The Place of Shining Light

by Nazneen Sheikh

  “Have you not been able to find mature adults to have sex with?”

  “Youth is like wine, Doctor.”

  “Are you still dabbling in politics?”

  “No. I don’t have the energy.”

  “Would you like to meet again?”

  Ghalib nodded. The psychiatrist gave Ghalib an appointment card and ushered him to the door. Ghalib examined the card, nodded, and walked out. His confession had not provided the catharsis he’d expected it would. And the doctor’s lack of advice troubled him. Did the man not know that desire was an unassailable force, especially for someone — like him — with an artistic disposition?

  LATER THAT EVENING, as Ghalib watched television in bed, he discovered that every news channel was carrying the same lead story — a political march that was being organized by a fiery theologian to take place in the nation’s capital. Ghalib was spellbound by the man, who declared that the current government in Pakistan was not fit to rule and that the Election Commission, which was overseeing the coming vote, should be dismantled due to corruption. The man’s name was Tahir-ul-Qadri, and he had a large following in other countries as well as in Pakistan. According to the reports, Qadri had no desire to run for office, but his crusade for change, in the middle of pre-election fervour, was impressive. Ghalib immediately called Soody.

  “Who is this new messiah?” Ghalib asked.

  “You mean Dr. Qadri? He has been around for a while. He’s currently living in Canada and is expected back in January for this march,” said Soody dismissively.

  “Yes, but he is addressing the same issues as your party.”

  “And your party as well,” Soody reminded him.

  “Does he have a large following?” asked Ghalib, ignoring his comment.

  “Marginal! He thinks he will steal our thunder. But it is not going to happen. How are you, by the way?”

  “Not well. I have to be careful. Doctor’s orders,” replied Ghalib, not yet wanting to break the news that he was bowing out as a candidate.

  “Well, take care, for God’s sake. This is not the time for any problems. People are waiting for me, I have to go,” said Soody briskly before hanging up.

  Instinctively, Ghalib knew that Soody’s judgement was wrong. This fiery orator had a masterful knowledge of constitutional law, and he looked like a patrician. He wore a small, handsome cap and well-tailored robes. He bore no resemblance to the long-bearded mullahs so common in Pakistan. And his timing was superb. The elections were still three months away. Did Dr. Qadri have the ability to inspire the thousands who would travel from Lahore to Islamabad to see him? he wondered. The appearance of a potential new catalyst for change would dent the complacency of the political machine. The party Ghalid had joined, with its inexperienced leader and its host of recycled opportunists, should brace themselves, he thought. He continued to make calls, anxious to discuss this new development, but each person he spoke to dismissed the man as yet another religious charlatan.

  As Ghalib simultaneously chatted on the telephone and flipped channels on the television, Billa crept into his bedroom. When Ghalid at last heard a sound and noticed the boy, he hung up the phone.

  “Ah, Billa. We have to have a chat. Come and sit here,” Ghalib said, pointing to the small couch next to his bed.

  “Can we watch television instead?” Billa asked.

  “No,” said Ghalib, switching off the set. “This talk is very important.”

  Billa threw him a mutinous look and sat on the edge of the couch. He was neatly dressed in khaki trousers and a striped shirt, which clung to his slender waist. There were brand new sneakers on his feet but the laces were undone.

  “It’s time for you to return to school. I am sending you home to your mother. All of the arrangements will be made for you to attend a good school,” said Ghalib.

  “No!” Billa shouted.

  “It will not be a terrible school like the last one. You will go in the daytime and return home to your mother in the evenings.”

  “This is my home,” the boy cried.

  “You need to play with boys your own age. Everyone in this house is old! You can still come for a visit during the holidays,” Ghalib said.

  “I will die.” Billa wiped away tears.

  “You run faster than anyone. You eat like a horse. Don’t be silly.” Ghalib laughed.

  “What if the teacher beats me?”

