Swollen with knowledge eyelids hidden behind those thick black glasses, cactus-like thirsty for blood stubble, a flutter of semi-circled oiled hair camouflaging his unopened 3rd eye, the underdressed for the occasion khaki look, the dirt-laden jhola, the earthy chappals, and his tablet- a blue-inked Reynolds and a Gandhian diary.
Every bit of him identified him to his land where everyone thought he/she was a born economist- an apt person to run the reigns of a derailed country.
“Tera tetva dabau kya?” he hurled at the security.
“Tereko pata hai main kaun hu?” He knew it was a cliché yet it always worked for him.
After a few cuss words, he was standing in that palatial glitterati setup. He took a 360 degree look, got his heavy eyes fixed on a figure, and right then he startled that group which considered her as their cherry.
“So, what’s your story?” he nonchalantly disturbed their otherwise mild tête-à-tête.
All heads turned to him; and after what she replied, to her. The next couple of minutes the group became the audience of a tennis match. Left right… left right… first their neck… then their eyes... and though the mercury was low… the attendees to their conversation started profusely perspiring.
“You’ve taken your state’s name too literally BANG-ALL.” She retorted.
“At least I am not from LA-WHORE.” He matched her foot-to-foot.
She looked deep into his eyes. It made him instantly fall in love with her. In that moment, she made him live his entire life. She became his muse. Together they read Wuthering Heights, Fountainhead, like Deeti and Kalua from The Sea of Poppies they voyaged to live a life. She turned into Nandini of The Last Song of Dusk and they made love like wild animals. She gave birth to a beautiful daughter which became the meaning of his life. And then, she presented him his daughter cut-in-pieces.
“I am sorry about your wife brutally raped & murdered. You should try the Red-light area; it may give you some solace.”
“Are you the legal child of Mr. Sheikh. Or just his sheikh ‘ing’ offspring.” With that he said the unsaid.
She was a popular democrat’s daughter who was recently killed during a political rally. Aloof in Cambridge then, she was unaware of her father’s sexcapades. While a portion of media termed her as her father’s one-night stand waste… but the majority of her father’s allies broadcasted that the ashen kohl she wore was from her father’s ashes. She was burning with revenge.
“Considering your rank, your rant can cost you very dearly. Do you know that?”
“With my wife’s death, I have lost all my riches.”
“I can still inflict pain on whatever is left of you.”
“I am only trying to join the dots here.”
“Killing is not a game.”
“I did not say that. All I mean is… I have it in me to bring out the beast in others.”
“Like Sigmund Freud?!”
“Yes my Virginia Woolf.”
“Let me elucidate. You are on the cusp of either directing or misdirecting a generation. Your father could have given his name to Guinness Book of World Records for sleeping with the most number of women, but, there was another side to him.”
“Your mother will be raped on open road and then pelted with stones to death, if you utter a word about my father.”
“All I want to say is… you are burning; I am already burnt. There is truth inside you; outside, the world is full of falsified information. You have a story; I have the pen.
She knew that Pakistani literature was at an all-time high in the market. A Case of Exploding Mangoes, The Reluctant Fundamentalist, Home Boy, Songs of Blood and Sword, Welcome to Americanistan. Everyone wanted to read bloody Muslim stories. Even she wanted to write one.
With that Arindham finally asked Nausheen. “I want to help you write a book about your father.”
