The Place of Shining Light

by Nazneen Sheikh

  “Yes, but there was a lot of money and labour wasted. Those fakes were stunning,” Faisal said sadly.

  “You think our ship is sinking, Faisal?”Khalid asked, composing himself.

  “You don’t need enemies in the government.”

  Khalid wondered how long it would take for the antiquities department to decide where to place the seized shipment. There was less than a handful of people in the entire country who had the credentials needed to make such a decision. The craftsmen he had employed for years were serious artists, and their talents had been honed by years of practise. Khalid considered himself a patron of the arts in a country where, with the notable exception of Ghalib, few cared about Buddhist antiquities. However, the business at hand was to make sure that the diplomat flying back to Tehran had a large bank draft with him. Khalid would have to dig deeper into his pockets to make the payment.

  Before he left for his office, he checked in on Hassan. The telephone rang, but his son did not answer. The voice mail had not been activated so Khalid sent a text message: “Progress? Call your mother.” He was in such a rush that he didn’t notice the delivery of the message had failed.

  KHALID PAID A visit to the bank that afternoon. He opened his briefcase in front of the senior bank manager and theatrically fanned out the deeds to his properties. Two were located in the most expensive residential areas of Islamabad. The other two were in the city of Lahore: one was a three-storey shopping plaza in Gulberg; the other was an entire street of food shops in the old city. Khalid asked for a huge loan, offering the real estate as collateral. The bank manager studied the documents carefully, made a few calls, and then informed Khalid that it would take another day to get evaluations on the Lahore properties. Mentally, the bank manager sliced off a third of the sum requested. He knew that Khalid was a wealthy man, but defaulting on loans where real estate was concerned was a common occurrence. There were standard directives issued by his bank that could not be ignored. He was also aware of Khalid’s huge estate in Barako. While construction was an ongoing affair at the estate, the bank loans that had been taken out to ensure its progress were always paid on time. Khalid had a superb credit rating.

  “You know, sir, every one of these properties will go up in value day by day,” Khalid advised, not pleased with the figure the manager had suggested.

  “Banks have to be conservative, Khalid sahib. We are not averse to small risks, but this is quite a large one,” he replied uneasily.

  “Well, I could do some comparison shopping. This country seems to be cursed with an abundance of banks,” Khalid stated, motioning to rise.

  “Khalid sahib,” the bank manager said, “there is no need for that. We have a long relationship. Let me see how I can come closer to what you require.”

  “My dollar account certainly makes your bank happy. I am a man in a rush. I shall give you twenty-four hours. Don’t disappoint me.” Khalid got up from the plush armchair and walked to the door.

  “The matter will be handled,” the bank manager reassured him, reaching out for a handshake.

  Khalid stared at his outstretched hand.

  “I shake hands only when I first meet a person, never when I say goodbye. Please indulge my personal superstition. We shall embrace when you have the right draft for me.”

  It was only on the drive home that Khalid acknowledged the enormity of what he had done. The five real estate parcels and the structures on them were meant to be for his two sons, his two grandchildren, and Safia. All of the properties generated revenue, and the notion that he had provided for his family in case some misfortune befell him was a comfort. Yet he had casually fanned the five title deeds at the bank like he was handling a deck of cards. Khalid had spent a lifetime staying under the radar of his inept government. And now, Reza’s vindictiveness had exposed him to serious hazard. For the first time in his life, Khalid felt completely alone.

  On the ride home, Khalid continued to try Hassan’s phone. Despite the new-found confidence Hassan had exhibited before his departure, Khalid was worried that his son was still prone to distractions and temptations. It was entirely possible that this exercise in trust would end in failure. When he arrived home, Khalid headed to his Allah museum. He studied his little altar, feeling no desire to kneel. He gazed at the bowl of water that was changed daily. He stooped down, lifted the bowl, and drained it completely. Not a single prayer came to his mind. There was nothing to ask God for. The one thing Khalid knew for certain was that he was alone; the consequences of all of his actions rested only on his shoulders. God had other things to do.

