A Season for Martyrs: A Novel (5 page)

When her vehicle emerged from the terminal—a huge, mechanized box placed on top of a truck, flanked by bulletproof cars and armed escorts—the crowd sent up a roar of “
JIYE BHUTTO!”
It could have filled up three football stadiums with its velocity, a greeting worthy of a rock star or the pope. Benazir, a tall, proud-backed figure standing on the box, waved to the crowds; she looked like the Pakistan flag: green
shalwar kameez,
white headscarf,
imam zaman
tied around her arm, and prayer beads clutched in her hand. Even from their distant vantage point Ali could see the brilliant smile on her face.

The cameraman was busy filming the scene, but behind the camera, Ali saw tears running down his cheeks.

“Haroon, are you okay?” Ali asked him. Haroon’s hands were shaking; Ameena would scream about that later, no doubt. She wanted every shot to be perfect; she wouldn’t want a wobbly frame. The news was not about honest emotion, but about smooth edges and the right sound bite.

Haroon took one hand off his camera to wipe his eyes. “Oh, Adda, I can’t explain it, I can’t explain it. She’s home, and everything’s going to be all right now.”

He was such a young guy, Haroon: couldn’t have been more than twenty-two; a Sindhi like Ali, from Hyderabad. Barely old enough to remember the riots, the killings in 1990: when the MQM threatened to slaughter every Sindhi family who didn’t pack up and leave their homes that very night. Haroon had to run to Qasimabad and take shelter in one of the shanties that were going up everywhere, haphazardly, surging with desolate, desperate men and women. His mother was sick in those days; she barely survived. Haroon was only seven or eight, but he had never forgotten.

Welcome, welcome, Benazir, welcome.
The convoy set off and Ali and his team followed it—there was no space to drive a car; they had to make do with hopping on motorcycles all the way from the office and weaving their way slowly through the crowds that were heading to the same destination. They were all swept along in a powerful oceanic surge that reclaimed the land, inch by inch, for Benazir.

The open joy on people’s faces, their smiles, shouts, whoops of laughter, were hard to resist. Ali tried to stay aloof from it all, neutral and observant, while directing Haroon to capture the best shots on the camera: a small boy with his face painted red, green, and black, dancing to an old Allan Fakir song; a group of Makranis from Lyari, breakdancing; old dignified men with white beards, the mirror work on their Sindhi caps catching the bright lights and flashing them around like shooting stars. Even after fifteen hours—more, these people had been coming to the city over the last few days, camping out on the streets at night—their enthusiasm was unabated.

Ali, though, was exhausted. Crushed. He’d been picking up little snacks from food stalls and roadside hotels all day but hadn’t had a full meal; he’d even had to relieve himself against a wall in a tiny alley a few hours ago. He wanted nothing more than to go home and go to bed. Benazir or no Benazir. They had enough footage, he’d simply had enough. But they had to stick it out till she reached the Quaid’s Mazaar, that peculiar landmark where Jinnah lay entombed, and which looked like the Taj Mahal stripped of its minarets. She was going to make a speech; at this rate they’d reach the Mazaar at four in the morning.

They had six or so interviews already—little clips of the man on the street, what did he think, all that bullshit—but they still had to do a few more. Ameena wanted to have a wide choice when she made her cuts in the editing booth. Ali spotted two men standing in the doorway of a cheap hotel, the Hotel Babar. One was a waiter, the other a doorman. A security guard stood beside them, toting a menacing shotgun; all three looked bemused at the circus passing before them.

This was a good opportunity, Ali decided. He beckoned Haroon and the sound technician, Ram, forward, and waved the microphone at the waiter. “Could you talk to us for a few minutes?”

The waiter saw that the three of them were from a TV station, straightened up, touched his cheap bow tie. “Certainly.” The doorman looked affronted that he hadn’t been asked, but Ali assured him they’d talk to him next. “And me?” said the security guard, clearly wanting to be part of the action. He was a Pathan from the north with a ferocious beard and sharp gray eyes. Take him out of his crisp blue uniform and replace his shotgun with a Kalashnikov, and he could easily have passed for a Taliban. “Of course,” Ali replied.

