AT THE IMMIGRATION COUNTER, the officer holding a handheld scanner passed it over my face before speaking a word to me.
‘Unfortunately, you can’t enter the country,’ the immigration officer intoned grimly, his heavy lidded eyes staring at me with contempt. ‘You’ll have to be quarantined for at least three days,’ he continued, as though the injunction amounted to some sort of personal triumph. ‘Until your beard satisfies the proper criteria for entry.’
He eyed me with tight-lipped disapproval while fingering his own twenty-plus pious inches of wooly growth. Except for his eyes and forehead, the man’s face was covered with jet-black hair. The tip of his beard trailed across my passport where it lay on the counter. Clearly I was in a land where size definitely mattered.
‘Unless, of course, you wish to pay the fine,’ he added, his lips curled in contempt.
‘I’ll pay the fine, sir. How much?’ I asked, not taking my eyes off from his. It secretly pleased me when he was the first to look away.
‘Three thousand dirhams,’ he stated in a voice clipped and bristling with pride. ‘For each day your beard must grow to meet the legal requirement so …’ He paused, inspected my face, his eyes narrowed. ‘For you, it will be ten thousand in total; nine for three days, plus one thousand for handling-charges.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ I said, peeling ten one-thousand-Dirham notes apart, roughly equivalent to a hundred dollars, and offering the bills to him.
I exited the immigration area and headed straight for the baggage carousel. I had definitely landed in a foreign country. All signs were in Arabic, now the official language of the Caliphate. In the good old days, they at least had the courtesy to put the Urdu translation beside the Arabic. Such courtesies and others, as I was soon to discover, were long gone.
A recitation of the Quran poured from the intercom system and drowned everything in an aura of otherworldliness. At the customs window, a fiery looking officer with a bulging belly and jet-black dyed beard looked me over from head to toe. A matchbox-sized copy of the Quran dangled from his neck on a gold chain.
‘Carrying anything we should know about?’ His mouth widened in a mischievous smile.
‘No, sir. Please feel free to check anything you’d like.’
He made me open my suitcase. Fumbling through my clothes, he extracted my shaving kit. Unzipping the bag, he pulled out my razor and held it in front of my face.
‘What, exactly, is this doing here?’ he inquired as if discovering the most heinous piece of contraband. ‘Did you keep this shamelessly petite little beard just to get into the Caliphate?’ he demanded. His nostrils flared but he never took his eyes off me as he plunged his hand deeper into my shaving kit like a diver searching for sunken treasure. This time he pulled out a half empty tube of Colgate toothpaste.
‘This brand is haram, forbidden in the Caliphate!’ he hissed.
‘It’s just toothpaste—for God’s sake.’ I hissed back.
‘It contains alcohol and pig’s fat,’ he said, shaking his head like he just couldn’t fathom what he was seeing and what on earth it was doing in my bag. He looked infuriated. My tone probably had something to do with that.
‘Please feel free to throw these things away. I apologize.’ I said, sensing trouble.
‘Recite the fifth kalima, then the third, then the first and then the sixth. In that order,’ he demanded. He reared up and folded his arms across his broad chest, swaying back and forth in front of me like a cobra. With his deep set eyes boring into me, he studied me with a predator’s attention. Suddenly, I felt embarrassed—for having once been a hafiz, the person who was supposed to recite the entire Quran solely from memory. The memorization of these six kalimas, the standard Arabic phrases mostly taken from Hadith, the saying of Prophet, had long been part of the syllabus of grade three education in Pakistan. Now all I could remember was the first kalima, called Shahadaa, the shortest but the most important one, the one whose utterance was all one needed to be a Muslim instantly.
‘I could recite the first,’ I suggested, breathing out a sigh.
‘Three thousand dirhams for each kalima that you’ve forgotten. Eighteen thousand Dirhams in total,’ he said, extending a huge open palm toward me and rubbing his fingers together.
‘Wait a minute,’ I said. ‘What’s the total number of kalimas we’re talking about here?’ I reached into my pocket for the cash. I knew there was an ancient controversy if there were six kalimas or five.
‘Ten thousand Dirhams in addition to the eighteen. The additional fine is for not knowing how many kalimas there are in total,’ he said, narrowing his eyes. ‘Now you owe me twenty-eight thousand dirhams.’
‘That’s kind of steep.’
‘I’ll let you go for twenty-five.’
By the time I left the customs window my wallet had lost one-third of its bulk. The customs officers at Lahore airport had been known for their heavy-handedness, but they were now operating on a whole new level.
I walked out of the luggage area and rolled my suitcase toward the exit and the pick-up and delivery area. My eyes scanned a thick knot of noisy jostling bodies of bearded men. Many were drivers with the names of travellers written on cards dangling from their chest.
