The Place of Shining Light

by Nazneen Sheikh

  He watched her disappear through the bushes, waiting until he knew for certain that she was gone. Then he retrieved his bag. His small portable phone was dead. He counted his money; he was down to twenty thousand rupees. His shaving kit was untouched, as were a small comb, a bottle of almond oil, and two pairs of socks and underwear he had wrapped into an extra pair of cotton khaki trousers. His mother had gifted him with the small plastic bottle of oil, and he used it sparingly on his hair, his sole concession to vanity.

  Dusk was slowly darkening the sky and Norbu had still not returned. Once again, his anxiety about her made him uneasy. He threw his bag in the little tent of leaves and moved toward the forest with his small flashlight. It was only a minute before he heard her singing in s high, birdlike voice. The knowledge that she was close by caused him to exhale in relief, and he walked toward the sound. A moment later, she materialized in front of him with the damp clay pot resting against her waist. The song died in her throat when she saw Adeel approaching.

  “It’s getting dark. I came to look for you,” he explained.

  She held out the pot for him to inspect. “Is it clean?”

  “It’s fine,” he said gruffly.

  They walked in silence until they arrived at the spot where the sculpture lay lightly covered with earth. She sank down and began clearing the earth with her bare hands.

  “Look into its face. See, there are no eyes.”

  As Adeel sat next to her, gazing at the face of the statue, the stress of the entire day receded. He heard only the sound of his breath and the rustling of the leaves through the trees. Norbu sat across from him, her face outlined by her woollen shawl. Looking at her — almost statuelike herself in her stillness — Adeel realized that he was on the threshold of a new existence. The bestial faces of the Taliban men on the motorcycles, the violent assignments that he had completed in the past, as well as his act of thievery and betrayal weighed heavily on his mind.

  The marble lips of the statue appeared to move, murmuring in a tongue that Adeel could not decipher but still seemed familiar. Memories of his past eight years in the army filled him with revulsion. Adeel knew that Norbu, his strange companion, had become inextricably entangled in the choices he would have to make. He was going to have to completely abandon his personal history. No longer was he just a gun for hire; he was a questing soul. All he wanted was to fully embrace this peace. He realized with a start that the mystical feeling of calm that the statue elicited was something he had been seeking for many years.

  “Norbu, tell me about your grandmother’s religion,” he said.

  “Buddha,” she said simply, pursing her lips as she spoke the name.

  “Not the prophet Mohammad?”

  “No,” she said emphatically.

  “You believe in Buddha?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Buddha has salt.”

  He burst out laughing. She was brighter than he thought.

  “Can you read and write?” he asked hesitantly.

  “I reached middle school in Skardu and then they married me,” she replied.

  “Is that where your father lives?”

  She looked away.

  “Are you finished with your husband?”

  “He has another wife. His mother brought me the divorce paper. He will never see my face again and neither will my father.”

  He considered her words and hesitated a moment before he spoke again. He knew she would not want to hear what he had to say, and he had no wish to hurt her. But he needed to be clear.

  “Please do not make a fuss in the morning,” he said. “I am a man who has to be alone. I have nothing to give you. It is better for you to go home; it will be safer for you.”

  Her face was expressionless. She looked away without saying a word. He wanted to reach out and shake her, to force her to acknowledge his words. There was no way to know what she was thinking — and he was no longer entirely sure of his own thoughts. Did he really want her to leave because she was a burden, or were there other reasons?

  Norbu crawled into the tent of leaves and branches and wound one of the woollen shawls around herself like a blanket. Without a glance in his direction, she turned and faced the wall. He followed her into the shelter, removed his revolver from his holster, and placed it near his side, where her second shawl rested. He covered himself and lay in the dark, listening to the wind outside, unable to fall asleep. An enormous sense of responsibility for Norbu plagued him. There were elements of compassion tucked into those feelings, certainly, but he also knew he was attracted to her. Somehow, he needed to clarify their bizarre and undeniable bond. But all he knew for the moment was that their companionship and shared attachment to the sculpture was a solace. Adeel listened to her breathing in the dark. He ached to reach across the small space that separated them and unwind her shawl, but he put those thoughts aside and eventually fell asleep.

  ADEEL WOKE UP at dawn. On the other side of the shelter, Norbu stirred as well. Slivers of light filtered in through the leaves and branches. Adeel did not look at her, but crawled out, dragging the woollen shawl with him. The morning air was cool and he walked toward the three stones on the ground and lit a new fire. Then he measured out water, tea leaves, and powdered milk into the clay pot and waited for it to boil. Apart from the two spoons he had bought on his trip into Chilas, there was nothing with which to drink the tea. There was, however, a small army-issue enamel mug in his nylon bag. He normally used it for shaving, but it would have to do. He crawled back into the shelter to retrieve it.

  Norbu was sitting up, trying to smooth the knots in her hair with her fingers.

  “I have something for you,” he said.

  He pulled out his comb and the bottle of almond oil. He placed them next to her, then retrieved his enamel mug and revolver. She glanced at the revolver for a moment. He did not see fear in her eyes, only curiosity.

  “I am making tea,” he said over his shoulder as he crawled out.

