The Heartbreak of Faisal Farook
Abaan Zaidi
Faisal Farook was a worried man.
Correction: Faisal Farook was a very worried man.
“No, no, no, no,” he muttered, shaky fingers obsessively smoothing the crumpled piece of paper in front of him in an attempt to permanently erase its contents and so extricate himself from this terrible, awful, Truly Bloody Bad predicament. Lifting his head he stared at the wall in front of him, observing its cheap white paint, the spattered remains of generations of flies.
“I am doomed,” he declared.
The contents of the paper currently spawning a new ulcer in Faisal Farook’s stomach lining ran as follows:
TO: MR. F. FAROOK, GHAZIPUR, PUNJAB
CONCERNING: THE SALE AND SUM OF 20 COWS
Dear Mr. Farook,
We are delighted to inform you of the immediate purchase of twenty of your prize bovine, the sale of which has been enacted immediately. The sum of this sale shall be paid in cash within the next three weeks. Although you had expressed your desire to retain said bovine and thereby remove them from the market, it behoves us to note that such an act, in the face of an interested party such as ourselves, is in fact illegal. Our deepest apologies. However, rest assured that your livestock shall enjoy a long and healthy life in our esteemed care, as, one is loath to point out, our financial capabilities to care for said livestock far exceed your own. Although inquiry was also directed towards your chickens, it was decided in the interests of both propriety and neighbourly duty (as espoused by our Prophet, Peace Be Upon Him) to leave both them and the rooster in your assuredly capable hands. If in the future this interest is renewed, rest assured we shall contact you as soon as is feasible. If you have any further questions or queries, or wish to express your felicitations, please do not hesitate to contact us at the following number: Lahore, 0300 682 831. We shall endeavour to reply at the earliest convenience.
We remain, your ever humble servant,
Syed Naqvi.
Underneath was a thumbprint purportedly belonging to a government official, signed with a rather shaky X.
That the sum of money promised would never arrive, Faisal Farook knew for a fact. That he could say so with absolute certainty, he attributed to the case of Asim Rauf.
A prosperous rooster breeder, Asim Rauf’s top specimens often competed in various village cockfighting tournaments, including one televised event covered by the national network GEO. However, with the growth of his rooster empire came arrogance, and the boasting tales of cockerel-induced wealth eventually wound their way to the open ears and grasping palms of Syed Naqvi. Within weeks, a proposition arrived offering a large sum in exchange for Asim Rauf’s prize fleet; within days, Asim Rauf awoke to an empty yard and a slip of paper detailing his roosters’ new state of ownership. After weeks of violent grief, which included ripping out all the hairs in his beard one by one and holding a vigil for his departed roosters lasting ten days and ten nights, he accepted his poultry-less state and patiently conceded to wait for his promised payment. But the money never came. Asim Rauf waited for five years, during which time he reached such a state of emaciation that when he was finally collected by a cousin in Pindi, his clothes had grown so large on his shrivelled frame that she mistook him for a pile of unwanted laundry.
Faced with the fate of Asim Rauf, Faisal Farook was terrified. ‘What,’ he thought, sweat blinding his eyeballs, chills racking his body, ‘what am I going to say to Saima?’
~
“Faisal, for God’s sake what’s wrong with you, you’ve been sitting there like a lemon all dinner.”
Stuttering, Faisal attempted to answer and clattered his cutlery on his metal plate. Screaming in exasperation, Saima lunged forward and grabbed the spoon, stopping just short of whacking her cringing husband before rolling her dark rimmed eyes towards the cracked ceiling.
“Have I married a mouse or a man? I know God sends these things to test us, but really, I feel I’ve been tested quite enough, thank you. Any more and we have officially crossed the line from benign benediction to unbridled sadism. Now you,” she growled, turning once more on her husband, “what, in heaven’s name, is your problem?”
Faisal tried to prise his tongue from the roof of his mouth.
“Well,” he began, cracking open his parched lips with difficulty. Ahmad, his eldest son, gave him an encouraging thumbs up from the other end of the table. Emboldened, Faisal continued.
“Well, see, the thing is, Syed Naqvi has bought all our cows. All of them. I found a note this morning. He says the cash will be arriving within the month, which, you know, is something. And he says he thought about buying the chickens but decided not to which, I guess, is kind of nice of him.”
