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Faith, Discipline’ on each of the large white marble swords pointing skywards. They would have driven through Saddar and its various markets – Zainab market where women’s clothing and children’s romper suits hang on wires outside storefronts, towards Gentila Men’s Tailors near the cooperative market and close to Karachi’s central post office, past the electronics market full of buzzing mobile phones and gadgets sold at half price. My father’s last journey was almost a beautiful one. He drove by Quaid-e-Azam Jinnah’s mazaar , or tomb, past the young hawkers preying on children and tourists with their cages containing small orange-beaked birds for sale. Further north, their convoy, having now grown to around thirty-five cars, sailed past Guru Mandar, an area named for an old Hindu temple but now known for its cluttered bus terminals, ferrying passengers in and out of the city.
    It must have been nearly 6 p.m. by the time my father’s car passed the gaudy marriage halls that mark the beginning of Surjani Town, whose boundary begins at a small police chowki or kiosk at a dusty roundabout. Circling inwards towards the small suburb, one leaves behind the big city’s flyovers and huge concrete bridges. There are no more fast food outlets or large cars parked outside fruit stalls and shopping malls. No, there’s none of that in Surjani Town.
    It’s a town marked only by weedy shrubs growing on the sides of the road, festooned with plastic bags that get punctured and caught as they float by. Papa was travelling to Youseff Goth, a small Katchi Abadi or slum within Surjani Town limits. He would be speaking to the poorest inhabitants of the area. Many party workers tried to dissuade Papa from even going to Surjani Town. ‘He’d had a very largemeeting in Lyari in August,’ 2 Malik Sarwar Bagh remembers, speaking with such resignation that it is almost difficult to make out the words. ‘Everyone told Mir Sahib, don’t do the Surjani Town jalsa – you had such a reception in Lyari! Just like your father’s! Why bother with a small place like Surjani?’ But Papa refused to cancel. He had given his word to Maqbool Channa, a dedicated supporter from Youseff Goth. Bashir Daood, another party worker who had come from nearby Goli Mar, remembers my father insisting that the plan to visit Surjani Town and open a party office for religious minorities in the community was set in stone. He would not cancel.
    A huge crowd of about 2,000 people had gathered on a large stretch of land bordered on two sides by arbitrary manmade ditches full of sewage and rubbish. Papa got out of the car and saw that the police had come out in force too. They had parked their battered cars on the outskirts of the neighbourhood. The police, Qaisar and Mahmood remember, had close to thirty mobile units along with several large trucks commonly used to transport prisoners. There were close to a thousand officers in Surjani Town that September evening and they were visible everywhere. They stood behind the makeshift stage erected for the jalsa on the edges of the crowd, with their arms folded and their walkie-talkies beeping with static. But they did nothing. The police just stood by and watched, trying to intimidate the thousands who had come out to see my father.
    Papa first walked with a Christian party worker, Yousef Gill, to the new PPP (SB) office for minorities that Gill had opened in the slum. Papa and Gill talked as they walked, followed by enthusiastic supporters chanting slogans. ‘ Aiya, Aiya, Bhutto Aiya ,’ they shouted. ‘He’s come, he’s come. Bhutto has come.’ ‘ Mazdoor ka leader , Murtaza!’ ‘The leader of the workers, Murtaza!’ ‘ Hari ka leader , Murtaza! Gharib ka leader , Murtaza!’ ‘The leader of the peasants, of the poor, Murtaza!’ After opening the office by cutting a ribbon and taking a brief tour of the one-roomed office, Papa hoisted a party flag on a grey metal post outside before moving on. As Papa