  A few minutes later, when she stuck her head out of the enclosure, she looked different. Her hair was pulled back from her face and fashioned into a gleaming braid that trailed over one shoulder. The woollen shawl hung loosely around her neck, its ends cascading down the front of her body. She reminded Adeel of the Sherpa guides he used to see in the high mountains. He poured the steaming tea into the enamel mug and held it out to her. She sat on the ground next to him, but did not take the mug.

  “There is only one mug. Drink it and then I will have some,” he said.

  To his surprise she did not make a fuss. She took the mug, had a sip, and then grimaced.

  “What is it now?’

  “No sugar,” she said, and handed the mug back.

  He took a sip then promptly extended it again.

  “Drink it. There is some sugar,” he said in a low voice.

  She looked at the mug for a few seconds, and, to his surprise, drank it all.

  “You are a very bad cook,” she said.

  “I have been trained to do other things,” he replied, amused.

  “Do you shoot with that?” she said, pointing to the revolver tucked in its holster under his arm.

  “Yes. It could save our lives,” he said.

  “I can save my own life,” she said, rising and grabbing the pot.

  “Don’t move from here. And don’t hide again. I have to do something. I will be back in a little while.”

  Adeel collected his phone, charger, and some money from the shelter. He put the revolver back in the black nylon bag and then set off for Chilas and the small bazaar he had visited the day before. He jogged lightly, picking up his pace as the sun rose over the mountains and warmed him. There was no traffic on the main road, and nothing to distract him from his mission: find the bus schedule for Skardu and make one call to his mother.

 
He heard the car before he saw it. He looked around quickly for a place to conceal himself, but this was a flat stretch of road and nothing presented itself. He stopped immediately, wound the heavy shawl around himself, pulled a woollen cap low on his head, and continued to walk slowly. When the large beige sedan with a flag fluttering on the hood came into view, Adeel knew it was the staff car of some very senior army official. The car pulled up by his side, a window rolled down, and a face under a peaked cap turned toward him. Adeel found himself staring into Major Zamir’s topaz-coloured eyes. He froze. The major tapped the chauffeur’s shoulder and the car stopped.

  “Captain Adeel!”

  Adeel walked over to the window, raised his eyes, and braced himself. The major was now a general, he noticed, taking in the man’s uniform.

  “Congratulations, sir!” he murmured.

  “My God, it is you! I had heard you were discharged eight years ago. Why?”

  “It was suggested, sir. I am performing some other duties.”

  “Those isi hawks! You would have had a fine career with the regular service. I would have seen to it.”

  “I am fine, sir.”

  “What are you doing in this deserted spot? No transport?”

  “I need to get going, General. I am expected,” Adeel replied, wanting to get away as fast as possible.

  “What is your destination?”

  “Skardu, sir,” Adeel said quickly.

  “Well, you are in luck, Captain. I am headed there myself. Do you want a ride? I have room.”

  “Thank you, sir, but I have made arrangements with some people already.”

  “Pity,” Zamir said, extending his hand.

  Adeel reached forward and clasped it.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” replied Adeel, trying to disengage his hand.

  “I don’t like your appearance,” the man said, looking him up and down and taking in his worn clothing. “You could have been a major by now, Adeel. Do you know anything about the truck that exploded in Chilas?”

  “No, I don’t. But I need a favour, sir. I have to call my mother and my phone is dead.”

  “Of course.” Zamir handed his phone to Adeel.

  “I will be very quick. She worries, you know.” Adeel nodded his thanks and moved away from the car.

  He dialed his mother’s number. After eight rings, she picked up.

  “Adeel?”

  “Are you all right? Did you receive the money? I have to be very fast. Don’t worry about me.” He spoke rapidly.

  “Where are you, my son?”

  “Far away, but I cannot talk just now. Are you alone?”

  He heard a soft moan accompanied by a sharp intake of breath; there was someone with her. They had gotten to his mother. He hung up the phone immediately and walked back to the car.

  “I have to go, sir. Good to see you,” he said, shoving the phone back at the general through the window.

  Zamir lifted his hand in a salute. Adeel saluted back.

  “Is she all right? Adeel? Do you need my help? You can trust me. I know you know that.”

  Adeel looked at the general, willing his face to remain expressionless.

  “Where are you posted these days, sir?”

  “I’m seducing and battling with the Marri tribesmen in Baluchistan. We all do the best we can.” He leaned forward and tapped the driver and, after a small wave, they drove away.

  Adeel watched the car until it disappeared around a bend in the road, then raced toward the bazaar. It was no longer safe for him to communicate with his mother; this much he knew. Were they still at the house, or had his phone call prompted them to take her somewhere for interrogation? Either way, he was confident that she would endure whatever was coming. Borrowing Zamir’s phone had been a stroke of genius, he decided. These men would track the phone call to try to reach him. When Zamir answered, someone would fill him in on the situation. And then, Adeel felt sure, the general would step in and protect her.

  Adeel reached the small bazaar to find only one of its five shops open. A green sedan was parked in front. A young man with a camera around his neck was waiting for the tea to be brewed. Adeel ducked instinctively. He hid until he saw the man return to his car with his tray. It took the man about ten minutes to polish off his breakfast before handing the tray back, paying the server, and driving away.

