MY FATHER PRESIDED OVER the fajr prayer amidst a sea of flickering yellow candles. When it concluded, Ghulam Rasool was sent to fetch tea, Wali to find Nofel and I was instructed to remain seated on my prayer mat for a chat. Having served us, Ghulam Rasool scurried back to the kitchen to prepare breakfast for five people since my father was expecting guests.
These guests were Abba’s business partners and also happened to be high-ranking VIPs within the Caliphate. After breakfast, the five of us would be travelling to Islamabad in my father’s car; a vehicle that also seemed to be a high-ranking notable within the regime. The three guests had been wanting to experience for themselves, for some time now, the otherworldly luxuries of my father’s car.
The distinguished guests were the Chief Qadi of the Sharia Court of Punjab, the Imam of the Badshahi Mosque and the Grand Mufti of the Fatwa Council. The thought of being trapped in a car with these three strangers on such a long road trip put a serious damper on my already precarious spirits.
The plan was to head straight to the Faisal Mosque in Islamabad to attend a historic Jumma congregation with various hand-picked luminaries of the Caliphate. Khalifa himself would be there to honour the ceremony and admission to this auspicious occasion was by invitation only. I had been to this mosque once before, on a school trip when I was just a boy.
I remembered being completely blown away by the size and scale of the place. To my boyish imagination it had looked like a huge space station when it was actually intended to resemble a Bedouin tent. The design was the brainchild of Turkish architect Vedat Dalokay. Four minarets shaped like sharpened pencils towered hundreds of feet above a triangular Prayer Hall that looked a lot like a massive tent pitched at the green foothills of the Margalla Hills.
From what Abba said, or rather hadn’t said, it didn’t sound like even he knew the exact purpose of this mysterious gathering. It could also be that he just didn’t want to divulge any of the secrets he had been privy to. The conversation then turned to his infamous car, which of course I was dying to see for myself.
Abba told me how much he loved racing along the motorway because there was no speed limit. He loved driving this car so much that he had refused the official driver who had come as part of the deal. The Benz could make the trip to Islamabad in two and a half hours—a distance of about 230 miles. Abba’s record, however, was just under two hours.
My father’s eyes widened when he described the 100-mile-an-hour warm-up, how the car hugged the road at 120, and how you never felt out of control even at speeds over 150. Describing the cruise along the motorway, my father had used words like ‘freed from time and space’, and ‘the cares and worries which belong to the world’.
‘This is the closest one can get to experiencing Jannah while still on earth,’ he said in a serious tone. He remained silent for a good ten seconds then, as if gathering his thoughts. ‘Owning the best possible ride, one can get in life is Sunnah. In my case basically this means that every mile I drive, the closer I get to Jannah.’
I lowered my head, thinking of Sophie living in the Pagan quarters of Paradise. What would he do if he ever found out that I made love to his seventh wife in Paradise? He was the epitome of greed—greed for Paradise.
‘I never thought earning swaab could be as easy as slamming the gas pedal,’ I said. I felt happy with my decision to leave this bizarre world of his when I was eighteen, and I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of it once my mission was accomplished.
‘Yes, it is so, son. Allah’s ways are indeed mysterious.’
This was the first time he had called me ‘son’. I must have been doing something right since he was definitely beginning to soften.
By the time he went to change for breakfast, the candles had fluttered in the morning light that spilled through the open windows. I wandered outside to take a look at the magical car, and there she was—a gleaming black Mercedes-Benz. Parked alongside was the ravaged-looking Corolla with its fake camel top. Compared to the black beauty, the Corolla could easily have passed for a pile of scrap. A palm-sized green flag bearing the Caliphate logo was tethered to the circular coat of arms of the Benz at the end of its hood.
I stared at the smooth sleek lines, marvelling at the unapologetic disparities life was capable of displaying, the incongruous nature of reality, the lopsided nature of cause and effect and the deceptive linearity of time. Before I was finished contemplating, Wali, carrying Nofel in his arms, appeared next to me.