  “It is not that kind of school. I will give your mother money for the fees and for new clothes.”

  “Who will press you?” said Billa, his voice choking. “Someone else will take my place.”

  “Thank you for worrying, Billa, but I will be fine. You will always be my friend,” said Ghalib gently.

  “You don’t like me anymore?”

  Ghalib closed his eyes. Billa’s accusation weighed heavily on him. Yet redemption was also close at hand. Time would heal both of them. When Ghalib opened his eyes, the couch was empty. He could hear the boy’s footsteps racing down the hall. Ghalib pressed the intercom and instructed his valet to keep Billa with him and to have him ready in the morning for the bus that would take him home. One of his chauffeurs would accompany the boy, and bring money and instructions for the mother. Ghalib also told his valet to keep the boy downstairs; he was not to return to Ghalib’s suite. It had to be a surgical amputation, Ghalib decided, even though a part of him longed to reassure Billa that he was not being rejected for another.

  THE NEXT MORNING, while Ghalib slept, Billa bade a tearful farewell to the house where he’d thought he would live forever. He sat in a daze in the back seat of the car. A reunion with his mother and sisters in their small village home held no appeal. His escort pressed food upon him and tried to engage him in conversation, but Billa remained mute. Finally, an emotion did surface. But instead of the misery he had been expecting to feel, a quiet rage took hold. He understood now that the lives of the rich and the poor could never be entwined. He pressed his pocket and felt the outline of the wristwatch he had stolen. It was less than he deserved, he knew, but it had not been taken for its value alone. Despite his anger, Billa craved a sentimental token, an item that would allow him to keep a part of Ghalib close.

  Billa had no way of knowing that, back in Lahore, the theft had already been discovered. By the time his four-hour journey ended, punishment was waiting for him at his mother’s home in the village. The watch was a vintage Omega that Ghalib had inherited from his father. He had no intention of parting with it.

  LATE THAT SAME afternoon, when Ghalib emerged from his suite for lunch, he was presented with a message from the beautiful young poetess. She had politely declined his invitation to tea. Ghalib spent the rest of his afternoon and early evening rearranging his art. He had the great tapestry removed from the downstairs living room wall. Next, he sat before a stack of paintings, deciding where to put them. His valet, armed with a hammer and a box of nails, hung each one as requested. The end result was a salon wall that was quite arresting and changed the ambience of the entire living room. So absorbed was Ghalib in the exercise that when his chauffeur returned with the stolen wristwatch in hand, he did not even inquire about Billa. The beautiful boy he had used as an amusement had been reduced in his mind to a common thief.

  After completing the work in the living room, Ghalib walked through the house’s long main corridor, surveying the collection of Mehrgarh artifacts displayed in the cabinets that lined the walls. If he could find the right buyer, he would sell the entire collection in minutes. With this thought in mind, he called Khalid in Barako.

  “What is the news, Khalid? Have you heard from your son or anyone else?”

  “I’ve heard nothing,” Khalid said.

  “I see. Well, the money is sitting in my bank, not earning any interest,” Ghalib said with irritation.

  “Please don’t worry.”

  “What about Hass
an?”

  “His phone seems to be broken, or perhaps he has lost it. You know Hassan. But I’m confident that he will not let his father down,” Khalid lied, and then changed the topic. “What is happening in your constituency? Are votes being guaranteed?”

  “I am not going to run.”

  “Why not? If someone makes you a minister and gives you a cultural portfolio we would all benefit.”

  “Have you heard of this fellow who is organizing a march to Islamabad to bring the government down?”

  “Tahir-ul-Qadri! Yes, his advertisements are everywhere. He is sitting on a lot of money. I like him, Ghalib. He is a brilliant man. But don’t tell your people I said that.”

  “They are not worried, Khalid. That’s the problem. They think he is a crazy man. I am quite taken by him myself,” Ghalib confessed.