“Nice?”
If looks could kill, Faisal Farook would have been chopped up into many tiny pieces before being put through a meat grinder and pulverised in a blazing inferno.
“Nice?” Saima repeated, tone murderous, bulging eyes threatening to escape the confines of her skull and launch themselves across the table. “The man just stole all our cows, and all you have to say is that he was nice?”
“Well, no, I – ”
New, acrid sweat began to bubble under the renewed quivering of Faisal’s moustaches. ‘This,’ he thought, ‘is, most decidedly, not going well.’
“What I meant was – all I tried to say was – I guess, considering the circumstances, at least we – ”
“QUIT YOUR GIBBERING, YOU COMPLETE AND UTTER IGNORAMUS.”
Slinking lower into his seat, Faisal silently willed himself to melt through the floor. Stunned, Ahmad, Fawad and Fouzia stared at their father. Spreading her large hands on the table, Saima closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
“What,” she began slowly, “exactly, did he say?”
Silently, Faisal handed over the note whilst keeping his eyes firmly on the floor. Saima contemplated it for a moment, before crumpling it into a ball and violently launching it out the window.
“Fawad!” she barked, “bring me the phone!”
Running, he thrust the aged mobile into his mother’s hand before jumping back out of slap-range. Saima dialled the number.
“Hello?”
Crowded round their small dining table, the Farooks all held their breath.
“Hello, Naqvi Saab? I am Saima Farook speaking. Yes yes, that same Farook. Now, I have just received a very puzzling note – Ah. I see. And under whose authority was this done?” Saima’s left nostril began to flare. “I see. I am not aware – Hm. Hm. What – hm. And how much compensation will we be receiving, exactly?” There was a brief pause. The drumming of Saima’s fingers on the wooden tabletop began to intensify. “Well, really, Naqvi Saab, it is compensation, as we did not agree to any such transaction – of course. How much? I see. When? And if, hypothetically speaking, I wished to repurchase my cows, how would I…? Not an option? Really, Naqvi Saab, they are my cows – I am well aware of how the law of possession works, Naqvi Saab, there is no need to lay it out for me. Yes. Yes. Yes, this is all crystal clear, Naqvi Saab, no need to waste your precious breath in attempting to explain it to me any further – yes. Quite. Khuda Hafis.” Punching a button, Saima snorted before flinging the phone away from her in disgust. “May worms devour your insides, you slimy cockroach,” she muttered.
“Well?” Fouzia breathed. “Amma, what did he say?”
“The filthy maggot says he is now the sole legal possessor of our cows. There’s nothing we can do. He then proceeded to give me a legal lecture, as if he thinks he is some hot-shot lawyer. Him! That sleazy man, that cheepra! The nerve! Why should I have to sit and listen to his baqwaas, his idiotic nonsense, I ask you? The way I see it, there’s only one thing we can do.”
“Sit and hope his money arrives?” Faisal’s hopeful delusion was quickly shattered by a withering look from his wife.
Saima looked at her family grimly. “We have to get those cows back.”
~
Having decided on her course of action, Saima immediately sent her middle child, Fawad, out the window to recover Syed Naqvi’s note.
“Why me?” he wailed.
“Because Ahmad is the oldest, and Fouzia is a girl. If I lose you to toxic waste or snake bite, you’re expendable.”
Finding no support from his siblings, Fawad hitched up his shalwar and promptly locked himself in the bathroom.
“But why,” he cried over Saima’s rhythmic pounding on the thin door. “Amma you don’t even like those cows, you were always complaining about how smelly and loud and useless they were – ”
The pounding stopped. Fawad froze, one eye staring at the lock, fingers inching towards it slowly, slowly… until the whole room shook with the force of a raging stampede.
“Fawad Ali Farook you will come out of this bathroom this instant or so help me God I will bury your mangled corpse right next to Syed Naqvi.”
Grabbing him by his quaking drawstring, Saima marched her child out of the bathroom, off the window-ledge, and into the neighbouring field. “And don’t even think about showing me your face until you have it. Samjehn?”
Two hours and many mud streaks later, Fawad returned triumphant.
“Perfect!” Saima crowed, clapping her hands in glee before recoiling in horror at the stench emanating from her middle son. Next to her, Fouzia and Ahmad held each other and gagged.
