Daru is completely crazy. Quick-tempered, oversensitive, inconsistent. But so am I, and I haven’t killed anyone, yet.
ZM : Thank you.
JS : It has been my good fortune, I assure you.
5
three
May arrives with a burst of heat that leaves nine dead in Jacobabad, but one evening a flirtatious breeze makes the trees swell and it looks just bearable enough for me to step outside with a cigarette in my mouth and another behind my ear. These are my last two smokes and I smoke them like an addict consuming all that’s left of his stash, half-preoccupied with the thought that each drag brings me closer to the point where I have to get some more.
Just as I flick the second butt over the wall and turn to head indoors, I hear a rickshaw sputter up to the gate and honk. Murad Badshah’s massive form is squished into the driver’s area, and he waves a hello when he sees me, sending a stream of paan-red spit over his shoulder. I open the gate and he pulls inside like an adult riding a tricycle. ‘Greetings!’ he exclaims, hauling himself out of the rickshaw with some difficulty.
‘Hello, gangster,’ I say to him.
Murad Badshah’s my dealer: occasionally amusing, desperately insecure, and annoyingly fond of claiming that he’s a dangerous outlaw. He speaks what he thinks is well-bredEnglish in an effort to deny the lower-class origins that color the accent of his Urdu and Punjabi. But like an overambitious toupee, his artificial diction draws attention to what it’s meant to hide.
His hand engulfs mine, and I find myself pulled into a damp and smelly embrace, the side of my face pressed against his shoulder. ‘A very good evening to you, old boy,’ he says.
‘Do you have any cigarettes?’
‘But of course.’
‘My savior.’
‘More than you know.’ He flashes a grin down at me. ‘I also have some first-class, A-one quality charas.’
We climb a rickety ladder to the roof of my house and sit down on the bench I keep up there for pot smoking and kite fighting. I roll a joint, and as we smoke it, Murad Badshah asks me how my job search is going.
‘Badly. They want foreign qualifications or an MBA.’
‘It’s all about connections, old boy.’ He takes a hit. ‘How did you get your previous job?’
‘Through a family friend,’ I admit. Ozi’s father, as a matter of fact.
Murad Badshah grins. ‘Perhaps you should see the gentleman again. What he did once he can do twice.’
‘Maybe he can.’ But I don’t want to ask for Khurram uncle’s help.
I look up, squinting into the sun. A hawk circles in thesky over my neighbor’s house, where a baby lies naked on a sheet on the lawn. His ayah keeps a careful eye on him: he’s too big for a hawk to carry away, but not too big for one to try.
‘Quite frankly, Darashikoh Shezad, you’re better off this way. Pinstriped suits are cages for the soul.’
‘At least a caged soul is well fed by its handlers.’
‘Well fed, my left buttock, if you’ll pardon the expression. A man who works for another man is a slave.’
I take the joint back from him. ‘Yes, but you need capital to start a business. I’m broke. The other day I received a notice that my electricity is about to be disconnected.’
‘All you need is human capital: a strong mind and an obedient body.’
I look at Murad Badshah’s obedient body. Even in the loose folds of his shalwar kurta, I can see the love handles sagging away from his waist.
‘I have a proposition for you,’ he says suddenly.
‘What?’
‘I don’t want to shock you, old boy.’
‘Just don’t ask me to drive one of your rickshaws.’
He reaches under his kurta and pulls a silver revolver out of the waistband of his shalwar. It gleams like well-polished cutlery, big and shiny and more than a little ridiculous.
‘Is it real?’ I ask him.
He looks offended. ‘Of course,’ he says.
‘Why are you carrying it around?’
‘Darashikoh Shezad, do you listen to nothing that I say?’
‘You don’t need to
ZM : Thank you.
JS : It has been my good fortune, I assure you.
5
three
May arrives with a burst of heat that leaves nine dead in Jacobabad, but one evening a flirtatious breeze makes the trees swell and it looks just bearable enough for me to step outside with a cigarette in my mouth and another behind my ear. These are my last two smokes and I smoke them like an addict consuming all that’s left of his stash, half-preoccupied with the thought that each drag brings me closer to the point where I have to get some more.
Just as I flick the second butt over the wall and turn to head indoors, I hear a rickshaw sputter up to the gate and honk. Murad Badshah’s massive form is squished into the driver’s area, and he waves a hello when he sees me, sending a stream of paan-red spit over his shoulder. I open the gate and he pulls inside like an adult riding a tricycle. ‘Greetings!’ he exclaims, hauling himself out of the rickshaw with some difficulty.
‘Hello, gangster,’ I say to him.
Murad Badshah’s my dealer: occasionally amusing, desperately insecure, and annoyingly fond of claiming that he’s a dangerous outlaw. He speaks what he thinks is well-bredEnglish in an effort to deny the lower-class origins that color the accent of his Urdu and Punjabi. But like an overambitious toupee, his artificial diction draws attention to what it’s meant to hide.
His hand engulfs mine, and I find myself pulled into a damp and smelly embrace, the side of my face pressed against his shoulder. ‘A very good evening to you, old boy,’ he says.
‘Do you have any cigarettes?’
‘But of course.’
‘My savior.’
‘More than you know.’ He flashes a grin down at me. ‘I also have some first-class, A-one quality charas.’
We climb a rickety ladder to the roof of my house and sit down on the bench I keep up there for pot smoking and kite fighting. I roll a joint, and as we smoke it, Murad Badshah asks me how my job search is going.
‘Badly. They want foreign qualifications or an MBA.’
‘It’s all about connections, old boy.’ He takes a hit. ‘How did you get your previous job?’
‘Through a family friend,’ I admit. Ozi’s father, as a matter of fact.
Murad Badshah grins. ‘Perhaps you should see the gentleman again. What he did once he can do twice.’
‘Maybe he can.’ But I don’t want to ask for Khurram uncle’s help.
I look up, squinting into the sun. A hawk circles in thesky over my neighbor’s house, where a baby lies naked on a sheet on the lawn. His ayah keeps a careful eye on him: he’s too big for a hawk to carry away, but not too big for one to try.
‘Quite frankly, Darashikoh Shezad, you’re better off this way. Pinstriped suits are cages for the soul.’
‘At least a caged soul is well fed by its handlers.’
‘Well fed, my left buttock, if you’ll pardon the expression. A man who works for another man is a slave.’
I take the joint back from him. ‘Yes, but you need capital to start a business. I’m broke. The other day I received a notice that my electricity is about to be disconnected.’
‘All you need is human capital: a strong mind and an obedient body.’
I look at Murad Badshah’s obedient body. Even in the loose folds of his shalwar kurta, I can see the love handles sagging away from his waist.
‘I have a proposition for you,’ he says suddenly.
‘What?’
‘I don’t want to shock you, old boy.’
‘Just don’t ask me to drive one of your rickshaws.’
He reaches under his kurta and pulls a silver revolver out of the waistband of his shalwar. It gleams like well-polished cutlery, big and shiny and more than a little ridiculous.
‘Is it real?’ I ask him.
He looks offended. ‘Of course,’ he says.
‘Why are you carrying it around?’
‘Darashikoh Shezad, do you listen to nothing that I say?’
‘You don’t need to
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