  “Well, plan to be in Islamabad when he arrives. Apparently, the government is not going to stop him.”

  “Soody is not going to like this. He thinks AK’s party is going to create a new Pakistan,” said Ghalib.

  “Well, Qadri is not running for office. But he could be the headmaster who will show the new government how to run the country.”

  “They won’t let him,” Ghalib said bleakly. “I know the players, Khalid.”

  “I know you do. Stay in the game! You will win. You have owned your lands and the villagers for generations. That is the only power that counts.”

  “I am dying to see the sculpture, Khalid.”

  “It is on its way. No point in dying before it reaches you. I have to take another call,” Khalid said and hung up.

  Ghalib did not fall asleep easily that night. He received a long-distance call in the middle of the night from a friend who said that a book had been published by a relative of Ghalib’s. The book was apparently highly critical of Ghalib’s father. After he digested the news, he thought about his father, and about lost opportunities. He could have written the book himself! His father had rejected his mother and remarried a European woman. Ghalib had grown up with his mother’s silent anguish, which had influenced both the poet and painter in him. A feeling of creative rivalry crept into Ghablib’s heart. Not for the first time, he yearned to write a novel based upon his life as a great Punjabi landlord. But now, more than ever, he knew that this goal was out of his reach.

  SIXTEEN

  ADEEL JOGGED DOWN THE road, heading back to the campsite. He had found a place to charge his phone and had finished the rest of his business as well. The bus headed for Skardu would arrive at noon. He would give Norbu some money and make sure she was on it. She had to return to her father, who would probably arrange another marriage for her, Adeel thought. Divorced daughters were a liability. He was confident, though, that Norbu was strong enough to handle the next chapter of her life. All he had to do was convince her that he had no intention of taking her any farther on his journey.

  Bumping into the recently promoted Zamir had been a shock, but he had recovered quickly and was already formulating a plan. His new life would not be connected to the old one. He would blend into a local community and experiment with a different way of living. For the first time in many days, there was a lightness in his heart. He finally felt he had the ability to make decisions and find clarity.

  He walked under the canopy of trees and headed toward the shelter. The shock of seeing an empty car next to the road lasted only a few seconds. He swiftly moved forward, his senses on high alert, but froze at the scene before him. A man’s body lay on the ground in front of the makeshift enclosure. There was no question that the man was dead. Adeel backed slowly away, then made his way to the spot where the sculpture was buried. The statue lay uncovered in the pit of earth. There was no trace of Norbu.

  What had happened here? And where was Norbu? Adeel walked up to the stream to look for her but she wasn’t there either. He studied the ground as he walked. There were patches of depressed wild grass. Kneeling down, he traced the outline of a man’s shoeprint. Nearby, where the dirt began, he found a set of small footprints. He knew they were Norbu’s. As he followed her trail back to the enclosure, he wondered why she hadn’t been wearing her shoes.

  Back at the campsite, Adeel knelt beside the body. Blood had congealed in spots and was pooling around the throat. The face was unrecognizable, as half of the head had been blown off on impact. But Adeel knew the man nonetheless. He had recognized the car from his trip into Chilas, and this was the same young man who had been driving it. The memory of the face he had seen at Barako when he went to collect the truck and money flashed through his mind again. But why had this man been sent to find him? Nothing about him suggested he was a with a law enforcement agency. The corpse was clad in expensive clothes and, beside it, an oversized camera lens sat on its side. The camera bag was still slung around the man’s neck. Adeel knew that the bullet had come from his revolver. Stepping over the body, he crawled through the entrance of the shelter and found himself staring at the muzzle of his own gun.

  Norbu sat with her legs drawn up against her body, and with both arms resting on her knees. The wavering revolver was held in a double-handed grip. Her bare feet were splattered with mud, her eyes were narrowed, and her breath emerged heavily from parted lips. The expression on her face was remote, as though she were looking at something beyond her sightline. Adeel knew she was in shock. He put his palm over the muzzle of the gun and slowly lowered it until she let go.

