Our Lady of Alice Bhatti

by Mohammed Hanif

  He feels that finally they have pulled Yassoo down to their level, as if Yassoo wasn’t the saviour of all mankind but a janitor who went around cleaning their streets, then sat in a corner drinking his Choohra chai from his Choohra cup until the day he quietly died and ascended to a Choohra heaven.

  ∨ Our Lady of Alice Bhatti ∧

  Sixteen

  “Do you know what happens to men after they get married?” Teddy Butt asks not-Abu Zar as he massages his stomach. “And do you know what happens to women after they get married? Here’s a clue: it’s not the same thing and it has nothing to do with sex.”

  The Hilux roars past a huge billboard that announces Spanish villas with french windows and imported kitchens. A shiny couple with a child peer through what must be a french window. Not-Abu Zar looks up and listens with concentration, as if Teddy were giving him career advice.

  “Men feel hungry, all the time. I feel an army of rats marching in my stomach and I have been married less than a week. I’ll ask them if we can stop for breakfast on our way back.”

  Not-Abu Zar shakes his head enthusiastically, as if he has always worried about the connection between coupledom and hunger. The swelling on his right eye has subsided, the blood has congealed around his lips; he looks like a boy who has botched up his face paint.

  “Men constantly feel hungry and women constantly feel sad. That’s what marriage does to them.”

  The Hilux leaves the Super Highway and swerves on to a dirt track, and then starts taking what seem like random turns, slowing down then speeding up. In normal circumstances it might be seen as an attempt to lose a tail, but the veterans of G Squad know that at this point Inspector Malangi likes to introduce a bit of confusion in his own team. He doesn’t want them to remember where and how they reached their destination. He doesn’t want any of them to lose their mind in the future and come sniffing back to relive the memory. There are rumours of Malangi’s predecessor losing his three-year-old daughter and becoming so affected by it that he ended up digging up lots of places in Buffer Zone in an attempt to give his victims a decent funeral. It was a huge embarrassment for the department. Malangi doesn’t want any of his men to end up like that. A bit of disorientation also gives a certain edge to the proceedings. The members of G Squad become more alert, they want to do their job and get out. They have come to realise that they are not here to enjoy the scenery.

  “Hunger I understand, because you know a man has to work hard every night, sometimes he has to work hard more than once at night, but why do women get sad after getting married? I mean, shouldn’t they be happy? They have found their mate, the father of their future children, the man they will force to work so hard that after his demise they’ll become much sought-after widows.” Not-Abu Zar murmurs something, but Teddy thinks it isn’t a good idea to let him talk at this stage. “Have you heard the one about why the cow looks sad? Did Abu Zar, I mean the real one, your friend in Sweden, ever used to tell you dirty jokes? Or did he think that laughter was bad for the health of the nation? So this man asks a cow, why do you always look sad? The cow replies, if someone squeezed your tits twice a day but screwed you only once a year, you’d feel sad too.”

  Not-Abu Zar nods his head and speaks in a voice that is low but clear. “You have to believe me. I was the driver. Abu said you can drive my motorbike and I did. I have never touched a gun.”

  Teddy suddenly feels angry at this boy’s stubbornness. By the time this hour of the night arrives, they all lose their ability to think, but this boy is determined to fool the world right to the end. And he is not even pretending to play along. Teddy has had people here who have told him heart-wrenching stories about being abused as children. Some he managed to soften up to an extent that they plotted picnics and revenge after the night was over. And when all else failed, he would tell them cricket jokes, mostly about Imran Khan and his real bat, and they would laugh till their torture wounds would start bleeding and Teddy had to calm them down. This boy seems to have no sense of humour.

  Teddy leans forward and says in the boy’s ear, “So why did Abu do it? Did someone pay him? Maybe he wants to get his seventy-two virgins? Did he tell you that? But remember, all the seventy-two will become sad very soon. And does Abu’s driver not get anything? You must get something? What was your deal with him? That you could watch while he fucked those seventy-two?”

