by Mohsin Hamid
‘Thanks, partner. I owe you, big-time.’
Raider likes that phrase, big-time. He wants to make it, big-time. He owes you, big-time. He’s going to party, big-time.
‘No problem, yaar,’ I tell him, thinking I have nothing better to do. ‘How much do you want?’
He takes out a note and hands it to me. ‘Five hundred worth?’
‘That’s a lot of hash.’
‘I know. Do you think you can get it?’
I’ve never placed an order with Murad Badshah that he couldn’t fill. ‘I think so.’
‘Great,’ Raider says.
I feel strange buying that much pot, especially since it isn’t for me. It isn’t even for Raider. It’s for his friends. But Raider’s an openhearted guy and there’s no way I can turn him down. Besides, I might be able to keep a little for myself, a heartening thought given the sorry state of my supplies.
Once the cigar is finished, I invite him in to share a joint, but he tells me he has to run and drives off. Raider’s always rushing. He’s busy, big-time.
Mumtaz picks me up after lunch the next day for our date with Allima Mooltani, the palm reader. I know I shouldn’t be doing this. But I am doing it, slouching a little in my seat as though it’ll make me less visible if Ozi or someone we know happens to see us. Mumtaz seems completely unconcerned. I don’t know what she’s used to in Karachi, but here in Lahore going for a drive with a friend’s wife when the friend doesn’t know about it definitely qualifies as self-destructive behavior.
‘I like your servant, Munnoo-ji,’ she says as we power down Main Gulberg Boulevard, cutting through traffic. We’ve decided to get a couple of paans since my appointment isn’t for another half hour.
‘He’s called Manucci, not Munnoo-ji.’
‘Manucci? That’s a strange name.’
‘I think it’s Italian.’
‘But he’s not Italian.’
‘No.’
‘Then why is he called Manucci?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Where does he come from?’
‘He tried to rob my mother.’
‘While he was working for you?’ She takes the Liberty roundabout at high speed.
‘Before. He’s had a colorful past. Kind of like Kim.’
‘Kipling’s Kim?’
I nod. ‘But not as romantic. Manucci’s missing a kidney.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The kidney-theft racket. But he’s lucky: they only took one of his, and they were nice enough to sew him back up.’
We reach Main Market and pull into a space in front of Barkat’s paan shop. A dozen runners surround the car, knocking on the windows, each claiming he saw us first. I realize that it was stupid of us to come here: Main Market’s paan runners are Gulberg society’s elite reconnaissance team. I point to my guy, Salim, and wave the rest of them away.
Once Salim’s taken our order, the beggars move in. Most are genuinely crippled, or hooked on heroin, or insane, or too old to work, or dying from some debilitating disease, and I’d give them a rupee or two if it weren’t for the few strong ones, perfectly healthy, waiting to take their cut when night falls. But Mumtaz is more softhearted than I am, and when our runner comes back with the paan, I have to tell him to clear them away. Give money to a few and the whole market wants some. I tip Salim very well, with a look that means keep your mouth shut, because he knows who I am and who Ozi is, and a leak from him could spark some vicious gossip.
Which reminds me of something I’ve been meaning to ask Mumtaz since I spoke to Raider. ‘How was your party?’
She looks embarrassed. ‘I’m so sorry he didn’t invite you. But what a stupid reason to celebrate.’
‘Is he angry with me?’ What I’m really asking is: Has he found out we’ve been spending time with each other?
‘No, of course not. Why would he be?’
‘You tell me.’
‘He isn’t. I think he’s just trying to meet new people. He’s been away from Lahore for so long that he feels a little cut off.’
Mumtaz honks until the driver of the car that pulled in behind us, blocking our exit, comes running out of a shop.
Then we’re off to Model Town for our appointment. The palm reader lives in an old house with a crumbling boundary wall. I expect to be led inside, into a dark room with a crystal ball, perhaps, but Mumtaz takes me onto the lawn.
