“I don’t understand your mysteries. There is no way you can go there. It’s in the middle of the village, and it’s a dangerous area with lots of violence these days. Forget it.” She was exasperated.
I was desperate. I could not tell her everything just yet. I had to know more. I had to see him face-to-face and confront him. I decided to drop it at that moment.
Later that evening, I snuck in to where I knew important documents were kept. Among the cardboard boxes I had seen one labeled “legal papers and letters.” After sifting through several stacks of papers, and shuffling a multitude of files, I came across a large envelope with the name Amjad Shah printed across it. As soon as I found the address, I called up Amna and went over to her house. She knew the interior village areas well and said her driver was quite familiar with the area. I did not explain to her
the purpose of my visit but told her that my life depended on it. She offered to accompany me on my journey.
“Shakoor is a good driver and is very reliable. You know that we have had him for almost twenty years. He can take us. If you prefer to go alone, that’s fine too. Just tell me what day.”
“Is tomorrow morning a possibility?” I asked earnestly.
“Sure,” she replied.
Amna was such a dear friend, and whenever I met her after a gap of several years, somehow it never seemed like a long time. We could talk for hours and catch up on all that we had missed out on, filling in all the blanks, and not have to think about what to say next. That was the special bond between childhood friends. I could trust her and I knew she would always be there for me when I needed her. I had so much piled up inside of me that I desperately needed to share it with someone. She had known about Ahmer for a few years, so I decided to tell her that things had not worked out for us. I did not feel ready to share with her the reasons behind our separation.
“I am so sorry things didn’t work out,” she said with tears in her eyes. I could see that she was feeling my pain.
“You know, a lot is not clear; I am not sure about many things. I will tell you the whole story when I get back.”
“That’s fine, just don’t do anything dangerous. You are too precious to me.” She gave me a warm hug and promised me that her car would be there with Shakoor at seven in the morning.
I wanted to leave before everyone woke up and before my plans could be defeated. I scribbled a note that Amna’s car had picked me, which was true, and that I would return before sunset. It was comfortably cool in the morning but was slowly warming up to be a hot and humid day. We had to traverse a large expanse of desert, but with Shakoor’s expertise in finding shortcuts, we crossed it rather quickly.
I tried to remain calm and fill my mind with happy thoughts, but it seemed an unachievable task. My hatred for Amjad Shah
was palpable; not only had he taken my father’s life, but he had also let an innocent man take the blame for it. How could he sleep at night, knowing one innocent person was dead and another was locked up in prison? How could he eat a meal knowing someone was nearly starving, imprisoned in a cell from where there was no escape? He had ruined many childhoods. And he was my half uncle; this I had never expected. His father was my very own grandfather. My father had such high moral values, yet his own brother was so full of sin and greed. He had killed Papa for money and land. Could he be happy after committing such a crime? Could all those inconsequential things bring him any joy?
My train of thought was interrupted by a group of beggars knocking at the car window when we stopped at a traffic signal. I quickly gave them some change that I had in my purse. I used to always feel sorry for these poor people, particularly the children who were made to beg on the streets, and angry at the feudals who did not want them to ever receive the gift of education, since that would empower them to fight for their rights. I looked at the youngest of the beggars, who was likely eight or nine years old. He was barefoot, with his face covered in dirt, his hair disheveled, and his shirt riddled with holes. I wondered what his life was like and felt that my problems at this moment paled in comparison to his.
While Shakoor was switching channels on the radio, the word “forgiveness” caught my attention, and I asked him to stay tuned in to that channel. It was a regular program that I had listened to before, with panel discussions about a subject. That day, the topic they had coincidentally chosen was that of revenge and forgiveness. The speaker, who was quoting from the Quran, said, “If thou dost stretch thy hand against me, to slay me, it is not for me to stretch my hand against thee to slay thee: for I do fear God, the cherisher of the worlds [Quran 5:28].”