‘The moment this bastard sees a female cat, he loses his mind,’ he said, looking angry. ‘Sirji, I’ve asked Hajji sahib many times to get him neutered.’
‘And what did he say?’ I asked.
‘It’s against the Sharia.’
‘I think he’s right.’
‘Sirji, I can prove that he’s wrong,’ he said, putting down Nofel who dashed back into the house. I kept my mouth shut so he wouldn’t launch off into some new tirade on religion.
Before Wali could say another word, a car blasted its horn outside the front gate. He raced toward it and threw both sides wide open, then stepped aside and bowed deeply.
A black top-of-the-line Toyota Land Cruiser with tinted windows rolled ominously into the driveway and braked six inches away from my shins. Three men wearing identical starched white robes and headdresses emerged from the plush interior of a vehicle that seemed suited to Darth Vader. Or someone who admired him greatly.
As soon as the car had discharged its passengers, it retreated silently and disappeared from the compound. Wali then closed the gate and ran back inside the house. Ignoring my presence, the guests started fingering their mobile phones.
A moment later, rubbing his palms together, Abba came rushing out of the house, his face radiant with happiness. Once he finished hugging his guests, he turned to me and I could tell from his face he didn’t like what he was seeing. Maybe because this was the first time he was seeing me in the daylight, but I must have looked like a wreck. In the hooded glare of my father’s disapproving gaze, I somehow felt unclean, impure. Of course! I was wearing the same patchwork denim jellaba he had hated when I bought it twelve years ago.
‘Meet my son, Ismael. He’s just returned from America,’ Abba said, sounding awkward and looking slightly embarrassed. The three wizened grey-beards stared at me with narrowed eyes. None of them smiled.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you all,’ I said, standing still.
‘My son lived in the belly of the Great Satan for a decade, so pardon his appearance. What’s important is that his faith is stronger than all of us put together,’ Abba said, as he tried to regain his bearings. ‘Ismael, come. Let me introduce you to my friends.’
As I shook their warm, flaccid hands one by one, Abba introduced them by their names and titles, all of which were long and complicated. In my mind, I assigned each of them a nickname according to their job description. Qadi, or the Judge, was six feet tall with broad shoulders and a head too small for his body. Imam, fair skinned, looked impossibly round and reminded me of a grenade that was about to pop. And Mufti, the issuer of fatwa or rulings according to Islamic law, was a little guy, barely five feet tall and thin as a blade of grass, wearing a black patch over his right eye. I had no doubt the patch was well earned and worn to strike respect and awe.
Once the guests were seated in the drawing room, Abba asked that I follow him to his bedroom.
‘Didn’t you bring anything else to wear besides what you have on right now?’ he snarled at me as he closed the door of his bedroom behind us. He made no attempt to hide his anger.
‘No.’
‘Is this how the believer dresses in the land of the pure, and out of all the days, on a Friday?’ he demanded.
Without waiting for a reply, he flung open the double doors of a huge walk-in closet. Inside was a vast collection of robes, headdresses and pre-wrapped turbans neatly hanging from hangers and hooks and laid out on countless shelves. They were all arranged by seasonal wear, colour, fabric and importance of occasion.
‘No one, absolutely no one, wears denim jellabas here anymore,’ he growled. ‘Only liberal extremists used to wear robes like yours,’ he said, as he carefully extracted a light-brown robe of high-quality cotton from one of the covered hangers. ‘This one is tight on me now but should fit you fine.’
‘I’m sorry, Abba, I honestly didn’t have the time to shop.’ I took the robe from him along with a white keffiyeh and a coil of black tasseled rope to keep it in place. ‘Abba, if you get tired from driving, I could take the wheel,’ I offered, trying to distract him and lighten the mood. ‘Just let me know.’
He gave me another of his long hard looks. ‘Maybe on our way back.’
His answer made me wonder again just how much he actually knew about Khalifa’s plan. If he was in on it, he probably wanted to enjoy the last ride of his life by driving his own beloved car. And why not? If I were him, I suppose I would want to break my previous record too.
