by A. A. Jafri
‘Don’t tell anyone about our conversation,’ he warned the man. ‘It is highly confidential. We are investigating these two. If you confide in anyone, we will know about it. And you will not only lose your job, but you will also be sent to jail for the rest of your life. Do you understand? This is a high-security matter.’
‘Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Don’t worry,’ said the clerk, shaking with fear.
Spotting a hidden corner in the lobby, Athanni went towards it and sat on a wicker chair. Then, he attached a telephoto lens to his camera and waited impatiently for his targets to emerge. When Mansoor and Mehrun came down the stairs together a little later, holding hands and basking in the afterglow of lovemaking, Athanni took shot after shot until there was none left to snap.
His mission was complete—a thumping success. He had every proof that he needed to start the demolition derby.
*
General Behroopia announced the election date, but when the time approached, he cleverly called it off. His excuse—to make the previous regime accountable for its misdeeds and to rid the country’s politics of all the ‘corrupt elements’. A campaign calling for a new direction for the country began with the arrest of The People’s Leader on trumped-up charges. All the parties that could have never secured a win in a free and fair election—such as the G.O.D.s—became part of this new charade, joining hands with the general, singing to his religious refrains.
Six months later, General Behroopia began his Islamization process by changing the penal code and exhorting the people to return to the fundamental values of religion. He instructed women to stop wearing the saree since it was the dress of the ‘infidel Hindus’.
And what about the shalwar-kameez or the Western trousers and shirts that you wear? Mansoor thought. Are they not un-Islamic attires? What exactly is the Islamic attire anyway?
The religious thugs, armed with the new licence to propagate their nasty brand of a narrow creed, formed harassment units and began roaming the streets and markets, slapping women for their uncovered heads, slashing their arms with razor blades for wearing sleeveless tops. They beat up men who appeared westernized, humiliated young unmarried couples who ventured outside together and hounded anyone else who did not parade their religiosity. Married couples enjoying an evening stroll were also asked to produce their marriage certificates. The worst to suffer were the minorities, especially the Ahmadis, who were subjected to new rounds of persecution. Acquiring a passport became a torture for them. On the passport form, they had to sign a declaration that the founder of their religion was an imposter and a crook. State-backed intimidation and discrimination gained momentum and the G.O.D.s became the willing perpetrator.
*
General Behroopia’s goal was to disorient his countrymen by imposing his constricted moral principles on them. And when his fellow travellers joined him of their own free will, their cacophonous hysteria left Mansoor cold. Protests, wars, elections and the loss of the eastern wing of the country had already made ordinary Pakistanis tired and cynical, their collective lethargy preventing them from protesting against this latest assault on liberty. Mansoor thought that the entire nation had gone into a cooperative communal coma. But what pulled them out of this stupor was Sher Khan, who had now become known far and wide as Sher-e-Mazhab, the Lion of the Faith, after he revealed his millenarian ardour. Announcing his retirement from test cricket, the thirty-seven-year-old wunderkind pledged to devote the rest of his life to his new cause, giving up his Italian suits for sets of loose kurta-pyjamas and a white skullcap, swapping whisky for Pakola and growing a long scraggly beard. Visits to the nightclubs were replaced by nightly calls to ordinary people’s houses to guide them to the ‘right path’. In ancient wisdom, he found new meanings; in traditional customs, he discovered his lost spirit. A regular speaker at Zakir Hassan’s gatherings, he lashed out against the liberals and the secularists and berated women for embracing foreign feminism. The man who grew up in a Western atmosphere, who went to elite Western schools and who enjoyed rock and roll, now began calling the Western-educated Pakistanis ‘desi coconuts’—brown on the outside, white on the inside, as if foreign coconuts were somehow different.