Haroon focused the camera lens on the waiter and Ali, taking a few minutes to set up the shot. Ram held the boom above them, and Ali held up the microphone. He’d done this ten, twenty times already throughout the day. He rearranged his features into an expression that was the complete opposite of what he was feeling. “Ready, Haroon?”

“Yes, sir.” Haroon nodded his head and Ram gave the thumbs-up.

“Right. What is your name, please?”

“Shahid Jokhio.”

“And your thoughts on Benazir’s return?” Ali knew he didn’t have to be subtle, just quick. The guy was a Sindhi; he’d praise her to the skies.

“It’s wonderful.” The waiter wagged his head from side to side, a wide smile on his face.

“No, it’s not,” put in the doorman, unable to stop himself from participating. Haroon swiveled the camera so that they were both in the frame. It was impromptu, but it could be good.

Ali pointed the microphone at the doorman. “Why not?”

“She should have stayed away. What’s the point? She was sent packing before. She’s no good for the country.”

“Your name?”

“Ahmed Rais.”

The waiter was starting to fume, and he quickly inserted himself again into the picture. “That’s nonsense; she had to come back. She’s the only person who can get us back to democracy. We want her, we need her.”

“She’s not honest. She’s corrupt. She’s just going to do the same thing again!”

“She can change our country, our lives.”

“She won’t do anything except line her pockets and make us suffer.”

“How dare you?”

“How dare I what?”

“Talk about her like that!”

“Who’s going to stop me?”

Suddenly they were throwing punches. This is great! crowed Ali to himself: street theater unfolding right before your eyes, folks. The waiter and the doorman scuffled for a minute, Haroon capturing it all on film, the security guard standing and watching them with a grin on his face. “These two, they’re always fighting,” he said laconically to Ali.

“Politics, religion, economy.
Barey ustaad hain
. They think they’re university professors but they know nothing.”

“And you?” Ali asked. “What do you think about her return?”

He shrugged. It was enough of an answer for Ali, who happened to agree with him. “Thank you,” Ali said. The waiter and doorman were still shoving each other, the Sindhi’s bow tie askew, the doorman’s hair flopped forward to reveal a bald pate.

Haroon put down the camera and called out to him, “Hey, uncle, that’s a terrible toupee. Why don’t you ask Nawaz Sharif to get you a hair transplant from his doctor?”

The doorman looked up, his face black with murder. Seizing the opportunity, the waiter landed a punch that sent the doorman stumbling into the arms of the security guard, who dropped his rifle right onto his own foot. He roared in pain. Ali, Haroon, and Ram backed away fast, and they were soon engulfed by the sheer mass of people, so the men couldn’t come after them, even if they tried.

Once they were at a safe distance, Ali asked Haroon, “What was that for?”

Haroon grinned slyly. “He insulted Benazir. I couldn’t let that go, could I?”

Ali smiled wryly and reached out to slap palms with Haroon. Okay, she was corrupt, but she was Sindhi, so … oh, how Sikandar would chuckle if he knew what Ali was thinking. Ram ducked his head, not wanting to meet their eyes, but he was grinning, too. He was shy, Ram. Ali always tried to include him in their jokes, the camaraderie that he and Haroon shared, but Ram hung back, not comfortable enough to participate. Ali was sensitive to the fact that maybe other people at work gave Ram a hard time because he was Hindu. Whenever he saw Ram hesitate like that, he always thought of Sunita being discriminated against for her faith, and he was astonished by the white heat of his sudden fury.

The frenzy was unchecked, the crowds still going strong. There were people hanging off every bridge, crammed onto the tops of trucks and buses. In the apartment buildings that lined both sides of the road, more people crowded the balconies, watching the melee from above. The PPP had forecast that a million people would be here tonight; the government was trying to downplay it, saying you could halve that number and then halve it again. Ali calculated that there were at least seven hundred thousand people, a vast, incomprehensible number, all here for this one woman, who might carry on her strong shoulders the destiny of an entire nation.

They could still see her truck from where they were; she kept going inside to rest, then coming out again onto the float every forty-five minutes, standing on the platform, surrounded by her aides and colleagues, both men and women of the PPP who had been supporting her in the country while she was unable to be here herself. Now she was back and their dreams were about to come true. But what dreams? Visions of power, of money, of position and influence? It was like every time, in the alphabet soup that made up Pakistani politics: PPP, PML, Q, N, F, ANP, BNP, MQM—everyone jockeying for a piece of the very valuable pie. And Benazir had helped herself to a very healthy slice the last time she was in power. It was harrowing to think of what would happen if she filled that seat again.