Wearing the authentic Arab dress, the thawb, I joined everyone in the dining room. It was a little loose on me, but didn’t look too bad. My face was washed, my beard combed and I wore Pir’s psychic headband under my headdress, ready to transmit whenever required.
God knows what Abba was saying about me because when I took my seat next to him, his buddies were all smiles, their faces radiating warmth.
I sat across from Imam, who pushed a plate of sticky halva toward me. Qadi, seated next to him, held out a basket of steaming pooris, and Mufti, sitting at the far end of the table, shut his solitary eye for a little while longer than a blink would take as he sipped his tea. It could have been a wink, but I wasn’t too sure.
‘So, Ismael,’ Imam said, clearing his throat. ‘If what your father has told us about you is true, I’m truly impressed. I would very much like to see a demonstration of your ability.’
‘It’s unbelievable that after living for all these years in a place like America, created for the sole purpose of keeping Satan busy, you’re able to hold on to your faith,’ Qadi said. ‘Quite remarkable, indeed!’
Abba’s face glowed with pride as he listened to their comments. He was in for a huge surprise—provided, of course, my mission was a success. I tried to feel sympathy for him, but I just couldn’t find any.
‘In honour of this auspicious repast, I propose that Ismael describe for us the kind of foods we’ll be eating in Al-Jannah,’ Mufti suggested, looking me in the eyes as his face broke into a mischievous smile. ‘Hint: it’s in the Quran.’
The pointedness of his request startled me at first. Surely, I could recite any part of the Quran in Arabic. But that did not mean I understood the meaning of what I was reciting. Pir’s download hadn’t come with a translation. Feeling at a loss for the answer and panicking a little, I tried recalling the food I had seen lying on the floating slabs of marble under the red canopy in the Guest House of Al-Jannah.
Overwhelmed by the sheer variety I had seen, I lowered my head and thought of where to begin. Then I saw Nofel sitting beside my chair, staring at me with his piercing yellow eyes. I immediately shielded my thoughts, straightened up and looked around the room.
‘Abba, would you please send Nofel away?’ I asked, shaking my head and feigning confusion. ‘I just can’t concentrate with him staring at me like that.’
‘Where’s Wali? He should be feeding him. We’ve got a long journey ahead,’ Abba said. ‘Ismael, go ask Wali to take Nofel into the kitchen.’
‘Excuse me, sir,’ I said to Mufti, as I stood up from my chair. ‘I’ll be right back.’
As I came out of the dining room, formulating my answer to Mufti, Nofel followed me. In the hall I bumped into Ghulam Rasool as he was rushing out of the kitchen carrying a basket of fresh pooris.
‘Abba asked to keep Nofel out of the dining room. Please tell Wali to feed him,’ I said. ‘The cat is coming with us to Islamabad.’
‘I’ll never understand what your Abbaji likes about this cat.’ He said as he headed toward the front door, coaxing Nofel to follow him. I was about to return to the dining room when Pir Pul Siraat’s voice sounded inside my head.
‘Hello. Can you hear me?’
‘Yes,’ I whispered. ‘Loud and clear.’
‘Make sure you satisfy Mufti. He isn’t too comfortable with your presence and just so you know, he knows how to read information off the cats. Your father doesn’t.’
It was comforting to know that Pir was listening.
‘Nofel was planted in your father’s house by Khalifa’s men. He’s trained to keep an eye on your father. But be careful of him; he’s also trained to smell trouble.’
‘Thanks for the heads-up,’ I thought toward him. I could feel the connection and his silent nod.
‘That’s what friends are for,’ he added, and then broke our connection.
When I returned to the dining room, Abba was talking animatedly and enjoying the unwavering attention of his guests. He was speaking about Khalifa’s dream so I sat and helped myself to some more halva, savouring the delicious sweetness as it dissolved on my tongue. When Abba finished describing the dream, they all looked at me as if I was some kind of holy relic. All but Mufti. He just sat dabbing his lips several times with his napkin as his solitary eye roamed around in its socket. Unlike Imam and Qadi, Mufti seemed wholly unconvinced of my lofty status.