  That night, he received a call from Sher Khan in Peshawar.

  “I am sending another two people. They will bring back your man and your property.”

  “What has changed, Sher Khan?” Khalid asked.

  “I have a promise from a man in Waziristan, and he does not need your reward.”

  “You cannot say that on the phone,” Khalid said, shuddering at the indiscretion.

  “He never fails. It is a question of honour. Tell your army dog to go home,” he said before hanging up.

  Khalid had a sudden urge to see an old photograph of his parents, who had died years ago. He found the framed picture in his office and looked at their familiar faces. His tall, lanky father wore a crumpled suit, locally made. He was standing next to Khalid’s mother, who was also simply dressed. Her hands, folded across her stomach, were broad, and the strands of hair escaping from her dupatta gave her a dishevelled appearance. The photograph had been taken outdoors in the little dirt yard of his childhood home. He mistook the uneasy expressions on their faces as personal censure. Then he reminded himself that his gargantuan acquisitiveness had stemmed from his rejection of his parents’ willingness to live in relative poverty. He loved his parents, but he had long ago decided to rise above their circumstances. While his timid father operated his business on a very modest scale, Khalid’s aspirations knew no limitations. He had travelled abroad and visited museums and galleries to learn how art was valued. The first two decades of his career were spent servicing clients outside his country. That had been the beginning, the root of what was now an immense fortune. Even so, Khalid had learned a few valuable lessons from his father. He kept his own collection to use as a bargaining chip, if the need arose. He hated financial losses, and always sought to balance his books as soon as he could in their aftermath.

  When he received the call from the bank, advising him that the loan had been deposited to his account, he was relieved. He knew he would stay in the game forever.

  FIFTEEN

  GHALIB HAD A NEW pain at the side of his back. Worried that it might indicate the presence of kidney stones, he had visited his doctor. The man had recommended a surgical procedure, but that kind of treatment did not interest Ghalib at all. And so, he’d travelled to the office of his hakim. As he sat in an office at the busy clinic, his spirits lifted considerably.

  “My dear sir, doctors know nothing,” said the portly man who sat behind the desk, writing out directions for a homeopathic course of treatment. “In six weeks it will be all over.”

  Ghalib felt a burst of affection for his medical saviour. “Hakim sahib, you must come and dine with me tonight,” he said as he made his way out of the office.

  Ghalib arrived back at his home to find that Nur Hyat had called many times while he was out, and had sounded quite hysterical by the time of the last conversation. The valet handed the phone to Ghalib and asked him to call the man back immediately.

  “What is it, Nur Hyat? I gather the food bills at the constituency office are quite substantial. Are you throwing parties at my expense?” asked Ghalib by way of greeting.

  “Mian sahib, we have to speak. I am on the bus to Lahore. I shall be there by 9 p.m. and will come to the house.”

  “Hakim sahib is coming for dinner,’ said Ghalib. “You can join us.”

  WHEN
GHALIB WALKED into his seldom-used formal dining room at 9:30 p.m., the two men were already seated. Two dishes of vegetables, lentils, and a platter of fresh chapattis had been arranged on the table. The hakim eyed the dishes and gave an approving smile when he saw that his dietary instructions were being followed. But Nur Hyat, who was starving after his long journey, was shocked by the absence of meat.

  “Come on, Nur Hyat. Eat the vegetables! They are good for you,” encouraged Ghalib.

  “You know, the holy prophet was partial to vegetables,” said the hakim, ladling a large amount of slivered vegetables onto his plate.

  “Really,” murmured Ghalib, wondering why the dish appeared to be drenched in oil.

  “Mian sahib, I need to speak frankly with you,” Nur Hyat burst out.

  “His digestion should not be disturbed,” said the hakim, looking sternly at the other guest.

  “It is a private matter, sir,” replied Nur Hyat, scowling back.

