Kartography

‘I didn’t want you to hate him, Raheen. I wanted you to stop being him.’ He grabbed my hands. ‘He thought he could pretend the war and everything going on had nothing to do with him, or with her; he pretended and pretended that the outlines in which they lived didn’t matter, until one day it was at his door and things inside him that he never acknowledged, never tried to deal with, came out.’

‘We don’t know that’s how it happened.’

‘And you’re the same. You’re the same, Raheen. The city is falling apart and you’re the same. That’s why I sent you those maps. Because I wanted you to find a way to see beyond the tiny circle you live in.’

‘Karim, my world is falling to pieces and you’re still talking about maps!’

‘I’m not, I’m not. I’m talking about why I look at you and see him and can’t bear it or forgive you or be with you.’

Now all colour was leached from the day. We were shadows in a shadow world. The beach was always the one place I could go to and never stumble upon unpleasant memories, and now even that had been taken from me.

‘I don’t want anything more to do with either him or you. This friendship is over, Karim.’

He shook his head and walked past me. ‘Well done. You’ve just made the circle you live in that much smaller.’ No emotion was left in his voice. ‘Come on, then. We have to go to Sonia’s and tell her about the newspaper a

. .

Karim followed me to Soma’s house, in Zia’s car, the drive home excruciatingly long, involving traffic jams, an interminable wait at the railway crossing, and more red traffic lights than I normally encountered in a week of driving. Near the naval base, Rangers — the much-feared special police force deployed in Karachi to counter terrorism (so the official line had it) — were rounding up suspicious characters. Had Karim been in Zia’s Integra he might have looked well-co

Karim raised his hand in a gesture of thanks, but I didn’t acknowledge it. He thought I was capable of saying something as hurtful, as disgusting, as what my father had said to Aunty Maheen. Aba, how could you? Karim, how could you think I would ever? I wiped away my tears impatiently. Neither of them was worth crying over. But the traffic still blurred before my eyes all the way back to our part of town.

When we reached Sonia’s house, Dost Mohommad, the cook, was cycling out. Seeing us get out of our cars he hopped off the bicycle, beaming with delight.

‘Allah ka shukar, Raheen Bibi, Karim Baba, Allah ka shukar!’

‘What is it, Dost Mohommad?’ Karim asked.

‘That police nonsense is over. They came to say the case against Lohawalla Sahib has been dropped.’

‘Who came? What do you mean?’

‘The lawyers. They said they had a call from the police. No case. No charges. All over. The family has gone to give Lohawalla Sahib’s parents the good news in person.’ He clasped Karim’s hand, and shook it with gusto before cycling off again.

Karim and I looked at each other. He must have seen how blotched and red my face was but all he said was, ‘We still have to tell her about the newspaper a

‘I don’t see any need for you to be there when she’s told. You know, you’re pretty much a stranger in all our lives. I’ll break the news to her.’

Karim raised his eyebrows, unbearably superior. ‘With your customary tact and concern for others’ feelings? Pla

I turned away. That had been the thought that ran through my mind when Dost Mohommad gave us the news. ‘I’m going over to Zia’s now. To tell him about Sonia. Why don’t you go somewhere else? Go and draw a map.’

‘Fine.’

‘Fine.’

And we so left it.

At Zia’s there was an eerie flickering from the window of the a

I walked up the stairs to the a

Zia pushed open the window, waved, and came round to open the door. ‘Hey!’ he shouted.

I walked into his ‘den’ and switched off the LaserDisc player, which was relaying some action movie on to his widescreen TV, taking full advantage of the surround-sound speakers. ‘Hey,’ I replied without enthusiasm.

Zia slid behind the bar in the far corner of the vast room. ‘Come on, then. Spill your woes to the bartender.’

I sat down on the bar stool and rested my head on the gleaming black marble of the bar. ‘I just found out why my father’s engagement to Aunty Maheen broke off. Karim made him tell me.’

‘Oh, man. You really need a drink, then.’

I looked up at Zia, who was unscrewing the top of a bottle of Black Label. He poured a generous amount into a glass and topped it with ice and Coke.

‘You knew?’ I waved away the proffered glass.

‘Can’t let it go to waste. Not while people are dying of thirst.’ Zia tilted and straightened the glass, listening with satisfaction to the tinkle of ice. ‘Yeah, I’ve known for a while.’

‘How?’

‘The Anwar files.’

Everyone knew, though no one had ever seen them, that Zia’s father, Uncle Anwar, had files on anyone who was anyone, and many besides, in Karachi, detailing their illicit, illiberal and ill-advised activities. Uncle Anwar said the reason he never employed guards to protect his house was that people of consequence in Karachi had such a fear of his files falling into their enemies’ hands that they all deployed their trusted aides to keep a close watch on Anwar’s house to ensure no one broke in and stole the files (and these people never attempted to steal the files themselves, because they knew there would be a hundred eyes watching them).

‘There’s a file on my father?’

Zia sipped his Black Label and nodded. ‘I wasn’t looking for it. But I got hold of the key to the filing cabinet one day, and thought I’d see what there was on Sonia’s father. Don’t know why. Just because he hated me and didn’t want me near his darling daughter, I suppose. Anyway, I thought it would be good to have some dirt on him. You know, just so I could feel superior. I wasn’t going to do anything with the information. I don’t think. I must have been about fourteen or fifteen. And the end of “K” and the begi