I’ve quoted these headlines word for word from various newspapers. Some of the phrases in use — which I can’t quote here for obvious reasons — make it seem as though the person writing them had a voyeuristic urge to participate in the incident himself. The result is that while the readers’ legal sympathies go out to the poor young girls, their desires are more in line with those of the accused.
I’ll always be where my heart is…
We don’t need any more pieces of coal to be brought out of this mine because we’ve already sullied our hands enough. In short, what I would like to say is that if you scratch even a little bit, you won’t find a single word associated with sexual crimes that doesn’t have within it a hint of carnal pleasure. Every word sighs, and every phrase smacks its lips. In English literature, you will find the best example of this in the work of the Russian-born Nabokov. His every word is like a balloon that he blows up with his slobbering spit almost up to the point where it explodes from pleasure, before he releases it to his readers.
Why Dogs Bite
For a while, Basharat couldn’t believe his eyes. It was Karachi, after all, not some backwater princely state. It seemed like one big joke. But at nine that night, suddenly things seemed serious, indeed. ASI told him, ‘You’ll have to stay in the holding cell tonight, tomorrow, and tomorrow night. Tomorrow’s Sunday. You won’t be able to be bailed out until Monday.’ He asked, ‘Bailed out for what?’ The ASI said, ‘That’s for the courts to decide.’ He wasn’t even allowed to phone home. He smelled urine coming from the cells at the other end of the station. Khalifa was over there, and from time to time he raised his handcuffed hands toward the heavens and whimpered in such a way that it made it seem like he was laughing. Basharat’s anger was useless now. The station secretary finished up his night prayers, folded up his straw prayer mat, and came over to him. He was as withered out as a grasshopper, but, behind his glasses, there was still a sparkle in his eyes. He spoke to Basharat very kindly. He poured lemonade into a glass and gave it to him. Then the two exchanged paan from their own little boxes.
The secretary spoke in a very soft, sincere voice, ‘Our boss is a good man. He’s nice to nice people, and he’s Halaku to scoundrels. I guarantee you that he’ll get back your stolen goods in three days. My boss can get anyone to spill their guts. The neighbourhood’s repeat criminals shiver in their boots hearing his name. The radiogram, jewellery, and saris that you saw in the other room was repossessed just this morning. What I mean is that, sir, please deliver the lumber in your vehicle to my boss’s building site. He’ll return to you your stolen lumber within three days. And, so, you won’t lose any money in the bargain. I haven’t mentioned anything to him yet. It’s possible he won’t like it. I just want to feel you out. It was very difficult for my boss to arrange his princess’s engagement. She’s thirty. She’s a very good girl, very good at housekeeping. But she has a little bit of a lazy eye. The boy’s side are demanding a car, furniture, a radiogram, and a house facing west.10 They want doors and window-frames of the best quality wood. If you pick the wrong family, then this is what you’re left with. Usually, my boss isn’t like this. These days he’s quite upset and irritable. Everyone sees the rabid dog that goes around biting everyone. But no one sees that he hardly wished rabies upon himself. You must have noticed how he said a couple things that showed his nice, agreeable side. Up to three years ago, he was a poet. In the evenings, there were so many poets hanging around here that on several occasions we had to set up chairs in the holding cells as well. One evening, I mean, one night, there was a great poetry party going on. My boss was reciting a new ghazal in tarannum style. The entire staff couldn’t get enough of it. At the beginning of the last couplet, our watchman Zardar Khan fired his 303 rifle; everyone thought that he was offering praises after a tribal fashion. But when he started to shout and holler, then everyone saw how during the party’s climax, a suspect arrested in a robbery case, and who had been rapping against the holding cell’s bars to show his appreciation, well, he’d escaped. All the poets took off after him. But, in fact, they weren’t worried about catching him. They themselves were worried about getting away. God knows if he got away because the constables were lazy, or whether the accused wouldn’t give himself up. But my boss didn’t give up. He went out and caught a recidivist with the same name and brought him in. Then he changed his father’s name on the paperwork. But since then he hasn’t written any poetry. For three years, he hasn’t got a promotion, and he hasn’t written a thing. He’s friends with the poet Adam Sahib. Last year he had to steal from the mouths of his own babes and give 150,000 rupees to his superior officers so that he wouldn’t have to show his face in court. That’s when he got the job here. After all, my boss isn’t so loved by God that after performing his prayers, he can lift up the corner of his prayer rug to find 150,000 rupees left there by some invisible hand. After all, you have to pull on udders to get milk. If water buffalos aren’t available, then sometimes you’re forced to milk mice.’
Basharat was angrier about this disgraceful analogy than the loss of capital. If he’d said a goat, that would have been better. (Although a goat is low caste.) In any event, he was beginning to figure things out. He said, ‘I want to rescind my report.’ The ASI replied, ‘Theft in broad daylight is such a heavy crime that there’s no backtracking now, I mean, you’ve already involved the police. Who are you to change your mind? If you insist on withdrawing your complaint, I’ll have you arrested on the spot for filing a false report. You’ll be disgraced. If you get a good lawyer, you’ll still get three months. The SHO will decide on Monday which charges to file against you.’
Basharat felt as though not just his life’s every action was worthy of police activity, but that it was actually worthy of humiliating police activity, and that it had only been due to police negligence that up till then he had been able to get through life with his honour intact.
He got mad. He threatened, ‘This is wrongful confinement. It’s illegal. I’ll file a habeas corpus petition in the high court.’ The ASI replied, ‘You present a petition? We’re going to present you! We’re sure to get permission to hold you for ten days. Just see what happens.’
Autobiographers Go to Jail
After issuing this threat, the ASI left. Then, after several minutes, his boss, the SHO, with his billy club beneath his arm, left for home while clearing his throat. Just then the lawyer appeared from God knows where. Even at eleven at night, he was still wearing his black coat and white pants, as well as the special starched white collar that lawyers wear. He said, ‘My friend, although your case has nothing to do with me, out of human sympathy I’m telling you that you can be charged with any number of crimes. God forbid your driver confesses to the violation of Article 164. Then you’ll be in real trouble. You look like a family man. You’re not a political figure angling to go to jail to make his memoirs more interesting. Things before Partition were different. Then, after delivering a fiery speech, a leader would be jailed, and, sir, the whole country waited for his release, anticipating that after two or three years, he would get out and then publish his memoirs, autobiography, or personal narrative. Too bad the British let Maulana Abul Kalam Azad out before his sentence was up because that meant his narrative was left incomplete. Anyway, that was a different era. It’s not like today when they arrest you before you give the speech, and then when you get released, there’s no one there to drape a marigold garland around your neck. “On the graves of the poor, there’s no flowers or lamps.” By God, I’m not suggesting that you take me as your lawyer, but I can’t stop you if you want to. I’m just looking out for you. I’m only saying that I’ve been practicing law for twenty-five years and one month, and I’ve never seen a legal matter that can’t be resolved with a little money. Money makes the world go round. Anyway, it’s up to you. I’ll leave you with some food for thought as you pass the night here. It’s eleven thirty. What were you able to get done in the last eight hours? What will you get done in the next eight? Tomorrow’s Sunday. You’ll be crouched here just like this demanding your constitutional rights and protection under the law. If the courts are able to do anything, at the very most they’ll get you released on Monday. But, sir, we want to see you sprung from this mousetrap before then. You are under arrest. OK, well, it’s late. Good night! The secretary knows my number.’