“Chi!” Saima started, holding her dupatta over her hose as she took a step backward, “God almighty, what, did you roll in every cowpat from here to Lahore? Oof, but I bet they can smell you even in India! No, no, not one step closer! Here, take the bucket and go outside and wash yourself, and do not enter this house until you smell again like a respectable human being.”
Dutifully scrubbed and brushed (Saima made him run through two bars of soap before she was satisfied), Fawad now joined the rest of his family as they assembled outside the modest Farook family homestead. Regarding the empty field, the rusted cowbell lying abandoned on the parched grass, Faisal swallowed as he suppressed a sob. Contemplating him for a minute, her lips pinched together, Fawad saw his mother come to a decision. Shaking out her thick hair strategically streaked with henna, he watched as she scraped it back, skewering it into a tight bun. She then pushed more bangles on her wrists, the green glass tinkling in the still air, before stretching herself out to her full five feet and three inches. Flicking her dupatta over her shoulders, she glared at her family.
“Come. We are ready.”
~
‘This,’ thought a terrified Javed Bhutt, ‘was not in my job description.’
Sitting and filing useless paperwork, yes. Making incessant cups of tea for his many superiors, yes. Accepting the odd bit of money here and there to ensure that a certain form, a certain plea, was placed at the top of the pile – most assuredly, yes.
But being harangued by an extremely voluble aunty in a flower–patterned kameez for over two hours? Most decidedly, not.
“Madam, please, I’ve already said – ”
“I know what you have said! The same old nonsense – yes, nonsense! ‘Madam, I cannot, Madam, it is not in my control, Madam, take a seat’ – what do the police pay you for, I ask you! To drink tea? To do the crossword? To stuff your face with samose? Now – no, you listen to me young man! You will figure out a way to help me reclaim my cows! Do you understand? This is no longer my problem, it is your problem, it is the police’s problem, it is the whole bloody country’s problem – ”
Arriving into work that morning, Javed had had a clear plan of the day ahead. First: deliver the morning crossword and an aloo paratha to General Baig. Next: subtly slip in the crossword solutions when serving the traditional mid-morning cup of tea, thereby ensuring the General’s continuing good mood. This was to be followed by an afternoon of ignoring telephone calls, sorting out paperclips, and the other countless tasks instrumental in the smooth running of the Pakistani police force. This routine, however, had been rudely shattered by the loud and violent arrival of Saima Farook into the Ghazipur Police Station. Quivering in righteous indignation, the whole family Farook were now crowded before Javed Bhutt’s small desk, whose owner was violently wishing he could be somewhere, anywhere else.
“Madam,” begged Javed, desperate. “Madam, please, do not be irate.”
“Irate?”
Observing with increasing horror the renewed flaring of Saima Farook’s left nostril, Javed Bhutt conceded that he might have made a mistake.
“Irate? Who are you to tell me not to be irate? Are you doing anything to help me be calm? Attempting to talk with fools like you, being irate will undoubtedly happen! What will help me not be irate, is to do this work that you are meant to be doing, and get me my cows.”
Saima Farook, feet planted and arms folded, glared down at Javed: a Punjabi avenging angel, decked head to toe in pink printed cotton, jangling bangles, and an aura of invincibility not unlike the Terminator. Javed gulped.
“Do you have any paperwork?” he asked weakly.
Saima nodded, and a young man stepped forward, depositing a very dirty, very crinkled piece of typed paper on Javed Bhutt’s desk.
“This…” Javed started, gingerly holding the note between forefinger and thumb. “This is the proof of sale?”
“This is all the proof the crook gave!” Saima cried. “I’m telling you, that man is a thief, a thief of the worst degree! A sneaky lowlife, a cheapster, a villain, a sleazy, slimy, upstart – ”
“Alright, Madam, alright!”
Javed, recognising a by now familiar line, was in no way prepared to let this continue for even another minute.
“Leave this with me. I shall see what can be done. Please,” he begged, gesturing to the door, “please, now you all leave.”
“Hmpf!”
With a monumental snort, Saima, managing to grab all three of her children with one arm whilst steering her silent husband with the other, sailed out of the packed office.
Javed Bhutt leaned back in his seat, rubbed his face with his hands, and went to make himself a very strong cup of tea.
