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I wake up the next morning feeling weak, but I haven’t had any vomiting episodes or bowel movements during the night, so I know that I’m not in danger of dehydration. Besides, I’ve finished off several packets of salts, taken three times the recommended amount of Imodium, and downed a full two-liter bottle of water. Excessive, I know, but I hate being sick.

The only person I see for the next two days is Mumtaz. She buys canned soup and heats it for me, saying I shouldn’t have high expectations because she’s a horrible cook. I tell her about Manucci, and she gets angry with me. She seems to think it’s my fault. I’m too tired to argue, and I don’t want her to know I’ve been selling charas, so I sip my soup and keep my mouth shut.

After she leaves I’m alone, all by myself in the house. Alone even when I feel better.

Until the phone rings.

‘Um, hello?’

‘Who is this?’ I ask.

‘Shuja.’

‘How are you?’

‘Okay. Do you think I could get some more hash?’

I laugh. ‘You can’t already have finished what I gave you.’

‘No, I didn’t. But it’s all gone. I, um, gave some to my friends.’

He sounds tense. ‘Is everything all right?’ I ask.

‘Yes. So can you sell me some more?’

‘Of course. Come by this evening.’

‘Do you think you could come here?’

I wouldn’t mind getting out of the house, but something in the tone of his voice makes me uneasy. Then again, he overpays like no one else I know. ‘Where do you live?’

He tells me.

‘I’ll be over in half an hour,’ I say.

‘Do you think you could come a little later. Like in two hours?’

Again I feel suspicious. ‘Why?’

‘My, um, my father’s home. But he’ll be gone by then.’

‘Are you sure you don’t want to come here?’

‘Yes. I can’t.’

‘Fine. I’ll be there in two hours.’

When I arrive at Shuja’s family’s compound, I notice the boundary wall is topped with jagged glass that glints in the sunlight. I read the name above the house number and recognize it. So Shuja’s from a big feudal family. Who would have thought it? He seems so Westernized.

Instead of uniformed security guards at the gate there are a bunch of men with serious mustaches and shotguns slung over their shoulders. They look enough like village thugs to make me nervous. And there seem to be quite a few of them. But they open the gate without any questions and I walk in. The house itself is gaudy, huge and white, with massive columns and pediments and domes and even a fake minaret, as if it’s uncertain whether it wants to be the Taj Mahal or the Acropolis when it grows up.

The gate swings shut behind me with a loud clang, and some of the men with shotguns start walking in my direction. Palm trees line the driveway. I hear them rustle in the hot, dry wind.

I walk up to the house and ring the bell.

The door opens to reveal Shuja and a stern older man I somehow know is his father. I guess Shuja was wrong about his going out, and I’m about to pretend I’ve come to the wrong house when Shuja’s father says, ‘Is this him?’

I don’t like the way he says it.

Shuja nods. He looks scared.

His father gestures, and two men grab hold of my arms from behind.

I’m frightened and my heart is pounding hard. ‘What is this?’ I say, but my voice sounds weak.

‘You sold drugs to my son?’ Shuja’s father asks me.

‘No.’

One of the men holding me slaps the back of my head, and suddenly it all makes sense. They’re going to kill me. Shuja’s dad is a sick bastard whose son does pot, and I’m going to pay for it.

My mind disappears behind desperate terror.

Surging forward, I break loose from one of the men and slam my fist into the face of the other, feeling his nose crunch. And then I’m free, running. But there are too many of them, and I’m swinging, hitting hard, but the world spins, my legs slip out from under me, and I curl into a ball as they kick me, waiting for them to stomp on my head, screaming until I lose my breath.

I pass out once or twice, briefly. When my eyes open, Shuja’s father is standing over me, saying something. He’s pointing a shotgun at my head, and I can only whimper, blood and foam spraying from my lips. Then he kicks me in the face.

I come to on the bonnet of my car outside the gate. They’ve smashed all the windows. The gunmen are watching me. I try to stand, but I collapse and lie next to the road, slipping in and out of consciousness. Cars pass, so many cars, but no one stops. I sit up and crawl into my Suzuki, throwing up on myself from the effort and the nausea that comes when I see my hand. I slump in the seat. They wait for me to start the car, but I can’t. One of the gunmen finally drives me to the hospital, and he tells me that Shuja’s father will have me killed if I say anything to the police.

Later the doctor tells me how lucky I am. I only have a concussion, a dent in my skull, a broken nose, a broken rib, a compound fracture of my left forearm, cuts totaling seventy-one stitches on both legs, one arm, my neck, my shoulder, my eyebrow, and the spot where I bit through my lip. I’m missing one of my front teeth. The small finger of my left hand was partly torn off, but it’s been reattached and I may be able to use it again with time. There’s no internal bleeding, my brain seems to be working even though I’m groggy, and my eyes may look bad but the retinas are still attached.

‘Who did this to you?’ the doctor asks.

‘Auto accident,’ I say.

He shakes his head.

12

the best friend

I’m Aurangzeb. Ozi to my wife, my friends, and even those of my friends who sleep with my wife. But mostly I’m Aurangzeb. And regardless of what you’ve heard, I’m not a bad guy.

You see, the problem is, I make people jealous. Which is understandable. I’m wealthy, well connected, successful. My father’s an important person. In all likelihood, I’ll be an important person. Lahore’s a tough place if you’re not an important person. Too tough for my best friend, apparently.

Some say my dad’s corrupt and I’m his money launderer. Well, it’s true enough. People are robbing the country blind, and if the choice is between being held up at gunpoint or holding the gun, only a madman would choose to hand over his wallet rather than fill it with someone else’s cash. Why do you think my father got into it? He was a soldier. He served in ’71. He saw what was going on. And he decided that he wasn’t going to wait around to get shot in the back while people divided up the country. He wanted his piece. And I want mine.

What’s the alternative? You have to have money these days. The roads are falling apart, so you need a Pajero or a Land Cruiser. The phone lines are erratic, so you need a mobile. The colleges are overrun with fundos who have no interest in getting an education, so you have to go abroad. And that’s ten lakhs a year, mind you. Thanks to electricity theft there will always be shortages, so you have to have a generator. The police are corrupt and ineffective, so you need private security guards. It goes on and on. People are pulling their pieces out of the pie, and the pie is getting smaller, so if you love your family, you’d better take your piece now, while there’s still some left. That’s what I’m doing. And if anyone isn’t doing it, it’s because they’re locked out of the kitchen.

Guilt isn’t a problem, by the way. Once you’ve started, there’s no way to stop, so there’s nothing to be guilty about. Ask yourself this: If you’re me, what do you do now? Turn yourself in to the police, so some sadistic, bare-chested Neanderthal can beat you to a pulp while you await trial? Publish a full-page apology in the newspapers? Take the Karakoram Highway up to Tibet and become a monk, never to be heard from again? Right: you accept that you can’t change the system, shrug, create lots of little shell companies, and open dollar accounts on sunny islands far, far away.