The Missionaries- second installment

7:30 AM

PECHS, Karachi, Pakistan

The alarm of a Samsung mobile phone was buzzing and playing an AC/DC song on the bedside table. It kept on playing for 5 minutes when finally a hand reached out from under the sheets on the bed and killed the alarm.

Arif Hasan got off bed and looked at the time.

“Fuck me!” He swore out loud. For the 4^th day running he was late for work. He had recently got a job at a market research company, thanks to a friend of his dad’s. He loved the job but he always got in late. He rushed to the bathroom had a quick shower, brushed his teeth, dashed back, blindly picked a pair of pants, a shirt and a tie, dressed up, got into his worn out shoes, grabbed his wallet and phone and rushed into the adjoining living room, which served as both a TV lounge and a drawing room.

“Arif, you are late again!! His mother shouted out from the kitchen

“And let me warn you, if you get fired, I will personally fire you from the house and your dad won’t be able to do anything about it!”

She came out of the kitchen sweating. She had a kind looking face which was now contorted with rage. Arif said, “mom, ok, don’t worry. Promise it won’t happen again.ok…” and he kissed her on the cheeks. He took the milkshake mug from her hands gulped it down in one go.

He turned to the television and switched it open and flicked to Geo News.

“You are seeing live visuals from Washington DC, it is extraordinary.  The President of the United States has been murdered. I repeat. The President of America Joseph Reid has been killed. He has been beheaded and his head is missing. The security agencies have been unable to locate the head and security all around USA and its bases have been put on red alert. The American nation is stunned and answers are being sought. The CIA has attributed the murder to a terrorist strike but no finger prints or any weapons have been recovered from crime scene….To further discuss the situation we have invited the host of Capital….”

Arif was looking at the TV too stunned to speak anything. The President of United States, killed in the most secure building on the planet, he thought. Like something from a Roland Emmerich disaster movie.

“Mom, I know I will be late today, but can you stop frying eggs and come out to see this”, he called out.

His mother came out of the kitchen asked what was happening. Arif pointed to the TV screen which now showed a well-known talk show host who, as Arif noticed, couldn’t suppress a smirk. Arif’s mom read the ticker running on the screen and looked at Arif.

“Is this really happening? I am telling you, expect America to attack Pakistan within the next few hours”, she said darkly. And then she went back to the kitchen to fry eggs which left Arif in no doubt that to his mother beheading of the most powerful man in the world was not a big deal.

His phone was buzzing, he looked and saw 35 twitter and 20 Facebook notifications. Of course the social media would be buzzing, but Arif had long since come to the conclusion that chatter on social media was about as productive as the chatter of crows on trees. Meaning. It was just annoying. So much righteous outrage, so many laptop activists, so many news analysts. He just got bored with it and never used it much. That being said, he had made some very good friends on these websites and talked with them only on SMS or voice calls.

Right he was fighting an urge to stay and watch the incredible news or head to the office, to which by this time he was already 40 minutes late. Therefore he wrenched his eyes away from the TV and said good bye to his mother ran to the bus stop. Fortunately, he spotted the bus coming and climbed on it. As soon as he sat on the seat, a text message came on his phone, he opened it and saw that it was from his friend Kaleemullah, an aspiring Jihadi and a Database Administrator working at Humanity Plus, a US government funded NGO. Kaleemullah had assured Arif on numerous occasions that his concern was to manage the company databases and not spread the ‘kufr’ of Satan America, hence was doing nothing wrong. When Arif pointed out that his work kept the databases of the ‘Kufar’ running, Kaleem said, “Hey, even Ali had to work in the garden of a Jew. Bro, you have to. Bad financial times you know...Anyways…did you check out Mathira’s pics?” Arif had always wondered, how Kaleem ever became a Hafiz.

The message from Kaleem read

“Allah be praised, the great American Satan is dead. Allah u Akbar”

Arif smiled. In his mind’s eye he saw Kaleem doing a Gangnam in the mosque.

“Halal Gangnam”, he spoke to himself smiling, which was heard by an old man in a white kurta, sitting beside him. The old man gave him an annoyed partly patronizing look and turned his face back to the window.