  Not-Abu Zar looks at him with hurt eyes, as if he had considered Teddy a friend and hadn’t expected such a filthy suggestion from him. Not-Abu Zar manoeuvres himself into a praying position, folds his handcuffed hands into his lap and starts reciting Sura Yaseen. Teddy turns off his flashlight in despair. They are moving through a thicket of bush now, branches crunching against the sides of the Hilux.

  Teddy’s knowledge about which Quranic verse should be recited at what occasion is vague, and second-hand, but even he knows this one. This is the one they recite by the deathbed to ease the passing of the soul, because when a soul leaves the body it’s like a fine silk shawl being dragged through a bush of thorns. It is recited to steady the hand of the angel of death. Sometimes it resounds in the corridors of the Sacred. Sometimes the death-row prisoners are allowed to carry nothing but a copy of the Yaseen or receive a visit from someone who can recite it.

  Teddy’s knowledge of these things comes from his friend whose name is also Yaseen. He went off to Kashmir and returned to a hero’s welcome when he brought back a severed turbaned head and claimed that it had belonged to an Indian major. Teddy never saw it, but those who did said that the Indian major, even in his death, looked very scared. Yaseen went off again to Kashmir, or maybe some other place that needed to be liberated, and never returned. Nobody ever heard from him. Nobody brought back his body or his head. It was as if there was nothing left of him. Yaseen was a good friend and he had a balanced personality: not only did he know appropriate suras for every occasion, but he also knew quite a bit about stock markets, oil prices and the latest technologies developed by NASA. He had that core that this not-Abu Zar boy also seemed to have.

  Like any self-respecting professional in this situation, Teddy Butt feels like a failure. This man chained to the bone, sitting on the floor of a speeding Hilux, is reciting verses that are a preamble to his own death. Teddy feels this boy has something he will never have: a core that keeps him centred, that frees him from the fear of death. Not-Abu Zar might be running rings around G Squad, but he knows where he has come from and where he is going. He might even be mistaken. Maybe he came from nowhere and is going nowhere and what he recites means nothing, but he has something that keeps him connected to the universe. Would Teddy be able to recite something if he was in a situation like this? If Teddy had so much metal on him, would he be able to manoeuvre himself into a position like this and sit still?

  And what if the circumstances were different? What if he was dying in a hospital or at home from a slow incurable illness? Someone close to the dying person usually sits next to their bedside and recites Sura Yaseen. Does Teddy have anybody who will do it for him? He has Alice. Ah, Alice. Can she be taught? After all, she does know how to recite the Kalima. Will she learn it for him? He looks outside and realises that they are in the Zone now. The Hilux drives between clusters of aloe vera and wild shrub; it slows down, then picks up speed again, and by the time it comes to a halt, Teddy has lost all appetite for his job.

  As he frequently does, he starts contemplating a career in private security and reminding himself that you get to travel in the front seat, you carry your own repeater and you don’t have to make small talk with anyone. In fact, keeping quiet is a kind of job requirement.

  Inspector Malangi is the first one out of the Hilux, and he thumps the side of the cabin. “What do we want?” A gentle breeze stirs an aloe vera bush and the perfumed air comes to them in tiny whiffs. Part of Teddy’s duty is to figure out what is the last thing his companion would like to do. Choices are usually limited in the middle of nowhere; it comes down to a drink of water, time
out to take a piss, but mostly people ask for a cigarette. Teddy has no idea what not-Abu Zar wants. He doesn’t want Malangi to know that their journey might have started off well but now it seems as if he has been butting his head against a wall. He has no clue whether not-Abu Zar smokes or not, and whether he wants some bladder relief before he is relieved of his life. Not-Abu Zar is oblivious now, hunched over, his chin almost touching his knees, and he is reciting at top speed as if aware of the fact that Yaseen is a long sura and he must finish it before he gets off the Hilux. “My friend here wants to take a leak,” Teddy says, and before Inspector Malangi can ask his team to take positions, he adds, “But first he wants to finish reciting his Yaseen.”