Allima Mooltani is sitting in the shade, on a cushion at the base of an enormous tree, smoking through a long ivory holder. An extension cord snakes through the grass, providing electricity to a pair of pedestal fans. In front of each fan rests a slab of ice covered with motia flowers. Allima’s long hair, mostly white but streaked with gray, moves like a tattered curtain in the wind.
‘This looks like an abandoned ad for menthol cigarettes,’ I tell Mumtaz, but she elbows me. We say our salaams and sit down.
I have to admit that it’s surprisingly pleasant out here, with the ice and fans and shade.
‘I’ve been waiting for you, Darashikoh,’ she says.
‘My God, you know my name!’ I exclaim.
‘Be serious, Daru,’ Mumtaz says.
‘Give me your hands,’ Allima tells me.
I do, and she strokes them with her forearm, front and back. I break out in goosebumps. Her fingernails are long and unpolished.
‘Shut your eyes.’
I do it. She gives me an exquisite hand massage, following the bones of my fingers into my palms, tracing the scabs on my knuckles lightly with her nails.
‘I have bad news for you,’ she says.
‘What?’
But before she can answer a woman calls out from the house. ‘Telephone, Amma. It’s Bilal.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Allima says, jumping up. ‘My son. In Singapore.’
And with that she’s off at a trot. The door slams shut behind her like the distant retort of a howitzer, and I’m left looking at Mumtaz.
‘The suspense is too much,’ she says.
‘If she knows the future she should schedule these palm-reading sessions so they’re not interrupted by phone calls.’
Mumtaz shakes her head. ‘You have no faith.’
I light a smoke, cupping my hands against the best efforts of the pedestal fans.
We hear the unmistakable phirrr of a kite at low altitude and look up. Sure enough, there it is: a red-and-black patang, slim-waisted, wasplike, wing tips curved back like the horns of the devil. On the rooftop, directly above the door that swallowed Allima Mooltani, the patang’s young pilot acknowledges us with a jaunty salute.
Mumtaz waves to him.
And in the driveway, struggling to get aloft, we have the challenger: a battered machhar, its tail a white pom-pom, green-and-purple patches telling tales of battles past. And string in hand, jerking rapidly to capture altitude, is the machhar’s commander, a barefoot servant boy a little taller than the bonnet of the car beside him.
We’re in for a kite fight.
The patang, temporarily denied any more string, catches the wind and soars straight up.
The machhar flips about at tree level, displaying a tendency to circle in a counterclockwise direction. But its minuscule commander manages to use this imbalance to his advantage, timing his tugs to the moment the machhar’s nose points in the direction he wants, finding maneuverability in capriciousness.
And slowly, the machhar climbs.
The patang paces back and forth far above.
Then suddenly, paper screaming in the wind, the patang dives at the machhar. The machhar makes an agile leap to one side, narrowly avoiding having its string hooked, and the patang spins and climbs again.
Mumtaz says a quiet ‘Olé.’
‘He’s in trouble,’ I say. ‘The patang’s not going to let him get high enough for it to be a fair contest.’
Having lost som
e altitude, the machhar begins to jerk upward again, crisscrossing the sky warily.
Again the patang dives, and again the machhar dances off, too unsteady at this height to have any real chance of winning, but this time their strings entwine and the kite fight is joined.
The patang takes string like a sprinter, streaming away.
The machhar wobbles unsteadily.
Powdered glass on each kite’s string cuts into the other’s, but the patang’s string is moving much more quickly, giving it more of a bite and less time to fray.
I follow the lines with my eyes, taut and straight from the roof, limp and curved from the driveway. The patang’s posture is solid, strengthening. The machhar twitches weakly.
And with a final tug the machhar’s string is cut, leaving it to flop onto its back and drift gracefully, more steady in death than it was in life, until it plunges onto a lawn several houses away.
A high-pitched victory cry from the rooftop: ‘Ai-bo!’
And in the driveway the servant boy sucks his finger, cut by the glass, as he gathers what string he can save with his other hand. There isn’t much. He looks up at the patang, now a tiny dot in the distance, before trudging back to the servant quarters, defeated, kiteless.