*
The day of Mansoor’s departure for America arrived too soon. Hesitant to leave his mother alone in a huge house, he asked Sarwat to move in with her after he left. Not needing any persuasion, she agreed instantly. Mansoor had been accepted into the PhD programme at the University of Iowa, and he figured that in a year, he could complete his coursework, take the qualifying exam and return home to write his dissertation. At first, Farhat opposed his plan vigorously, using every tool in her motherly toolbox to make him change his mind. She did not want to live alone, and she definitely did not want him to return to America; but when Mansoor told her about her sister moving in, she reluctantly agreed. Sarwat did not even wait until he left. Putting her house on rent, she moved in with her entire family two days before Mansoor left. The alacrity with which the transition occurred enraged Mansoor; but there was nothing that he could do. After all, it had been his idea to invite her. Like vultures, they had attacked the remains of his house.
All this time, Mansoor remained ignorant of his conniving cousin’s spy work. So far, Athanni had not made any threatening moves or questioned Mansoor either about his highly irregular behaviour at Noor’s funeral or his presence at the Palace Hotel. On the contrary, he became civil and greeted Mansoor with a cloying smile each time their paths crossed in the Kashana. That day, at the airport, as Mansoor embraced his weeping mother and then bade farewell to her and to his aunt’s family, Athanni quietly slipped a sealed envelope into his hand.
‘What is it?’ Mansoor asked.
‘Just a parting gift! Open it on the plane.’
Surprised at Athanni’s apparent thoughtfulness, his curiosity fully aroused, Mansoor put the envelope inside his hand luggage and went to the transit lounge. At that instant, how he missed his father, how he wished he was there. He remembered the day when he first left for America. His father, with buried emotions, had reminded him to write regularly to his mother. He remembered his farewell words and his tense face. Now he was gone. Mansoor’s mind drifted to the day Noor died. He recalled the tears in his father’s jaded eyes moments before he died, the couplet on his quivering lips, the blood haemorrhaging from his nose—it was an image that he found hard to shake off. As he took his seat on the plane, Mansoor realized that he had not mourned his father’s death; he hadn’t shed a single tear. But somehow, it did not feel strange.
After the plane took off, he reached for the overhead bin where he had put his hand luggage. Taking the envelope out from its pocket, he sat back and tore it open. Inside were two pictures. When he pulled the photos out, he realized that they must have been taken secretly—one was a photograph of him with Mehrun, both of them holding hands as they came down the stairs at the Palace Hotel, and the other was a doctored photo with his head twisted around, as if he was about to kiss Mehrun. On the back of the altered picture was an Urdu couplet with an accompanying English translation, just in case he didn’t understand Urdu:
Ibtida-e-ishq hai rota hai kya
Aage aage dekhya hota hai kya
(Why cry, for this is the start of a love
Wait and see, what follows next)
At first, Mansoor was puzzled, but as the couplet’s meaning sank in, he became infuriated. How dare he threaten me? And how did he get this picture with Mehrun at the hotel? That bastard, he thought. He’s been spying! That’s why the bugger had that silly grin on his face all throughout, that’s why he was so polite!
But Mansoor could not understand Athanni’s purpose in giving him the pictures at that particular point. If he wanted to blackmail him, he should have done that while he was still there in Karachi. Why now when he was on his way back to Iowa? He read the couplet on the back a couple of times, and then everything became clear. The eight-anna extortionist has now become a third-rate blackmailer, Mansoor thoug
ht. Realizing that the bastard was now comfortably ensconced in his house, he felt foolish. And as his stomach began churning, he muttered to himself, ‘I have a serpent up my sleeve.’ He promised himself that the day of his return from America would be Athanni’s last day in his house, but then he didn’t really know his devilish cousin.
*
Two weeks after that night with Mansoor, Mehrun returned to Dubai. Alvi received her at the airport, which was unusual. He had come alone in his black Mercedes, without the chauffeur. Surprised at this special treatment, Mehrun asked him the reason for his coming to pick her up as she sat in the car. He pulled out two photographs from his shirt pocket and handed them to her. ‘Who is this person?’ he asked.
