SIkander

by M. Salahuddin Khan

  With the Christmas holiday season fast approaching, Sikander decided that the senior management should be taken to Memphis to see for themselves the engine of their next phase of expansion. He also felt it important to have his family members there for a ribbon-cutting ceremony. Rooms were booked at the Westin in downtown Memphis and a special senior management party was also arranged, not only to celebrate the new opening, but also the fact that the company had surpassed the hundred-million-dollar mark for sales that year.

  “Kids! Hurry up!” Rabia cried out, putting the final touches on her own packing. Sabrina and Salman had kindly agreed, once again, to babysit Ayesha, though she was increasingly insulted by such a term.

  The rest of the family visitors were somewhere or other around the large house, getting themselves or their loved ones ready. Sofie was proud of her sons and what they had accomplished. From small beginnings in Peshawar with what Sikander’s grandfather had started in the early 1950s, this was indeed a major new phase of his legacy and her late husband’s.

  Taking limousines to the airport they were all soon on their way to Memphis. That Thursday night, December 20, everyone was settled in their rooms and suites, sufficiently tired to fall fast asleep right after isha. The following day at one in the afternoon, there was to be a brief opening ceremony, a cutting of the ribbon, and then a lunch buffet laid out in the warehouse itself.

  Since introducing Jim Mahler to the Internet concept toward the end of the prior year, Sikander had him lead implementation of all safety and security provisions at the new facility, and thought it would be appropriate to have him come to the ceremony and point out the state-of-the-art technology used in the warehouse. Jim’s relationship with Sikander remained lukewarm despite almost a year of reasonable efforts by Sikander. But no longer in the Army, Mahler had no authority to do anything, especially in the absence of reasonable cause. So he remained at arm’s length from Sikander, carrying out his job as best he could, while also remaining watchful of the possibility that Sikander might still be some kind of al-Qaeda “sleeper,” using the company and his position as a cover.

  The warehouse’s gleaming white exterior, graced by a large retention pond with a fountain greeted the visitors as they stepped out of the several vehicles that delivered them to the premises. The front of the building consisted of a modern well-appointed office complex with a common area, behind which was the main warehouse. An enormous box, one hundred and eighty meters long by sixty meters wide, its interior had been remodeled to handle the company’s product range.

  When everyone arrived Jim and the site manager, whose first task was to distribute a hard hat to each visitor, received them. They were led inside in two groups, one with Sikander and one with Jamil. Rabia was with Sikander with Ayub and Qayyum in tow. Sikander joked with her about how odd she looked wearing the bright white hard hat with the rest of her black outfit—a black shalwar and qamees with a silver thread-embroidered pattern and matching embroidery on a black chiffon dupattha. He offered a mock apology for the unavailability of black hard hats. The indignity of the problematic fashion statement was at least eased a little from knowing that all the other women were in the same situation.

  At the far end of the building was a row of receiving bays for incoming goods and a different row of loading bays for outbound shipments. An advanced picking system enabled fulfillment of orders almost completely automatically. Preceding the bays was a packaging area and in front of that, numerous racks of products were arrayed in neat rows. The racking was a modular type running to a height of over six meters, held firmly in place by steel lag bolts driven into the concrete floor.

  Jamil provided most of the descriptive commentary to the senior management visitors, while Sikander did much the same in Pashto for the family members. The tour groups followed the same path by which products generally entered, were processed, and left the warehouse.

  As they came to the major racking areas, Sikander began his description: “Now, this is where we hold packaged products, like switches, small transformers, motors, and packaged electrical pumps, and these racks are set up so that we can stack to a very large height and still pick products from the top row. Where automation doesn’t apply, we still use forklifts. In fact, one is coming this way right now, so I need everyone to step over here…”

  Sikander pointed to a spot just behind where he was standing. The forklift operator had cautiously approached the group so that he wouldn’t strike anyone with the vehicle. As soon as he sensed that the danger had passed, Sikander continued. But his attention was caught by the absence of any lag bolts in the flanges at the bottoms of the racks closest to where he and the group were standing. He made a mental note to himself that he would talk to the facilities people to get that corrected in the morning, and resumed his role as guide.