  “It seems he will not be able to swallow his food until he has told me about this private matter,” Ghalib said to the hakim.

  “I can wait until you have finished your meal,” Nur Hyat said, and then rose from his chair.

  “Hakim sahib is my guide now. We cannot hide anything from him.”

  “It is not a good idea to air one’s dirty linen in public,” Nur Hyat said, slumping back into his chair.

  Ghalib chewed his food slowly, ignoring Nur Hyat and musing over his comment. When the meal was over, he requested that green tea be served in the living room and asked the hakim to excuse him for a little while.

  “Well?” Ghalib said after the hakim had left the room.

  “I don’t think you can run in this election, sir,” stated Nur Hyat.

  “Is this your way of telling me that you have failed at the task you were hired for?” Ghalib asked sharply.

  “There is a man who is making up stories about you. If your rival hears the rumours, he will shame you.” Nur Hyat stroked his hair nervously.

  “You are seated at my dining table and not a barbershop! What is this rubbish you are spouting?” Ghalib said furiously.

  “It has been said that you have a bad reputation in the village. Or that the house has a bad reputation,” Nur Hyat said delicately.

  “Get out!” Ghalib shouted. “I will speak to you in the morning.” He stood up abruptly, struggling with the heavy dining chair.

  Ghalib felt a knot in his stomach. He curtly informed the server standing in the corridor to tell the hakim that he would not be joining him for tea because he was going to go to bed. On the way to the stairs, he told his valet to ensure that Nur Hyat stayed in the house and did not leave until the morning. Ghalib heard footsteps behind him and, as he reached the top of the stairs, Billa darted in front of him.

  “Are we going to watch television in your room?” he asked.

  “No, I have to think. I need silence. I need rest.”

  “Would you like me to press your legs?” asked the teenager.

  Ghalib marched ahead to his bedroom and changed into his pajamas. Billa scooped up his discarded clothes, folded them neatly, and put them in the large hamper in his bathroom. When he returned, Ghalib was sitting on the edge of the bed with his head cradled in his palms. He looked up for a moment and stared at the boy. A long-buried fragment of his discarded morality burst from his subconscious and beat like a storm upon his brain. He felt tears prick the corners of his eyelids.

  “Leave,” he said, pointing a wavering finger at the boy. “Go sleep downstairs with the others.”

  IN THE MORNING, Ghalib interrogated Nur Hyat. He discovered that the veil of secrecy he had assumed he was operating under was simply an illusion. Despite the artful duplicity of the employees at his country home, despite the precautions he had taken, the villagers knew all about the teenagers he had exploited over the past twenty years, and readily discussed his exploits amongst themselves. In the time of elections, such information had a price tag, and loyalty was absent.

  In the span of that brief conversation, all of Ghalib’s fantasies about being appointed a weighty cultural portfolio in a new government came crashing down. Mercifully, he had ample time for damage control. He would simply withdraw his candidacy, citing ill health. If Soody was displeased, he would simply suggest another possible candidate from the area.

  A few hours later, when his secretary came to attend to his correspondence and work on an art catalogue that was being compiled, an email was delivered. The young poetess whom he had found so enthralling at the party had sent him a poem. He read it over several times, and decided she had talent. He sent the young woman an invitation to tea.

  For the remainder of the day, Ghalib stayed upstairs, behind the locked the door of his suite. He opened his liquor cabinet, pulled out a bottle of red wine and, between measured sips, took stock of his life. He uncorked a second bottle, and did not respond to calls on his bedside intercom for dinner. Several hours later, when he rose to go to the bathroom, he collapsed on the floor.

  At midnight, Billa, who had found the behaviour of his benefactor incomprehensible, crept up to the room from the back entrance. When he entered the lit bathroom, he found Ghalib crumpled in the corner, and screamed for help until he was hoarse. An ambulance tore through the star- and dust-laden night to answer the call.