Another text message appeared on Arif’s phone, this was from his friend Shahnawaz, who was the son of an industrialist and was his former class fellow. The message,

“Dude, USA president is now Prezi-dead. Fuck!! Whoever dunnit was a daddy cool”.

Arif replied, “Hi Five J “

To pass time, Arif started reading older messages, and saw Sophia’s name on the list. Ah, Sophie, he thought ….when suddenly his thoughts were interrupted by blaring sirens of a dozen police vans speeding past the bus.

Must be another suicide attack, he thought. He inwardly prayed that it was a grenade attack rather than suicide one. Suicide attacks had the potential to cause hour long traffic jams , while grenade blasts caused jams lasting up to 15 minutes, firing, none. “Karachi” he said to himself. When you are a Karachiite you don’t wish for killings to not happen, instead you prayed for killings to happen less.

The bus conductor came to his eat and asked for the fare,

’10 rupees brother, he said.

Arif took out his wallet and pulled out 10 rupees from it, realizing that now his wallet was empty.

‘Brother, brother, brother’, sighed the conductor while looking at the Arif empty wallet. Arif didn’t want a bus conductor to pity him so he stowed back his wallet quickly in his pocket.

Suddenly he heard loud sounds coming from outside the bus, the old man sitting next to Arif looked out of the window and saw 5 helicopters in the sky going straight in the same directions as the bus. And they were flying very low.

Arif had never seen 5 helicopters flying together on the Karachi skies before and somehow the rushing police vans and the helicopters seemed connected to Arif. He looked at the helicopters and saw that they were 2 Aerospatiale SA 330 Pumas and 3 Mil-MI 7 helicopters, all with Pak Army insignia on them.  

‘Wow’ said Arif, looking at the helicopters.

Then suddenly the bus drivers swerved the bus to the left to make room for Army’s Armored Vehicles which went rushing Past followed by ambulances.

“Whatever is happening, doesn’t look good” the old man told Arif.

“Baba, the Chief Minister’s house is straight ahead right? “

“Yes son, but if some blast had taken place, we would have heard it because we are just 5 minutes away from the minister’s residence.

Arif sent a sms to both Sophia, Kaleem and Shah, asking if something had happened in Karachi. Then his phone started ringing, the caller ID showed that it was a call coming from his home.

“Yes mom” Arif answered the phone.

“Son, come home quick, your dad is already home and your brother is coming back from school too.” his mom told in a tone that suggested panic and worry.

“Mom, what happened??” Arif asked.

“Son, it just came on the news, although they are not confirming it. The President, Prime Ministers, and the Chief Ministers of all the provinces have been found headless in their respective homes!”

"What??"

"Yes son, just come home because angry mobs of the ruling party are setting on fire anything that they come across, already 15 people have died within 10 minutes.....son come home please"

"Ok mom, don't worry, I am coming back, give the phone to dad"

“Your dad has went out to fetch Imran, he seems to stuck in a traffic jam".

"OK mom I am coming back."

Arif got up from his seat and banged his hands on the bus door. The driver stopped the bus and he got out.

‘Fucking Hell’

Arif knew that if the CM was killed, it would be a weeks’ worth of indiscriminate killings and economic shutdown.

‘Bitches can’t even die without killings 20, 30 folks’ he thought angrily, now crossing the road. ‘But fuck man, 4 CMs and a President. Insane!!!... That would be months’ worth of strikes and carnage…and no work’ Arif bitterly thought. Arif still remembered the events after Benazir Bhutto’s assassination.

Suddenly he heard gunshots behind him and saw that a gang of young men were forcing the shopkeepers to shutdown shops. Aerial shots were being fired. He saw two policemen running for cover. This, Arif saw as a signal that the area was now under gang control and the civilians were on their own.

Ahead he saw a taxi in which the driver was about to get in.

“Hey!!! Hey!” Arif shouted to the driver as he ran toward the taxi.

The taxi was about to drive away when Arif reached it.

“Hey, brother,…PECHS…please”

The taxi driver looked at him and said, “You are lucky I was going in that direction, get in before we both get shot”

“Fucking thanks man” and Arif got into the taxi and they both drove away.

They reached Arif’s home, and Arif saw his dad standing at the gate waiting.