  “I am going to take this now. It is all right,” he said, placing the gun on the ground.

  “The man is dead,” Adeel said, gesturing at the body.

  She buried her face in her hands.

  “What did he do? Did he speak to you? Was he alone?” he asked, trying to determine what exactly happened.

  She made a choking sound then trembled violently as tears poured down her face. He waited, letting her cry. Finally, she lifted her face to him.

  “Will you kill me?”

  “No,” he said quietly. “I want you to tell me about everything that happened after I left.”

  She told Adeel that she had spent some time gathering firewood and then decided to wash herself at the stream. She hesitated when she said that she had removed her clothes. When she noticed the man behind the trees, holding a large black object, she thought it was a gun. She ran back to the shelter, but she could hear his footsteps behind her. She collided with Adeel’s bag and remembered that his revolver was inside. When the man’s head, and the long black object, appeared at the opening of the enclosure, she did what Adeel had taught her to do.

  “It is not your fault. I taught you how to use this,” he said, and put his hand on her shoulder.

  She jerked her body away as though she had been singed. She wiped her feet with the end of her shawl and slipped her gym shoes back on.

  “I have to go outside and take care of what has happened. I will need your help,” he said, holding out his hand to help her up.

  She laced her sneakers and ignored his outstretched hand.

  “I will take care of this. No one will ever know. You are going on the bus to Skardu in two hours. Forget all this and never tell anyone what happened,” he said.

  “Do you want to kill me?” she repeated without facing him.

  “Norbu, I want to set you free. Marry a better man, have children, and create your own home,” he said gently.

  When she still made no move to take his hand, he grabbed her arms and pulled her up to face him.

  “You don’t have to look at him, but I need to check his pockets. I have to search the car as well.”

  Norbu moaned and darted away the moment she saw the body. She collapsed on the ground nearby with her head down. Adeel ignored her and checked the pockets of the man’s jacket and trousers. He found the car keys along with a wallet full of money. There were two photographs tucked behind the driving licence. One was of two little children, the oth
er of a beautiful, scantily clad girl who pouted at the camera. The man’s wristwatch was expensive.

  The car — an expensive Japanese model favoured by affluent Pakistanis — was registered in the name of a business in Islamabad. The back seat was covered with bottled drinking water, soft drinks, imported potato chips, biscuits, and bags of fruit. There was a blanket lying on the passenger seat with a mobile phone sitting on top. The sound system was first class. Nothing indicated that the man was a professional photographer. He had been sent here, he reasoned, and had just explored a little off the beaten path. The man must have spied Norbu at the stream, taken a few photographs, and then followed her to the shelter.

  “Come, we have to bury him,” he said.

  “Here?” She was stunned.

  “Norbu, it was an accident, but no one will believe it. If his body is discovered then I will say that I fired the revolver.”

  As the words emerged from his mouth, Adeel realized that he had fallen in love. He sank to his knees, feeling as if a great rustling bird was trapped inside his chest. If the situation were discovered, Norbu’s act of self-defence would lead to an arrest. And Adeel knew that he would rather sacrifice himself than allow anything to happen to her. Every skill he had learned would be harnessed to conceal the evidence and save her.

  Norbu stood up, rushed to his side, and placed a hand on his chest to reassure him. He lifted the consoling hand and placed a deep kiss on its palm. She closed her eyes. A tiny smile creased her lips and grew broader until it reached her eyes. In that moment, she knew that her solitary life was over. The man bent over her hand would be a constant in her life. Adeel embraced her, then quickly released her and stood up.

  He had to make a new plan. He opened the trunk of the car, rummaged through the tools he found there, and pulled out an iron wrench. He would use the hole they’d dug for the statue to bury the man’s body. The grave was already half completed; all they had to do was finish it.

  “I need you and both of your shawls,” he said, and started walking.