  Hours later, when Ghalib opened his eyes, he found himself lying in a hospital bed hooked up to two intravenous drips. A nurse bent over him, murmuring something, but he could not understand what she was saying. There was a delicious languor to his entire body, as though he were swaddled in soft clouds, or resting in that perfect space between the lines of a poem. He noticed the solemn faces of his staff members standing at the door, and he chuckled.

  “Go home. This is a holiday for all of you. Who was the fool who brought me back from the dead?”

  “I did, Mian sahib. I found you,” said Billa, wiggling past the older men.

  A nurse put her arm out, preventing Billa from coming closer.

  “It’s all right. He is just a boy. Like a son,” Ghalib said, shaking his head at her.

  “The doctor has said you must rest. There are too many visitors. They have to leave now.”

  “The nurse is the boss here, Billa,” he said gently to the terrified boy. Then he raised his head and spoke to his valet. “Go buy him some clothes for school. That is where he is going soon.”

  Billa let out a howl of anguish. The word school was like a bullet that had pierced his heart. Although he was restrained, the boy fought like a caged animal, straining backwards to look at Ghalib as he was pulled from the room.

  Ghalib closed his eyes. He could not bear the look of terror on Billa’s face.

  Five days later, when Ghalib was discharged, the attending physician summoned him to his office. Ghalib sat in a chair and heard the list of health issues that the doctor declared had now become a permanent part of his life. New medications and dietary guidelines had to be followed if he wanted to live. At the age of seventy-three, Ghalib was now perched on the slipperiest of slopes. Only caution would allow him to enjoy a reasonable span of old age. Ghalib took the news like a gladiator.

  “Well, Doctor, I’d better follow your suggestions. I have invited the prettiest girl in Lahore for tea. I need to be alive for that.”

  The doctor burst out laughing.

  “You will be in good form,” he replied, and then handed over a sheaf of prescriptions.

  THE NEXT DAY, Ghalib visited his psychiatrist. They had an open-ended agreement, so that if Ghalib felt he needed to see him, he could just stop in. A few years back, he had had a prolonged bout of depression, and had initially gone abroad to seek treatment. In this country, there was still a stigma attached to mental health problems, and Ghalib kept this part of his life carefully concealed.

  After recounting details of the hospital stay, an
d giving the psychiatrist time to complete his notes, Ghalib approached the issue that was truly uppermost in his mind.

  “For years there have been catamites in my life,” he said, using the word to broach the subject of his pederasty. But the psychiatrist was not impressed. He simply unfolded his crossed arms and looked passively at Ghalib, waiting for him to continue.

  “Some are here in the house in Lahore, others are at my country home.”

  “How old are the boys?” asked the psychiatrist.

  “They are between the ages of fourteen and sixteen, others perhaps a year or so older or younger.”

  “How do you procure them?”

  Ghalib knew that the answer to this question lay at the heart of what was troubling him. The doctor waited silently.

  “After my wife’s death and my long depression, I felt happier in the country. You know, I live the life of a gentleman farmer in that glorious house.”

  “So the village became your feeding ground?” the psychiatrist asked.

  “I suppose it did. I am seen as their benign father. A type of patriarch —”

  “Is this continuing? Do you want treatment?” the psychiatrist interrupted.

  “No! I have stopped,” said Ghalib.

  “Is that so? Are you being truthful?”

  “Yes. This is a part of my life that I have decided to end.”

  “So, you intend to control your impulses?”

  “Yes! That is why I am here. I needed to tell you this. I needed to admit it,” Ghalib said in a low voice.

  “Well, your impulses may be helped by some of the medications you are on. They should quiet your libido for a while,” said the psychiatrist.

  “I take care of them, you know,” added Ghalib.

  “Sex with minors makes you a pederast, Ghalib. Even in this blighted country you could end up in prison.”

  “I feed and clothe them. I have taught them how to play snooker and cards. We sing and dance together as well. They have never complained,” Ghalib said, reciting his own familiar justifications.