In his breast pocket he carried an envelope with a large amount of money. He was dressed in the local shalwar kameez with a black Western-style jacket over it. He wore highly polished black loafers with socks. He looked like the well-dressed local businessman that he was.
The two men who sat next to him on the plane were army officers. Khalid had the window seat and barely glanced at them. They were in uniform and appeared to be quite senior. As they took off their caps and placed them on the overhead racks, he was struck by their sombre expressions.
“Posted in Gilgit?” he inquired.
“Yes. On special duty,” said the one next to him.
“I didn’t know we had much of a military presence in Gilgit. I thought the military would be closer to Skardu,” said Khalid, feeling an acute sense of discomfort.
“There are many situations in the country, sir. What about you?” asked the one sitting in the aisle seat.
“I’m going to join my son for a day or so in Gilgit,” replied Khalid.
“Ah! What does your son do there?”
“He has gone to do some photography for a tourist brochure.”
“I hope he has stayed clear of the unrest.”
Khalid took a newspaper from the flight attendant. The entire front page was dedicated to the goateed cleric who was arriving from Canada to lead the protest march in the nations’s capital.
“What is your opinion of this man?” Khalid asked.
“He is popular. The march is a publicity stunt,” said the officer next to him. “The Americans might be behind him.”
“But he is not running for office. He runs educational centres,” said Khalid.
“Nothing is going to happen, sir. It is just a pre-election game.”
Over the speakers in the cabin, the pilot announced the preparation for landing and informed his passengers that the weather in Gilgit was clear. The short flight was at an end. Khalid disembarked with urgency. He spotted a man carrying a placard emblazoned with his name standing near the cordoned-off zone and walked toward him.
“Thank you,” he said.
The man reached for Khalid’s small carry-on and led the way out.
“Would you like to check into the hotel, sir,” he asked.
Khalid just stood for a minute, breathing in the air.
“No. I want you to take me to the local bazaar. I am looking for someone,” he said as he climbed into the front seat with the driver.
“There are a lot of army checkpoints, sir. There has been some trouble,” said the driver.
“What sort of trouble?”
“First, there was the sectarian killings, and then a truck blew up. There is trouble on the Gilgit–Skardu road.”
“What happened?”
“The Taliban, sir. There has been an attack. A suicide attack,” the driver said.
“Are there any handicraft or antique stores around here? People who sell old stuff?” asked Khalid.
“There is a co-operative store. I know the man who runs it.”
“Take me to him.”
Twenty minutes later, they arrived at a modest structure that seemed to be a tourist office of sorts. A man with yellowing teeth and a drooping moustache greeted Khalid.
“Do you have any Gandharan antiquities here?” asked Khalid.
“Strange. Another man was in here yesterday asking the same thing,” said the man.
“Can you describe him?”
“What do you want to know?” asked the man, trying to look stern.
Khalid withdrew his cash envelope and pulled out two five-thousand-rupee notes and placed them on the table.
The man looked around nervously, then quickly slid both notes into the opened drawer of a wooden table.
“It was a young man. He was fashionably dressed with a big camera. He wanted to know if there were any Gandharan pieces here. But he left quickly.”
“Did he tell you where he was going?” Khalid asked.
“No. He just got into his car and drove away.”
“Do any of the old Buddhist sculptures ever come your way?”
“No. You find those in Swat. We just have some handicrafts. Wools, shawls, baskets, and local jewellery. But no tourists.” He shrugged his shoulders.
Khalid left. He planned to set out for the local bazaar in Chilas. His driver was standing outside the car talking to a local. When he saw Khalid, he rushed over.“Terrible news, sir! There has been a Taliban attack near Skardu. A car and the people in it were blown up. No one survived.”
Khalid’s veins turned to ice.
“What sort of a car?”
“An expensive one. Where do you want to go next?”
EIGHTEEN
GHALIB HAD BECOME MORE reclusive. He ate sparingly and spent hours reading fitfully. He felt there was very little to look forward to, so when he was informed that his gem dealer had arrived he decided to end his self-imposed withdrawal. In the past, the man’s spontaneous visits had always managed to amuse him. Ghalib served drinks in the first-floor living room and had the meal catered from the club. Chafing under his strict vegetarian regimen, Ghalib allowed himself a few small treats: he nibbled on beef kebabs and even smoked two joints that the gem dealer had brought with him.
“How is the politics going?” inquired the man.
“Well, it seems I have been persuaded very strongly to switch my party,” said Ghalib in a burst of recklessness.
“Well, nobody in the Punjab wants this AK and his two recycled running mates,” replied the gem dealer peevishly.
“I want to serve the nation, but I have to be clever,” Ghalib continued as the dealer pulled a paper bundle from his case.
“Let me show you the pick of my collection,” he said.
The brown-paper cone was opened and about ninety karats of brilliant aquamarines were spread out in front of Ghalib. There were easily fifty flawless cut stones in various shapes. Ghalib leaned forward, mesmerized by the colour. His imagination fashioned a choker that cascaded down the throat of a beautiful young woman, descending like a waterfall in the cleft of her breasts. Unfortunately, he could not summon any candidate for this treasure he felt he could so easily design. He was still in the midst of a sexual drought.
