Daniyal Mueenuddin - In Other Rooms, Other Wonders

When I returned punctually at five from the office, my wife called me into the living room, where she sat with an old lady, one of her projects, someone from whom she wanted something. Judging from the guest’s enormous Land Cruiser parked in the verandah, she must be the wife of a big fish . This is the phrase; also, a big gun . Imagine my wife as being the poor man’s Lady Macbeth and you will have the entire picture.

The guest went away, having been stroked to a silky fineness, and my wife turned her eyes, now in repose, upon me.

‘What word from Khadim? Any news?’

I explained as briefly as I could.

‘And what shall we do?’

‘First of all I suppose we should spread some of young Harouni’s money around. A fool and his money, etc. Second, it is of course no suicide. Somebody murdered the poor woman. The police have a deathbed confession. False or not, he’ll hang for it.’

‘No, no,’she said, tossing aside the facts. ‘Nonsense. Good servants are impossible to find.’She thought for a minute. ‘You must, and you will immediately, send Mian Sarkar.’

And so, the next morning my reader, Mian Sarkar, lambskin cap, imitation leather briefcase, spectacles, and three-piece suit, boarded the air-conditioned bus to Abbotabad, a ten-hour journey. He would only have done it for her.

The two steeds pulling my career rapidly forward along the treacherous road of the Pakistani judiciary are my wife and Mian Sarkar. Each is, in a different sphere, absolutely matchless. My wife you already know. Mian Sarkar deserves not merely a thumbnail but a biography in two volumes — if it were possible to find out anything at all about him except his present rank and station. So far as I am aware, Mian Sarkar wore a cheap three-piece suit and a pair of slightly tinted spectacles of an already outmoded design on the day that he emerged from his mother’s womb. When he leaves the office in the evening, exactly at five, he doesn’t turn a corner or get into a cab or a bus, he simply dematerializes. No one knows even what quarter of the city he lives in, much less his address. He drinks nothing but milk, one careful glassful each day at lunch, and because of his digestion he eats each day only a single cheese sandwich, on white untoasted bread, with the crust cut off, brought to him by a boy from a tea stall. They must stock the cheese for him especially. Before speaking he clears his throat with a little hum, as if pulling his voice box up from some depth where he secretes it for safekeeping. His greatest feature, however, is his nose, a fleshy tubular object, gorged with blood, which I have always longed to squeeze, expecting him to honk like a bus.

That would be a fatal act! There is nothing connected with the courts of Lahore that he has not absorbed, for knowledge in this degree of detail can only be obtained by osmosis. Everything about the private lives of the judges, and of the staff, down to the lowest sweeper, is to him incidental knowledge. He knows the verdicts of the cases before they have been written, before they even have been conceived. He sees the city panoptically, simultaneously, and if he does not disclose the method and the motive and the culprit responsible for each crime, it is only because he is more powerful if he does not do so. Locked in his impenetrable bosom are all the riots and iniquities of the past, and perhaps of the future, and when his mild figure steps out of the law courts of an evening and is lost in the crowds along the Mall, I am irrationally reminded of Lenin disembarking at the Finland Station in 1917. He is a man of secret powers, and a mover of great events. This is the bacillus my wife sent to resolve Khadim’s case as she wanted it resolved. Mightier men than I fear him.

The next evening, when I drove through the gate of my house, a sagging wooden affair once painted green, once perhaps in colonial days a swing for little English children, I found an old man standing by the portico with the timeless patience of peasants and old servants, as if he had been standing there all day. He wore a battered white skullcap, soiled clothes, a sleeveless sweater, and shoes with crepe rubber soles, worn down on one side, which gave each foot a peculiar tilt. The deep lines on his face ran in no rational order, no order corresponding to musculature or to the emotions through which his expressions might pass, but spread from numerous points. The oversized head had settled heavily onto the shoulders, like a sand castle on the beach after the sea has run in over it.

I opened the car door, closed it carefully, and rounded upon him. He put his head down, looking up at me under his brows, and quickly and pathetically saluted me, with a hand balled together.

‘ As-salaam uleikum, Baba,’ I said.

‘ Salaam, Sahib.’

‘You are the father of Khadim.’

‘Yes, Your Honor.’

By his language and his manner I knew him to be a serving man of the old type, of the type that believes implicitly in his master’s right to be served. They are impossible to get now, unless you own land and bring a man from your own village, and even then you have to choose a simpleton, a real feudal peasant. I waited, but he said nothing. ‘You’ve come,’ I volunteered, ‘about your boy? You wish me to intervene?’

‘You can do anything, sir. I don’t understand. They took my money, sir, all of it. I’ll starve to death.’

‘Who took your money?’

‘God knows, sir.’

‘What happened?’

‘My daughter-in-law, she became insane. She killed herself.’

‘What should I do, how can I help?’

‘The girl’s family, if they agree the police will release my boy.’

‘And will they agree?’

‘Never, sir, not in a thousand years.’

I began to lose patience. ‘What about the girl’s statement that Khadim killed her?’

‘The father told her to. They told her to.’ He began sobbing, his face long and dark like a cab horse in the rain. His shoulders shook but no tears came to his eyes and he didn’t raise his hands, which hung at his side.

‘O God, O God, I’ll starve, I’ll die, I want to die.’

I couldn’t bear it, I put my arm around him. He reminded me of the old man who brought me up, whose lap held me, who had callused hands and wore a ring with a cheap red stone, who took me to the zoo and showed me the deer, put me on his shoulders so that I could see over the fence.

‘Don’t cry, Baba, don’t cry.’ I felt embarrassed. ‘Your boy will be all right.’

‘He’s a good boy, he’s the only one, the other is no good.’ He wiped his eyes, now full of flat tears, like splashed water. ‘They took my money,’ he sobbed, head bowed.

‘Wait, one moment. Is your master really willing to lay out a lot of cash?’ I had to ask.

‘I’ve served fifty-eight years, for the big Sahib and now the small one.’

‘Go in back,’ I said. ‘They’ll give you some tea. I’ll fix it.’

He walked away from me without shaking my hand, without thanking me, his shoulders fallen, shuffling, still crying.

The next morning but one Mian Sarkar came into my office at his usual time, as always arriving exactly five minutes after I did, and seated himself primly at his desk. (Arriving after me, although by this same small margin, is his one extravagance.) He did not open the files arranged in front of him, though he would answer with exactitude any question I might presume to put to him about them.

I treat him always with the greatest refinements of courtesy. ‘Mian Sarkar, I trust you had a comfortable journey?’

‘The roads might be better, sir.’

‘Indeed. And on returning you found everything well in your home?’

‘No surprises, sir.’

‘Of course.’