~
“The police, I tell you, they are useless! In fact, they are not even useless; that thing which is less than useless, worse than useless, that is what they are! It is that bloody fool of an officer – sitting sitting all day, it has melted whatever little brain his mother gave him! It is all a conspiracy, I tell you, all a conspiracy! That Naqvi, he has paid them, I am sure he has paid them – ”
“Saima I don’t think it’s a conspiracy, I’m sure the police are just busy – ”
“It is a conspiracy, Faisal, I am telling you! And it does not stop here – oh no, mark my words, this goes all the way up to Nawaz Sharif himself! I am sure even the mullahs are in on it, the Governor of Punjab, who knows? Maybe even the English! The Americans! Bush Saab!”
“Saima, Bush is no longer President, it’s – ”
“It makes no difference, he is in on this, gua-ran-teed. Yes, sir. One hundred per cent. Fouzia, for God’s sake stand up straight and stop itching those mosquito bites, go run and get my talcum powder. And FAWAD! STOP HIDING QUIETLY QUIETLY IN THE DOOR, COME HERE! Go get your brother, there is something we all need to discuss. FOUZIA! Damn that girl, why is no one ever here when I need them to be? FOUZIA! There you are girl, where have you been, I’ve been calling and calling! Oh, leave the talcum powder, and listen to me. And Faisal, now where are you going? Get back here. Where is Ahmad? Oh, there you are. What are you hiding behind the sofa for? Now. As we have seen that nothing can be done with Naqvi, and the police are a bunch of imbeciles not worth the cloth of their uniforms, it is up to us to recover your father’s cows. No, no buts – what, you think this is funny? You think this is a joke? You think this is like some Bollywood film, you think I’m going to suddenly break into a dance with a bunch of white extras and *poof* everything is fine? Now, Fais – eh, Fouzia, who said you could ask questions? Did I say, ‘come children, come and talk over your poor mother with your words of prepubescent wisdom?’ Did those words leave my mouth? No? Now, listen: I have a plan.”
~
“This itches.”
“Shut up.”
“How am I even meant to breathe, it’s covering my bloody nose – ”
“Shame it’s not covering your mouth, you could do us all a favour.”
“Yeah, well, you’re an ass.”
“Offspring of an ass, you.”
“You just called Amma an ass, so hah, joke’s on you, nitbrain.”
“Will both of you keep quiet?”
Entrusted by his mother with overseeing this delicate operation, Ahmad was having difficulty asserting any sort of authority over his siblings.
“Shut up,” he hissed, the veil over his mouth muffling his words. “Both of you. Otherwise we’ll be heard. Now, keep your eyes peeled, I think I hear him coming.”
~
Syed Naqvi, pulling up in front of his house on his brand new, bright red Ducati Monster, was surprised to observe three burqa-clad women, two of whom appeared to be attempting to beat the living daylights out of each other.
“Assalam alaykum!” he called. “Are you all quite alright? Do you need any help?”
“Oh, no!” one called, holding back the other two with each hand as she struggled to load them into a waiting rickshaw. “No, we’re quite alright! Thank you, brother. Peace be upon you!”
“Ow!” Having succeeded in loading her associates inside the vehicle, the tussle appeared to be continuing. “That was my eye!”
“You can’t see anything anyway, stop being so melodramatic – ”
“I could see just fine until you put this bloody kajal on, I swear I think it’s on my eyeball – look Fouzia, is my eye black? I think it’s black – ”
The little rickshaw sped off, bells tinkling as it swerved to avoid a donkey ambling in the middle of the road.
‘Strange,’ thought Syed Naqvi, tossing the keys to a waiting boy and bounding up the marble steps to his front door, ‘those women had surprisingly deep voices.’
~
“It’s there, Amma, we saw it!”
“Yeah, he came riding up on it, VOOOOOM, thinking he was Salman Khan – ”
“No no, Shah Rukh Khan, with all that slicked back hair and that icky little goatee – ”
“Ooooooh, what a hero!”
“Hero number zero, more like.” Saima snorted, wielding her rolling pin with more ferocity than usual. Faisal, one eye warily cocked on his wife, took one step backward.
