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walked over to the stage, which faced east and was made of wood, he stopped. The azan was sounding, it was time for the evening prayers and the sun wasbeginning to set. It wasn’t the call of the muezzin that stopped Papa though, it was the light of dusk. He called Siddiqe, a jolly fellow who worked as the party photographer, and asked him to take a picture of the horizon. It was beautiful and he wanted to remember it, Papa said, as he moved towards the crowds of people waiting for him.
    He climbed slowly onto the stage, waving at the people gathered before him. As he moved towards the sofa that had been placed at the centre of the stage, a group of women approached him with rose and jasmine garlands. Papa bowed his head and received the ladies, two at a time, as the garlands were placed on his neck. Behind him Ashiq Jatoi, who had only recently been elected as the Sindh president of the party, was shaking hands with several workers who came to offer him their congratulations.
    Papa was still standing, meeting a new group of women who had come forward to introduce themselves and their children. One of them carried a young girl dressed in shiny blue-and-silver fabric with two pointy pigtails tied tightly on the top of her head, and after being lifted up to place a garland around my father’s neck she presented him with a bouquet of roses. The bouquet was sheathed in plastic and folded into a diamond shape. It was trimmed with red ribbons and had small staples holding it together. When my father and Ashiq Jatoi sat down, guarded by Yar Mohammad, who was dressed in black and standing behind them, the bouquet rested on the sofa between Papa and Ashiq.
    Malik Sarwar Bagh, the president of the Karachi division, spoke first. He called for a protest vigil at the Karachi Press Club the following day, Sunday, 21 September. Ashiq Jatoi rose next. He too was wearing a dark black shalwar kameez with garlands resting on his neck and shoulders. He introduced himself and said a prayer of thanks: ‘ Bismillah arahman uraheem. ’ ‘We thank God, the kind and the merciful.’ It was the third time that he had come to Youseff Goth to speak to its people and he thanked them for their reception. He too raised Ali Sonara’s illegal arrest. ‘He has been taken and we still do not know in whose hands his life rests,’ Ashiq said, speaking forcefully. He continued, speaking in a strong, steady voice, ‘Not Nawaz nor Benazir will rulethe people of Pakistan,’ he said, gesturing at the crowd. Ashiq had also worked with Benazir during the MRD era of the 1980s and was eventually jailed by General Zia ul Haq. By the time her first government came to power, Ashiq no longer believed in Benazir’s promises of true people’s power and left the party. ‘The people will rule, they must rule themselves, once and for all.’ He was a gentle man. Ashiq , his name, means the one who loves, a lover. His normal demeanour was temperate and kind. He had a light and powerful spirit that didn’t need to resort to volume and theatricality. But as he spoke, Ashiq changed into something larger than himself. He clenched his hand into a fist and raised it above his head. ‘Our symbol is the mokka , the fist, and we will show those two that the strength of this mokka comes from the people – from Balochistan, Punjab, the Frontier, and Sindh. You are our strength and together we will return Pakistan to its rightful leaders – the people.’
    The last speaker of the evening would be my father. As he walked the short distance to the podium, the crowd swelled and began to raise their naras or slogans. ‘ Zinda hai Bhutto !’ they cried. ‘Bhutto is alive.’ ‘ Jab tak suraj chand rahaiga, Bhutto tera waris rahaiga ’ and the more romantically emotional, ‘As long as the shadow of the moon exists, Bhutto, your heir remains.’ They threw rose petals at the stage and clapped their hands loudly in welcome. Papa walked towards the podium, which was draped in an