“I have ordered some green tea. Would you like some?” Khalid asked.
“Why not? You Pakistanis make excellent tea,” replied Saad.
“How long have you been posted here?”
“About two years, but I will accompany the ambassador back.”
“I hope you will have good memories of your time here,” said Khalid as he withdrew the envelope from his jacket pocket and slipped it between two pages of the magazine so it was no longer visible.
Saad let the magazine lie between them.
“Everybody misses their home. But our countries have a good relationship,” replied Saad in his accented English.
The waiter appeared with a tray and Saad moved the magazine closer to his side of the table. They made small talk and drank their tea. When they were done, Khalid paid the bill, shook hands with Saad, and sauntered toward a bookstore. When he emerged from the bookstore a few minutes later, Khalid saw Saad, laden with two bags of shopping, walk across the courtyard and hail a taxi. Along with his groceries, Saad had walked away with two-thirds of Khalid’s assets.
On the drive home to Barako, Khalid’s phone rang.
“My dear Khalid, thank you. Matters are settled, but I do hope you will remember your promise of allowing me to see your collection one day,” the ambassador said.
“I shall not be in town for a while,” lied Khalid, deciding he would never allow the visit to happen.
“Khuda Hafez,” said the ambassador, saying farewell in the traditional Pakistani way.
“Allah Hafiz,” responded Khalid, using the recently adopted Arabized version.
The ambassador chuckled. “Your alphabet is Arabic, Khalid. But all of your derivatives are Persian.”
WHEN KHALID RETURNED home, he glanced around at the sprawl of his property and thought of Hassan. Doubts had first entered his mind the day before, but he’ddismissed them, no doubt because he was preoccupied with plans for his meeting with the ambassador. His pampered son had grown into a young man defined by a scandalous sense of entitlement. Had Khalid been duped again? Three days had passed now without any communication. Khalid conceded that Hassan, armed with money and transportation, had probably decided to gallivant in Gilgit. There was no denying it anymore; he would finally have to lock the gates of his home to his son. Hassan’s days of grace were over.
Khalid looked at Faisal, who walked beside him, and placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder.
“Hassan is like a diseased limb, Faisal. And the time has come to chop this limb off,” Khalid said, and stopped walking.
“Don’t say that, Chachu. I think he really wanted to help you. But you know Hassan.” Faisal shrugged.
“How are things going in the workshop?” Khalid asked, not wanting to pursue the subject any further.
“Very well. You should see the quality of the work. The man is a genius. There is a Hindu temple in Sindh that is expecting the artifacts, as well as clients across the border,” Faisal replied enthusiastically.
Khalid was touched by Faisal’s enthusiasm. “What do you think about the Hindu gods, Faisal?” he asked.
“They are very powerful — the work of great imagination — and they have been around for thousands of years. They are beautiful, Chachu, but not hard to duplicate.”
“I will see the work tomorrow,” said Khalid with a curt nod that told Faisal he was dismissed. The young man handed over Khalid’s phone, and wished him a good evening.
Khalid stuffed the phone in his pocket and headed toward his Allah museum, though prayers were not on his mind. He opened the large door to the downstairs gallery and entered the space, feeling as if he had walked into a lifeless tomb. He realized what was missing: the energy of people who would express a sense of wonder at his collection. Somewhere along the line, ownership had become a dull affair. With a sad chuckle, he remembered an ignorant yet prophetic comment Hassan had once made: “They are huge old Korans. So what? You cannot even turn the pages in case they get soiled. You cannot even have them in the house. You should just sell them.” Perhaps his son was right — or partially so. Maybe the time had come to gift his collection to a university or museum.
Khalid walked up the stairs to his sanctuary. He stood at a distance from the velvet-covered miniature Ka’ba, the prayer rug, and the bowl of water. Nothing induced him to take the few steps that would bring him closer to the source of his salvation. The room was cold and the ache in his shoulder returned. Just then, the telephone in his pocket vibrated. He looked at the number as it disconnected on the third ring. He waited and it rang again.