  Malangi seems to have no problem with the suggestion. Not-Abu Zar is rocking now, moving slowly back and forth with the rhythm of every verse. Teddy can’t see his lips in the dark, but it seems Inspector Malangi is repeating the words after not-Abu Zar. Inspector Malangi wouldn’t trust anyone else to recite on his deathbed, so he has probably learnt the verses by heart. He also seems to know when the sura comes to an end, because as soon as not-Abu Zar stops moving, Malangi says, “Jazak Allah” loudly. He gives Teddy a bunch of keys. “Take him.”

  If it doesn’t involve any undue risk, they usually like to take the handcuffs and any other metal off their prisoner. They all become very squeamish when they have to remove anything from a corpse, as if by putting a bullet in somebody they have contaminated them. Also for some reason the handcuff marks stay longer if removed afterwards.

  The recitation seems to have calmed not-Abu Zar: he is relaxed and passive as Teddy unlocks four sets of locks from his hands and feet. There is a bit of a struggle with the nylon rope, but soon not-Abu Zar is standing beside the Hilux rubbing his wrists, stretching his back and ferociously scratching his armpit. Teddy inspects their operational area by moving his flashlight up and down. They are in the middle of a clearing in the wild fig bushes, full of green thorns and ripe little buds ready to bloom at the first sign of sunlight.

  “I can’t do it standing up,” not-Abu Zar says to Teddy, ignoring Inspector Malangi, who has got his Beretta in his hand now.

  “You can kill forty-six people in six minutes, all the while riding a motorbike, and you can’t take a piss standing up? Hurry up, behind the bushes.” Inspector Malangi is impatient. The recitation has thrown him off course. According to his time line, they should have been driving back by now.

  “Let’s go.” Teddy holds not-Abu Zar by his right arm and starts to move. He hears Malangi mutter behind him: “The bloody sun is about to come out.” Teddy lets go of his arm and pulls out his TT pistol and shows not-Abu Zar the way with his flashlight. They walk about ten steps and find themselves in bush so thick the Hilux headlights seem distant. Teddy turns his light to the other side and says, “OK, take your time, I am not looking.” He faces the bush and suddenly has a feeling that the wild figs are alive. Nothing moves, but there is a slight rustle, and he has a distinct feeling that the bush is breathing. Then he sees a pair of eyes sprouting from the bush on his left, one all black, one all white. He moves the light up and down and finds that there are other pairs of eyes that look like the buds have suddenly bloomed in the bush. Before he can straighten his TT, a black dog bares its teeth and jumps at him.

  Four others follow, their barks full-throated and ferocious, and they come at Teddy as if they have rehearsed their attack. One of them, a tall, lean, malnourished specimen, all black with white legs, stays back, raises his head to the sky and howls as if reading Teddy the terms of his surrender.

  ∨ Our Lady of Alice Bhatti ∧

  Seventeen

  Alice Bhatti puts a box of sweets on Senior Sister Hina Alvi’s table and begins to walk out as Hina Alvi emerges from the bathroom adjusting the hem of her shirt with one hand and coiffing her hair with the other. She looks at the box of sweets, then looks at Alice Bhatti, who blushes like a new bride. Sister Hina Alvi breaks into spontaneous laughter. Then she comes over and, still laughing, gently hugs Alice Bhatti.

  Hina Alvi beckons her to sit. She cups her chin in her left hand and looks at Alice with amusement and pity, as if saying, look at you, all grown up, who would have thought? “So ten days of suspension from work and you return with a husband? I tell you, girls these days get bored so easily.”

  Alice forces a courteous smile. “If something has to be done, one might as well do it when one has a lot of free time.”

  “Before I congratulate you, can I ask you something?” Sister Hina Alvi drags her chair closer and sits down. “I don’t expect you to take advice from me, and I hate to interfere in my colleagues’ personal lives for the simple reason that I have absolutely no curiosity about their domestic matters. I am just mildly concerned about you: why would a girl like you marry? Why would a girl like you marry a boy like him? What kind of man waxes his body hair? You might as well have married me.”

  Alice Bhatti has expected a catty remark or two, and that’s why on her return to the Sacred she has come straight to Sister Hina Alvi’s office. She wanted to tell Hina Alvi herself before anybody else told her, but she didn’t expect such directness. She is beginning to wonder why Sister Hina Alvi is getting all personal with her.