Fouzia, stealing a bite of paratha and dodging a slap from her mother, resumed the narrative. “Yeah, anyway, so here he comes, right, on this great hulking big motorbike. He tossed the keys to a servant, like so, and then I think it got wheeled behind some gate.”
“You think?” Saima paused, floury hands resting sceptically on her hips.
“There was, ah… we had to leave, ahem, kind of abruptly. But we’re 90% sure, Amma, 90%!”
“Good.” Saima whacked the rolling pin threateningly against her open palm, before pointing it at all three of her children. “Otherwise it won’t be Mr Syed Naqvi’s head I’ll be breaking, it’ll be yours. Understand?”
“Oh, we understand!” they chorused, heads nodding so fast Faisal was afraid they might fall off.
“Good. Now, are we all clear on the plan for tonight? Everyone, run through their positions. Faisal?”
Faisal fidgeted with the edge of his kameez, before lifting his head and addressing the rickety ceiling fan. “I shall be sitting at home, thanking my blessings I have a wife with half a brain in her head, and praying that she can extricate me from the mess in which I have become entangled,” he intoned.
“Ex-act-ly. Children?”
Ahmad grinned. “We shall be sneaking and creeping, like professionals.”
“Excellent!” Saima chuckled, so overtaken with glee that she leaned forward and engulfed her husband in a sudden, unexpected embrace. The children, observing their parents locked together for the first time in what seemed to be affection rather than antagonism, were dumbfounded. After a moment Saima collected herself, turning brusquely back to her dough. Her cheek, it could be observed, was slowly burning a light shade of crimson. Faisal stood stock-still in the middle of the kitchen, a sheepish smile on his face.
“Well?” Saima demanded gruffly, back still turned. “What are you all waiting for? Hop to it! We have thieving to attend to!”
~
Glancing furtively behind him, Fawad signalled to his brother that the coast was clear before jumping off the wall and into Syed Naqvi’s front garden. A heavy thud and a curse marked the arrival of Ahmad, who wheezed into Fawad’s ear: “Everything good? All clear?”
“Of course it is you idiot, that’s why I signalled. Also your breath stinks, go chew a mint or something.”
Fawad heard a loud exhale, followed by a sniff; then:
“Oh God, you’re right, that is bad.”
Fawad rolled his eyes. Lying on his belly, he crawled forward, before jumping up and dodging behind a pillar. Behind him, he heard a large crash.
“Ah, shit!”
“Ahmad, what the hell are you doing?” he hissed, eyes trained forward.
“I tripped over the bottom of this bloody burqa. It’s fine. I’m fine.”
“What is wrong with you. Shut up, before you wake up half the city. I don’t know how long Fouzia will distract the guard for.”
“She went for the fainting and ankle twist, I think he’ll be there a while.”
Scanning, Fawad’s eyes quickly locked onto the small, black gate peeking out from the side of the house. “Bingo.”
Scampering forward, he motioned for his brother to follow. In one deft movement, he vaulted over the gate, hearing Ahmad make an uncharacteristically agile landing beside him. He grinned.
“We’re in, baby.”
“Who are you, Arnold Schwarzenegger?” Ahmad muttered. “Right ok, I’ll take the back, you take the front, and we’ll lift it over – ”
Suddenly, he tensed. “What was that?”
A low growl emanated from the gloom.
“O, teri…”
A large black dog hurled itself from the darkness and attached itself to the bottom of Fawad’s robe.
“Get off me, you crazy mutt!”
Kicking wildly, he only succeeded in strengthening the dog’s resolve to tear this human, whoever it was, to shreds.
“The bike!” Fawad yelled. “Ahmad, get the bike!”
“How, we have no keys – ”
“HOTWIRE IT!”
~
Lounging on his leather sofa, Syed Naqvi suddenly paused his soap opera. Had he heard something? A yell, perhaps? No, surely not… probably nothing. Probably just the night watchman, making his rounds. Or some kids terrorising a cat. And anyway, wasn’t Aurangzeb outside? He would keep an eye out, make sure nothing untoward was happening. He’d paid him on time this month so he should be in a good mood. Satisfied, he leaned back onto his cushions, and pressed play. Just as the theme music started to soar and Fawad Khan began his tearful, climactic closing speech, Syed Naqvi heard the unmistakeable sound of a Ducati Monster engine brought suddenly to life.