  As the car began to move, Adeel caught a better glimpse of the man’s face. The chiselled profile and the jet-black hair seemed familiar. He had seen the man’s face somewhere before. He squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated. After a moment, an image exploded in his mind with the force of a thunderbolt. The assignment to collect the sculpture from Afghanistan had been given to him at an estate in Barako. The brown truck, fake identity cards, cash, and instructions were handed to him there. The truck was parked close to an ornate marble gazebo. Before Adeel left, he watched a young man in the gazebo tossing and catching a small toddler. It was the same young man who had just driven away. So his employer was hard on his heels.

  Adeel slowly walked up to the teashop, ordered some breakfast, and spoke casually to the server. “Journalist?” he asked, nodding at the trail of dust kicked up by the car that had just departed.

  “No. He is a student of photography,” the man replied. “But I think he is a rich man’s son. His watch was very expensive.”

  “What’s he photographing?”

  “All of Gilgit, he said.” The man shrugged.

  “Is there a bus for Skardu today?” asked Adeel.

  “It will leave here in three hours. It’s a five-hour journey but can take up to nine hours, depending on what’s happening on the Karakoram Highway.”

  Adeel nodded. “Can you make some omelettes and rotis for me?”

  “You’ll have to wait. I have to find more eggs.”

  ALTHOUGH HASSAN WAS frustrated by his lack of success in finding the man his father wanted him to locate, he was entirely enchanted by the region he was visiting. The area was a photographer’s dream, he decided, and since he was posing as a photographer, he dedicated himself to taking many pictures while driving around and searching for the man with the statue. After his breakfast, he set out to find higher terrain where he could take some panoramic views of the valley. He drove along the road from the town until he saw a small, forested area up an incline. An unpaved path led from the main road toward the trees; he turned his car onto the gravel path. A line of trees with heavy foliage appeared in front of him, creating a canopy of branches over the path. It was beautiful sight. When the gravel road ended, he got out of the car and took some photographs as he moved toward a clearing. The smell of smoke was in the air, and it made Hassan curious. He kept walking until he reached a small encampment with an ebbing fire and a cooking pit. He peeked inside the small shelter that had been erected and saw a black nylon bag and a shawl. A foreigner’s camping site, he figured.

  Hassan walked past the camp and, a few minutes later, came upon a stream. A woman was bathing there. As she rose from the water Hassan dropped to the ground, lifted the camera, and focused the zoom on her body. The powerful lens picked up the sheen of her water-soaked braid as it swung against her fair skin and ended at the curve of her slender hips. He sought out and located her clothes, piled nearby on a flat rock. Hassan inched backwards until he was hidden from view. He did not photograph her; he only observed through the lens. He watched her dry herself with a length of cloth, then step into rustic cotton pants and a tunic. She leaned down and picked up a pair of shoes and held them in one hand. Hassan was mesmerized. He felt as though he had stumbled upon a wood nymph. This woman with her shining braid and damp skin looked as if she had stepped out of a painting. Eager to see more, to keep watching, he rose a little higher from the undergrowth. She turned her face then, and saw him.

  Norbu had not known she was being o
bserved. The man startled her, and she took in only his presence and the black object in his hand as she turned and ran toward the shelter. She could hear his footsteps close behind her and his voice in her ear, shouting words she couldn’t make out over her own tortured breathing and the pounding of blood in her head.

  When she reached the enclosure she stumbled over Adeel’s black nylon bag. She ripped open the zipper and pulled out the revolver. She held it in both hands, turned, and pointed it straight toward the opening. A second later, Hassan’s head poked in. Norbu closed her eyes and pulled the trigger.

  FOURTEEN

  KHALID STUDIED THE EMBOSSED card. The summons from the Iranian Embassy had arrived two days earlier under the guise of an invitation to a cultural reception. He longed to ask Safia to join him, but she was uncomfortable at events of this nature. Unfortunately, there was no denying his need to attend; it might be a good opportunity to meet a wealthy art collector or two. He would have to dress for the occasion, and for that, he needed Safia’s help. He found her getting out of bed.

  “I have to attend a reception. I need to wear a Western suit. Can you help me choose a tie?” Khalid asked.

  Safia nodded her agreement, then shook her head as if to clear it. “I took a nap and had a terrible dream,” she said, her eyes widening in alarm. “I thought my heart had stopped, but then I woke up.”

  “What sort of dream?”

  “I was being buried alive. I shouted but no one could hear me.” Safia shuddered at the recollection.

  “Does this have to do with the burial shrine I’m building?” Khalid asked.

  “I don’t know. Hassan has not called today. I’m worried about him.”

  “He is doing some work for me. He will let me know when he is finished. It will take another two or three days,” Khalid said, and planted a kiss lightly on her forehead.

  “Which suit are you wearing?” she asked.

  “I think it should be the black suit with a white shirt. I don’t want them to think I’m a savage. You choose the tie,” repeated Khalid. Safia’s words and worries had distracted him. He found himself wondering, not for the first time, if Hassan had made any progress.