It was time to deliver the fatal blow. I cleared my throat, poured myself a cup of tea and looked Mufti in the eye. I was now ready for the knockout punch.
‘Mufti sahib, first of all, no human can ever hope to grasp the sheer variety of foods which are available to the believers in Jannah,’ I said. ‘Gently flowing streams of milk, honey, pure water and other nectars criss-cross the lush rolling grounds which stretch to eternity. The celestial palaces there are so large that one needs a lifetime to circle their grounds.
‘Trees grow there in abundance which are so large that a fleet of horses must gallop for seventy years and beyond to escape the shadows of even their saplings. A magnificent purple sky lies overhead like a priceless carpet spun of the purest silk while the air drips with a heady intoxicating fragrance.
‘There, under a red canopy, the truly faithful will be lounging on costly divans and leaning against soft cushions. The pious will be served pure, sparkling wines without alcohol by beautiful youths wearing red loincloths, their skin glistening as if massaged with priceless oils. As for the beautiful women? They are scattered about like butterflies by the scores; all with big round eyes, voluptuous breasts and translucent ankles through which the marrow may be clearly seen. Their skin is radiant, as if lit by a heavenly fire from within. Some of these beauties play the harp, all for the pleasure of the purest among the faithful.
‘Around you will be placed lovely baskets overflowing with ripe fruits of all kinds; numerous varieties of cheeses, olives, dates and figs, as well as nuts in great and varied abundance. For your ease and convenience, everything will be at hand on floating slabs of marble.’ I stopped here, realizing they had gone into trance-like states, their eyes out of focus as if gazing upon some far distant scene. No one said anything for a long time. Finally, Imam cleared his throat.
‘Subhanallah! Mashallah! What a recitation.’ he said, swaying his massive ball-like torso and smiling at my father. ‘Hajji sahib, here is the kind of son every father dreams of having. I congratulate you for having already attained the highest level of Jannah—thanks to Ismael.’
‘Very impressive!’ Qadi nodded his little head. ‘A bit improvised though, if I may add.’
I eyed Mufti out of the corner of my eyes. He was squirming in his chair, waiting for his turn to comment.
‘Not merely a bit, but rather profusely improvised,’ he announced, leaning forward, his hands gripping the table in front of him. ‘Some of the things you’ve mentioned, like the purple sky, the red canopy, the cheeses, the floating tables of marble, the red loincloths on the youths, the women playing the harp—none of these are mentioned anywhere in the Quran. I would be very happy if you can give us some references which specifically mention these things. I must humbly submit that some of the information is quite new to me.’
Suddenly Pir’s voice thundered in my head, making my skull vibrate like a tuning fork.
‘Tell him to fuck off!’ he roared.
‘It may not be possible,’ I said, addressing Pir but not realizing I had said it aloud.
‘Indeed!’ Mufti said, sitting up stiffly in his chair, his eyes shining victoriously. ‘One must be very careful when speaking of such important matters without proper reference to back up one’s claims of special knowledge.’
My father came to my rescue.
‘Ismael, show them your Quran.’
‘Abba, some other time, please,’ I said, feeling uneasy about his suggestion. I tried changing the subject. ‘I can assure Mufti sahib that the things I have mentioned do indeed exist in Jannah and Inshallah, all references will be provided to him in due time.’
‘Enough discussion, son,’ Abba said, turning towards his guests. ‘I bet none of you have seen anything like this.’ He nudged me with his elbow. ‘Come, you may show us your Quran now.’
Reluctantly, I pulled the book out of my pocket and held it up in the air. I cringed when Imam reached for it, his glistening fingers still smeared with the oil from the pooris. He held the book in his hand and kissed its leather cover with his glossy lips before examining its pages.
‘Where did you get this, Ismael?’ Imam hissed, a look of astonishment lighting up his round face.
‘From an antique store in Manhattan,’ I answered.
‘Subhanallah! My Allah can make a flower sprout from a rock,’ he said.
He swayed his head several times and then passed the Quran to Qadi, who turned out to be a gentleman. He wiped his fingers on his napkin before taking the book into his hands.