  “In these racks, we have a total of almost ten miles or sixteen kilometers of shelves in this building alone—”

  Abruptly, Sikander stopped. As if in slow motion, the forklift was returning and its driver, paying inordinately more attention to the visitors than to where he was going, was in the process of snagging the empty forks in the same racking that was missing the lag bolts. He had proceeded a little more confidently than he should have, perhaps even showing off for the visitors. The forklift’s three thousand kilograms, at even its slow speed, was enough to impart a violent jarring motion on the racking, weakening its vertical members, and briefly lifting its improperly secured legs four or five centimeters off the floor.

  Sikander saw what was about to unfold and had already projected that Jim Mahler was standing in the most exposed position. The adrenalin sharpened his faculties and slowed the passing seconds. He subconsciously extrapolated the path of the racking’s contents, and could see a way to get to Jim while avoiding the threat from most of the falling objects with only minor injury given his hard hat. He lunged forward and shouted: “Look out!” in the general direction of Jim. Barely a second later, Sikander’s arms pushed Jim violently to the side and out of harm’s way. However, the racking’s contents had just begun disgorging from the shelves and a small but heavy switchbox had landed on the floor near Sikander’s feet. With his momentum directed toward protecting Jim, Sikander tripped on the switchbox, which caused him to fall, as Jim himself fell out of harm’s way, while packages continued to fall or roll off the shelves of the now collapsing structure.

  Instinctively, everyone retreated from the metal avalanche. Everyone but Sikander. The group was horrified at the developing events but most especially as the last section of the racking unit descended onto Sikander, who could be seen raising his arms in a reflexive but futile defensive posture.

  Hideous sounds were followed by an even more ugly silence.

  The contents of the shelves had rained down on or around where Sikander lay. Hard hat or none, it didn’t seem like a survivable experience. The horror of the scene paralyzed everyone, but as the shock subsided, new sounds rapidly filled the vacuum.

  “Sikander!” screamed Rabia and Sofie together. “Sikander!”

  He lay on the ground, barely visible through the disorderly heap on top of him. Mahler picked himself up, taking a little longer to absorb what had just happened. Finally, he leapt toward the pile of twisted metal, as did Jamil, Ejaz, and Abdul Rahman along with every other able-bodied male in the immediate vicinity. In frenzied haste, they began clearing things out of the way.

  Sikander stirred and gasped weakly.

  “Sikander!” Rabia moaned as she hurried toward him.

  Slowly regaining consciousness, Sikander was in a daze, and could barely make out the scene around him. Inexplicably, he felt deeply drowsy, unable to keep his eyes open. Before long, his crushed ribs and lungs began leaking blood, which slowly dribbled out of his mouth. Bleeding internally, he coughed and sputtered, as he felt himself drowning in his own blood.

  Abruptly, he imagined himself to be in water having stepped off—or had he fallen out?—of a small boat. He could see t
he beautiful girl across—what was that?—a shoreline? A riverbank? She was wearing a black qamees and a black shalwar with a beautiful silver-embroidered black chiffon dupattha. Her eyes looked expectantly at him as she beckoned with her right arm, calling out, “Sikander! Sikander! Sikander!”

  His dream of a night long ago in the Khyber hills had come back to him. Or had he returned to it? He couldn’t tell. He was under water, yet his mind conveyed only floating. It was all he could sense. Just floating—in space and time. Floating up toward the girl—toward Rabia? Back. A renewed struggle. Back toward the surface of the water. Have to get through. There! There she is! Still under water, he could see the girl’s solitary form, fragmented by the gentle waves in the water’s surface. For a moment it seemed he might connect with her. He reached out. She was surely his destiny. She had to be.

  Jim pressed his ear to Sikander’s chest. The heartbeat was weak. He felt for his pulse and shouted, “Someone call an ambulance!” Several cell phones were already being put to use.

  “Come on! Come on! Hang in there, buddy!” Jim urged. “Please hang on! Oh, my God, Sikander, stay awake! Please! Please, God!” he prayed.