“Put them away, please.” He drew back. “There is no one whom I could pamper with these.”
“The price will be excellent for you. Buy them and put them away for later,” the dealer encouraged.
“I want someone to tell me about this Dr. Qadri. Is it true that he will take a large caravan of people to Islamabad?” Ghalib asked, ignoring the dealer.
“He is an army stooge. He appeared so suddenly! Maybe even the president is behind this,” said the gem dealer, leaving the stones on the coffee table.
“No, the president is hiding in his bunker in Karachi,” said Ghalib.
“Well, change can be very dangerous. What if they take your land away?”
“Then I will have to become like you, my friend, running around selling smuggled gems from Afghanistan,” said Ghalib, suddenly irritated by the turn in the conversation.
Ghalib rose abruptly, signalling that the revelry, if it could be called that, was over. He told his valet to make a bed for the gem dealer and retreated upstairs. For a moment, he missed the footsteps that used to scamper up behind him. The news he had received about Billa was not good. The boy had become violent at school, and had almost sent his victim to the hospital. His mother had responded by keeping him home so an elder brother could use him as an apprentice in a local trade. Ghalib knew he had failed to understand what deprivation did to people in rural Pakistan. He dismissed his failure swiftly so it would not prey on his conscience.
THE NEXT DAY, Ghalib decided to go to the country. Somehow, his constituency would have to be definitively told that he was not running for the party
with which he had been affiliated. He would decline, due to ill health, at a community meeting Nur Hyat would organize. He cancelled his appointment with his psychiatrist and ordered that his paints, canvas, and easel be packed. Ghalib’s two-car convoy sailed out from the front gate in the evening.
When he arrived on the outskirts of the sleeping country village his spirits lightened considerably. The large door to his home was open and the front courtyard was lit. His night watchman stood at attention with a broad smile on his face. The hustle and bustle that accompanied his arrival made the great country estate come alive. Ghalib got out of the car and inhaled the pure country air, redolent with the scent of flowers and rich, fertile soil. He had planned to have his easel set up in the pre-dawn light so that he could paint, but instead, he climbed up to the terrace and watched the stars disappear one by one.
A few hours later, Nur Hyat arrived. A meeting of the local constituency was scheduled for the early evening. Ghalib thought Nur Hyat did not seem like himself. Even his typical sartorial splendour appeared to be a little diminished. His shirt was wrinkled and his heavily pomaded hair was flatter than usual.
“What is wrong, Nur Hyat?” Ghalib asked.
“Terrible things will happen and many people will be involved,” Nur Hyat replied cryptically.
“What are you talking about?” pressed Ghalib.
“I have just heard that no real elections will take place in two months’ time. The results have already been fixed,” he said, avoiding Ghalib’s eyes. “The vote boxes will appear and disappear.”
“Rubbish! The Election Commission has returning officers who are in charge of those boxes,” Ghalib snapped.
“This is a small community. Everybody knows everything,” Nur Hyat replied.
Ghalib knew a certain amount of rigging and coercion always took place, but the prospect of exchanging entire ballot boxes required a certain degree of organization. He digested the information slowly, and pondered calling Soody to ask if he’d heard the same thing. Then he began to wonder if he really did need to meet with his largely illiterate constituency members, who might also be privy to this information.
“Bring the constituency members here. Tea will be served. I have an announcement to make,” Ghalib said.
When the local constituents arrived, they sat in a semi-circle on the front patio. From their subdued manner, Ghalib sensed that Nur Hyat might have said something to them about the ballot boxes before he arrived. The locals drank tea, ignored the biscuits, and fixed their reproachful eyes on him. As Ghalib announced that he was withdrawing his candidacy, they saw the possibility of future rewards vanish before their eyes. Their departing handshakes were much less effusive than their greetings had been. When they were gone, Ghalib told Nur Hyat that his services were no longer needed, and that his estate manager would pay him. Ghalib added that if he ever had any concrete information about the ballot boxes being removed, an extra payment would find its way to him. Nur Hyat just nodded.
“The crazy cleric, Qadri, who wants to march on the government, is the only man in the country who knows it will happen,” Nur Hyat said as he walked away.
Ghalib mused over Nur Hyat’s comment as he strolled through his gigantic front garden, which was larger than a cricket pitch. Would this truly happen? he wondered. Would the goateed cleric take on the might of the entrenched politicians and win? Why wasn’t the government taking him seriously as a threat? As Ghalib reached the end of the garden, next to the encircling wall, he heard a sound behind him. He swung around. Standing in front of him was Saqib, dressed in dirt-stained clothing.
“How did you get past the guard at the front door?”
“I have come from the back. I jumped the wall,” said Saqib.
Ghalib surveyed the boy who had run away with the drummer from the Sufi shrine. He was almost skeletal.
“How was life with the drummer?’
“He lied about everything. He told me he would teach me how to play music and I could make money at the shrines,” Saqib said.