~
“What the…”
Syed Naqvi opened his monumental front door just in time to see two burqa-clad women speeding out of his driveway, on his motorcycle, grabbing a third as they raced past.
Slowly, Syed Naqvi realised that he might have been robbed.
“Chor!” he yelled, running onto the street. “Thief! Criminals! Aurangzeb!” Furious, he turned on his chowkidaar, who was standing bewildered. “What the hell has happened? How did you allow this to happen? Oh, never mind, I’ll deal with you later. Right now, get in the car and go after them!”
“Yes sir!”
Aurangzeb climbed into the BMW.
“Sir-jee?”
“What, you slobbering cretin, what?”
“Sir … the tyres are slashed.”
Landing a vicious kick at Aurangzeb, Syed Naqvi turned his face to the moon and howled.
~
Syed Naqvi slammed down the telephone receiver with a curse. Then, reflecting for a moment on the anger management classes his ex-wife had insisted he attend, picked up the whole apparatus and lobbed it against the wall.
“Fools!” he shouted, spittle flying from his mouth and spraying his lacquer-wood floor. “Imbeciles! Student of owls!”
How dare they do this to him, he raged, sweeping an art deco vase off the table and distantly hearing it smash to smithereens. How dare they. To him! Did they know who he was? He was Syed Naqvi – the Syed Naqvi! One of the most powerful men this side of Lahore! His bribes were singlehandedly propping up an entire police division! He was the reason the local commissioner could afford to send his brats to Beacon House School!
“I am sorry, sir.” The bored voice on the other end of the receiver rang through Syed Naqvi’s head, causing him to shriek in fury. “I am sorry, but there is nothing that can be done. We will look into the matter, sir, and get back to you after the appropriate procedures. But as of now, please do not call this number anymore.”
His enemies, it must be his enemies! They must have given the police more money, persuaded them to drop his cases – they were trying to usurp his influence, but he would show them! They had no idea who they were messing with, oh how deep they have dived! He would destroy them, the little maggots, he would crush them like one crushed a cockroach under a chappal, he would drown them like a rat in monsoon, he would –
“Sir-jee?” Aurangzeb gingerly poked his head round the door, narrowly avoiding a decorative bowl that landed with a splinter next to his ear.
“WHAT. IS IT. NOW.”
“Sir, there is someone outside who wants to talk to you. He said he has a… He wants to discuss bizniz?”
“If it’s those bank-wallahs, tell them I’ve fled the country. I’m in Dubai. Abu Dhabi. London. Wherever.”
“No, sir, he said he wants to buy something?”
Syed Naqvi paused. Buying was good. Buying was always good. He had a meeting with his creditors at the end of the month, and being able to show them a bank balance with more than three digits was an appealing prospect. An overzealous official in the Finance Ministry had been sniffing around his overseas accounts lately, the whole contents of which were currently lining the inside of three plastic waste bags stashed underneath his bed as a result. He breathed: inhale through one nostril, exhale through the other. Licking his palm, he slicked back his sparse hair, adjusting his fake Rolex so the gold face was visible.
“Alright. Send them in.”
Dressed in a black kameez and clean white shalwar, clutching a sheaf of documents in one hand and a battered briefcase in the other, the young man Aurangzeb pushed through the door stood half-a-head taller than Syed Naqvi. Syed Naqvi did not like this.
“Sit down,” he said brusquely, gesturing to a chair. “Ignore the mess, we had a bit of an… accident.”
“That is quite alright.” The young man lowered himself gingerly, placing his stack of papers on the desk. Frowning, he changed his mind and transferred them to his knees, before quickly shoving them back.
“Are you quite done?” Syed Naqvi said acidly. The young man flushed scarlet, and withdrew his fidgeting fingers to his lap.
“Yes. Quite.” Clearing his throat, he sat up straight, adjusted his too-large glasses, and said loudly, “I have come to buy your cows.”
“Excuse me?”
“We… word has reached us that you have recently come into possession of a herd of cows. Prime cows, tip-top specimens. I represent a man from Islamabad, a big man, you understand, high up and all that. He is most interested in adding your cows to his collection. And he is prepared to be most generous in his offer – he understands, you see, being a man of business himself, how one should conduct transactions with large and important men such as yourself. He is prepared to offer you nothing less than the best possible deal.”
