‘You should do your best to keep the link with them alive. I think you know that. In the shorter term, what have you decided about Pakistan?’
‘I haven’t. The more I think about Ayesha’s new information – the stuff she gleaned from her father’s documents – the less it proves anything. I told her I would let her know if I’m going to pursue the investigation.’
CHAPTER 30
I rang Imran Hayat in Karachi and asked him to find out as much as he could about the Orangi water-supply project and the new Hub River dam. Then I went to see Ayesha.
She was guarded; she had been expecting my visit, anxious to hear if I had written about the material she’d discovered in her father’s house. I said I was pondering how best to incorporate it; I remained dubious about the conclusions she wanted me to draw from it.
‘I know you’re not convinced, Martin,’ she said. ‘But at the very least the diary entries about Javed Shafik suggest the murder was connected with my dad’s land, right? So surely the next step is to establish if the water-supply contract Shafik’s getting from the city government means he needs that land. And if he does, then he has to be our prime suspect!’
I tried to be conciliatory. ‘I’m working on that. And your father’s diary certainly isn’t irrelevant. But neither is it conclusive. You agreed that the entries about Shafik are vague. Most of them were made weeks before Ibrahim was killed. And there are things that your scenario just doesn’t explain: for instance, why did the patwari speak of Ibrahim coming in hand-in-hand with Shafik and signing joint-ownership documents? And where did your father get the money to build his house if it wasn’t from Shafik?’
Ayesha acknowledged the inconsistencies. It seemed a good moment to explore a compromise.
‘I can’t speak for you, Ayesha, but I would very much like to know the answer to those questions. I find not knowing an irritant and a challenge. So what I propose is that we go back to Pakistan—’
‘No, not me. I’m not going, Martin.’
‘Okay . . . Well, that’s a pity. I obviously can’t force you to do anything you aren’t comfortable with.’
I waited, but Ayesha was silent. I tried again.
‘Can I ask about something that’s been worrying me? When we were in that awful bar in Karachi – the one where the guy tried to steal your handbag – you said you wouldn’t help me write the book unless you got paid for it . . .’
Ayesha shook her head. ‘Please don’t bring that up. I was angry and we were both drunk. When you reminded me what I’d said about Pakistanis always demanding money, it made me feel ashamed. I don’t want people to think I’m like that – the thought that I’d try to make money out of my father’s death is repulsive. Please forget I ever said it.’
‘Okay. Thank you for that. And the other thing we argued about is control. You’ve said several times that you want to control what I write in the book, to the extent of wanting me to omit things or bend the facts.’
‘Really? Is that how it struck you?’
‘Very much so. It seemed like you were trying to manipulate reality, trying to mould real life into your version of how you’d like things to be.’
‘Don’t exaggerate. I wanted control of the book because I was worried how the investigation might turn out . . .’
‘Yes. But I’m not going to cede control to you.’
‘So what’s the solution?’
‘What if I were to tell you that I’m going back to Pakistan on my own; that I’m going to see where the story takes me and I’m not going to stop until I get to the truth. Then I’m going to write the book on my own terms. How would that be?’
‘How would it be? I don’t suppose I could stop you . . . I mean, if you’re that determined. The story is public knowledge, it’s been in the newspapers, so I couldn’t prevent you writing about it.’
‘Sure. That’s all true. But what I’m saying to you is that if you tell me now, definitively, that you don’t want me to write about your father’s murder, then I will respect that. I won’t write the book. So let me ask: do you want to say that to me?’
Ayesha lowered her eyes. ‘No, Martin. I am not saying that.’
‘So we agree. I go?’
‘You’ll go without my blessing.’
‘Yes.’
‘On your own initiative.’
‘Yes.’
‘And without me helping you or being a part of it.’
‘Yes, whatever happens and whatever I discover out there, it is my responsibility.’
Ayesha thought for a moment.
‘You know that I want to find out what happened to my dad. I’ve never denied that. But I’m afraid of it. And I’m afraid, too, of what would happen if you use real names and real events in the book.’
‘Really? But I’ve already written 50,000 words . . . I’ve been writing the book as things happen, putting them in as I discover them . . .’
‘I know.’
‘And you want me to go back over all that? You want me to change everything to disguise you?’
‘Yes. I do. I’ve been thinking about this for a while. If you use my real name, the people who killed my dad could kill me too. Look what happened to Masood Jilani, the private detective – look at what happened to that young Pakistani girl, Malala, who stood up for herself . . . Anyone who dares to challenge these people puts themselves in danger.’
‘But they’re not going to come after you in England, surely. That sounds a bit melodramatic.’
‘Don’t joke about it, Martin. I’ve heard that Shafik has two brothers who live in Southall and the three of them are constantly going back and forth between Karachi and London transporting drugs or people or whatever they trade in. And now my mum’s saying she needs to go to Pakistan to sort out the paperwork for my dad’s estate. She’s an old woman; she’d be completely defenceless if they go after her. I can’t risk you using real names in the book.’
Rewriting the whole of the manuscript was a daunting prospect. I asked her again if it would be better if I didn’t write anything. She shook her head.