No sign so far of Wali, my dad’s most trusted right-hand man who was supposed to drive me home. In the hallway, a ten-foot long water bottle hung from the ceiling by chains. It was labelled ‘Paradise Water: Your only reliable source of clean water, Khalifa Inc’.
A large crowd had gathered to my right beneath a flashing red neon sign that read Judgment Day Bar. What the hell was this all about? With mounting curiosity, I inched my way toward the entrance. About a hundred or so men crowded the doorway under the flashing lights.
‘What’s going on here?’ I asked a young man in his twenties who stood next to me.
‘Today we’re having both a stoning and a beheading at the same time,’ he said, giving me a nudge in the ribs.
‘Really?’
‘Usually, it’s just one or the other,’ he said, shoving himself deeper into the crowd, presumably to get a better look at the show.
‘Good Lord! Why at the airport?’
‘Can you think of a better public place than an airport?’ he asked, looking at me suspiciously. ‘Did you just say, Good Lord?’
‘No! Mashallah Alhamdolillah. Jazakallah.’ I sputtered. ‘I’d better get going.’
‘Wait! What kind of Muslim are you?’ he stammered. ‘You’re not going to watch the beheading? It’s how we kill the infidels in Islam; it’s the preferred way! Stay, brother. It will make your faith strong!’ he cried out with excitement. But I was already rushing for the door.
‘I’m in a hurry, some other time!’ I shouted over my shoulder. ‘My father’s waiting for me outside,’ I said. The guy emerged from the crowd again and stood by my side, staring at me. ‘Actually, if I remember correctly we have front row seats for next Friday’s hand-chopping ceremony at Charing Cross.’ I had no idea how I came up with this excuse.
‘Actually on Friday they do hangings after the Jumma prayers,’ he said smugly, as though he had a box seat for all the hot events on the Sharia calendar. ‘Where have you been living?’ He stroked his properly bearded chin and looked me over from head to toe as if considering what to do with me next.
‘Yeah, well, I’ve been away for a while. On business. It’ll take a few days to get used to the system again.’ Rolling my suitcase out of the door, I continued scanning the crowd for a placard with my name on it. The light was diminishing, the sky turning purple at the horizon. I almost lost my balance when my eyes caught sight of a whole bunch of camels hobbled in the taxi stand. I gaped at a passerby.
‘Do you see what I see over there?’ I said, pointing towards the camels.
‘Yes. The taxi stand,’ he said, giving me a curious glance as if it was obvious.
‘That’s not what I meant. I mean, do you see what’s inside the taxi stand?’ I asked.
‘Taxis,’ he said. He looked at me like I was from another planet and then, shaking his head, he walked away.
It was only when I moved closer to the camels that I realized they really were taxicabs. Yellow cabs of Lahore! Each cab was fitted with the replica of a legless camel on its top.
As I tried to figure out the practical use of this contraption, I was surrounded by about a dozen people of various ages, each trying to snatch my suitcase. One kid had his hands on my backpack, aggressively yanking on the strap to dislodge it from my shoulder. Tightening my grip on the handlebar of my suitcase, I shouted. ‘Hey, hey! Get away! All of you,’ I yelled, realizing they were all either cab drivers or worked for one. ‘I don’t need a damn taxi. I’ve got my own driver!’
‘What’s going on here?’ I heard a loud voice bark over my shoulder. A tall lanky man wearing a Kalashnikov over his shoulder approached. The guys jostling for my suitcase melted into the crowd and I held my breath.
Before I could say anything, the armed man hoisted my suitcase and dislodged my backpack. The suitcase hung in his hand like a child’s toy. The backpack was slung over his shoulder, the shoulder that wasn’t sporting a high-powered military grade weapon.
‘Are you Wali?’
‘I’m Sher Khan. You’re coming with me.’
‘But I’m waiting for Wali,’ I insisted, growing increasingly uncomfortable by the minute.
As if he hadn’t heard me, the fellow started to walk away, taking my luggage with him.
‘Jesus Christ!’ All I could do was follow. ‘There must be some mistake, Sher Khan,’ I insisted without effect.
Someone shouted behind me. ‘He’s a Christian.’
Shit! I quickened my pace, berating myself for having uttered something out of habit.
Not looking back, Sher Khan entered the taxi stand. Keeping about a distance of five feet from him, I followed. He approached a taxicab and pulled a latch located on the camel’s belly. The camel’s hump swung skyward, revealing a luggage compartment. He threw my suitcase into the camel’s belly, brought the hump down, and secured it with a sharp click.
