The Place of Shining Light

by Nazneen Sheikh

  THE DAY AFTER the funeral, Faisal knocked on Khalid’s office door. He stood with a laptop in his hands.

  “I have to show you something on Hassan’s computer.”

  “What is it?” Khalid asked wearily.

  A gift from beyond the grave appeared before Khalid’s eyes on the screen of the computer. Unbeknownst to Khalid, his son had created a website called Barako. It was an interactive virtual museum, designed for the education of children. Hassan had applied his formidable gift for technology, which Khalid had always dismissed, to showcase his father’s collection. Khalid felt a belly laugh welling up from deep inside his body. He let it loose, and began to laugh until his pain released itself and vaporized. He clasped the computer to his chest and rose to search for Safia. He wanted to show her how their son’s talents had been so richly entwined with his own.

  TWENTY-ONE

  GHALIB STAYED FOR THE meal following Hassan’s funeral. He viewed the tureens of meat curries and mountains of rice with distaste. For some perplexing reason, food was always served at funerals, as though grief could only be assuaged by gluttony. He was shocked when he learned of the events that led to Hassan’s death. He was at a loss for words, so he kept his distance from everyone. He had booked a room for one night at the Serena Hotel in Islamabad and would take a flight back to Lahore the next day. When he sought Khalid out to say goodbye, his host pulled him aside.

  “Ghalib, the sculpture was destroyed in an explosion. I have lost a son. And you have lost some land. I am sorry. Perhaps at some later date there may be something good I can offer you in return.”

  “What do you mean by an explosion?” Ghalib was shocked.

  “The Taliban. They killed the general whose car it was travelling in. But you will not read about it in the news,” Khalid said and looked away.

  “What a waste! So even the army is powerless against the Taliban,” Ghalib said angrily.

  Ghalib rode back to Islamabad in a rented car. As they reached the outskirts of the city, he noticed that new security barriers had been erected. Ghalib’s driver told the policeman that they were headed to the Serena Hotel. They were told to take an alternative route as a political rally was taking place. The man suggested that they prepare for delays.

  “What is happening?” asked Ghalib, leaning forward.

  “The Canadian cleric, Qadri, is leading a revolutionary march from Lahore to Parliament. I have never seen anything like it. People have come from all over Pakistan,” the policeman said excitedly.

  “I forgot about the march! I have to see this,” said Ghalib to the driver.

  As the driver proceeded on an alternative route to the hotel, Ghalib called Soody.

  “The man you regard as a nobody is marching to Parliament with his supporters today.”

  “So I hear. Don’t worry; they will use the army if there is a problem. They are ready for him.”

  “They army cannot assault civilians just for marching. I am heading over there later.”

  “You are mad, Ghalib. There could be crowd-control issues. If you are determined to see this cleric, then head for the press enclosure. It’s always the safest place.”

  Ghalib’s evening would be enshrined in his memory for a long time. He found a place to sit on a concrete ledge that flanked the open-air press enclosure. He had made a few calls and secured a contact with a leading television station. Barbed wire separated the press space from the unending ribbon of people who marched down the length of Jinnah Avenue. There were people everywhere. There were men seated on the ground. There were women and children flanked by teenagers with painted faces. Nobody jostled or shouted. The calm discipline on display was completely alien to the Pakistani temperament. The cleric, who would address the crowds from a podium protected by bulletproof glass, was due to arrive soon. It was not possible, Ghalib found, to be unaffected by the anticipation. Even the press, with its silent cameras and strolling journalists, was thoroughly moved. Depending on what television or radio station you were listening to, the crowd was estimated at between fifty thousand and a hundred thousand people. It was the biggest protest march the country had seen.

  While Ghalib waited for Dr. Qadri to arrive, Soody called him back.

  “He will not appear. Metal containers have been placed as a barricade in front of the Parliament buildings so he cannot speak,” he informed Ghalib.

  “I hate to tell you this, Soody, but the people will move them for him. There is real people power assembled here.”

  “If that’s the case, Ghalib, leave before it happens. “

  “The reporters tell me that members of your party are here as well.”

  “Impossible!” replied Soody.

  “Actually, why is your chairman not here? His pre-election promises are based on the same principles.”

  “We don’t want to cripple the Election Commission so elections are delayed. “

  “Or perhaps the chairman is a coward,” Ghalib said, unable to resist the jibe.

  “This man is a Canadian import. He has no credibility in this country,” Soody replied.

  “What about the Argentinian doctor Che who helped Castro win his revolution?” Ghalib shot back.

  “Our party is going to have a landslide victory. And we don’t want anyone raining on our parade. Stay safe,” Soody said, and hung up.

  To the left of the press enclosure a wall of canvas was spread out, blocking the crowd’s view of the road. Quite unobtrusively, a few people started pushing the fabric aside. All of a sudden, Ghalib saw the reporters surge forward, with cameras aimed directly at the opening. Ghalib got off the ledge and briskly marched up to the line of cameras. The first sign of movement was the arrival of a black suv heaped with flowers. It was travelling slowly toward the steps that led up to the podium. From behind Ghalib, an enormous cheer erupted. The man they had all been waiting for had arrived. His journey, which should have taken four hours, had taken eighteen because of the various government-installed obstacles along the route.