‘No. I do want you to write it, Martin. Because I want the story to be told. I want people to know about the terrible things that go on in Pakistan, about the lawlessness, the warped values and lack of respect for human life. I want them to know about the racism of the British authorities when they’re dealing with UK citizens abroad, how they have one set of values for whites and another for the rest of us. I want you to put into words the sense of alienation that creates for hundreds of thousands of Pakistanis in Britain, the sense of being rejected by both our countries.’
I was relieved we had found a way to make things work. It would take a while, but I told Ayesha I would go through the two hundred or so pages I had written and change names and characters to protect the people involved.
‘Thank you, Martin. I’m glad we see eye to eye. Do you think your publishers will be okay with what we’re doing?’
‘I’ll have to find that out. But my editor is smart; I’m sure she will understand.’
‘Could you maybe explain things in a preface? You know: This is a novel. But the circumstances it describes, the land disputes, honour killings, corruption and organised crime, as well as the anguish of British Pakistanis affected by such crimes, are all true – that sort of wording?’
I laughed. ‘You need to leave that stuff to me, Ayesha. I told you I’m not going to let you control what I write!’
‘Yes. Of course. It’s your book and your responsibility. What you do in Pakistan, and whatever you unearth there, is down to you. This is your initiative, not mine.’
She paused for a moment then added, ‘But you will keep me informed, won’t you?’
CHAPTER 31
Imran rang from Karachi. He had been digging for information about the Orangi water project and the proposed new dam on the Hub River. He was excited.
‘Do you remember that Roman Polanski movie, Martin? The one with Jack Nicholson? Well Karac
hi is Chinatown in spades. Water is everything. In the years after partition the city expanded so rapidly that water supplies were simply exhausted. But the place carried on growing, further and further into the desert, with no one even thinking what all those extra millions were going to drink. Orangi is one of the informal settlements where people have to drink polluted water from filthy streams or awami tanks run by local mosques and community groups. Those who can afford it pay for private tankers; those who can’t go thirsty or die from cholera. I have a report from researchers at Karachi University that I can send you, so you can see the scale of the problem.’
I asked Imran what made him think the Orangi dam project was anything other than a genuine attempt to tackle a pressing problem. He laughed.
‘Nothing is genuine here. You need to look behind the headlines. This has a little bit to do with improving people’s lives and a lot to do with making other people very rich. Whoever controls the water supply wields power and influence. The politicians and the crooks – the big crime groups – fight for control of it. And this contract is part of their game.’
‘Okay, I’m not disagreeing with you, Imran. But we’ll need more than just rumour and speculation if we’re going to tackle Javed Shafik; if we’re going to prove that Ibrahim’s death was connected to the building of the dam.’
‘As of today I don’t have documentary evidence of Javed Shafik’s corrupt practices in the Orangi scheme, but I would be surprised if he isn’t creaming off millions from public funds. What I do know is that the project is already mired in controversy. When I send you the academic water report I will attach some articles about this.’
‘Thank you. And have you been able to establish whether or not Shafik actually needs Ibrahim Rahman’s land for the construction scheme? That’s the other crucial factor.’
Imran said he was waiting for clearance to view the planning documents connected with the water project and would let me know when he had done so.
‘The dam scheme is being trumpeted as a shining example of public–private cooperation to benefit the community. And that will be helpful for us, Martin. I have renewed our request for an interview with Mr Shafik. I have told them we wish to highlight the social impact of his work in deprived areas. Although they have not formally agreed, the noises coming back from them are positive.’
In the weeks that followed, Imran’s messages became less cheerful. He was continuing to pursue the information I had asked him for, but with a frustrating lack of success. The Karachi planning office had refused him permission to consult the land documents connected with the dam project, citing considerations of commercial sensitivity. Javed Shafik had still not confirmed our interview. Ayesha, too, had fallen silent, in accord with our agreement.
I used the time to recast my manuscript, removing any details that would identify the real people involved. The book became a fictionalised version of the truth.
Imran’s documents arrived. The first was a photocopied sixty-page report on the chequered history of water supply in Karachi. I flicked through the opening section on the establishment in the 1950s of the Joint Water Board and its attempts to secure supplies from Lake Kalri and the Indus River eighty miles from the city. Bureaucratic rivalry, infighting and corruption dogged the JWB’s efforts. The network of conduits and pumping stations required to bring the water into Karachi took years to complete, by which time the pipes were leaking so badly that half of the water was lost en route. The Indus would never provide more than 260 million gallons a day; by the 1980s, Karachi needed twice that. The Hub River was dammed north of Karachi to form a reservoir that furnished another 100 million gallons, but the water pumped from it depleted the river’s flow and stretches closer to the city began to run dry.
Orangi and other districts were left waterless. People began to break open water mains to siphon off supplies. Illegal hydrants were set up, water was drawn from leakage points and private boreholes, pumped into donkey wagons and pushcarts to be sold to families in the poorest neighbourhoods. The authorities pronounced the water unfit for human consumption but did not intervene. People were forced to use it because they had no alternative.
