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ajrak , traditional Sindhi fabric, printed in natural dyes of maroon, white and black. As he walked Papa ran his fingers through his hair freeing the stray deep pink rose petals that had been caught there. He removed the necklace of garlands from around his neck and placed it on one side of the podium, only to be instantly garlanded in four more threads of jasmine. Papa adjusted the two old metal microphones to his height. They didn’t extend as far as they should and so he leaned into them.
    He began with a thanks. ‘In spite of the pressure of this administration, the gathering of all of you in Youseff Goth is a referendum of our dissent. It is a referendum in support of Ali Sonara and his fellow workers and against the violence of this regime. The people of Youseff Goth are not afraid. Today you are with us, and we are notscared, despite the government’s actions.’ At this the crowd roared and my father’s voice was drowned out for a minute. He patted the air with both his hands. ‘ Baat sonao ’, ‘Listen,’ he said.
    ‘In history, whoever fights the corruption of the state, whoever raises his voice against forced unemployment and abuses of power, whoever fights awam ki huqooq ki jang , the war to defend the peoples rights, they call them terrorists. But today in Pakistan, it is the state that is drinking the blood of its citizens. The government People’s Party is not your party. It is kamzor , weak, begharat , without decency or dignity. This is your party, we are the party of quaid-e-awam , the leader of the people, Shaheed Zulfikar Ali Bhutto’s party, so don’t try to frighten us.’ Papa shook his hand forcefully in the air.
    His voice now growing hoarse, Papa turned to Wajid Durrani and Shoaib Suddle, addressing them directly in his speech. ‘We aren’t afraid of your CIA centres and we aren’t afraid of your police. We aren’t afraid of your Chief Minister, Abdullah Shah.’ At this Papa grew angry. ‘Abdullah Shah, sonao , listen. It is not possible for dogs to fight with lions. Your corrupt and criminal police force has been filling the papers for the last week with political statements, statements that are not their right, as protectors of the people with a neutral mandate, to make. They have put armoured vehicles around my house for the last several days and they have been threatening to arrest me. “We’re waiting permission to arrest Mir Murtaza Bhutto,” they say arrogantly. “We’re only waiting because he is an MPA and the approval has to come from high above .” Auw! Come! Begharatoon , you indecent men, I’m not afraid of your corrupt police.’
    Once more Sonara’s arrest was raised. It was perhaps the most pressing issue at the jalsa , more so than the current atmosphere of danger imminently focused on my father. ‘Remember,’ Papa continued, shaking with the force of his words, ‘we are a political party. This injustice, this political violence against our workers, will not stand. We will go to the people, we will fight politically, and we will not be silent – Dham damadam Must Qalandar ,’ he repeated, quoting Sufi poetry.
    The naras picked up again as Papa, his brow furrowed throughouthis speech, smiled as he walked off the rickety stage. Maqbool Channa, the organizer of the jalsa in Surjani Town, had invited Papa for a cup of tea in his home. Malik Sarwar Bagh begged leave, he had to go and prepare for the Press Club the next day. ‘I wish I had known,’ Malik Sarwar Bagh tells me twelve years later. ‘I wish I had known what was coming, I wouldn’t have left your father then.’
    Back home at 70 Clifton the day had passed painfully.

    It was evening. Mummy was in the kitchen cooking and I went into my parents’ bedroom and sat with Zulfi as he watched TV on the bed. He was a little child then and was always so easy to take care of with his easy-going and affectionate nature. We were lazily watching Lost in Space , a show made in the 1960s about missing