The word from Sheikh Omar arrives in an envelope, unexpectedly ornate, like an invitation to a wedding. He has invited me to join him for an evening of music Celebrating the rich cultural heritage and brilliant innovation of the master Afghan rubab player, Hamyouk Hussain and Peshawar’s own Masood Zakiri on tabla. Perhaps the invitation is a ruse, and the Sheikh intends to kill me before the evening is out. Perhaps the invitation reflects his profound understanding of what has kept me alive all these years. Regardless, the invitation is irresistible. I purchase a new kurta, elegant with zahri-work embroidery along the collar and hems. When the car comes to fetch me, I tremble, perched on the cusp of a great shift in my life. I feel as if I am preparing simultaneously for my wedding and my funeral.
I sit on the deep pile of the red carpet, the same carpet on which the musicians sit a mere ten feet from me. As they warm up their fingers and wrists on their instruments, I look around, try to distinguish individual conversations from the low rumble of voices. Someone discusses the routes of East West airlines and their frequency through Dubai, another ridicules the audacity of some small merchant family sending inquiries about his daughter’s marriage plans. All conversations discretely stop, though, when the door at the end of the room opens and Sheikh Omar steps in, his arm over the shoulder of another man, who is immaculately groomed and elegantly dressed in a kurta, obviously, but diffidently tailored out of the finest cloth.
The musicians sense the change in the room, express thanks for the host’s hospitality and begin to play. In all my years of listening to recordings of the music, I have seen my beloved musician only a handful of times, and never in such an intimate setting. I can hardly contain my excitement to see the plucking of the strings in the very instant the sound is created. But my delight does not, cannot last long. As I feel their eyes on me, I look up. Sheikh inclines his head to whisper into the other man’s ear and nod in my direction. The man looks familiar, I try to place him. I close my eyes and feel the music. I remember him, Dawood, from a newspaper caption under a photo, the eldest son of Ibrahim Dawood, the powerful king of the underworld, the Muslim mobster who fled India and took refuge in Pakistan. This son helps him run the family’s far flung businesses—hotels, drugs, shopping malls, even East West airlines—from Bangladesh to Morocco.
When the music finishes, Sheikh Omar and Dawood the younger clap politely, I look around the room again, wondering about the dozen or so men, Afghans, Pathans, Pakistanis, but do not approach any of them. And when I turn to look again at Sheikh Omar and Dawood, they are gone. The only person I really care about in the room is Ustaad Hussain, Master Hussain. I wait until the other men have expressed their appreciation, their hands to their hearts, nodding, flashing brief smiles. Finally I approach him, unsure what to say after two decades in a one-sided relationship. He looks up at me and I am silent, amazed simply to be looking into his eyes. What pain they must have known, what understanding of beauty they convey.
“You cannot imagine how honored I am to have been here, Ustaad.”
He smiles. “The honor is mine. I am indebted to Sheikh Omar.”
“Really?”
He smiles again. “My most important patron.”
“Here in Peshawar or in Afghanistan?”
“Yes,” he says with ambiguous finality.
“Can I ask you a question?” I continue before he can refuse me, “do you have any words for a man returning from exile?”
He thinks for a minute, inhales. “No words, but listen,” he motions for me to sit down. He plucks a few notes from his instrument, each one seemingly a whole beautiful phrase in and of itself. And then a cascade of angry arpeggios, and long lilting notes of sadness. He looks up, eyebrows raised to see if I have understood.
“Bittersweet,” I say.
“Precisely.”
I return to my room, my cell in exile, relieved to be alive, bewildered about the meaning of Sheikh Omar’s invitation.
Zaid, my assistant, knocks. “A car has come. You need to take a look at it. Range Rover, custom stereo.”
I open the door, Zaid stands as he always does, even as he continues to grow older. But today I stand differently, perhaps smaller, but leaning forward into my future. “I’m done with my service. You can repair the car, you have all my tools, you know as much as I do now.”
He pulls back, stands taller. “Really? You think you can stop just like that, like turning off a light?”
The word makes me think of Noor. She said it is written that I will leave. Looking at one more car won’t make a difference.
I follow Zaid, sit in the driver’s seat. I turn the key in the ignition, all of the meters glow to life and the engine hums without error. He didn’t mention the problem. With a sinking feeling, I imagine Sheikh Omar has sent the car, somehow booby trapped. I reach to turn off the car, notice an envelope in the compartment between the seats. A small handwritten note inside says, The path to freedom begins beneath your feet. And the music is for you. I turn on the stereo and hear the notes of Ustaad Hussain. I recognize the melody from the night before. I relive those magical minutes, without the anxiety of Dawood’s gaze. When the music ends, I brace myself, pull up the floor mat. No wire, no trigger, no explosion. I find a passport, the cover carefully worn. Inside, the photo of a Sikh man in a turban with a dour expression gazes at me with my eyes. A small sheet of paper stuck between the pages notes a flight, East West Airlines, Karachi to Dubai to Madrid, scheduled for three weeks from today.