‘Amreeki babu,’ he said, opening the door of his cab for me like a spider inviting a fat fly into its web.
‘Alhamdolillah, someone is picking me up. You should have told me.’
His face loosened upon hearing the magical Arabic words.
‘Babu, only Sher Khan can guarantee full security of his passengers. I swear by Allah, I’ll kill the bastard who dares mess with you.’ He rubbed his hand down the length of his Kalashnikov like it was a favourite hunting dog.
‘Jazakallah! I’m very, very grateful for your kindness, Sher Khan. I would love to have you as my driver one day. Inshallah! But tonight, someone else is supposed to be picking me up. Can I have my suitcase back, please?’
‘Once the suitcase has been loaded, it doesn’t come out until we reach the destination,’ the man said, gazing toward the sky.
‘Look, I’ll give you some money for the hard work you’ve already done carrying my stuff to your taxi—Inshallah! Once again, please take my suitcase out of the trunk and give it back.’ My patience was getting shorter by the minute.
‘Have you got dollars?’ he chirped, his eyes lighting up. I suddenly realized how much taller he was than I.
‘I’ll give you one thousand dirhams,’ I said, realizing that I didn’t really know the value of the currency here. But I did know that I had been stripped of thirty-five thousand dirhams out of the ninety-nine I had in my possession at the time of landing.
‘Babu, you’ve come from Amreeka, but you behave as if you’re from Afghanistan.’
‘How much do you want?’ I stammered, glancing around.
‘How much you’re carrying?’ He took a step toward me. I looked for help. I didn’t want to lose my entire cash. To my amazement, a sizable crowd had gathered around the taxicab-stand—at least twenty or thirty people were standing twenty feet from us. They had all been keenly watching my exchange with Sher Khan. I waved at them.
Inside I felt ashamed for being too quick to offer him money for my kidnapped luggage. That was nothing short of an admission of weakness. Weakness, I knew, didn’t play well in these parts; not back in my day and sure as hell not now.
Sher Khan was now standing next to me, rubbing his palms. Feeling helpless I slid my hand in my pocket and looked toward the crowd. And there he was! Holding the placard with my name on it. Wali had just joined the crowd. Ignoring Sher Khan, I broke into a sprint towards Wali.
‘Wali! Wali!’ I shouted.
The man clearly stood out from the crowd. Wearing an orange-coloured jellaba that almost glowed in the dim light of dusk, he raised his arm and waved in my direction.
‘Sir Ismaelji, what are you doing here in the taxi stand?’ he asked. He was in his late fifties, his back a little hunched, his bony shoulders drooping. He also sounded annoyed.
‘I’ll explain. First thing: that man took my suitcase,’ I said, pointing towards Sher Khan’s taxicab.
‘And you let him? Sirji!’ He threw the placard on the ground and approached Sher Khan, his shimmering robe flowing gracefully around his lean frame.
I was sure that robe was meant to glow in the dark. Wali stood next to Sher Khan, his right arm on Sher Khan’s shoulder. From where I stood, it looked like they were negotiating some sort of deal. Sher Khan looked down at the ground, rubbing his temple from time to time. And suddenly it was over.
Sher Khan nodded once, then went to his cab, pulled my suitcase out of the metallic camel’s hump and angrily slammed it shut. He ambled over to where I was standing and dumped my suitcase on the ground in front of me. Then he disappeared into the knot of bystanders.
Wali hauled my suitcase to his car, a shabby light green Corolla, which was parked not too far from the taxi stand. It was hard to believe that Abba, who always loved cars, would be driving this piece of junk.
Wali placed my suitcase in the camel’s hump and opened the rear door for me.
‘Welcome to Lahore, sirji.’
‘Thank you, Wali. It feels so nice to be back here.’ It wasn’t entirely an inaccurate statement. I had run away from Abba, not from Lahore, the city I loved for its energy, food and parks.
The first thing I noticed as we pulled out of the airport were all the billboards plastered with pictures of men who had wild unkempt beards.
‘Sirji, when was the last time you have been to Pakistan?’ Wali asked, lighting up his beeri, a dried rolled up leaf filled with tobacco flakes, the poor man’s cigarette. We were on the airport road heading towards Fortress Stadium.
‘Twelve years,’ I said, looking at the billboard where a handsome looking elderly man with a long salt-and-pepper beard stood tall, his arms folded across his chest. He was surrounded by four burqa-clad women, all with remarkably beautiful eyes. ‘So many women available to one man!’
‘It’s not that there are so many women, it’s because the men are in short supply.’
‘Why are men in short supply?’
‘You’ll find out,’ he said, cutting sharply to the right to avoid a big crater on the road.