I was eighteen. My father had left me. Like my mother, like Radhi, like my little Roshni. The house that was once a home, the window that had been my lens on the world, the maroon armchair where the old man had sat as I massaged his legs — it was all gone now. My childhood. My history. My story. I left it all behind and walked. I walked until I stood in a station full of soldiers and drafted myself into the Civil War.
“What are you waiting for?”
“Sir, I —”
“Boy, they are calling you a hero, understand? All those men you killed, all the bullets you’ve braved. The war is over. By Allah’s grace, we have won.”
“Yes, sir. But she’s married. She’s a Muslim.”
I stood in the doorway, blocking the exit. The woman before me had large amber eyes. She called out after her husband, who had been beaten and dragged outside into the street. Try as I might, I couldn’t bring myself to set foot in her room. She was alone and scared.
“This woman is one of them, boy,” the Mullah-sahib hissed in my ear, grabbing my shoulder. “She is our enemy. She married a kafir. Understand? How many of our brothers died today?”
“But sir, I can’t. This — this is wrong.”
There are days when no amount of prayer, no amount of reciting Surah Tawbah can calm my mind. All these years later, after the hundreds of people I have killed, there remains one memory, one indelible stain on everything I have achieved. There are days when I look in the mirror and I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that though Allah is Most Merciful, Most Benevolent, I do not deserve His forgiveness.
“Look at her. She is our enemy. She brought this upon herself when she married a Christian man. When she sided with our enemies.”
“But sir, she isn’t a —”
The Mullah-sahib shook me violently. “This is your reward for what you’ve accomplished today, boy. A gift. Understand? You’re going to reject Allah’s gifts?”
“No, sir.”
In my most private moments, when I’m alone, when I can’t sleep, when I’m waiting for the adhan, when the last bullet has been fired in a gunfight, when I realize I’m not dead and I have the rest of my life to go on thinking and feeling — those are the moments when I remember that woman. The one with amber eyes who froze in terror as I stood with my revolver in hand.
“She is a kafir, boy,” the Mullah-sahib said, patting me on the shoulder as my father once had and pushing me into the room. “You have earned it. Your right hand possesses her.”
She is a kafir, I told myself as she pleaded with me, as she begged me to spare her.
She is a kafir, I told myself as I slapped her, hard, leaving her mouth bloodied.
She is a kafir, I told myself as I slowly closed the door behind me and became the monster I am.
“Excuse me, sahib, what song is that?”
A little girl with shining black eyes looked up at me, a large earthen pot balanced on her head. She couldn’t have been older than eight.
Clouds weaved and wreathed in the night sky like incense smoke in the early hours of the morning, the only hours when my mother and I had collected water. In the days when music and voices had still been a part of my life. I no longer needed to collect water this way. Not since I’d joined the army. I didn’t need to be there. Something about this night — something about the broken moon with its stream of sparkling pieces — made me remember my childhood. It made me remember my first cigarette and the woman who used to stand by the window. It made me remember the human being I had been before.
As I held the pot against the idyllic current, the girl’s voice surprised me. Surprised, because she had been able to sneak up on me. Surprised, because she thought I was human enough to speak to.
“Huh. I didn’t realize I was singing,” I said, looking away when I noticed her blue shalwar-kameez. It was the same colour as the armband I’m forced to wear even now. “How long were you standing there, girl?”
“I heard you singing,” she said. “You were singing some parts, humming others. It was really pretty.”
“Pretty, was it?”
“Yes. It made me happy but also a little sad. Because you looked sad.”
“Did I?”
“Yes,” she replied, her eight-year-old fingers wiping the hair away from her face. She smiled, and her starlit-night eyes made me smile for the first time in a very long time. “What is the name of the song?”
“‘Anyone Who Knows What Love Is’. My mother —” I took a deep breath, realizing that I was speaking louder than I wanted to. “My mother used to sing it.”
“Sahib?”
“Yes?”
“Is your mama dead?”
I felt my worn-out Model 10 in its holster under my left armpit. “Yes.”
“My papa died a few days ago. I really miss him. Do you miss your mama?”
I closed the water pot’s lid and held it in my arms.
“Sahib?”
“Yes?”
“Can you sing the song again? The whole song? Please?”
“That’s all I remember,” I said and walked away.
“Come on in, Lieutenant Sarv. Mashallah, it’s great to see you. How long has it been?”
“Almost six years, sir.”
I sat at the same table as when I’d converted to Sunni Islam. This time, a PFM flag hung limply between us.