A sudden paralysing fear struck Mehrun when she looked at the pictures. They were copies of the same prints that Athanni had given Mansoor. On the white border of one photograph was the inscription ‘More to come.’
As Alvi started the engine and pulled the car out of the parking lot, Mehrun’s throat tightened and her heart started to throb. She remained quiet, unable to answer her husband, stunned that someone would spy on her. Were there more incriminating photos of them?
‘Who is this person?’ Alvi thundered.
Recovering from the mind-searing silence, she replied, ‘This is Mansoor ul Haq.’
‘Should I know his name?’
‘My mother used to work at his house. He is the son of Noor ul Haq, the late barrister.’
‘Why were you holding his hand in public?’ Alvi’s voice rose as he continued his interrogation.
Annoyed by his queries, her fear changing into anger, she struck back with a question of her own, ‘Have you hired detectives to follow me?’
‘I didn’t hire anyone. I received these photographs in the post.’
For a moment, she did not believe him, but the expression on his face was not that of a liar. ‘Who is it from then?’ Mehrun asked.
‘How would I know? They didn’t come with a note!’ he snapped back.
They drove in complete silence for the rest of the way. The air-conditioned car with its tinted windows protected them from the baking heat outside. Mehrun, her heart pulsating in a nervous staccato, was unsure of how Alvi would react when they reached the privacy of their home. When they arrived at their grand bungalow, he steered the car into the compound through the wrought-iron gate, where a guard saluted them. And as soon as the car stopped at the front porch, he questioned her again.
‘Did you sleep with him?’ he addressed her very matter-of-factly.
When Mehrun did not answer his question, he shouted, ‘I asked you a bloody question! And I want a bloody answer, and I want it NOW.’
Exasperated with her husband’s interrogation and knowing full well the consequences of her silence, Mehrun took a deep breath and, summoning an ounce of courage, replied, ‘You have had your affairs, and I have said nothing. All of a sudden why has mine become important to you!’ And she continued, ‘I don’t ask about your affairs. Why do you ask about mine?’
‘I am going to find out who this bastard is who sent this picture, and then I am going to kill him,’ Alvi said in a menacing voice before getting out of the car and storming into the house.
*
Alvi sat in his dark study, brooding over this latest complication. He did not know how this ‘new situation’ would unfold. Would it affect his career? Would it affect his bank? Alvi was the chief architect of this financial empire that was headquartered in Dubai. He had not only helped create this international bank, but he had also contributed directly to its growth. While the bank had been expanding exponentially, his financiers were keen for it to grow even faster. In the short few years, he had almost single-handedly put them on a par with many of the old established financial giants; however, his backers remained impatient and impertinent. With a truly global workforce that was intelligent, hardworking and ambitious, Alvi had positioned his bank among the iconic banks of the world. To his financiers, however, that was immaterial. They wanted to rock Wall Street and shake Central London. Success had made them ravenous; growth had made them arrogant. With an enlarging appetite and diminishing patience, they ordered Alvi to show better results. They demanded a formidable transnational institution that functioned as an invisible government. In the beginning, Alvi thought that their goals were unrealistic, their demands impractical, but he eventually succumbed to their pressure.
‘Just being a global bank is not enough for these bastards. They want me to fuck the world leaders,’ he had told Mehrun.
He knew that to achieve gut-wrenching power, you have to stride through the corridors of corruption and wine and dine venal politicians, bloodthirsty arms dealers, rapacious drug lords and their cartels.
These photographs, a new threat to him, could potentially create a scandal and derail his career. He was too close to his goals, too deeply involved with the uber men and the underworld to let a petty blackmailer wreck his dreams. But with so many other things on his mind, he thought it better to deal with this one later.
He advised Mehrun to keep a low profile; she, in turn, decided to forewarn Mansoor about the photographs.