“You know, Saqib, when someone whom I have taken care of runs away, he is no longer welcome here.”
“I heard in the village that you are sick and not running in the election, so I came to see you.”
Ghalib roared with laughter. Saqib had not lost his ability to think expediently. He saw a familiar smile play across Saqib’s gaunt face.
“Do you remember your English?”
“Yes. I will never forget anything that you have taught me,” replied Saqib in perfect English.
“I should have been a schoolteacher,” Ghalib replied.
“Yes! You should build a school right here in this garden.”
“And have hooligans like you running around and not studying?” Ghalib replied. He was beginning to enjoy himself.
“It is better than politics, and it would make everyone happy,” Saqib said.
“What do you know about politics? You are fifteen — too young to even vote.”
“I hate politicians. They come in big cars and are all fat, old, and ugly,” the boy added viciously.
“When you grow up you could become a revolutionary.”
“What is a revolutionary?” asked Saqib.
Ghalib sighed. He wanted to grab the boy by the scruff of his neck, march him inside to the study, and show him books. How would it feel to open the realm of possibilities to this bright vagrant? It would be like planting a seed, and waiting for it to blossom into a flower. Yet Saqib’s own father was a teacher, and he had given up on the runaway. Suddenly, Ghalib felt that the privilege of his vaunted life was a dark and ugly thing. A wave of depression descended on him.
“Go home, Saqib,” he said, turning away.
“No. I will live in the garden. I won’t bother you. But you can call me to press you,” he added desperately.
“That is over, Saqib. Forever. I am lonely but you will not be. Everything will be all right,” Ghalib reassured him.
Saqib flashed him a disbelieving look, then nimbly scaled the wall and disappeared as quickly as he had appeared. Ghalib walked back to the house and instructed the watchmen to make sure no one was lurking in the garden at night. When he entered his room, his valet told him that Khalid had called him twice, so he called him back.
“Khalid, my friend. How are you? The countryside is becoming as dangerous as the cities. I miss you. You should come and see me.”
“Ghalib, everything has gone wrong. I am in Gilgit.”
“Where is the sculpture, Khalid? I dream about it.”
“Ghalib, my son is missing, but he made contact with the man who stole the sculpture. There may have been some trouble.”
“What is it? Tell me. You don’t sound like yourself.”
“I seem to have lost control of the situation. These blasted Taliban are everywhere and the army cannot control them. I fear we may lose the sculpture.”
“Does this have to do with money, Khalid? Does someone want to make a side deal for more money? I will not pay more than the agreed sum,” Ghalib said with irritation.
“To hell with your money, Ghalib! You are not listening to me. Come out of your damn country paradise. My son is missing. Where is your sympathy?” Khalid shouted.
“Khalid, I have sold valuable land that is jointly owned by my relatives. They don’t know about this. Make sure I do not have a reason to regret this. Find your son. You never should have sent him. Goodbye.”
Ghalib hung up, realizing that this was the first time he had acknowledged yet another serious breach of trust. He had two sisters who were also entitled to a share of the vast land holdings that he managed. Relations with both were frosty at best, and Ghalib felt that he had greater power than either of them, even thought they were quite affluent in their own right. Even his estate manager knew nothing about his transaction. Litigation over land rights in Pakistan wa
s notoriously long and difficult. The courts took an average of ten years to settle disputes.
Ghalib switched on the television and once again found the cleric from Canada being interviewed. Ghalib was glued to the screen, unable to shake off the hypnotic power of the man’s oratory. He called Soody at once.
“Why is this man, Qadri, not being taken seriously?” he asked.
“I have told you. He has Koranic centres. He is a kook. A few years ago he immigrated to Canada. He has been duping people over there. Now he returns and wants to create a diversion. It’s all rubbish,” Soody calmly explained.
“I think you are wrong. He is a very compelling man,” Ghalib replied.
“We have only two months to go and then we will be in power,” replied Soody.
“I think you are too smug,” Ghalib said in frustration. “You have an inexperienced leader and a lot of unemployed youth. Hardly the foundation for an ascent to power.”
“You just keep your end of the bargain and get elected. We will take care of the rest.”
“I am no longer your party’s candidate.”
“When the hell did this happen?”
“Today. Doctor’s orders,” Ghalib said.
“I won’t forgive this,” Soody said, his voice menacing.
“I know. But it will work out in the end. The rival candidate is going to win anyway.”
“This was an opportunity for you to serve this great nation of ours,” Soody said.
“I am not the man for the job, Soody. I am just a doddering old fool. You carry on. I hope you win back a cabinet position.”
“This is an absurd conversation. I am ending it,” Soody said and hung up.
There was no sleep for Ghalib that night. The ambience of the country house had changed. Everything seemed lifeless. He riffled through his music CDs aimlessly, then ordered a late-night snack from the kitchen, which he barely touched. Finally, he returned to the main house and prowled though the various bedrooms, switching lights on and off as he went. Ghalib felt like the vitality of his life was ebbing away. When he returned to his bedroom, he swallowed a sleeping pill and went to sleep.
The Place of Shining Light Page 22