I walk up to the guard and pull the automatic out of my jeans and put it in his face. His shotgun isn’t pointing at me. I notice that my finger’s on the trigger guard instead of the trigger, so I slip it into the right place. I click off the safety. The guard watches me. Above his head I can see my reflection in the window, and I look just as calm as he does, but I’m not calm at all and I don’t think he is either. He’s raising his hands, which is good. They’re not near the shotgun.
I can’t believe I forgot to take my automatic off safety before I came in. He could have killed me. Thinking that makes me want to kill someone just to calm down.
Murad Badshah’s here. He’s taking control. Good. The salespeople are giving him a lot of money. The customers are taking off their jewelry, their purses. The guard is lying on his face, his shotgun out of reach, and I realize I’m standing on his right hand, but I don’t move. I look around me, feeling embarrassed, but no one seems to notice.
A police mobile drives by on the street outside without stopping. I watch it. If they stop I’m dead, and the first thing I’m going to do is start shooting. Shooting anyone and anything. But the police keep on going.
I take my foot off the guard’s hand, but this makes me nervous.
The woman with the kid yells something, and I look and see the boy running for the door. I don’t move. Little ugly boy who looks like Muazzam. Runs right by me and reaches the door. No one gets out, that’s the rule. No one gets out.
My hand. Hand’s rising. Hand with the gun in it. Leveling off at Muazzam’s head. He’s not going to make it to Mumtaz. He’s not going to ruin this.
The sound of an explosion and the glass of the door becomes opaque with cracks but doesn’t shatter.
Was that me?
14
judgment (after intermission)
The gavel weighs heavily in your hand. Suppressing a yawn, you use the handle to scratch yourself beneath your robe.
The actors sit upright in these, the final moments of the trial. Murad Badshah perspires comfortably, his wet face beatific as it catches the light. Any thought, no thought, could be passing through his mind.
Tension animates Aurangzeb’s handsome features, a streak of cruelty visible in his expression of uncertain triumph. It suits him. Women (and not a few men) cast admiring glances his way.
Mumtaz carries herself with the equestrian elegance of a woman who looks good in hats, leaning forward as she prepares for a jump. Her eyes glitter. She watches Daru.
And the accused, Darashikoh Shezad, coils without moving, explosive, motionless, barely contained. His smile is predatory. He stares at you.
The prosecutor is closing his closing.
‘The accused would have you believe, Milord,’ he is saying, ‘that our trials are on trial here, that our judgments are being judged. The accused would have you believe that a crime is in progress in this courtroom. The accused would accuse those who accuse him. Hooked by the line of truth, thrashing against the current of evidence, the accused would have you believe, Milord, that the fish is reeling in the fisherman.
‘But what are you to make of the testimony of the witnesses who saw the accused kill the boy, of the witnesses who recall the make, model, and registration of a car the accused concedes to be his, fleeing the scene of the crime? What are you to make of the testimony of the police officers who conducted this most thorough and professional investigation, of the confession the accused made in their custody?
‘Nothing. You are to make nothing of the testimony you have heard. You are to make nothing of the evidence you have seen. You are instead to put your faith in the promises of the accused, in his fantasy that he is being framed by interests powerful enough to corrupt the professionalism of the police, wealthy enough to bribe these legions of witnesses, and malicious enough to destroy the life of a man who is as innocent of this crime as the innocent can be.
‘But the accused has been unable to demonstrate the existence of foul play, unable to find an alibi, a single witness, an atom of evidence that might corroborate his version of events. The accused has been described as untrustworthy by a former employer, as a peddler of drugs by a father whose son he corrupted. He has been seen consorting with known outlaws. Illegal narcotics and an unlicensed firearm were found in his home. The words of such a man must be given little weight, Milord, if indeed they are to be given any weight at all.
‘It is true another voice has joined the accused in crying that he is the victim of a shadowy conspiracy. But surely, Milord, if the rule of law demands anything, it demands you ignore the voice of his adulterous lover, distraught at the thought that prison bars may do what the sacred contract of marriage could not: stand in the way of her carnal relations.’
The prosecutor licks his lips like a victorious mongoose.
‘Enough of this nonsense, Milord,’ he says. ‘Do justice.’
There is a pregnant pause, and one by one the other actors in this drama turn to you. The audience awaits. The director bites his nails. Critics and producers will judge your decision.
Here comes your cue.
‘Come on,’ someone hisses from offstage. ‘What’s it to be? Guilty or not?’
15
eight
I hear over the sound of the car’s engine the ringing of a gunshot fired close to my ears. It diminishes in volume without subsiding into silence, becoming more and more irritating, too quiet not to be imaginary, stealing my attention from the road.
Murad Badshah doesn’t speak. He holds his gun in his lap, the barrel pointed at my kidneys, and although he faces straight ahead, I know he’s watching me out of the corner of his eye.
At home I wait in the car as he gets out, so we don’t have to look at each other or talk. He stands for some time in the driveway, thinking, then climbs into his rickshaw and drives off. It’s raining. He forgot to give me my half of our night’s take, and I forgot to ask.
I can’t sleep. I stand in the open door of my house, a candle behind me, light glittering off raindrops until the instant they pass into my shadow, smoking a cigarette, straight up, no hash, no hairy, snapping out smoke rings the monsoon washes away. When it’s done I go back inside and sit down, the badminton racket beside me. But I can’t bring myself to touch it, and I hardly notice the moths as they pass.
I worry a thumbnail, trying to make the edge smooth, until I peel a long sliver still embedded in flesh and the pain makes me suck my thumb. Then I start to squeeze with my canines, harder and harder, covering one pain with another, and when I take my thumb out of my mouth it’s almost numb, sensation-free except for the throb of my pulse deep inside the flesh.
The morning comes gradually, with color in the sky, the deepest blue not black. Shadows appear. I know what day this is. I know Zulfikar Manto checks his mail today, and I know where. But I don’t know when, so I’m in my car, outside the post office, waiting well before it opens.
Across the street, the flow of people from bank branch to money changer’s stall builds steadily, rupees shifting into dollars in the wake of the nuclear sanctions, the exchange rate ticking into the high fifties, the low sixties. Some families ride with gunmen to protect the contents of safe-deposit boxes they intend to take home. In a car beside me four men with beards jot down license-plate numbers. A ripple in the city’s crime wave.
I wait for Mumtaz.