They went into a discussion about what Allah and the Prophet (peace be upon him) had said about forgiveness, and all the scholars agreed on the fact that the one who forgives is much greater than the one who avenges. They also agreed that punishment was God’s right and we should trust him for justice, rather than taking revenge and harboring anger. There was a psychologist on the panel who offered her analysis on forgiveness and said that those who spent their life being vindictive and seeking revenge never found peace and those who found the generosity to forgive and let go gained a new sense of freedom.
I was amazed at the timing of this program being aired at the very moment I was heading to confront my father’s murderer. I decided that I was not among those magnanimous souls who had the capability to forgive a sin of such enormity.
We reached the house uneventfully. It was an extremely hot day, and the bright sunlight was almost blinding me as I stood outside the door, waiting for someone to answer. What if nobody was home? I had not even had the phone number to call. What if this was an old address and the person I had come all this way to meet had relocated? I took out a tissue from my purse to wipe the beads of perspiration that had settled on my face and neck. A woman in her sixties opened the door of what appeared to be a modest home in need of significant repair.
“
Salam
. I am here to meet Mr. Amjad Shah.” This was the first time I had allowed myself to say his name. “Is he home?”
The woman looked at me kindly but seemed surprised. “He is,” she said.
“I am Sana, his brother’s daughter.” I was gathering by now that this lady was perhaps not the lady of the house.
She showed me the way in and asked me to have a seat. “I will let him know you are here. Would you like some cold
lassi
?” she asked, referring to the traditional refreshing yogurt drink.
“No, thank you,” I said, feeling thirsty from the scorching heat but determined not to even have a sip of water in my enemy’s home.
She returned after what seemed like a long wait and asked me to go inside to the family room. I started feeling nervous. Maybe he was getting ready with a gun to kill me. Maybe he knew I had seen him that night. Perhaps he was aware that I knew his secret. If I got killed in this desert, no one would ever know. History would repeat itself, the killer would never get caught, and my mother and brother would lose another member of their family. My aunt and uncle would be devastated. I had been so irresponsible. At least when I had gone to meet the supposed killer in prison, there had been metal bars and policemen on duty to protect me. And here I was, alone and unarmed, to meet the real killer and confront him on my own.
What I had done was immature and rash. I could have at least confided in Ahmer; we could have come here together. Then I wondered how he would handle it if something were to happen to me. He might not marry for the rest of his life. But at least he might know one day that I had sacrificed my life trying to sort his out. If I died and the truth came out, it would still be worth it. But if not, it would all be in vain. I wished I had confided in Amna, so at least someone would know. Maybe I would change my stance and just pretend I was here to meet him as an old relative who wanted to patch things up with extended family; then I could return later with the police or Ahmer.
I was jittery and felt cold and weak, like my legs would give way and I would stumble and fall, but I steadied myself and prepared myself once again for this long-awaited moment. I was going to meet my father’s killer. I would finally see the evil eyes that had haunted me for sixteen years. I was anticipating a strong, stocky man when suddenly I looked over my shoulder and saw a feeble figure lying on the couch across the room. It was boiling hot, yet he was covered in a blanket. He appeared old and
cachectic, his face covered in a graying, untrimmed beard, his gray hair long. His cheeks were hollow and sunken in, and his lips were parched and blistered. He seemed to be in a lot of pain. His eyes closed as he winced and then slowly opened. There they were: the familiar green eyes. I almost jumped at the sight of them. I would have never recognized this man if it had not been for those unmistakable, unforgettable eyes. The diagonal scar on his forehead was visible, as I had remembered, although it was less pronounced. He looked at me with his glassy eyes, and I felt as if I was sitting before a ghost.
“I am Sana,” I said softly, “your brother’s daughter.” I waited for a response as I observed him slowly turn to his side a little. I could see his shoulder blades protruding out from underneath his shirt.
His expression suddenly changed. “Why have you come?” he said, his voice weak and barely audible.