“I see.” Syed Naqvi feigned nonchalance, flicking grime out from under his fingernail. “And how much is your… patron, prepared to part with?”
Silently, the young man reached down and opened the battered briefcase. The inside was stuffed with cash. Dumbfounded, Syed leaned down and ran his thumb over the crisp notes, hundreds of Jinnah’s joyless eyes staring up at him.
“There must be… there must be at least one crore here!”
“Actually, 1.5. To be exact,” the young man said crisply, snapping the briefcase shut and almost catching Syed Naqvi’s nose in the process. “So, Mr. Naqvi? Do we have a deal?”
Syed pretended to dwell on this for a moment.
“Yes,” he said solemnly, extending a meaty hand. “We have a deal.”
The young man smiled. “Excellent.”
~
Faisal Farook was grinning. It was a sight that his children were totally unfamiliar with, and as a result found singularly disturbing. The corners of his mouth were pulled up over his gums as if yanked roughly with string, his slightly stained and crooked teeth on full frontal display. Ahmad, Fawad, Fouzia and Saima now sat on the Farooks’ sagging sofa, gazing uneasily at Faisal as he stood in the middle of the room.
“I don’t know what’s worse,” Ahmad began haltingly. “When he doesn’t smile, or when he does.”
“Abba, I think you should stop now. Please,” Fouzia said desperately, when it appeared that the ghastly new configuration of Faisal Farook’s features showed no sign of abating. “Abba, it’s creepy.”
“But I’m happy! Isn’t this what one does when they’re happy?”
Faisal Farook hadn’t felt this light in years. He imagined it is what one felt when a kidney stone had been removed, or an appendix, or a gangrenous limb. He felt great.
Five days ago, when the children had returned home triumphantly bearing Syed Naqvi’s prize motorcycle (and, inexplicably, a large Rottweiler, whom they had decided to keep and name Rambo), Faisal had allowed himself to experience the first, flittering buzz of hope. When, three days ago, the motorcycle had been successfully sold to a dubious second-hand motor salesman based in Murree (an associate of someone whose uncle’s younger brother went to school with a family friend of Saima’s cousin), he began, despite himself, to feel optimistic. And when, yesterday, Ahmad had succeeded in tempting Syed Naqvi with a large wodge of fake notes (purchased with some of the proceeds from the motorcycle, and sourced through the dubious motor salesman), Faisal had felt something akin to glee. Now, waiting for his cousin’s truck to arrive bearing his cows – his beloved cows! Oh, how he had missed them! – he had ascended to a heightened state of euphoria.
Suddenly, the guttural growl of an engine sounded outside. Faisal Farook wrenched open the door, tripping over his feet in his rush to get there, see them, hold them –
~
Saima, standing in the doorway a few minutes later, arms folded across her ample stomach, watched her husband throw both his arms around a cow, bury his face in its brown pelt, and sob loudly. Lowering her dupatta slightly, she allowed herself a small smile. One cow, Darushiko, the calf, spotted her and trotted over, the large bell around his neck tinkling. All the cows had Mughal names; it was a game they had, she and Faisal. The children would roll their eyes, snap, couldn’t they have named them something more normal, something less embarrassing to yell out in the fields, but she refused. “He just is Shah-Jahan,” she would retort, “and that is that.” Snorting and snuffling, the calf pressed his wet nose into the palm of her outstretched hand. Bending just a little she rubbed his small snout, his silken ears, before he scampered back to the others.
Observing her husband for a minute (Faisal was now hugging each cow in turn), Saima rearranged her dupatta to protect her face from the midday sun, and with a jangle of her bangles headed inside.
Abaan Zaidi was born in America to Pakistani parents but grew up in Scotland, where she’s currently completing a degree in History. Aside from writing, she can be found baking her feelings and showering unrequited love onto her fat ginger cat. In 2018, she became the recipient of the 2018 Margaret and Reg Turnhill Prize for her winning story, ‘In the Light of the Crescent Moon’.
Éphémère is a concept; two visions of the same sphere. Both are multidisciplinary Mauritian artists—designers and illustrators—influenced by nature and culture. They attempt to convey a part of their dream-like, somewhat playful world through their art and products. (Photo credits: Céliliphotographies)
