The Place of Shining Light

by Nazneen Sheikh

  Khalid was seated on a chair in the marble Mughal pavilion. He could not sleep without Safia in the bed. He watched the sun rising above the hills of Barako, immune to its beauty due to the well of emptiness that had now opened up inside of him. He was utterly defeated. His picturesque estate felt like an amusement park that had lost all of its rides. He realized now that his lifelong romance with history and antiquities had imprisoned him. The depth of his greed, which had led to his insatiable acquisitiveness, astounded him. His father’s acquisitions could have filled nothing more than a small, horse-drawn cart; his own required more than three thousand square metres of buildings, with more in planning. He acknowledged that his behaviour had wounded Safia, and no longer bothered to hide his grief. Safia’s joy lay in simple pleasures, yet he had mistakenly heaped treasures at her feet as an apology for his absences. His elder son preferred to to live abroad, and Hassan’s betrayals, disappointments, and absences had pushed him further away from his youngest. The frugal simplicity of his own childhood had motivated him to take giant steps to raise himself above his underprivileged childhood. He thought of himself as the captain of a pirate ship, a man who seized all the bounty that crossed his path and then voyaged to other countries for more. His large circle of acquaintances included lawbreakers, thieves, corrupt officials, and master forgers. The totality of his life had become a bitter pill that he was now forced to swallow.

  Khalid heard footsteps on the patio and saw Safia outside. He went to her.

  “There is news of Hassan,” he said, not bothering to explain the doubts that the brigadier’s early phone call had raised in his own mind. “I am going to bring him back this time. I am going to bring our son home.”

  “Are you sure? Where is he?” she asked.

  “Gilgit. I have to go back again, so I need to change quickly. Faisal will take me to the airport,” Khalid said.

  As he turned to walk away, Safia’s hand shot out and grabbed Khalid’s arm.

  “Did you eat the breakfast I sent for you?”

  “Yes, I ate it because you prepared it,” he said and gave her a weak smile.

  “Not because it’s good?” asked Safia.

  “Everything prepared by your hands is good. But I must change, Safia. This is one flight I don’t want to miss,” Khalid said and slid her hand from his forearm.

  “Don’t fight with him, Khalid,” she called after him, “just allow him to come home. He can provide explanations later.”

  ON THE FLIGHT, Khalid wondered what all the secrecy was about. The brigadier had called before dawn to say that Hassan had been located and that Khalid must fly to Gilgit immediately. When Khalid had demanded to speak to Hassan, however, the brigadier said it was not possible. Khalid was tempted not to go — after all, he had been there just two days ago — but he sensed trouble. He consoled himself by thinking that this would be the end of Hassan’s escapades. He wanted his wife’s smiles to return; he wanted peace in his house. He riffled through the paper handed to him by a flight attendant and read about a prominent man who had been placed under house arrest. Perhaps that was a solution for his wayward son.

  There was a chill in the Gilgit air. Khalid shivered under his light jacket as he walked through the terminal. He spotted the brigadier immediately.

  “Where is my son?” Khalid asked as he approached.

  “Follow me, Khalid,” the brigadier said, steering him into a small corridor that led away from the baggage carousel.

  Khalid followed him until they reached a brown wooden door. The brigadier opened it and ushered him inside. The room was empty, save for an upholstered couch and two armchairs. The brigadier shut the door behind them and led Khalid to the couch.

  “More surprises?” asked Khalid as he sat down. “Did he get himself arrested? I am prepared for it all. I am travelling with my chequebook, Brigadier.” He gave a dry laugh.

  “Khalid, the news is not good.”

  “I expected that. Let’s get on with it. Where are you hiding him?”

  The brigadier placed his hands on Khalid’s shoulders. “There was an accident, Khalid. Your son has died. The coffin is prepared and will be flown back with you.”

