The Place of Shining Light

by Nazneen Sheikh

  THE SUPERINTENDENT PREPARED tea and sat down with Ghalib to discuss the murder.

  “Do you think the mother was involved?” he asked Ghalib.

  “No, she would’ve protected her daughter.”

  “Then the father’s confession stands. He said his wife was sleeping. What is your connection to the family?” the superintendent asked casually.

  “They worked on my lands at harvest. I was looking for a new maid so I visited them,” replied Ghalib.

  “She was a beautiful creature. It’s a shame the death penalty has been revoked; he deserves to be hanged.”

  “Well, I must be off, Superintendent. I have a long journey back to Lahore,” said Ghalib. “You’re not staying at your beautiful estate?”

  “I have decided to convert it into a school,” Ghalib said, marvelling at the ease with which the words came out of his mouth.

  “Oh, I think ancestral homes should be preserved,” said the superintendent, shocked by this disclosure.

  “I think people need to be educated in this country if we are to prevent crimes like this,” replied Ghalib.

  “Noble thought, Mian sahib. But this is the agricultural heart of the Punjab, and the young people will leave the classroom for the fields,” the superintendent said as he walked Ghalib to the door.

  “Your prison could do with a school too,” Ghalib suggested.

  “The men are trained to make blankets and other useful crafts,” said the superintendent defensively.

  “Well, you have a new government coming in. Perhaps they will lift the ban on the death penalty and you will have the pleasure of hanging the man who killed his daughter,” replied Ghalib.

  “Nothing will ever change,” said the superintendent.

  “We are all in for a surprise, I think,” Ghalib said as he headed for his car.

  “Are your referring to that mad Qadri?” the superintendent asked, following him out.

  “Yes, I was at his rally.”

  “They will drive him and his ideas out of the country. Just wait and see.”

  “Yes, but people like you and I still live here,” Ghalib said, walking faster to create more distance between them. “And things need to change.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  THE WHITE UNMARKED VAN pulled up beside Adeel as he made his way to the bus stop in Gilgit. He thrust the ticket to Skardu into his pocket as four men surrounded him. The brigadier had collected his marker with lightning speed, it seemed. As he was led to the van, the men assured him that this last assignment would buy his freedom. Adeel knew there was no use protesting. Until the job was done, a reunion with Norbu would be out of reach.

  Many hours later, Adeel gazed out of the window of the van and wondered how the parched wasteland flying by had become such a hotbed of terror. They had just entered South Waziristan in Pakistan’s Federally Administered Tribal Belt. The well-known Taliban hideout bordered Afghanistan. Ground information about Taliban movements helped the government to make decisive strikes. The head of the operation — a member of a special army force — explained that a high-value target was expected in the area. A man with Adeel’s skills could help both Pakistan and its Western allies. There was an envelope that contained photographs of the target as well as some of his close companions. Adeel’s mission was to penetrate the hideout and confirm the identification of the man there. He was to be used as an informant in one of the most dangerous places in Pakistan.

  The men who hid in the region’s caves and mud homes used a garbled version of their faith as a political weapon. They launched regular assaults on the local army unit, whose job was to slowly chip away at the terrorist stronghold and prevent casualties. And they did not spare civilian targets either. Schools, places of worship, theatres, and markets were all blown up, leaving innocent people dead. None of it mattered to the men who considered themselves God’s warriors. When they took a life, they shouted “Allah-o Akbar,” convinced that God had blessed the barrels of their guns, the sightlines of their rocket launchers, and the wires of the bombs they detonated.

  Adeel pulled out his ticket to Skardu and looked at it. He thought he could see the outline of Norbu’s face on the slip of paper. He had already convinced himself that her resilience and his thirst for her would eventually reunite them. The ability to compartmentalize his thoughts was an effective part of his training. In his backpack he carried the marble lips of the Buddha. He regarded the small piece of stone as his new protective amulet. When he took Norbu home to his mother, he would have to explain why her amulet was around Norbu’s throat and not his own.

  When they reached the army unit’s living quarters, Adeel did not shower like the others. The men he would be infiltrating viewed personal hygiene as a sign of weakness, and he wanted to do everything possible to blend in. He was led to a large basement room where the head of the operation waited for him. The room was filled with computers, and maps were tacked on every available wall space.

  “We think they are in these three homes.” The major’s finger tapped at an aerial photograph. “The target is expected today. They are not going to move for a few days.”

  “I need to see the houses,” replied Adeel.

  “You need a shower first.”

  “Sorry, sir. I may have to mingle and I want to be just like them.”

  The major chuckled. “All right. You are going in an armoured vehicle. A quick check is all we need.”

  “I would prefer to do it on foot,” Adeel replied.

  “This is Waziristan. Your request is absurd. You are a stranger here. You cannot just stroll into their community. Leave it to us.”

  “No, sir, I cannot. I am on assignment and have my own ways. I can mingle with them. I need a pair of Pathan sandals. I will take the ride, but only up to a point,” Adeel said, standing his ground.