‘Truly unique!’ He said. ‘Amazing calligraphy. I have never seen a Quran with burgundy pages and golden, handwritten text.’
The book then went to Mufti who sniffed it first before putting it on the table in front of him.
‘Quite unusual, really! An antique book retaining the smell of fresh leather,’ he said, staring at the pages.
My heartbeat quickened as he took out a magnifying glass from his pocket and held it to his eye and began examining the text.
‘This ink looks fresh, as if it was put on the page only a few days ago. May I check it a little more closely?’ he asked, steadily looking at me.
‘Please go ahead, Muftiji. Go ahead.’ Abba’s face quivered with excitement.
It was when he dipped his fingertip in his glass of water that I threw my hands up in alarm.
‘Mufti sahib, I’m not sure what you’re trying to do. But this book you’re holding is a living, breathing being. No tampering, please.’
I knew I was on solid ground with this one. Tampering with the holy text, even the intention of doing so in any shape or form, was punishable by death—provided the intention could be proved.
Mufti recoiled at my abruptness as if shoved from his chair by a physical force.
Qadi gave me an approving look.
‘I’m afraid Ismael’s statements carry weight,’ he said. The comment made Mufti cross his arms over his chest and avoid looking Qadi in the eye.
Before the situation could get any worse, Ghulam Rasool came into the room carrying a tray of five tall glasses of sweet creamy lassi, another treat from his arsenal of specialties. He served my father’s guests first, beginning with Imam who gulped down more than half of his glass in the first swallow. He paused for a breath and then emptied his glass, throwing his head all the way back. Slamming the empty glass down on the table, he wiped the white foam from his mustache with the palm of his right hand.
‘This young man speaks the truth, Muftiji,’ Imam said, glancing at me and nodding with approval.
‘My intention has never been to tamper,’ Mufti said curtly, passing the book to Abba who handed it back to me.
‘Khalifaji’s dream has come true, as far as I’m concerned. Don’t you think, gentlemen?’ Qadi asked, taking a sip of his lassi.
‘Without a doubt, that young man is Ismael; and the light in his hand is this most glorious Quran he just showed us,’ Imam said.
‘Exactly! It’s a divine green light. The Almighty is letting Khalifaji know that all is well. He’s telling him to go ahead with his plans,’ Abba said, looking his guests in the eye one by one.
I wanted to know more about Khalifa’s dream but wisely refrained from asking about it. This just wasn’t the right time or place.
Abba’s comment made Mufti restless and he shifted in his chair. Qadi lowered his head and massaged his temple but Imam, however, remained unperturbed. He gave Abba a sharp nod, not saying anything.
For several minutes, a long and uncomfortable silence hung over the table that was broken only by a rather loud and prolonged belch from Imam. A rancid odour filled the air and clung to my nose for a painfully long time.
It seemed Abba, unwittingly or deliberately, had tried to let me in on the secret they all shared. He could have been testing the waters to see how his guests would respond to these casually uttered remarks about Khalifa’s plan while in my presence. After all, I had come from America, the enemy and a country known for planting spies within the Caliphate; though so far there had been no success.
‘Seems like we’re going to be attending a very special Jumma Prayer,’ I said, smiling into the friendly face of Imam. ‘Would you please hand me that bottle of mango pickle, Imam sahib?’
‘I think we should hurry,’ Mufti said. ‘We have a long journey ahead of us.’
‘You may relax, Muftiji. We have plenty of time,’ Abba said. ‘You leave that to me.’
Once Abba and his friends finished eating, I excused myself from their esteemed company and retired to my room in the hopes that Pir might contact me. I was dying to know more about Khalifa’s plan. I was pacing back and forth when Ghulam Rasool walked in. ‘Anything I can do for you, saab?’
‘Do you by any chance know what’s happening in Islamabad today?’ I asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.
‘Something that’s to change everything, saab,’ he said, shutting the door behind him lest our conversation be overheard. ‘Something that will make Khalifa very, very powerful.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I heard your Abbaji talking to someone over the phone a few days ago.’
‘Come on, Ghulam Rasool,’ I said. ‘Please tell me what you know.’