The shortages fostered entrepreneurial invention then commercial rivalry and finally, inevitably, corruption. The practice of breaking open the existing system of pipes to steal water was done with the connivance of Water Board staff. In cases where the stolen water was contaminated by sewage, officials were bribed to certify its purity. Rival gangs of tanker operators fought turf wars to safeguard their monopoly of deliveries. Each crime group had its own territory; each had political protection from factions in the city government. The profits grew in line with the shortages. A 1,200-gallon tanker would bring in four hundred rupees; a 2,400-gallon tanker seven hundred and a 3,600-gallon tanker over a thousand. At times of drought or breakdowns in the municipal system, the rates would double or treble. Tanker operators learned how to bribe Water Board officials to create artificial crises by shutting down pumping stations.
The city authorities responded by rationing mains water. But more people began to make illegal connections to secure greater than their allotted share. Water mains were vandalised, pipes and equipment stolen. When the city tried to introduce its own fleet of tankers with water purified for drinking, it met fierce resistance from the commercial operators. Municipal tankers were attacked and set on fire. The organised crime groups running the illegal deliveries persuaded their political placemen to force the scheme’s abandonment.
The situation got out of hand. With growing numbers of households having to rely on contaminated water, diseases spread. Cases of cholera rose and public protests broke out in Orangi and other settlements. When water riots seemed inevitable in the late 1990s the city called on its last line of defence. The Pakistan Rangers, a paramilitary force used in border security and anti-terrorist operations, were deployed to restore order, tasked with breaking the hold of the crime groups and taking over the tanker distribution system. The Rangers’ efforts were opposed by politicians connected to the mafias; the force’s commander had his work cut out.
The presence of the troops maintained a precarious equilibrium, but the underlying problems were unresolved. A survey of existing water mains found most of the city’s underground pipes to be suffering from leaks, with many damaged beyond repair. The shortfall in water flowing into Karachi was growing larger by the month; demand was rising inexorably, supplies from the Indus and Hub rivers dwindling. The Rangers could not be expected to remain indefinitely and the city’s leaders feared the explosion of unrest that might follow their departure.
The academics’ report ended with a pessimistic vision of the future: ‘Water has become our city’s most pressing and most redoubtable problem,’ the authors wrote. ‘The authorities must bite the bullet. Big investment schemes, including the building of new downstream dams and the construction of extensive conduits and pumping stations are urgently required. Unless decisions are taken now, Karachi faces economic and social meltdown.’
At the bottom of the report, in red ink, Imran had scribbled, ‘Shafik has them over a water barrel!’ with a smiley face and two exclamation marks.
The rest of the documents in the envelope were cuttings from Urdu language newspapers, with Imran’s translations or synopses. Most of the articles hailed the announcement of the Orangi water scheme and the new Hub River dam, giving official figures for the extra water it would bring into the city and reproducing quotes from government spokesmen lauding the foresight and wisdom of the politicians and entrepreneurs involved. One cutting took a different tack; Imran had underlined the relevant sections.
PROTEST OVER NEW DAM SCHEME: A large number of employees held sit-ins outside the office of the Water and Irrigation Department on Monday in protest against ‘massive’ corruption in the department. The Sindh Trade Union leaders who organised the protest demanded that the Chief Justice of Pakistan, Chief Justice of the Sindh High Court, army chief, heads of NAB and Rangers and
other authorities take notice of the large-scale corruption in the Water and Irrigation Department and deal with the corrupt persons with an iron hand. They alleged while addressing the protesters that higher officials of the department had, in connivance with contractors, usurped Rs4 billion reserved for construction of barrages and excavation of canals. No work was carried out physically but their fake bills were prepared and payment claimed, they said, adding that paper contracts had been awarded for a scheme of Rs40 billion, of which nearly a fifth was swallowed up by corruption. Massive corruption of one billion of rupees was made in the Ghaziabad canal excavation and Rs550 million was made in the excavation of Mansoor Nagar, Gulshan-e-Bihar drain, but nothing was spent on the ground.
When I rang Imran to thank him for the documents he sounded excited.
‘Martin! Your call is perfect timing. Javed Shafik’s people just telephoned. The interview is all systems go!’
CHAPTER 32
I spotted Imran as soon as I stepped out of customs into the airport concourse. He looked agitated.
‘Shukran Allah! We need to go. Shafik has changed the interview time. We need to go right away . . .’
After the weeks of waiting, the onrush of events came as a shock.
‘Okay, Imran. Tell me what the arrangements are.’
‘I have a car. And a driver. We cannot drive there. First we must meet Shafik’s people . . .’
‘Calm down, Imran. And go back a bit. Tell me what has happened.’
We were pushing through the crowds, heading towards the exit. Imran’s words were a tumbling stream.
‘Yes. So we go to the car. The driver is waiting. Shafik agreed tomorrow. But now his people say come at once. Okay. He’s seeing us so he can boast to the world about his philanthropy. Bringing the miracle of water to the people. What a philanthropist! But now I think he is suspicious. I think he has been Googling you. This is not good. He is changing the time to upset us. You saw from my documents that the stakes are big in this game. Hundreds of millions of dollars. And Shafik is up to his neck – I found out about this; I will tell you – he will not hesitate to be rough with us . . .’
Ayesha's Gift Page 18