  The flower-bedecked vehicle stopped, but no one emerged. Ghalib kept his eyes on the staircase leading up to the podium that led up to a small glass-enclosed booth. He saw a line of men pass a dark brown blanket from the bottom of the step to the top. Then the lights came on in the booth and seated in it was Tahir-ul-Qadri. He had appeared like a wizard, thought Ghalib as the chatter around him gave way to applause. In a country where political assassinations and Taliban killings were all too common, no protection had been spared. Qadri was wrapped in a bulletproof blanket so no trace of his body was visible before he was lifted up into the booth.

  Ghalib was hypnotized by the sheer brilliance of Qadri’s speech. His oratory was filled with a radiant new authority. It was a call to arms for those tired of the moral decay and misuse of power that plagued the country. Ghalib was so moved that he caught a glimpse of his own mortality. He left before the crowds disbanded and returned to his hotel.

  WHEN GHALIB BOARDED his flight back to Lahore the next day, he clung to the euphoria induced by his experience at the march. Upon his arrival home, he found the gates of his estate open and a small group of people waiting on his front lawn. Three of them were the lawyers of his family members, whom he had avoided in the weeks since selling his land. Despite a growing sense of apprehension, he got out of the car and walked toward them.

  “I have just returned from a trip. I am going to rest. Is there anything pressing?” he asked.

  “We have been waiting. This is a matter of urgency about the land that was recently sold,” one of them replied angrily.

  “Come inside to the library,” Ghalib said.

  Ghalib studied the papers spread in front of him on the coffee table. Each one indicated that a war had begun. It was as he had expected: the wrath of his fellow land inheritors would be unrelenting. Litigation would tie up his property for years. Ghalib didn’t want to argue
, so he scooped up the papers and told the men that he would deal with it immediately.

  Ghalib sat alone in the vast living room downstairs. He did not call his lawyers or even his estate manager. He had simply asked that a portable music player be brought to him. Then he inserted disc after disc of classical music and listened, as though he were attending a concert. He refused to let any stray thought enter his mind. Although his mood was contemplative, in truth, he contemplated nothing. Finally, he said to himself, “I am going to go broke.” He repeated the word broke aloud. He knew that large sums of income would be taken away from him, but the full extent of his loss was abstract. Perhaps, he thought, he would liquidate his assets, disband his staff, and go live abroad for a spell. Suddenly, he felt that the real excitement of his life was just beginning.

  He made his way to his bedroom with these thoughts in mind. Before he turned out his light, he realized that he needed to hear another voice. He telephoned Khalid.

  “How are you, my friend?”

  “Life is full of miracles, Ghalib.” Khalid’s voice boomed out.

  “I am listening.”

  “We are gatekeepers. It is time to let in the people. And you need to take care of your health. Get rid of your bad habits.”

  Ghalib laughed. “My bad habits have all departed without my permission.”

  “Go abroad for a while. Live overseas. You can afford it. Paint and write. It will be better for your health.”

  “Pakistan is my home, Khalid, I could never leave it.”

  “Then get out of the Punjab and build a house in Islamabad. You still have that land in Margalla Hills?”

  “That land is close to Buddhist caves, Khalid. Permission to build has not been given as yet. I don’t need another headache. Give my regards to Safia. We will talk again soon.”

  “Wait! Ghalib, I want to share something with you. Hassan has taught me that life continues. What are your plans for your art collection?”

  “When I die someone else will make that decision. I have no plans.”

  “I have leveraged my assets for a loan, Ghalib, or I would take it all off your hands,” said Khalid.

  “Yes, I’ve always feared that, Khalid.” Ghalib laughed.

  “I have sent you something on the computer. Tell your secretary to show it to you. Then we will talk.”

  “What is it?”

  “This is a new way of doing business, Ghalib. You can make a lot of money without lifting a finger.”

  Ghalib knew that Khalid was unaware of the ongoing work on the catalogues for his various art collections. Although he had never been in a rush, he had made good progress over the previous year. His secretary was a gifted photographer and had assembled a huge collection of images that were just waiting for appropriate text. Ghalib was the only one who could supply these details, but he attended to it only once in a while. Recently, he had initiated correspondence with many international art experts whose opinions he sought. Ghalib knew that cataloguing a collection was a life’s work. Perhaps Khalid had begun similar work, he thought.

  GHALIB PASSED A fitful night. The large house was silent. The only person awake was the solicitous valet, who had received calls from the village where Ghalib’s country home was located. A sixteen-year-old girl had been strangled to death by her father. Both the girl and the father were known to the valet, and to Ghalib himself, but the valet did not wish to wake his employer in the middle of the night to tell him the news. Horrified and anxious, the man waited through the night. It was after dawn when the intercom from the master bedroom finally sounded.