  Adeel was dropped off half a kilometre from the settlement. He wore a bulletproof vest under his flowing tunic and carried nothing. It did not take him long to identify the house. The low-lying concrete home featured a hastily added extension. Smoke rose from the front, and Adeel could smell meat being grilled. A dust-laden, dented white van was parked nearby. Adeel pushed open a wooden gate and entered the front courtyard. The man who stood over the cooking grill looked at him.

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m looking for some water for ablutions. I want to pray,” said Adeel, moving closer to him.

  “There,” the man pointed to an outdoor faucet. “Don’t waste the water.”

  “Can I pray here?”

  “This is somebody’s house. Why are you here? Who has sent you?” the man said, suddenly suspicious.

  “My brother is opening a shop near here. He was supposed to pick me up, but his car broke down. He will be here tomorrow. It is time to pray. Don’t make me go out on the road for that,” begged Adeel.

  The man scrutinized him silently. Adeel could see him struggling with his decision before he finally gave in. Ablutions before prayers were obligatory in the Muslim religion. To deny a man the opportunity to say his prayers was a sin in itself.

  “All right. Say your prayers and then get out.”

  Adeel knelt near the faucet. He turned on the tap and noticed the loose assembly and the crumbling mortar around it. The water poured out fitfully.

  “Your tap has a problem. I can fix it for you. I know this kind of work. But let me pray first.”

  The man did not respond. He was bent over the grill, threading chunks of meat onto a skewer.

  Adeel folded his hands on his chest and prayed. When the time came to prostrate himself, he stayed down longer than necessary and scanned the house. He knew that he was being watched by the man cooking the leathery strips of meat, so he completed his observations carefully. Finally, Adeel rose.

  “I will fix your tap before I go to thank you for letting me pray.”

&
nbsp; “I know it is broken,” said the man, keeping an eye on the cooking meat.

  “All I need is a wrench and pliers,” Adeel replied. “It will take five minutes.”

  The man studied him again, taking in Adeel’s shabby appearance.

  “Do it quickly. My guests will be here any minute. Keep an eye on the meat for me while I get the tools,” he said and walked inside.

  Adeel moved closer to the grill and rearranged the skewers. The man reappeared, looked at the grill, and flashed him a smile.

  “You know how to cook?”

  “Many trades, brother,” Adeel murmured before taking the wrench and pliers.

  “That tap gives me a headache every day. I’m glad to have it fixed.”

  Adeel squatted on the ground next to the tap. He removed the tap and then did what he had intended to do all along. He dislodged the mortar further and, with the pliers, broke the inner bush assembly. A spray of water shot out, drenching him. He shouted and jumped up.

  “Everything was rotting inside. It has just broken!”

  The man cursed loudly and advanced toward him, furious.

  “You fool! Look what you have done. Stop this water at once!”

  A telephone rang from beside the grill. The man grabbed the phone, listened, and then struck his forehead with his palm in misery.

  “Can you stop the water gushing out like this? My guests are here. They are coming. You have to fix this and get out! No one is allowed in here.”

  “Do you have a hose?” replied Adeel. “I need a plastic pipe. I can direct the water farther along until there is a solution.”

  “I give you one minute for this. Stay here. Don’t move!” the man said and dashed toward the side of the house.

  Adeel stayed where he was. He knew the house was empty; there hadn’t been a sound or sign of movement the entire time he had been in the courtyard. The man appeared again with a long length of rubber hose. He flung it toward Adeel and went back to check on his meat.

  “I need a rag to tie this with,” Adeel said.

  But it was too late. An suv roared into the courtyard and almost collided with the grill. Adeel sprang up. The man jumped aside and slammed his wool cap on his head. Four men got out of the suv. The man swung around and gestured furiously at Adeel, telling him that he should go. Adeel shuffled toward him, keeping his gaze lowered. Someone shouted at him, so Adeel pasted a bewildered expression on his face. The diversion worked. The next man who stepped out of the car was the target. The photographs that had been handed to Adeel in the brown envelope suddenly came to life. His muscles tensed involuntarily as he was grabbed roughly by the shoulder and pushed forward.

  “Wait! Who is he?” asked the target, stopping to examine him.

  “A fool who was trying to fix the tap, but he has done more harm than good. He just came off the road to pray.”

  Four pairs of eyes looked at Adeel. Despite the excitement of seeing the target and his companions, Adeel maintained his confused, humble demeanour.

  “Why did you come to this house?”

  “It was time for prayer and I could not find water for the ablutions. I thought this house would not mind giving me some,” he said slowly.

  “You are not Pakhtun?”

  “My brother’s wife is from here. She has some family land and we thought we would open a shop. I am here to help.”

  “Get him out,” said the target.

  “I am sorry, brother. I can come back tomorrow to fix this. Just close the water at night,” said Adeel, moving quickly toward the gate.

  “Don’t come back,” shouted the target, extending two forefingers in the shape of a gun and pointing them at Adeel.