As he opened his mouth to speak, there was a knock at the door. He opened it and Abba walked in.
‘I was looking for you in the kitchen, Ghulam Rasool,’ Abba said. ‘Go and load the trunk with food. We won’t be stopping to eat along the way.’
Ghulam Rasool hurried off.
‘Ismael, we’re leaving in ten minutes,’ Abba said. He turned around to leave when he paused. ‘Why do you look so distracted?’
‘Still jet-lagged Abba. Would you please tell me what’s going on in Islamabad?’
‘What time is it?’ he asked.
‘It’s quarter to eight,’ I said, looking at my watch.
‘By two o’clock this afternoon, all will become clear.’ He said nothing more, just gracing me with a quick smile before he left. I couldn’t tell if the smile was sincere or merely long-practiced affectation for throwing his prey into confusion.
I went into the bathroom, which was filled with sunlight pouring in through a small window fitted with a wrought iron grill. I was standing at the sink looking at myself, admiringly in my new clothes, when Pir spoke in my head.
‘We won’t be in touch until you get inside the Faisal Mosque. Until then, under no circumstances are you to attempt to contact me,’ he said.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Chacha Khidr sends his blessings and Tarzan is giving you a thumbs up.’
‘And Laila?’
‘She says she’s praying for you.’
‘Wait! Don’t go!’ I began to panic.
‘It’s not safe to talk now,’ he said.
‘But I’m alone in the bathroom.’
‘Are you sure?’
I looked around and froze. Nofel was sitting outside the windowsill staring at me through the grill.
‘Holy shit!’ I grabbed a towel and smacked it against the grill, hoping the damned thing would run off. ‘Get lost, motherfucker!’ Nofel growled as he jumped off the ledge and disappeared. ‘It was Nofel, sorry. He’s gone now.’
‘Nofel? This is what I mean. You cannot, and I repeat, you cannot under any circumstances disregard my instructions. I’ve told you before; you’re on a tightrope—one slip and you’re gone.’
‘But I didn’t do anything,’ I protested.
‘We have to do something about Nofel. He probably already knows too much,’ Pir said and then closed the connection.
I headed to the porch with a growing sense of unease. Ghulam Rasool was loading a crate containing a couple of thermoses and cups into the trunk of the car. Wali, orange cloth in hand, circled the car in search of wayward blemishes to eradicate.
‘One thermos has tea and the other lassi,’ Ghulam Rasool said. ‘The drinks can be reached from inside the car.’ Opening the rear door he showed me a passage between the middle of the seat through which the cups and thermos could be retrieved without having to stop the car.
‘Where is Nofel going to sit?’ I asked.
‘He usually sits in the backseat, but also likes the trunk. He goes back and forth though the opening in the middle.’
‘You have to put him in the trunk,’ I said firmly. ‘That’s where he’s going to sit.’
At that moment, Abba and his guests came out of the house. As they stood beside the sparkling black Mercedes as it lounged near the porch like a panther, there was palpable tension in the air. Each man naturally felt it was his right to command the front passenger seat next to Abba. But they all knew there was no way Imam would fit in the backseat with two other passengers and they looked at each other without saying anything. Wali broke the tension by opening the rear door and gesturing me in first. I slid into the middle seat, feeling content with the wide-angle view I had through the windshield.
Imam opened the front passenger door and sank into his seat, filling all the available space between his corpulent form and the dashboard. His massive back blocked half of my visual field as Mufti sat on my left and Qadi on my right. Nofel was put in the trunk and thankfully due to Mufti’s diminutive size there was ample space for all of us in the back.
We were zooming down the motorway by 8.30 a.m. It looked like a deserted runway that stretched to infinity just for us. Imam had dozed off and begun snoring with an incremental crescendo of noise—his chin bobbing up and down on his chest. With a frown on his face, Abba pushed the gas pedal a little more. A sudden powerful acceleration slammed me back against my seat. This deliberate maneuver failed because Imam’s ample girth was able to absorb the sudden impact quite well. It did, however, transform the character of the snores which now overwhelmed the cabin like a buzzing saw, much to the dismay of everyone.