“Wouldn’t you want to know what kind of life I have had? You know that my father was killed in cold blood. My mother had to remarry, I was separated from my family, and my life was ruined. But there is one thing you do not know: I know who killed my papa. I was there to witness his murder. I was nine years old. I was hiding behind the curtain and I saw your face right after you had killed him. I saw him die before my eyes and I have had to live with that every single day of my life. I remembered your face. I promised never to forget you for as long as I lived.”
He tried to sit up but was too frail for the endeavor. The sunlight shifted and the room became less dark. I could see his face more clearly and I noticed that his skin was pale, with a tinge of yellow. The white of his eyes also appeared yellow. I was beginning to wonder if he had hepatitis.
He reached over to have a sip of water from a silver metallic bowl, or
katora
, which sat at his bedside, “Why did it take
you so many years to come here? I wish you had come sooner. I wish you had come that same night.”
This was not the meeting I had anticipated. This was not the man I had been waiting to confront. And this was certainly not the reaction I had predicted.
“Because I was naïve,” I said. “I was a child and believed whatever I was told. I was informed that the killer had been caught and was serving a life sentence. I assumed it was you. I could never have imagined that an innocent person was suffering behind the walls of prison. When I went to meet him, I knew they had the wrong man. How could you ruin our lives and then let an innocent person be punished for your crime? How do you sleep at night?”
My face felt warm with anger, but I also felt some sense of peace that I was not in danger and that I had been able to say many of the things I had planned to say for years. My enemy was still my enemy but he appeared helpless and unable to cause harm in his current debilitated state. I suddenly felt safe and confident.
“When I saw your picture in my family album, I could not believe that the person who took my father’s life was his own brother. I love my brother so much that I would give my life for him, even though we haven’t lived in the same house for most of our lives. And you killed your own brother in cold blood. If you would have asked, just asked one time, for money or land, he would have given it to you in a heartbeat. He didn’t care for things. He cared about people, about family, and about life. So now that you have all those things, are you happy? Are you happy that my father’s dead and an innocent man’s sixteen years have been thrown away? Did you think about the fact that these two people have families? How could you take our lives away?”
After a pause he responded, “I didn’t know. I didn’t know that someone else was in prison. What I did was horrible, unforgivable. And I don’t expect you to forgive me at all. You can
kill me if you wish. But I do want to tell you some things if you would care to listen. It may give you some comfort.”
“I am listening,” I said, still seething with rage.
“It had nothing to do with money. I was ten years old when my father—your grandfather—left us. We had a glorious life until then, a life full of happiness and laughter. Abba loved my mother and me to death, or so it seemed. He taught me math, he told me stories, and he stayed up all night with me when I had a fever. He taught me how to play cricket and how to ride a horse. He was the best father, and we were the perfect family. But one day he suddenly left us. He was gone from our home and from our lives. He had found another woman with whom he wanted to spend the rest of his life. She was more educated than my mother, and he felt that they would have a better understanding. I heard him say those hurtful words so casually, as if he were simply uttering a weather update. I heard my mother cry and scream all night and beg my father not to leave us. She said she would live with the other woman. We could all live together and make adjustments. But my father said the other woman was not agreeable to that arrangement.
“My mother changed overnight. She changed from a loving, caring wife and mother to a living corpse. She eventually lost her mind and had to be institutionalized. He said he would continue to visit us and support us financially; he was a ‘gentleman’ after all. Gradually the visits became more infrequent and then stopped altogether. The financial support continued, however.”
He paused to cough and to regain the strength that had been consumed by conversing. “I had been a good student; I always stood ahead of my classmates, mainly because I had an educated father, unlike most children in the village. But when he left, I became a lost, abandoned child. All my desire to succeed vanished. Who would I need to make proud? My mother who barely recognized me, or my father who couldn’t care less? The
only wish I had was to sever ties with my father so that we were not dependent on him for money. I started working in my teenage years to support the needs of my mother and refused to take a single rupee from him. Did he think that money could buy us happiness? That it could cover the scars he had left inside us? I became more depressed when I learned of your father’s birth and then your aunt’s arrival. They were the happy family now, the family built on the ruins of our broken home.