Only then does it occur to Mumtaz and me that Allima still hasn’t returned.
‘What should we do?’ I ask her.
‘Let’s ring the bell.’
A woman answers the door, barefoot. She has beautiful feet. ‘I’m sorry, but Amma is meditating.’
‘Meditating?’ Mumtaz gives me a look. ‘But she was just reading his palm.’
The woman raises the big toe of her left foot. ‘She said she is done. You know all you need to know.’
‘But she was just beginning.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Mumtaz is ready to continue protesting, but I take her elbow with a grin and lead her back to the car. ‘Forget it,’ I say.
She shakes her head. ‘How strange.’
‘Well, you know how these mystics can be.’
She looks at me. ‘You’re happy about this, aren’t you? You thought she was a fake from the start.’
‘Amused, perhaps. And a little happy we can leave. I need a joint pretty badly.’
‘Where can we go?’
I think. I don’t want to go back to my place. It’s almost evening, not too hot now, and I’d like to be out in the open. ‘How about Jallo Park?’ I suggest.
‘I’ve never been there.’
‘They have a zoo.’
‘Really?’
‘With peacocks.’
‘Let’s go.’
We drive down the canal, cross the Mall, and head out of town. I roll. Mumtaz prefers open windows to the AC, and the rush of air makes it difficult to keep the mixed tobacco and hash in my palm. But I manage. When I’m done, I ask her if I should light it and she says yes. I slide the car’s ashtray out and hold it in my hand, underneath the joint, to catch any burning pieces that might fall as we smoke.
‘Why Zulfikar Manto?’ I ask her.
‘Manto was my favorite short-story writer.’
‘And?’
‘And he wrote about prostitutes, alcohol, sex, Lahore’s underbelly.’
‘Zulfikar?’
‘That you should have guessed: Manto’s pen was his sword. So: Zulfikar.’
I take a hit and cough through my nostrils, gently. ‘How have you managed to keep it a secret?’
‘It isn’t that hard. No one keeps tabs on where I am during the day. And I usually don’t slip out to work at night unless Ozi’s away.’
‘Don’t the servants say anything?’
‘They have, once or twice. Ozi asked me what I was up to and I told him I’d gone out for a get-together at somebody’s place. That was that. Ozi isn’t the untrusting type.’
The joint’s finished by the time we pull into the Jallo Park entrance. It’s the middle of the week, so there aren’t too many people here, and no one bothers us. We stroll around the caged animals, nicely buzzed.
‘So how are things with Ozi?’ I finally ask.
Mumtaz shrugs. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You said you’d been having problems.’
‘We are.’
We stop in front of the peacock area. A pair of albinos strut by, the male unfurling his white fan, making it shake by quivering his hips.
‘That’s a clear signal,’ I say. ‘Nature knows how to be direct.’
Mumtaz laughs, her eyes on the peacock.
The peahen is less impressed. She walks away.
If there’s ever an appropriate time to ask Mumtaz what’s going on with us, it’s now. I want to know what she thinks of me, of the time we’re spending together, of where this is headed. And I’d like to tell her that I’m confused as hell. But my tail seems stuck and I can’t unfurl it.
The moment passes.
We walk on, past other fences, other animals.
I ask her about Muazzam.
‘He’s fine,’ she says. ‘He seems to like Lahore.’
‘What does he do when you go out?’
‘He has a nanny, Pilar. She’s lovely. She cut the umbilical cord.’
‘In America?’
‘No, here. Muazzam had me on a leash until she came along. But now I can disappear for the entire day and I don’t have to worry about him. I could disappear forever, I suppose.’
I grin. ‘That wouldn’t be very motherly of you.’
She turns, and I’m shocked to see anger in her eyes. For a moment I think she’s about to punch me.
‘What?’ I ask softly.
‘Who are you to judge me?’
‘I wasn’t judging you.’
‘Yes, you were.’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t even know what I said.’