“Your property has changed hands,” said Sher Khan. “It is heading to Skardu, but we will intercept it. Our special friends will take care of everyone, don’t worry.” He hung up before Khalid could respond.
Khalid tried dialing Sher Khan back, but his call was not returned. He raced out to his office to search for the brigadier’s number. As he thumbed through a small diary, the phone rang again. He answered the call and was surprised to hear the voice of the brigadier.
“Khalid, a car whose registration papers use one of your business addresses has snarled traffic on the Gilgit–Skardu highway. Who was driving it?”
“My son Hassan,” Khalid said.
“Well, he is nowhere near the car. It’s the wrong time of year for tourism. What was he doing there?”
“Visiting some friends.”
“Is that all? Not another kidnapping, we hope?”
“I have no idea. But I need to find my son, otherwise my wife will make all of our lives a misery,” Khalid said.
“I’m sorry to say this, Khalid, but foul play is suspected. We lifted some prints off the steering wheel and found a surprise,” continued the brigadier.
“What is it?” Khalid was beginning to feel alarmed.
“It seems your son met our missing agent, Adeel. And from the fingerprints on the steering wheel, it seems that Adeel has even driven the car. Tell me the truth, Khalid,” said the brigadier sternly.
Khalid was stunned. Hassan had been successful in finding Adeel, but he had also broken the rules by befriending the agent enough to let him drive his car. Pain rippled around his shoulder, almost doubling him over. He wanted Safia and the balm of her massaging fingers.
“Oh my God!” Khalid shouted into the phone.
“Khalid, a search for Adeel will be conducted. Please don’t engage in any other plans without consulting me.”
“Just keep me in the loop. This is my son we are talking about.”
“This is quite serious, Khalid. A general may also be involved, so it has become a highly sensitive issue. I will let you know as soon as we have any news,” the brigadier said and hung up.
“Was it Hassan? Is he all right?” Safia said, appearing at his office door.
“Yes. He is fine. He’ll be home in a couple of days. His phone broke,” Khalid said, looking up at her.
“I told you. He’s becoming more responsible. Oh, Khalid, I wonder what he is eating.”
“He’ll be all right,” Khalid said, rubbing his shoulder.
“You have to see the doctor about your shoulder. Let us go now,” Safia pleaded.
“I don’t have time for physiotherapy unless the person comes here. I will take care of my shoulder this week. I will see you in the bedroom in half an hour.”
Khalid walked out of his office and headed toward the main gate. The guard who sat nearby was a man from the region of Hazara. He was familiar with firearms and had been with Khalid for five years. Although he generally maintained an aloof distance from his employees, Khalid knew that once in a while the guard smoked charas, the local marijuana. Khalid greeted the man and he sprang to attention.
“Khan sahib. Can you let me have one of your special cigarettes? I’m hoping it will help the pain in my shoulder.”
“It is roug
h, sir. Not a very good variety. They mix dried grass with it as well,” replied the guard.
Khalid just smiled at him and waited. The guard pulled out a little package from his pocket. He fished out a hand-rolled cigarette that contained both tobacco and charas. He lit it and passed it to Khalid, who took three short puffs then handed it back.
“Where do you get it locally?” asked Khalid.
“Some of the farmers in Simly Dam area grow it, sir. But the prime charas comes from Afghanistan.”
“I hope you are not smoking it on your night duty.”
“No, sir, I have a few puffs only in the day when I need to catch up on some sleep.”
Khalid headed back toward his living area. He felt a slight buzz and hoped that the smoking would not trigger another spell of labyrinthitis. The pain in his shoulder seemed to have dulled, he noticed.