*
After Alvi left for work the next day, Mehrun searched for Mansoor’s telephone number. Just then, her phone rang. She was sure she would hear Mansoor’s voice on the other end, but much to her amazement, it was Joseph’s booming voice that she heard.
‘Hello, Mehrun Begum! This is Joseph, calling from Houston, Texas.’
‘Joseph! How are you? I haven’t talked to you in such a long time. How did you get my number?’
‘Search and you will find God, they say, and you are a mere human, Mehrun Begum,’ he quipped.
‘I know you haven’t found God, but tell me how you found my number.’
‘I got it from Mansoor Babu.’
‘Oh! Is he back in the States?’ she asked.
‘Yes, but I called you for an important reason.’
‘What is it, Joseph?’
‘I am interested in buying a Burger King franchise here in Houston. I have saved some money, but I will need quite a bit more. The banks here are unwilling to give me a loan because they say I don’t have a green card or any “antenuptial experience”, so I thought of asking you. Also, what is an antenuptial experience?’
‘It is called entrepreneurial experience, you idiot. Is that why you called me? To ask me for money? Tell me, how much do you need?’
‘The total cost is fifty thousand dollars, but my old boss is also helping me. I wanted to check if you can help with any shortfall.’
‘That’s a lot of money, but let me know the exact amount and when you’ll need it by? Don’t worry, I’ll help you.’
Joseph could not believe his ears. Here was his personal banker, ready and willing to provide it with no questions asked. Joseph had heard about Mehrun’s marriage to one of the top Pakistani bankers, from Mansoor, but little did he know that this banker had become one of the richest men in the world.
‘Tell me exactly when do you need it?’
‘I’ll actually need it ASAP,’ he said, proudly using this new American abbreviation he had learnt.
‘Send me the details, and I’ll try my best.’
‘When I open my restaurant, Mehrun Begum, I will name a burger after you—the Mehrunnissa burger,’ Joseph declared, and then laughed at his own joke. ‘No seriously, Mehrun, I want you and your husband to come cut the ribbon.’
‘I’ll have to see about that.’
They talked for another half an hour or so, bringing each other up-to-date with what was happening in their lives. Joseph confided that he was ‘after’ a gori mem, a white woman, whom he intended to marry. Mehrun asked him about his mother, Pyaro. Joseph told Mehrun that his mother married his father’s enemy, so she was dead to him. He then quickly changed the topic. It seemed that he had selectively severed all ties with his past, his mother, his relatives and Pakistan. The only histories that he still clung to
were the ones that involved Mehrun and Mansoor, his childhood friends who had provided delicious escapades from his stark social reality. He told her he had no intention of going back to Pakistan, where he would still be a bhangi, no matter what. Mehrun laughed. At the end of the call, she took his telephone number and Mansoor’s, and promised to call him back soon with news about the money.
Twenty-Five
After Mansoor returned to Iowa, he threw himself into his studies, spending most of his time in the library, away from all distractions. Only one thing troubled his mind—how to finish his doctoral course work, return home and kick his aunt’s family out of his house, especially that scheming, treacherous blackmailer of a cousin. He owed that much to his father. Mansoor’s only comfort and joy in Iowa was Lisa, who melted in his arms the minute she saw him. He realized how desperately he had missed her.
Bit by bit, he revealed his family saga to her, telling her about the real reason he had gone to Pakistan, his parents’ contradictory tensions, their failed marriage and his father’s death. As far as his relationship with Mehrun was concerned, she and Lisa remained non-existent to each other. Whenever the guilt of concealing their respective identities pestered him, he took a deep breath and shrugged it off. As long as their existence did not become a self-evident certainty, he decided he would remain quiet.
Lisa would sit there on the steps outside the library as Mansoor talked, listening attentively to his complicated family intrigues, a little confused by the undercurrents, but empathetic. She did not fully understand what he meant, but she saw the pain; she knew the stress; her own parents had recently gone through a messy divorce.