  Over breakfast, Ghalib sipped fresh orange juice and digested the shocking news. He left his breakfast untouched, got dressed, and woke his driver. Ghalib then headed out on the three-hour drive to the village. He had to attend yet another funeral. He arrived at a small house that was surrounded by people preparing to leave for the burial. They looked at Ghalib in silence. He walked past them and entered the little courtyard, where a shroud-covered body was lying on a wooden pallet. A woman wailed loudly and clutched his arm. It was her mother.

  “I made a mistake. If I had given you my daughter she would be alive.” She beat her head with both of her hands.

  Sixteen-year-old Shehla had been killed by Nilu, her father. The mother who had thwarted his desire weeks ago was bereft, yet her grief-laden logic seared him. He murmured a funeral prayer and walked away. Outside, he instructed his chauffeur to go back and give money to the mother for the funeral expenses. When they left, a few clods of dirt were hurled at the car as it cleared the small laneway. The habitually welcoming villagers were now expressing hostility toward him. Ghalib was certain that they were aware of his unreciprocated interest in the girl. He suspected her death would be justified as an “honour killing,” although farming communities tended to prize their offspring as a supplementary labour force, and Shehla had worked with her parents in his fields.

  Nilu had been taken to Central Jail in Sahiwal, where he would stay until he was sentenced. Ghalib travelled to the jail and asked to see him.

  “There is no need, Mian sahib,” said the policeman. “He has made a full confession.”

  “This man has worked for me for years. I have come from Lahore to speak to him,” Ghalib said, refusing to budge.

  “You have to get permission from the superintendent to see him.”

  “I will do that. Where is he?” asked Ghalib.

  “Who should I say is here?”

  Ghalib eyed the man irritably and then announced his three given names. The policeman dashed off, leaving Ghalib in the stark entrance room. He returned almost immediately.

  “The superintendent wants to know if you would like to have tea with him before you see the prisoner.”

  “No. But thank him, please. I only want to see the man.”

  Ghalib was escorted down a dimly lit passage that led to rows of cells. The guard took him to Nilu’s cell and then walked away. Nilu sat with his back to the bars.

  “Nilu, why have you done this terrible thing?” Ghalib asked quietly.

  Nilu swung around and his eyes widened. He instantly dashed to the bars.

  “Can you get me out? They will listen to you. You are the biggest landlord in the area.”

  “Nilu, you have murdered your daughter. They will hang you. Why did you do it?” Ghalib repeated.

  Nilu did not answer. The expression on his face shifted from elation to sullen despair.

  “Tell me. Maybe a lesser punishment can be arranged,” coaxed Ghalib.

  “I did it for you,” said Nilu.

  “You are insane!”

  “I caught her with a boy near the water tank. I knew she had been seeing him for days. She had become unclean. I knew you would never take her into your house, so I got rid of her.”

  “That was never going to happen, Nilu. Your wife was against her coming to the house for work,” said Ghalib sadly.

  “No. I had made my wife change her mind. We were waiting for the next time you came to the village,” replied Nilu.

  “This is terrible, Nilu! You have killed your daughter. The boy would probably have married her.”

  “She was going to secure our future with you, and she destroyed that. Let them hang me,” said Nilu.

  Ghalib backed away from the bars. “You have done a horrible thing. Do not use my name in this, Nilu. She was a child. I came to deliver some gifts for the family. That is all,” Ghalib lied.

  “You go to hell!” Nilu screamed at him.

  Ghalib turned and walked out as two guards rushed toward Nilu’s cell.

  “It is all right. He is mad with grief,” said Ghalib, walking away.

  AFTER HIS VISIT to the prison, Ghalib travelled to the Sufi shrine, where people came to find the path to heaven. The shrine was crowded. Ghalib walked up the long flight of marble steps and headed t
o the tomb, where he confessed silently and prayed for absolution. A life had been taken because of his cavalier sexuality.

  When Ghalib returned to the car, he instructed his driver to turn the car around. “I have to go back to Nilu’s house.”

  “They must have buried her by now, sir. They do it very fast in the villages.”

  There was no longer a crowd outside the house. The men had gone to bury Shehla, but the women had stayed behind. He heard the sounds of wailing as he entered the courtyard. Shehla’s mother sat on the same wooden pallet that had recently held her daughter’s corpse. She saw him and struck her chest repeatedly.

  Without any ceremony, Ghalib walked up to her and spoke. “Where did your daughter sleep in this house?”

  “We sleep in one room,” she said, refusing to meet his gaze.

  “What is the other room used for?”

  “It is where we store the bedding, trunks, and food.”

  “When did you find out your daughter had died?” asked Ghalib.

  “When I woke up and heard Nilu crying outside. She was in her bed, but I could not wake her.” Tears flowed down her face.

  Ghalib jerked away in revulsion. The woman’s lie was preposterous. She would have heard her daughter struggling and making noise. When she saw his expression change, she sprang up and stood in front of him.

  “He told me that if I told anyone he would kill me.”

  “He killed your daughter and you did not stop him.”

  “He is a strong man, Mian sahib. She was a slender little thing,” she sobbed.

  Ghalib tore out of the courtyard and got into the car.

  “Drive back to the jail,” Ghalib commanded. He needed to ensure there was nothing to connect him to Shehla’s death.