” he said, annoyed.

  “After you have finished I will eat,” she said, clinging to her traditional ways.

  He spooned some of the gelatinous mass into his mouth and chewed slowly. When he finished half, he slid the pot back to her.

  “Eat. I am tired. I have things to do before it gets dark.”

  For once, the fight seemed to have gone out of her. She swallowed a few mouthfuls, then flung the remains to one side. She stood, manoeuvred the pot into the crook of her waist, and grabbed the bar of soap.

  “I will go wash the pot in the stream,” she announced.

  “I’ll do it in the morning.” He pointed his index finger at her. “You have to get on the bus and go to your father’s village.”

  “You must be peaceful after you eat or you will not digest the food properly,” she said primly from a safe distance.