Khalid lay on his stomach in his bed and felt as though he was floating. Safia’s fingers brushed heated oil into his shoulder. Despite his dislike of drugs, Khalid felt that the pain management properties of the locally grown cannabis were formidable. He understood why so many people who frequented religious shrines relied on drugs of one kind or another. On the one hand, they lessened the pain of existence; on the other, they allowed one to grab at the gossamer strands that connected mere mortals to the divine. The way humans were designed contained a flaw of sorts, thought Khalid, because the divine connection could only be experienced in an altered state. Khalid felt that divinity was not related to any sacred text, ritual, or house of worship but to the collective human spirit. In his case, divinity was manifested through art. This form of human expression moved him more completely than any other. He felt his desperate exhortations and daily prayers were fraudulent. What was truly worthy of worship were the dreams of artists. This was the reason that museums existed. Museums, he decided, were the only houses of worship that mattered.
In this moment, Khalid even began to understand his friend Ghalib a bit better. Ghalib never observed any ritual of faith. His insatiable appetite for and custodianship of art was his primary response to life. Now Khalid viewed Ghalib not just as a prominent client but as a comrade. In the past two decades, the Arabization of Pakistan had proceeded apace. Mosques and religious centres — manned by bearded zealots posing as the clergy in a faith that had no history of a clergy — influenced even the politicians. A false piety blossomed, spreading throughout the country like a toxic virus. The secular state had vanished. Mosques as large as emporiums mushroomed around the country. The Buddhist sculpture smuggled from Bamiyan — this remarkable artefact that seemed to thwart every attempt at ownership — had created a collision of unrelated events in his life, he realized. Khalid began to wonder what price both he and Ghalib would eventually pay for it.
Safia was murmuring something. He turned over and watched her wipe her fingers on a towel. The way she rubbed each slim, long figure before slipping her massive emerald ring back on reminded him of a miniature Mughal painting entitled In the Bath. When she smiled at him, he found himself staring into their son Hassan’s eyes. A tremor rippled through his entire body.
“There might have been an accident,” he heard himself saying.
Safia’s smile vanished.
“Where is my son?”
“I don’t know.”
“Bring my son home,” said Safia as she began to cry.
“Have I ever denied you anything?” Khalid slowly sat up.
“Yes! When I wanted you to spend more time with Hassan and less on your business,” Safia said, repeating an ancient reproach.
“I was building the family’s future. All of this,” he said, spreading his arms expansively.
“No, you were indulging in your passion for art, which came before all of us. You are my life, Khalid, but I want to go back to a time when we had very little,” she said as she stepped away from the bed.
Khalid watched her retreating.
“There is something you need to know,” he shouted.
Safia stopped, but did not walk back to him.
“I have never told you about my dream,” he said.
“Is it a new one?”
“No. It is a political dream. I want to take all the Kashmiri art I have collected in a procession across the border to Kashmir. I want to display my treasures for people who are being mistreated by that government. I want to show them who they really are.”
“You are mad! The government will never allow it, and the Indians will probably destroy everything,” Safia said.
“I want to take a caravan of treasures from Pakistan to India. It would be a gift of art, not an act of war. Who could refuse such an offer?”
Safia imagined a long procession of men wrapped in shawls who would carry the items for Khalid. He had two special salons that housed the treasures of Kashmir. Even Ghalib was not allowed to purchase them. She knew they were priceless, and that her husband’s dream was admirable, but at this moment, she didn’t care. All she wanted was for her son to be at home, playing computer games with his three-year-old son.
“Let us all go to Gilgit and bring Hassan home. Let’s bring everyone, including the children,” she said.
“Let me take you for a Chinese dinner tonight in Islamabad, Safia,” Khalid said.
“I have set things out to cook,” replied Safia.
“Cook them another time. I will bring Hassan home. I have already sent someone,” he said as he walked over to embrace her.
“Well, let’s take everyone to dinner. Even the children and also Faisal,” said Safia.
“Yes, the whole family,” Khalid agreed, knowing she did not want to spend time with him alone.