She shakes her head and walks on, and I raise my face and squeeze my eyes shut, pissed at myself for being unable to understand. I follow a few steps behind her. We don’t speak until we reach the car, but I don’t want to get in without making amends somehow, so I take hold of her elbow and turn her around.
‘Listen, Mumtaz, I’m sorry. Really. I’ve had a wonderful day with you. I think you’re wonderful.’ I pause, aware that I’m being astoundingly inarticulate. ‘I don’t want you to be angry with me.’
Well, I’m clearly no poet. But what I said seems to work, because her face softens and she says, ‘Forget it. It has more to do with me than with you.’ That’s it, no explanation, but at least my apology seems to be accepted.
Once, on the drive home, she holds my hand between gear shifts, between third and second, and I’m glad for the reassuring touch of her skin on mine. We talk, but we’re talking about nothing, just reestablishing a comfortable space, and although our first fight hasn’t been erased, I think it’s safe to say we’ve survived.
When we get home we kiss, again on the lips, soft and tender and brief, like a kiss between friends, except that I always kiss my friends on the cheek.
I have to make two trips to Murad Badshah’s rickshaw depot to get hold of him. That’s usually how it works, because Murad Badshah’s rarely in and there’s no telephone number where he can be reached. I once told him he ought to get a pager and he said that pagers are an American idea and the only good thing America’s ever given us is Aretha Franklin. Bizarre fellow, Murad is. Anyway, on my first trip I leave a message saying I’ll be back at eight the following night. On my second I cruise down Ferozepur Road, past Ichra, hoping he’ll be there, because the weekend’s almost here and Raider’s relying on me.
He’s eating dinner, his drivers and mechanics gathered around him in a circle, their food on metal plates on the floor of the workshop.
‘Hullo, old chap,’ he calls out as he sees me, surging to his feet. Or rather, he says something to that effect with his mouth full as one of the younger mechanics
helps him get his bulk off the floor.
He offers his wrist for me to shake, because his hands are greasy.
‘Will you do us the honor of joining us for dinner?’ he asks. ‘Tonight we’re having a special feast. Lakshmi Chowk’s best.’
I hadn’t planned on it, but a free meal is a free meal, and I’m partial to Lakshmi myself. ‘I’d love to,’ I say.
A generous space is cleared for me next to Murad Badshah and I sit down, rolling up my sleeves as I grab a naan and get to work. I’m famished, and I can hold my own when it comes to eating, so I match Murad Badshah bite for bite, until he pats his stomach, releases a resounding belch, and announces that he’s stuffed.
A boy brings us mixed tea, milk and sugar already present in generous quantities, and Murad Badshah takes a dainty sip, the small finger of his left hand extended away from his teacup.
A driver wearing a Sindhi cap grabs the roll of flesh that circles his midsection and says, ‘I’m about to explode.’
‘I saw it last night on television, you know,’ says another, a drop of sweat hanging from his nose. ‘The explosion.’
‘What was it like?’ asks a mechanic.
‘They did it under a mountain,’ explains sweaty nose. ‘The mountain trembled like an earthquake. Dust flew into the sky. And the rock turned dark red, like the color of blood.’
‘How would you know?’ asks Sindhi cap. ‘You only have a black-and-white television.’
‘But it’s a very good one. You can almost see colors.’
‘Bloody fool. It’s black-and-white.’
‘No, but you can sometimes tell what the real colors are. I swear.’
‘Nonsense.’
Sweaty nose doesn’t argue. ‘The blast was fantastic,’ he says to the mechanic.
‘How fantastic could it be?’ Murad Badshah asks. ‘It was underground.’
‘The shaking, the dust. It was too good.’
Murad Badshah farts loudly. ‘There. Shaking. Dust. Was that too good as well?’
Sindhi cap pinches his nostrils shut. ‘That was a bad one, Murad bhai.’
‘My bad one won’t double the price of petrol. It won’t send tomatoes to a hundred rupees a kilo. But our bloody nuclear fart will.’