Qadi spoke. ‘He drank a whole jug of lassi.’ He and Mufti were clearly annoyed by this breach of propriety. ‘Hajji sahib, please do something,’ he pleaded.
Abba was doing 90-miles-an-hour but it felt like we were going no more than 40. He jacked up the volume on the stereo system and flooded the cabin with a Quran recitation in the attempt to drown out the snoring. He kept increasing the volume while slowly pressing the accelerator further. By the time he reached the maximum sound tolerable by the human eardrum, the speedometer read 149-miles-per-hour.
Things outside flew past us, probably more from the sheer physical impact of the sound than from the speed itself. Imam did not wake up and his snores became even more annoying. During the necessary pauses in the holy text a reciter of the Quran must observe, the noise was downright unbearable.
Lowering my head, I pressed my temples and gave Imam’s shoulder, which had started to block my view, a forceful nudge with my forehead. He awoke and looked around in a daze. Abba lowered the volume without slowing the car down. By then he was doing 155-miles-an-hour and overtook an eighteen-wheeler that at first I had thought was coming at us from the opposite direction.
‘Ismael, would you please get Imamji a cup of hot tea?’ Abba asked, looking at me through the rearview mirror.
I was in no mood to put my hand in the compartment currently occupied by Nofel.
‘Yes, I need a cup of tea. That lassi was a bit too heavy for me,’ Imam said, leaving me with no choice but to access the trunk through the back of my seat. Damned cat.
‘Anyone else want tea?’ I asked.
Both Qadi and Mufti politely declined.
Reluctantly, I folded my seat down a bit. All I saw was Nofel’s snarling face as he tried to squeeze past the opening and get into the main cabin of the car.
‘No, no! Stay there!’ I tried to shoo him back into the trunk.
‘Why don’t we just let the poor animal ride up here? It must be suffocating in the trunk,’ Mufti said. ‘It can sit on the floor next to my feet. There’s plenty of space for him here,’ he added, allowing the cat to enter the cabin. Of course Nofel took advantage of the opportunity and squeezing through the opening, the animal curled up beside Mufti’s feet.
I grabbed one of the thermoses from the basket—luckily it turned out be the one filled with tea—and handed Imam his cup. Putting the thermos back in the trunk, I closed the opening and leaned back in my seat, emptying my mind of all thoughts. Mufti petted the cat’s lush fur and stared into his eyes. After several moments he leaned back in his seat, scratched his neck and glanced sideways at me. At that moment, I knew Nofel had communicated something damning about me to this man.
No one spoke for a long time while Imam noisily slurped his tea. This was only slightly less obnoxious than his incessant snoring. Abba set the cruise control at 130-miles-an-hour and then started swaying his head as he listened to the sacred recitation.
Keeping my mind empty for such a long time proved to be a strenuous exercise. Soon I started to doze off, but I felt too lethargic to get myself a cup of tea. They were all talking about the intrinsic qualities of the water of Hauz-e-Kauser when sleep overpowered me.
I woke up when the car stopped abruptly at a security check post on the exit ramp of the motorway. Under an azure sky, the green peaks of the Margalla Hills topped the horizon. I glanced at my watch to see it was 11.00 a.m. Abba had made it to Islamabad in about two and a half hours.
Six gunmen draped in black robes ran up and surrounded the car as Abba put down his window.
‘What can I do for you?’ he asked politely, looking at the man standing beside his door.
Slamming his heel against the asphalt, the gunman gave Abba a stiff salute.
‘Sir, just making sure, sir!’ he cried, looking straight over the car, his hand glued to his temple.
‘Good job,’ Abba said with a smile.
‘Let them pass!’ the man shouted, turning on his heels.
As the barrier rose, the soldiers snapped their salutes in our direction. Whether it was to Abba and his august companions, or to the flagged black Benz gleaming in the sun, I couldn’t tell. Abba floored the accelerator once again. In a matter of seconds, we were cruising along the Kashmir Highway, heading toward the heart of the capital city.