A FEW HOURS later, the car left Barako carrying the entire family, including Hassan’s wife. In the Barako bazaar, huge posters of Dr. Qadri were plastered everywhere.
“Who is he, Faisal?” asked Khalid.
“Dr. Tahir-ul Qadri. He is returning soon from Canada. He is going to march up to Parliament with his followers. There’s been lots of advertising on television. He has a great deal of money,” Faisal said, sounding excited.
“They won’t let him. He sounds like the same sort as the leader of the new party Ghalib is supporting. Perhaps they will join together and frighten the government.” Khalid chuckled.
“Hassan listens to his speeches,” his wife added.
“Hassan?”
“Yes. He said the man is brilliant and has centres all across the world. He is arriving tomorrow.”
“Well, I’ll call Ghalib and ask him about this. He is running in the election. He knows a lot of important people in his party.”
The Chinese restaurant was located behind a huge shopping complex. It was packed, but the manager knew Khalid and immediately secured a table. Khalid gazed at his family and indulged his rambunctious grandchildren while Safia ordered from the ten-page menu. As a tureen of soup arrived, Faisal flashed Khalid a look.
“Just check it,” Khalid said, knowing his phone was vibrating in Faisal’s pocket.
Safia stopped filling the soup bowl held in her hand. Khalid’s comment brought silence to the table. He ignored Safia and held out his hand for the phone. He looked at it, rose from his chair, and walked toward the men’s washroom. He entered a stall, shut the door, and dialed Sher Khan’s number. Within two minutes, his call was returned.
“You should not have sent your son, Khalid sahib.” Sher Khan’s voice was cold.
“Give me your news, Sher Khan.”
“We have a big fish in our hands, and our special friends will send him where he belongs.”
“What does this have to do with finding the agent and my property?” Khalid said, fighting the panic that was rising in his chest.
“Your son, the agent, and your property are all together. The man helping them is a general — a sworn enemy of our special friends,”
replied Sher Khan.
“Has this become a Taliban operation?” Khalid whispered. “Don’t involve me in this, Sher Khan.”
“They are the only soldiers of this land, Khalid. Your kafir statue has delivered prey into our hands. Your son will be kept safe.”
The phone disconnected. Khalid resisted the urge to throw it into the toilet. He had accidentally landed in the eye of a storm. His promise to Safia resounded in his head. This could well be the costliest mistake he had ever made. Khalid rushed out of the washroom.
“I have ordered steamed fish for you, Khalid,” Safia said, staring at him.
“Baba, Baba! Why can’t Daddy eat with us,” lisped his four-year-old granddaughter.
Hassan’s wife sat with an untouched plate of food in front of her. Khalid glanced at the steaming dishes arranged on the table and realized that he, too, had no appetite.
“Give me a little piece of fish, please,” he said, turning to Safia.
“The children love the noodles. I think this was a good idea.” She paused for a moment before speaking again. “What’s bothering you, Khalid?”
Khalid knew she had sensed his agitation, and he had no wish to further worry her. “Safia, I want to bring Hassan home myself,” he said. “I am going to fly to Gilgit in the morning.”
“Fine. This time I want to go with you.”
“You cannot. There are some complications. Don’t worry, I will find him. I know all of his ways,” Khalid said, lifting his fork and swallowing some fish to reassure her.
“Then take Faisal with you so I don’t worry.” Safia offered him a brave smile.
“No, Faisal will stay here with all of you. Hassan and I will return home together and everything will be just as it always was.”
KHALID ARRIVED AT the airport the next morning for an 11 a.m. flight. Benazir Bhutto International Airport had introduced more security checks than he remembered. His small carry-on luggage went through three X-ray machines. Only passengers with airline tickets were allowed to enter the large central hall. He waited in the lounge with a handful of people. Tourism had declined drastically in the entire country, particularly in the remote northern areas. Khalid had booked a rental car and driver. Beyond that, he had made no other arrangements.
The Place of Shining Light Page 21