  An unearthly cry escaped from Khalid as he pushed the brigadier with both of his hands and stood up. The sudden movement triggered the labyrinthitis that had lay dormant for the past few days. The room spun at a dizzying speed and Khalid knew he was falling. He braced himself against a chair but it seemed to drop away. Khalid slid to the floor. He shut his eyes tightly, which only heightened his dizziness, so he reopened them and saw the brigadier’s face looming over his.

  “Khalid! Khalid! My dear friend, I know this is horrible news. Are you all right? Do I need to call a doctor?”

  Khalid looked at the face peering at him and watched as it rotated away, then came back. As the rotations slowed, he leaned back against the sofa and asked one question.

  “Is my son really dead?”

  “It was an unfortunate accident. He had climbed on a steep hill to take a photograph. He slipped and broke his neck. Death was instantaneous. Khalid, he did not suffer.” The brigadier helped him to get up and sit back on the couch.

  “I won’t believe it until I see his face. Where is his body?” Khalid asked.

  “Here. I have had the coffin sealed, Khalid. It had to be done. There is a terrible injury to one side of the head.”

  “You will take me to Hassan now,” he demanded.

  “It’s not a good idea. The embalming techniques here are not very good. I will have the coffin opened, Khalid, but you will not see his face,” the brigadier said. “Are you able to walk?”

  “Something happens to the fluid in my inner ear and I lose my balance. My son has the same problem. I’m fine now.”

  They walked together to a section of the terminal where cargo was stored. An unadorned pine casket lay on the floor. Khalid stopped, grappling with his disbelief. The wild, beautiful creature whose wings he had planned to clip had found another escape. Khalid felt as though he was struggling to breathe. He felt the pressure of the brigadier’s arm around his back and stepped forward. Safia, he thought, look at our son lying in this box.

  The padlock on the side of the coffin was opened. The lid was lifted. The scent of attar of roses wafted out and assaulted Khalid’s nostrils. The white shroud was long and narrow, the head slightly depressed. The brigadier unwound the linen from the bottom. Hassan’s lips and nostrils appeared in front of Khalid’s eyes. He wept and then turned away from the face. The brigadier drew the cloth back quickly, then slowly brought the lid of the coffin down.

  Khalid wept uncontrollably — for Safia more than for himself. He also wept for Hassan’s wife and children. He wanted to remove Hassan from the coffin and cradle him in his arms. He backed away and faced the brigadier.

  “What happened to the upper part of his face?”

  “You don’t want to know,” said the brigadier.

  “The worst is over. Tell me.”

  “There must have been an animal nearby. The face was damaged by the creature before the body was discovered,” the brigadier said solemnly.

  Safia, look what has happened to your prince, Khalid thought. “I can never tell my wife about this,” he said.

  “Khalid, the return flight to Islamabad leaves at two in the afternoon. I want you to come back and rest. I shall order some coffee for you. Or would you prefer something stronger?”

  “No,” replied Khalid. “I shall sit here with my son until it is time to go.”

  “It is a loading area, Khalid. You won’t be comfortable,” protested the brigadier.

  “Just have a chair brought here for me.”

  “I will have two sent. I shall sit with you.”

  “No, I prefer to be alone,” replied Khalid, walking back toward the coffin.

  When the chair was brought, Khalid
had it placed close to the head of the coffin. He ignored the small table that was set up with coffee a little farther away. For two hours, Khalid held a vigil for his son. It was not a silent one. He told stories — the narratives of great ancient kings from many civilizations. He closed his eyes and told wondrous tales, describing the treasures that existed and the ones that had come his way. In the face of his son’s death, he did what he had failed to do during his life.

  THE SMALL AIRCRAFT that rose from the Gilgit runway took Khalid and his son home. Three hours after seeing Hassan’s body, Khalid had regrouped. With a cool head and a fixed resolve, he planned a funeral. He contacted his siblings in Lahore and asked them to immediately come to Barako. They would need to be with Safia when he returned. The gates to his hidden estate would be flung wide open. He would give his son a funeral fit for a prince. Hassan would be the first person to be buried in the family tomb he had been constructing for months. His elder son would be arriving from Bangkok later that night. A shattered Faisal helped to make the arrangements for Khalid to be met at the Islamabad airport. Only Safia had been kept completely in the dark.