“Wow, she’s got stamina,” Ali muttered to himself. No matter what else he felt about her, he had to concede that much. She had the strength of ten men, if she could stand all of this. She didn’t just seem to be able to stand it; she seemed to relish it, drawing her strength from the devotion of the crowds swelling all around her, as if she were at once some kind of saint and queen and mother. Just maybe, he thought fleetingly, he was being unfair to her, judging her so harshly because she was so tied to his memories of his father, good and bad, and the yearning for that man that ate at him like an ulcer in his stomach.

“Should we get something to eat?” said Haroon. It was just past midnight; they were crawling along near the Karsaz overpass. Ali craned his neck but couldn’t see any restaurants in the immediate vicinity, and it would take ages to go up the road and find the barbecue place next to the ice cream parlor.

“I’m starving,
yaar,
” Ali said. “But we need to find some place that serves vegetarian food.” And he indicated Ram with his raised eyebrows.

Haroon nodded. “We’ll find something for him. Don’t worry, Ram. Come on, I know a place down this way—”

The explosion hit them like tin drums to the chest. It lasered out Ali’s mind and shattered his eardrums. A column of fire shot into the sky, illuminating the shocked faces of everyone around them. In that split second, everyone was frozen bare-limbed like winter trees, their shadows obliterated. Then they all dropped to the ground, some seeking to protect themselves, others felled by the blast, by flying shrapnel, by motorcycles being lifted into the air and falling down on their outstretched limbs.

Silence.

A shrieking started up, unholy, otherworldly. Smoke curled in the air; people were picking themselves up, dazed, others still lying on the ground. Ali came to life, too, moving his arms and legs and astonished to find them still attached to his body.

“What was that? What was that?” a man jabbered next to him. “Did a tire burst? Has a tire burst?” Nobody answered him; people were too busy screaming, crying, howling to pay him any attention.

“Haroon!” Ali screamed. “Ram! Where are you?” He could hardly hear his own voice, the ringing in his ears was so great.

“Here, here,” Haroon replied from somewhere behind him. Ali blinked his eyes, astonished. Haroon had been just in front of Ali—how did he turn up ten feet away? And Ram was standing next to him. Their eyes were white and staring with fear through the soot and grime that covered their skin, streaks of sweat running cracks through the dark masks of their faces.

“Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m fine. We’re fine.”

They turned to look at the truck, where Benazir was supposed to be, but there was no way to see anything; it was sheer pandemonium. People milled about, confused and directionless, rushing forward to pick bodies up, trying to lift them into life. Guards and party workers surrounded the truck, but she was nowhere to be seen. Haroon said, “I think she went inside, just before it—”

Then, suddenly, another blast, a plume of searing light and fire, like a dragon’s tongue unfurling, and this time people were running in panic away from the truck, not bothering to help their fallen brothers. Ali, too, fell to his knees with the impact. Ram sank from view.

Haroon screamed once, then fell silent; but instead of catching his comrade in his arms and dragging him away with him, Ali scrambled to his feet, put his hands over his ears to block out the pounding sound of the bomb, and ran. He wished that he too could die, just to escape from the sounds that couldn’t possibly have come from human throats: moans and whimpers at once animalistic and raw, like the keening of scores of maddened, hysterical wolves.

The Seven Queens

BHIT
SHAH
,
SINDH
, 1746

Shah Abdul Latif came home one afternoon to a sight that nearly stopped his heart: his wife, Bibi Sayedah, was sitting at the kitchen table, her head buried between her folded arms, her shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. She sounded as though she was keening for the dead, and this shocked Shah Latif so much that he rushed to her side and shook her. “Khanum? Khanum, what is wrong? Has someone died?”

At first no words emerged from the quaking heap of headscarf and sleeves, for that was all he could see of her. Shah Latif went to the earthenware pot and drew out a glass of water, brought it to the table, and set it down in front of Sayedah. “Drink, o wife, and then I implore you to tell me what is wrong.”