  Breakthrough! Sikander felt himself emerge from the surface at least with his head or mouth. He gasped as he opened his eyes. He was with her. His head was in Rabia’s hands. He saw Jim Mahler crouching by his side with Sofie and Jamil looking on behind, their faces twisted in anguish. Sikander’s eyes moved from side to side and fixed on Jim. The briefest flicker of a smile visited Sikander’s bloody lips.

  “Oh, thank God! Sikander, stay awake!” cried Jim.

  Sikander moved his weakening gaze toward Rabia and briefly the smile became more pronounced.

  “Bhai-jan! Bhai-jan, come on! Stay with us! The medics will soon be here!” pleaded Jamil.

  Sikander’s lips moved weakly, mouthing nothing anyone could hear.

  “Quiet! He’s saying something! What’s he saying?” asked Jim openly.

  Rabia knew. So did Jamil. “He’s saying the kalimah. ‘There is no God but Allah and Muhammad is his Messenger.’ It’s what we do when we believe…we’re dying,” explained Jamil, his eyes red and a solitary tear running down his cheek. Jim returned his attention to Sikander while Rabia held his head and wept.

  In less than five minutes, the paramedics arrived. Seeing Sikander under the contents of the fallen structure, no questions were necessary. The forklift still enmeshed in what was left of the buckled racking, told an eloquent, if grisly, story. Sikander’s upper body had been subjected to massive blunt force trauma.

  His eyes still open, Sikander’s expression left his face.

  One of the paramedics, who had been listening for a heartbeat quickly removed a defibrillator kit from his bag and applied the paddles to Sikander’s chest. Despite the physical injury and the probable aggravation of the trauma from an electric shock, he had little to lose to try to get a heartbeat going.

  After four spirited attempts he finally conceded defeat.

  Sensing who she was, a female paramedic laid a gentle hand on Rabia’s shoulder as she slowly shook her head. Her eyes closed tightly, Rabia began shaking her own head as her entire body convulsed. Reluctantly, Jamil closed Sikander’s eyelids.

  “No…Nooooh!” Rabia moaned in soft denial.

  “Abba! Abba-jee!” protested Ayub while Qayyum stood speechless, crying next to his mother.

  Sofie, by now alongside Rabia, gripped her tightly then collapsed, hardly able to breathe. She was quickly intercepted and made to lie down with someone’s jacket as an improvised pillow while she whimpered uncontrollably, still praying for Sikander’s survival.

  It was down to Jamil, Ejaz, and Abdul Rahman to regroup the family and follow the ambulance while Rabia and Sofie rode with Sikander. Sofie rocked to and fro in her seat praying while Rabia could only look upon her beloved husband and weep. The paramedics were sure he was gone, but that had to be a doctor’s call. It didn’t take long for them to arrive at Methodist South Hospital in Whitehaven. Jim Mahler followed in his rented minivan with several management colleagues.

  Within half an hour of arrival, Sikander was pronounced dead. By now, not even Sofie expected a different outcome. In a moment of quiet calm, tears streaming, she slowly shook her head, and uttered the familiar ayah: “Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raaji’un.” The remaining family members, crying or moaning, briefly forced themselves to make the same coherent utterance before resuming their sorrowful lament.

  In keeping with the Islamic injunctions against delay, with Rabia’s agreement, Sikander was buried in the nearest cemetery equipped for Muslim burial, which was between Galloway and Hickory Withe, about forty-five kilometers from Memphis. As far as the family was concerned, this was where Allah had decreed he should find eternal rest and that was that. Jamil canceled his arrangements to return to Pakistan with Kausar as he’d planned, and everyone remained at the family home for several days after returning from Memphis.

  Christmas Day in Henderson saw a rare but light snow flurry as the doorbell to the Khan household rang. Ayub answered the door to Jim Mahler.

  “Hello, son. Is your mom home, or your Uncle Jamil?”

  Having recognizing Jim from the fateful warehouse visit, Ayub let him in and called out for his uncle. Jamil came to the foyer and greeted Jim, asking him to come in. There were no “Happy Holidays” or “Merry Christmas” greetings under the circumstances, but Jamil was curious.

  “Jim. Come on in please, what can we do for you?”