  “He is a bodybuilder. They are supposed to do it. It’s a requirement for their job. Like we wear white coats. Black coats would make more sense, save us all that washing. But nobody really thinks about these things.”

  Sister Hina Alvi looks at Alice as if she can’t believe that a professional nurse would harbour such unprofessional thoughts. She drags out a dustbin from under the table, bends down and spits her leftover paan into it. She takes a tissue from the Dry Nights box and wipes her mouth.

  “It’s none of my business really, but just tell me one thing: can he actually make a living lifting dumbbells? And you know that building his body is not all he does? Isn’t he always hanging out with that horrible Inspector Malangi? Always riding in police vehicles. Why would anyone want to be friends with those people?”

  Alice Bhatti feels Sister Hina Alvi should have given her this talk before her trip to the submarine. She wonders if Hina Alvi is envious as women sometimes are when you go off and get married without seeking their approval first, like betraying a supposed best friend. Every match made in this world has some detractors. It would never have occurred to Alice Bhatti that hers would be Sister Hina Alvi. “He works with them. On a contract basis. It’s freelance work. He says he doesn’t want to get a regular job with them because then he can’t work out regularly.”

  “So he is the law’s little helper? What you are saying is that he is a police tout, does their dirty work for them. Rent-a-witness. Replacement prisoner. Beat up this little guy while I bugger his sister, that kind of part-time job. Look, I don’t know why I am going on about this. It’s none of my business. This is a free world. But you have to find your own freedom. And if you think you can find freedom by hitching yourself to someone like him, then good luck. Congratulations. I should be happy for you. But I am worried. I hope you are not doing it just to get a different name. A married Muslim nurse is not much better than a single Christian nurse. You just become a slave multiplied by two.”

  Alice Bhatti appreciates Sister Hina Alvi’s concern. She is trying to be the mother Alice Bhatti doesn’t have, although she knows that Hina Alvi would hate to be described as anyone’s mother, let alone a grown-up married woman’s mother. But at least she cares, and more importantly she is not scared of showing that she cares.

  “Thanks, Sister Alvi. I should probably have consulted you before jumping into it. But I myself was surprised. It all happened very suddenly. I have always thought I can live without a man. I always thought a proper job was all the security I needed. But that incident in the VIP room… that made me rethink.” Alice is startled at what she has just said. She hasn’t thought of this before. But now that she has uttered these words, she thinks that there might be some truth in it.

  “Oh, OK.�
�� It seems Sister Hina Alvi is having a moment of private regret that doesn’t last more than a moment. “And you didn’t even bother to go out of the Sacred gate to look for a husband,” she says. “You got hitched to the first piece of trash you came across.

  “You probably realise that girls from my background are not really bombarded with proposals. In fact, he was the only one who showed any interest. I mean, there are those who show interest, but you know what kind of interest that is. At heart he is a decent person.”

  Hina Alvi looks into Alice’s eyes as if trying to decide whether this conversation has already gone too far; she has given this silly girl an opening and now she won’t stop till she has told her whole life story.

  “First love,” Hina Alvi says, “is like your first heart attack. Chances are that you’ll survive it, but you don’t outlive it. That first gasp for air is the beginning of the end. You have managed to breathe some air in, and you think you are all right. You might think it’s a matter of lifestyle, quit this, cut out red meat, walk, run, get a personal trainer, try shitting standing up, but… it’ll get you in the end.” Sister Hina Alvi sighs, and puts both her hands on the table.

  “Look, I am not the right person to give anybody marital advice. I have been married thrice. And I am single now. I married the same man twice. Just to be sure. But the result was the same. In fact the second time it was worse. I didn’t even feel depressed like I used to the first time. I just felt bored. I did it for the same reason that everybody else does it: that you need someone to snuggle with, wake up next to, bring you yogurt when you have a bad stomach, that kind of thing. But I never really got any of that. It was I who ended up comforting them and waking up next to them and being their doctor. Maybe you’ll be luckier. But you don’t seem like the kind of girl who attracts luck.” She realises that she shouldn’t have said that last sentence, but she is not the type to take back her words.