“Six years? Hazrat Mohammad said time will pass too quickly near the End of Days. May Allah have mercy on us all. Ameen.”
The bright white light from the window made me squint. “Ameen.”
There was a polished wooden box on the table. A white envelope rested over it.
The Mullah-sahib nodded slowly, mechanically. “I received your New Pakistan Pass request.”
I smiled and looked at the envelope. “Yes, sir.”
He grabbed a stick of miswak and began brushing his teeth. “Your reports on Old Pakistan are illuminating. Sector 3 and the Badlands continue to see increased crime rates?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You don’t seem happy.”
“The plight of apostates and faggots is of no consequence to me, sir. My concern is only that our withdrawal might embolden them. Even as we speak, there are whispers of insurrection.”
“You’re talking about Yaqzan, yes? Seems he’s still out there.”
“Yes, sir. I think we should stay and root them all out. Scorched earth.” I took a deep breath as the memory of my mother’s arm around my shoulders crept inside my mind. “Removing our presence in the Badlands now might dull our advantage.”
“If crime keeps ramping up, then it’s only a matter of time before it collapses. Let them suffer.”
“Yes, sir. But this may prove costly in the future. Desperation makes people —”
“Dangerous?” He laughed. “Banning and confiscating firearms across all sectors has effectively neutered them. Old Pakistan has no unison and no weapons. Let them tear themselves apart.”
“Pakistan does have a long history of fracturing into smaller pieces: 1947; 1971,” I said. “Like the Fifth Indo-Pak War.”
He ignored my comment, smiling the same joyless smile. “Let me say again how proud I am of you, Lieutenant. You are a damn fine example to young Muslims. Mashallah.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Your bravery on the battlefield is why New Pakistan is a reality.” He lifted his wrinkled hand and pointed at the white lights shining through the pristine curtains. “That glorious city wouldn’t be standing without you.”
“Thank you, sir. You are very kind.”
“The soldiers who fought alongside you can’t stop talking about the things you did. Especially the fellow whose throat you ripped with your —”
“I was there. Sir.”
The Mullah-sahib tapped the envelope. “You were like a divine sword. It was something to behold.”
“Is there a reason you’re not giving me the NPP, sir?”
He tapped the envelope some more. “This is not an NPP.”
The ability to be shocked or disappointed had become alien to me. My soul could endure burdens on top of burdens. I expected nothing else from Allah. I was twenty-three. Repeating Yaqzan’s words was now punishable by my hands. I was a Civil War hero. I was the Butcher of the Badlands.
“It’s a promotion, Lieutenant.”
I didn’t say a word.
“I recommended you myself. You’ll make a damn fine captain. I know you will.”
“Huh.”
“Captain Rahee Sarv. Keep this up and you’ll be overseeing the perimeter guard in a few years. It’s a high honour. One of the highest honours there is for someone like …” He paused. “You’ll also get a house in Sector 1. With all the amenities possible.”
“And the NPP?”
“I’m doing the best I can, understand? There are so many factors in your —”
“I’m not a Shiite anymore, sir. Nor an Ahmadi kafir.”
“Of course, of course. This has nothing to do with that.”
“Then?”
“It’s red tape. So far, most of the people being awarded the NPP are” — he nibbled at the end of the miswak — “families and friends. Nepotism. It’s the bane of this nation. But I vow to you that this time next year, you’ll be in New Pakistan. Understand?”
“Thank you. Sir.”
New Pakistan’s white lights continued to shine into the room. The Mullah-sahib pushed the box near me. Inside was a glossy black revolver with pearl grips.
“Consider this a token of our promise. You prefer revolvers, correct?”
I took hold of the large gun. My expression must have encouraged him to speak.
“That’s a Colt Single Action Army. Six-inch barrel. What you’re holding in your hand is a relic. American-made. Designed in the nineteenth century, if you can believe that.”
“It’s gorgeous, sir.”
“It certainly is. You can tell how legendary a firearm is based on the nicknames it’s been given. This one has been called the Equalizer, the Frontier, and the Peacemaker. That’s why I’m gifting it to you. Because you, Captain Rahee Sarv, are all three of those things. It suits you perfectly.”
“Thank you. Sir.”
I holstered the gun that has been with me in more killings than I can count. That has helped me become the monster I am today.
“One last thing,” the Mullah-sahib said as I stood up to leave. “Starting next month, all soldiers will respond only to their call signs. It’s a security measure. In recognition of your services, I’m allowing you to pick your call sign. What do you have in mind?”
“Evergreen,” I said after a pause, then closed the door behind me.