I’m really not that bad. A victim of jealousy from time to time. But definitely no hypocrite.
Speaking of hypocrites, let me tell you a thing or two about good old Daru.
Daru’s an educated fellow. No foreign degrees, it’s true, but he went to the most prestigious school in the city. A very exclusive school, mind you. A school that’s difficult to get into. The sort of school unlikely to admit a boy if he comes from a no-name middle-class background, if his father’s main distinction is being dead.
So how did Daru get in?
My father got him in, that’s how.
You see, my father knows something about loyalty. Captain Shezad (that’s Daru’s dad) died of a rotting shrapnel wound in East Pakistan. But before he died he went to the military academy with my father, served for a time in the same regiment, got married the same December, had a son the same age. My father and Captain Shezad were like brothers, and my dad treated Daru like his son. He sent us to the same school and paid both of our tuitions. My father gave Daru his pedigree.
You didn’t know that, did you? I didn’t think so.
But you did know my father got him his precious bank job? Well then, you must admit Daru has some nerve calling himself a self-made man, whining that he’s the victim of the system, that he never took advantage of anyone, that he was wronged, and wronged by us, by me of all people.
He’s full of it.
Now, I’m a money launderer, right? Money launderers are bad, right? Bad because they take dirty money and make it look clean. Bad like Pol and Idi and Adolf and Harry and the rest of the twentieth century’s great butchers of unarmed humanity. Oh, not quite that bad? Thanks, you’re too kind.
Well, what about the guys who give out the Nobel Prize? What are they? They’re money launderers. They take the fortunes made out of dynamite, out of blowing people into bits, and make the family name of Nobel noble. The Rhodes Scholarship folks? They do the same thing: dry-clean our memories of one of the great white colonialists, of the men who didn’t let niggers like us into their clubs or their parliaments, who gunned us down in gardens when we tried to protest.
And what about the bankers of the world? What about family fortunes held in accounts that make more in interest than the income of every villager in the Punjab put together? Where did all that money come from? How much of it was dirty once, how much came from killing union leaders and making slaves pick cotton and invading countries that wanted control over their natural resources? Would you like your money starched, sir? Box or hanger? Thanks for using GloboBank.
Luckily for the downtrodden, in the midst of all this money laundering, of transforming ill-gotten gain into prestigious titles and luxurious mansions, we have a Champion of the Good. Tan-ta-ta-ran! It’s Darashikoh Shezad. But wait a minute. What does he do? He’s a banker. An account manager, as a matter of fact. And whose accounts does he manage, what clients does he please, whose asses, if you’ll pardon the expression, does he kiss? Men like my father’s. So enough of this nonsense about me being the big bad money launderer and Daru being hung out in the wash. We’re all in this together.
And let me tell you something else about Daru. Just before she left me, Mumtaz hired a houseboy. A very hard-working kid. Good-natured. Sweet. Cooks. Cleans. And I was glad to have him, because, jokes aside, it’s difficult finding good servants these days. Anyway, the boy’s name was Manucci, and it turned out he used to work, if you can call slave labor work, for Daru. For the man of the people himself. Why did he run away? Because Daru beat him, humiliated him, and didn’t pay him, sometimes for months. That’s right: self-righteous Daru is a hypocrite and a menace. Ask Manucci. As soon as his knees stop knocking together, he’ll tell you.
So take another look at us, Daru and me. I may clean dirty cash, but I don’t beat defenseless children and I don’t screw my friends’ wives and I stand by my father when push comes to shove.
Not convinced? Still think I’m the bad guy? Then do me a favor and try to put yourself in my shoes. Just for a moment. Don’t think you can? Well, let me tell you a story.
Once upon a time there were two boys. Let’s call them Hero and Villain, or Ro and Lain for short. Ro’s a pudgy little kid, quiet, studious, with a runny nose. He has no real friends. You know, one of those social misfits you had in your junior school class who hung out together because they were ostracized by everyone else.
Anyway, this kid, Ro, drives to school every morning with another kid, Lain. They’re driven by Lain’s dad’s driver in Lain’s dad’s car. Lain sits in the front and Ro sits in the back, and they hardly exchange a word, because Lain’s ashamed of Ro. Lain, you see, is a stud, even at age five. He’s not the fastest sprinter in the class, the best batsman, the most brilliant student, the scrappiest fighter, or the cheekiest prankster. But he can run fast, he is good with a bat, he does get solid marks, he will stand up to bullies, and he isn’t scared of getting caned if a joke is funny enough. And most important of all, people like him. He can make friends with a grin, and he knows it.
Yes, I won’t deny it, Lain’s a little asshole.
Lain isn’t mean to Ro. Not exactly. He just ignores him. But the more he does, the more Ro looks up to him with puppy-dog affection, ready and eager to do Lain’s homework whenever Lain will let him.
Anyway, this pathetic state of affairs lasts until the end of junior school. Until the arrival of Ataris in Lahore, to be precise. Lain is the first kid in the class to get one, and his father forces him to invite Ro over to use it, which Lain does rather ungraciously.
The funny thing is, fat little Ro is actually good at it. Combat, Adventure, Space Invaders: by the end of a day he’s teaching Lain new tricks. And a friendship begins to form between the two, not much of a friendship, it’s true, but something. They start playing every weekend. Ro spends a night once. Twice. Then sleepovers become more regular. And because Lain’s parents force them to go to bed when they’re still wide awake, the two boys find themselves chatting until they fall asleep. Neither has a brother, so each is getting to know another boy really well for the first time in his life.
Lain has a wild imagination. He’s always liked to pretend that he’s stranded on a desert island, or fighting in a war, or whatever. And the boys are now getting to an age where make-believe is uncool. But to Ro, everything Lain does is cool, so Lain feels comfortable playing games with Ro he wouldn’t play with his other friends, and telling him things he’d never tell anyone else. And Ro, for his part, turns out to be the most loyal friend imaginable.
Well, things might have stayed like that, Ro remaining Lain’s loving pet forever, but Defender came to town. By now, many boys in school have Ataris, and they decide to have a competition at somebody’s house, a video-game battle to find out who really is the best of the best and who’s just talk. And naturally, the game for the competition is Defender.
The week before, Lain practices every day. And by the time the weekend rolls around, he’s ready. When the dust has settled and all twenty-eight boys have taken their turn, it’s officiaclass="underline" the highest score goes to Lain. He’s the champ. And Ro, the video-game wunderkind, is number two.
Ro has probably never been second at anything in his life. All the boys are impressed that he’s done so well. But I guess he wanted more. He wanted to win, to be the best, just this once. So when Lain goes up to his friend to congratulate him, Ro says, ‘If I had an Atari at my house, I could have scored double what you did.’