  A frown of surprise briefly creased Jim’s brow before he resumed the appearance of one bearing condolences. “I…I wanted to express my regrets and sympathy,” he said.

  Too weary and troubled to recognize any of Jim’s fleeting surprise, Jamil nodded, acknowledging the condolences. His eyes were sore and wet. He had been unable until now, to stop himself mentally replaying episodes of shared experiences with his departed brother.

  “I can ask her to come, but in Islam we have a waiting period called iddah. She can speak to you, but she’ll be observing the veil.”

  “Oh that…that won’t be an issue,” declared Jim softly, “and I won’t linger. You, uh, you folks must be pretty occupied right now.”

  “No, no, that’s all right, Jim. I’ll get her. It won’t be a moment. Have a seat. Please.”

  A couple of minutes later, Jamil returned with Rabia. She wore a dark gray shawl drawn well forward on her head. Jim arose from his armchair in deference to her, noticing how the rest of her clothing was drab and without any form of ornament. She and Jamil took seats on the sofa facing the armchair, as Jim sat down once more. Staring at a point on the floor by Jim’s feet, Rabia acknowledged his presence with a slow nod.

  “I wanted to say how deeply…saddened and sorry I am that…” Jim paused to take a breath, “…that Sikander died saving my life.”

  “Yes, Mr. Mahler, it was in his nature to look out for people,” replied Rabia. “Saving lives was something he just did. He saved me from drowning once…a long time ago. He was—” Rabia choked, but after all the weeping of the past several days, she was too exhausted to cry.

  After waiting to let Rabia regain her composure, Jim uneasily continued, “I um, brought this.” He pulled out a small box, gift-wrapped in dark gold paper and tied with a black ribbon. “Please don’t open it right now, but it’s something I think you should have.”

  “Thank you,” replied Jamil, unsure of how to interpret the gesture, but taking the gift from Jim just the same.

  “I…” Jim began, but then hesitated as he studied both his hosts. Cautiously, he asked a question he only now realized needed to be asked. “Sikander…hadn’t…told you about me, had he?” As much as he needed to ask the question, Jim could see it didn’t need answering. Jamil’s puzzled expression was answer enough. As Jim picked up on the expression, a wave of self-loathing passed through him. It was a new insight—an insight into the personality of the man whose life he had once tried to make as miserabl
e as possible and who had given up that life to save his.

  “About you?” asked Rabia. She glanced at Jamil hoping for meaning. Jamil shook his head and shrugged.

  “What about you, Jim?” he asked.

  Jim drew his breath and slowly exhaled. There was a crushing feeling in the pit of his stomach and the last thing he wanted to do at that moment was what his soul commanded.

  “Mrs. Khan, Jamil, I have to tell you that I used to…I used to be in Gitmo, and uh, Sikander was…well, he was one of my detainees there. I was his interrogator and I um…I didn’t treat him very well,” Jim choked as his eyes reddened, glistening and his lips quivered. In a wavering voice he continued, “I know now how…wrong I was and I just… I don’t have the words to say how really, really sorry—”

  “Jim, what? What are you saying? Gitmo? You mean Guantanamo? You knew about…you knew him? You were his, huh!—” Jamil couldn’t continue.

  Rabia wore an unseen frown. What was this nonsense she was hearing? It didn’t add up. “How could that be?” she thought aloud. “Surely Sikander would… Sikander would have—”

  Recollections of that evening of the first day in the office, when Sikander had been handed the golden key, came flooding into her mind. Sikander had brushed off his preoccupation, and snapped at her for worrying. Of course! It was clear now! The man sitting in her living room, the man whose life her husband had given his own for, had been Sikander’s tormentor. Following an involuntary shudder, Rabia rested her forehead on a trembling hand and cried.

  Arriving at the same realization regarding the key ceremony, Jamil struggled to understand his brother’s reasons for keeping Jim Mahler’s identity from him. His mind raced recalling details of the Guantanamo experiences that Sikander had chosen to share, none of which had included Mahler’s name, but each of which now amplified his disgust. Jamil felt a new bitterness. Indeed, it was directed both to his brother and to Jim. Neither he nor Rabia could say anything.