  When Khalid walked into the terminal, he was folded into Faisal’s wordless embrace. Special permission had been arranged for Faisal to be at the gate. Khalid felt not only the weight of Faisal’s slumped head but also his tears on his shoulder. He drew back, giving consolation before receiving it.

  “It will be all right, Faisal,” he murmured.

  Outside, Khalid watched Faisal and two other people lift the coffin and place it into a waiting van. Faisal stayed inside the van for several minutes, saying goodbye to Hassan. When he emerged, Khalid saw a heap of roses, rising in an oblong mound, covering the entire coffin. The back door to the van was carefully fastened, but the fragrance still lingered outside.

  “The van will follow us home, Chachu,” Faisal said, his eyes red from crying. “Let’s go to the car.”

  Khalid did not follow him.

  “I shall ride with the coffin. My son deserves that,” he said, walking to the side of the van.

  The drive took an hour. Khalid knew he would face his biggest challenge upon arriving home. He knew that many funeral rites specific to the Muslim faith had been violated. The burial would not take place within twenty-four hours, and before sunset. It would take him another day to make some adjustments to Hassan’s final resting place. He kept himself engaged in these thoughts to avoid thinking about Safia.

  When he arrived home, Khalid directed the van away from the bricked driveway where cars were normally parked and toward the side of the raised hill where it would remain concealed. His brother-in-law’s face appeared at the side of his window. Khalid disembarked and found the condolences offered too painful to accept.

  “Where is Safia?” he asked.

  “She is upstairs with your sister. All she knows is that you are both coming home.”

  “Please remove your wife from Safia’s side. I have to do this alone.”

  Khalid slowly climbed the staircase to the bedroom with steps that felt leaden. He knew Safia would have spent the day preparing food. She was probably watching television to pass the time while she waited for him to arrive. But once he walked into the room, her life would be altered. He could hear the sounds of singing from the television. A husky drone pulled him into the room. He walked in a trance toward his wife, who was curled up on the small chaise.

  “Turn the television off,” he said, hearing his own voice as if from a distance and wondering if someone else had spoken.

  Safia sat up and looked at Khalid without moving. Her hair had escaped from her braid and her gauzy scarf tumbled from her shoulders but she made no move to adjust it.

  “Where is my son?” she asked.

  “Our son has been taken from us. I have brought his body home.”

  The scream that filled the space between them entered Khalid’s body and exploded in his heart. Although his strength had utterly deserted him, he knew he had to cover the distance that separated him from his wife. But as he walked toward Safia, he was instantly pushed backwards. She had launched herself like a torpedo at him. With her fists curled, she hammered his chest with blows.

  “No! No! Where is my son! What have you done to my Hassan!”

  Khalid wrapped his arms around her to stop her fury as she struggled and continued to strike him. On her face was nothing but loathing. She screamed at him with words of hate and pent-up fury. She did not ask a single question because she knew it was pointless. Her son was dead.

  “Where is his body? I want to kiss my son. I made his favourite food.” She slipped from his grasp and sank to the floor.

  He knelt down on the floor with her, but she lashed out at him again with her feet. He kept repeating “I am sorry, I am sorry,” over and over again.

  “It was an accident, Safia. He fell off a mountain in Gilgit,” he finally said.

  Two relatives entered the room, along with Faisal. If Safia noticed, Khalid couldn’t tell. She remained on the floor, rocking back and forth. For hours, she continued, unabated. It was only once Hamza arrived following his late-night flight from Bangkok that she agreed to take a sedative and go to sleep. The drugged Safia was placed on her bed, and two relatives kept watch over her for the night. Khalid, bludgeoned by his wife’s grief, allowed Hamza to lead him away from the room. Once they were alone, his son pried the details of his brother’s death from his father.

  “What a horrible, stupid accident, Father. I am here, I am with you,” moaned Hamza.

  Khalid gazed at his “good son” and began weeping again.