  THE PAVED ROAD built by the army sent bone-jarring shocks through the soles of Adeel’s crude leather sandals. He had first started walking fast and then broke into a run. Any change of heart with the men would result in a search for him. His army rendezvous vehicle was waiting half a kilometre away, in the same spot where it had dropped him off. The buckle on one of his sandals broke, making him stumble. He cursed, kicked off both sandals, and tossed them into a ditch by the side of the road. He shortened his stride and sprinted in his socks. When he reached the military vehicle, Adeel collapsed by its side. His socks were red with the blood from his torn heels. Back at the army compound, a doctor checked his feet.

  “I am going to clean this by freezing you a little,” he said. “You won’t be able to wear shoes for a day.”

  When the doctor was done, Adeel was taken to a basement room that served as the communication heart of the base. Screens flashed and phone signals hummed. As four pictures flashed across one of the screens, Adeel made a positive identification of the target. All three people in the room let out a raucous cheer and thumped Adeel on the back. He was then handed a phone.

  “So you walked into a hornet’s nest and lived to tell the tale,” said the brigadier.

  “I have done it, sir. I have completed your assignment. I am now going to pick up the pieces of my life.”

  “It will take another day to arrange your transportation, as I gather you have hurt your feet?”

  “I’ll be able to walk by tomorrow.”

  “No rush. I think your woman was spotted in Skardu. Besides, you have to see the show tonight. It could be an all-nighter,” he said before he hung up.

  Later that evening, at an elevation of eighteen thousand feet, an aircraft received a message from the Afghan border adjoining North Waziristan. The screen in the cockpit lit up with the data collected by sensors somewhere in the United States. The images showed the concrete structure with its two adjoining mud-thatched rooms. Images moved constantly across the screen, indicating human activity. The pilot gave a thumbs-up to the slender young soldier peering intently at the screen. The soldier checked the figures on dials. He coded in the time and other logistical data. His fingers were long and steady. The only sign of tension that could be seen was in his index finger, which he used to occasionally reach up and scratch his ear. He was relaxed because he had done this countless times before. In fact, all he had to do was picture his best friend, Buzz, who had been decapitated by the Taliban, and then the blood would rush to his steady hands as he released the drone with superb precision.

  Death on the ground was swift. If there was collateral damage, the governments involved would sort it out. This war would never be won, but taking out significant leaders could inflict a lot of damage. Although he had just killed four people, and reduced the surrounding area to rubble, the young soldier’s thoughts were on his cabin in Vermont, where the front porch was in need of repair.

  The drone hovered in the evening sky. In the Pakhtun language, it was called darinda — “bird of death.” The locals trembled in fear, confused by how people seemed to simply disappear whenever the drone was spotted. The concept of vaporization was unimaginable to them. The underground mess, where the army officers were drinking tea, was quiet as they waited for the mission to end. Adeel was lost in his own thoughts. At the moment of the drone strike, all of the young army officers shouted “Allah-o Akbar” in jubilation. I am part of this, thought Adeel, but only until tomorrow. Two of the officers walked up to him and patted him on his shoulder.

  “You know how long we have waited to get this guy? You will get a commendation for this one.”

  “I am not in the army,” Adeel said.

  The other officers watched him silently. They knew Adeel was a special-operations man, which could mean that he worked for both intelligences. He was a seasoned professional and a mystery, so they watched him uneasily and did not try to stop him from going to his room. Privately, they marvelled at his courage and knew they would never be able to do what he had done.

  As Adeel limped to his room, he bumped into the soldier who was in charge of the spartan accommodations.

  “Do you have a phone?” he as
ked.

  “Yes, sir,” the man said, pulling a mobile phone from his breast pocket.

  “I just have to make one call. In my room,” Adeel said.

  “No problem. It is fully charged.”

  He dialed the number and the phone was answered.

  “Mother?”

  “Adeel?” she whispered.

  He could hear her whisper break into a sob.

  “I have been waiting. Are you safe, my son?”

  “I will be home in three days. Wait for me.”

  He returned the phone to the soldier and asked for a tray of food to be sent to his room. When it arrived, he ate ravenously. An hour later, as he fell asleep, he gripped the small piece of the statue in one of his hands. He had stroked the marble lips as he murmured to himself, hoping his words of comfort would fly from Waziristan all the way to Norbu in Skardu.

  THE MILITARY TRANSPORT took Adeel north to Miran Shah and from there proceeded east to Bannu and Kohat. He was dropped off in Peshawar, at which point he headed north by bus to Gilgit. A profound sense of déjà vu accompanied him during the trip. He had travelled this route with Norbu and General Zamir, and, finally, with the brigadier; each trip had been different in tone, and each had ended at a different destination. This would be the final trek — and this time, he would return with Norbu. There was talk on the bus that the route to Skardu was blocked, as an unseasonably early snowfall had descended on the mountains. Adeel slept in his uncomfortable seat until the bus slowed down and eventually came to a halt.

  When the driver announced that there would be a delay because a section of the road ahead was not clear, the passengers disembarked to stretch their legs. Adeel was in no mood to be patient. He knew he had to find some way to continue his journey, perhaps with a vehicle that would be able to travel through the obstruction. That vehicle appeared half an hour later in the form of an electric-blue Willys Jeep with chains wrapped around the tires. As the Jeep skirted past the bus, Adeel waved at the driver and ran over.