And finally, so long awaited that its coming was a shock, the explosion of the gunshot.
And Darashikoh changed before my eyes.
It was unsettling, even for me, a man not easily unsettled.
I had forgotten how much it affected me. I hope you will not mind if I now take my leave.
7
four
I wake up sweating, staring at a motionless ceiling fan. Damn. They’ve cut my electricity. I call the power company, hoping that it’s just load-shedding or a breakdown, but a smug voice at the other end tells me that my account is in arrears and my service has been discontinued.
I yell for Manucci, and he sticks his head into my room with a smile. ‘What are you smiling at, idiot? Our electricity is gone.’
‘It will come back, saab,’ he says, still smiling. The boy has no fear of me.
‘No, it will not come back. They’ve cut us off. We’re back in the seventeenth century.’
He nods solemnly.
‘Make my breakfast. I’ll have eggs. No, it’s too hot. I’ll have a glass of milk and a sliced mango. Then run to the bazaar and get some candles. And some hand fans.’
He starts to shut the door to my room and then stops. ‘Saab, money?’
‘What happened to the money I gave you?’
‘It’s finished.’
‘What do you mean, finished? Stop smiling, you crook, this is serious.’ I take two hundred rupees out of my wallet and give them to him. ‘I want a full accounting when you get back.’
I take a shower and plop down on my bed, still wet, with a towel wrapped around my waist. At least I’m not hot this way. Having the power cut is serious. I was a month behind on my payments even before I lost my job, unprepared as usual for the summer spike in my bill that sucks a quarter of my paycheck into the air conditioner, and now I owe them half a month’s salary. Power prices have been rising faster than a banker’s wages the last couple of years, thanks to privatization and the boom of guaranteed-profit, project-financed, imported oil-fired electricity projects. I was happier when we had load-shedding five hours a day: at least then a man didn’t have to be a millionaire to run his AC.
I’m eating the mango when the phone rings. A voice jumps out of the receiver like a snappy salute, and even though I haven’t spoken to Khurram uncle in quite some time, I know at once it’s his. He has an unmistakable tone of command I associate with Sandhurst and the experience of sitting comfortably in an office while ordering men to die.
‘Darashikoh,’ he says, ‘Aurangzeb tells me you’ve encountered a spot of difficulty finding a position.’
So he knows I’ve been fired. ‘Yes, sir,’ I answer.
‘Well, son, I think it’s about time you called in the heavy guns. I know Aurangzeb has requested your presence at the house this evening. Come by my quarters at twenty-two hundred and we shall see if I can’t straighten things out.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Very good.’
Khurram uncle was my father’s best friend at the military academy. He occupied a cushy staff position as an ADC in Rawalpindi in ’71, while my father died of gangrene in a prisoner-of-war camp near Chittagong. Then he slipped into the civil service, specializing, it’s said, in overpaying foreign companies for equipment and pocketing their kickbacks.
I have no real memories of my father. I turned two the summer his regiment was sent east. His photos and the stories I’ve heard have built in my mind the image of a quiet, courageous man, a soldier’s soldier. He was the best boxer at the military academy, and he drove a motorcycle. I have his ears, people say. Strange things to inherit, ears. Small and lobeless, like a pair of half-hearts. Otherwise we look nothing alike.
Khurram uncle was the first person to notice the similarity. I must have been seven or eight. Ozi and I had come back to my place from a football match and my knees were bloody. Khurram uncle was paying a visit to my mother. As she cleaned my cuts with Dettol, and I cried because of the stinging, I remember Khurram uncle taking one of my ears between his thumb and forefinger and saying, ‘Strange ears. Connected to the jaw. Just like his father.’
Khurram uncle visited our house fairly regularly. He always asked if we needed anything, and he often brought me presents. Sometimes he gave me clothes from abroad. I remember my first pair of high-top sneakers. Ozi told the boys in school that they were meant for him but were too small, so his father gave them to me.
I saw less and less of Khurram uncle as I grew older, especially after Ozi left for America. The summer my mother died, I went to a restaurant with some friends and found her having lunch with Khurram uncle. She told me he had found me a job at a bank. I don’t remember being happy at that moment. Maybe no one wants to stop being a student.
The last time I saw him was at her funeral. He was crying. Ozi’s mother was sick and couldn’t come. Khurram uncle told me to contact him if there was ever anything I needed. I never did. But even though we weren’t in touch, I kept hearing about him, that he’d built a mansion in Gulberg, that he was being investigated by the Accountability Commission.
I never said anything when people spoke of him. I’d been doing well enough for myself. I was getting by without any more of his handouts. And I was quite content not to see him.
But tonight I swallow my pride, hold my nose, and arrive at his place promptly at ten.
‘Darashikoh, my boy,’ Khurram uncle says when I’m taken to him. ‘Why haven’t you come to see me before this? There’s no need for formality between you and me. You’re a bright lad; all you need is a few doors opened for you and your merits will carry you far.’
I thank him and sit down.
‘So, what kind of work is it you’re looking for?’ he asks me.
I lean forward in my seat. ‘A bank or a large multinational.’
‘Have you thought about car dealerships?’
He doesn’t seem to be joking. ‘Not really.’
He takes a sip from a glass of whiskey and taps his shoe with a walking stick. ‘There’s good money to be made, and someone with your brains could be quite an asset to a car dealer.’
I feel the blood rush into my face, burn hotly in my ears. ‘I’m not –’
‘Now listen to me, Darashikoh. This is no cheap little used-car dealing operation on some side street. I’d never ask you to consider something like that. No, I’m talking about a modern business, a professional showroom on Queen’s Road, with well-dressed salespeople and well-heeled clients. A place where you will have twenty-five thousand rupees in your pocket at the end of every month.’
‘I’d really like something with a bank or a multinational.’
‘Ah, boys these days. They don’t know a good thing when they see it. Still, nothing is too much for the son of my dearest comrade-in-arms. Let me see what I can do.’ Khurram uncle takes another sip from his whiskey. He hasn’t offered me any, which is no surprise, since he doesn’t permit Ozi to drink in his presence, even though he knows Ozi drinks. Maybe it’s a little like Khurram uncle’s attitude toward corruption.
A young Filipina leads a child in by the finger. ‘This is Muazzam,’ Khurram uncle says proudly. ‘Aurangzeb’s son. Would you like to give him a hug?’
‘I know Muazzam,’ I say, taking the child into my arms. He struggles to pull free, like he’s afraid of me, and his nanny quickly retrieves him.
‘Children are excellent judges of character, you know,’ Khurram uncle says with a loud guffaw. ‘Well, off with you now, my boy. I’ll keep you posted.’