  “I need a drink. Where do you keep the alcohol in this house,” Hamza asked.

  “It is in the dining room cabinet. I don’t drink anymore. You go ahead.”

  “I am going to bring you a whisky. It’s good for shock.”

  “When this is all over, I think you should take your mother back with you to Bangkok,” Khalid said.

  Hamza stopped and gave his father a curious look.

  “She would never leave you.”

  “She will never forgive me,” replied Khalid.

  AT MID-MORNING KHALID ventured alone to the bedroom to see Safia. She sat in an armchair, holding a framed photograph of Hassan in her hands. She looked up at Khalid.

  “Is he really dead?”

  “Yes. We will bury him tomorrow,” replied Khalid softly.

  “Why not today?”

  “I am having his grave prepared in a special way,” Khalid said, and knelt by the side of her chair.

  “It’s all right. I could never see his dead face anyway. That is not how I want to remember my son. This is,” she said, lifting the picture for him to see.

  “You are a brave mother, and he loved you more than anyone,” said Khalid.

  “He was very much like you.” Safia put the photograph down.

  “Me?”

  “He had his own ideas and dreams. He didn’t want anyone else’s. You have been like that all your life, Khalid.”

  JUST BEFORE DAWN, two workmen had peered into the concrete chamber they had created the day before. The cement would take another half a day to dry. The bricked walkway was complete, as were two-thirds of the calligraphic verses chiselled into the stone borders over the columns.

  In another part of the grounds, the whine of a saw could be heard. In a workroom, two men toiled over a large wooden box. They cut out a stencilled scroll onto the lid. They sanded the box by hand, and applied a varnish. The box was made of dark rosewood, and had gleaming brass handles fastened along the sides. Hassan’s unadorned casket would be placed in this ornate box and be transported to his final resting place.

  Khalid had centred himself by supervising these arrangements while the gathering family members sat with Safia and Hassan’s wife. Piety was expressed by simplicity in the Muslim faith, yet Khalid’s natural
affinity for sumptuous artistry gained the upper hand. He knew that the greatest architecture in the world had been produced as a way to show reverence to death. If he had time, he would have studied the art of mummification and built a pyramid to house his son’s remains.

  By the evening, when the cement was dry in the burial chamber, Khalid had resolved to break another religious tradition. He wanted to place some objects in Hassan’s grave. The objects would be covered with a platform of wood and the coffin would rest on top. The objects came from the far corners of the world, and were a selection of Khalid’s favourite treasures. At Khalid’s request, Faisal placed a small stepladder at the burial spot.

  “Lower this ladder along one side and hold it for me, Faisal,” Khalid said. “Also, make sure no one wanders over here.”

  Khalid descended into the square concrete burial chamber. He instructed Faisal to take the objects from the box one by one. He placed them on the floor and stroked each one for the last time. Then he climbed out. Together, they lowered a length of wood that would cover the treasures.

  A LINE OF cars filed in through the front gates the next day at noon. Khalid moved from one solemn embrace to another along the line of mourners waiting for the funeral prayer. Safia’s tears had dried completely, but she remained silent and remote. Khalid did not intrude on her grief, but remained close.

  The shining casket was carried by six men. Ghalib, who had flown in from Lahore for the funeral, was one of them. The casket was draped in garlands of wild roses and local jasmine and was lowered until it settled on the wooden platform. Safia walked to the edge of the grave and released a bouquet of long-stemmed white gladiolas that cascaded down onto the casket. She sighed deeply, blew a kiss to her son on three fingers, and retreated.

  Hours later, Khalid acknowledged to himself that he had buried not only his son but also his vanity. He was ready to make the best deal of his life. He was going to sell his private collection to the highest bidder, but with the stipulation that it remain in the country. With a new government on its way to power, Khalid thought, the cabinet would be changed. Perhaps the new powers that be would be interested in helping to preserve his collection. His catalogue was nearly complete, and its publication would be his finest calling card. He would send it to the department of archaeology and museums at the Ministry of Culture.