“Dad I don’t have money, the fare was 150 rupees”, said Arif as he came out of the taxi.

His dad took out 200 from his wallet, and gave it to the taxi driver thanking him profusely.

“Sir it was nothing” and he gave back the remaining 50 rupees.

Arif’s dad Mr. Hasan, insisted that driver take the 50 rupees, but the driver only wanted the fare and ignoring Mr. Hasan’s requests, he drove away.

“Good guy” Arif said while looking at the taxi.

“May God keep him safe “said Mr. Hasan.

“ God..yeah whatever..” Arif mumbled and went inside the house, his dad followed him inside.

The Missionaries- Novel by Einsjam

21:00 Hrs.

Washington DC.  White House: The Rose Garden,

Agent Bryan McNamara was patrolling the Rose Garden in the White House. It was a pleasant evening. Mid November. Cold, but that’s the way he liked Washington DC. The cold reminded him of his hometown of Talkeetna, Alaska. It was a simple town, whose ceremonial mayor was a cat named Stubbs.

 The chilly wind felt good on his freshly shaved face. He paced around the garden listening to any noise, keeping a look out for anything out of the ordinary. He had an 8 hour shift today. Larry Schwartzman was supposed to patrol the premises and he Bryan would have been watching the Red Wings game with his beloved Katie. 

He walked further reaching a lamppost bathing him in an orange light. The White House building behind him. Suddenly he heard a whooshing noise, behind him. He turned to look around quickly, his eyes scanning for the source of the noise. 

The leaves of the trees were gently rustling, ahead he saw the shadow of a man walking with his dog. ‘Jose Rivera’, he thought, recognizing the figure. Everything looked normal. ‘Must be a gust of wind' he thought. He checked his watch’. 21:01 Hrs. 

He turned back and started walking when suddenly a panicked voice crackled on his earpiece. “Code Red, Code Red, The Devil is gone. I repeat the…… The Devil is gone’. McNamara felt the ground beneath his boots slip. The Devil was not in the house. A second later his sense started to trickle in. The Devil must be in any of the House’s 132 rooms. But they wouldn’t have put it out if they weren’t completely sure if the Devil was not there. It just couldn’t be.

He ran towards the building, reaching the famous columns he met Agent Jackson who was about to dash inside. ‘Hey Jack, what’s happening?’ 

‘They say The Devil is missing’, Jackson replied panting, it seemed that he had run a distance.

‘Has anybody run a thorough check?’ McNamara inquired.

‘Yeah they have’ and Agent Jackson sprinted away into the House.

His earpiece crackled again,’ The Devil has been found. His head is missing’.

Now, McNamara really felt his the ground underneath him tremble and shake. He ran into the House following another agent whom he recognized as Eric Smithfield. 

‘Hey Eric, You sure it’s not some freak exercise bullshit by the command? Cause’ if it aint, we are fucked’. McNamara said to Smithfield while running.

‘ No, this is happening, a shit tsunami is about to kick in’ said Smithfield in dread laced tones, while running towards the White House Movie Theatre, where the voice inside Smithfield’s earpiece was directing him towards. 

McNamara followed Smithfield and entered the movie theatre and a horrific sight greeted him. On the roof there was perfect circular hole through which the night sky was visible and directly underneath it was the headless of body a well-built tall man in red striped pajamas. The body lay spread eagled, while stump of the neck oozed out blood.  

5 other agents were busy scanning the whole place while 2 stood guard over the body.

The murder had happened just now, the terrorist must be here somewhere, McNamara thought, while still grasping the fact that The Devil was lying in front of him, dead. While Smithfield looked at the body horrorstruck. 

McNamara could now hear the alarms howling around him, hundreds of feet thumping the floors, dog barks, shouts, and a lone scream. 

Agents and security guards were fanning around the White House, helicopters were circling the building shining powerful beams on the House and its surroundings. 

McNamara looked at the body. The Devil was a good man, he thought. He cared for his family, went to the church, and always appeared humble. Managing a laugh even if his approval ratings were down. These days it was going slowly back up because of his intervention in Pakistan, where he had decided to carpet bomb a whole city, whose name McNamara couldn’t even pronounce, but it started with a P. He was a witty fellow who had played so dirty tricks on his opponents, that when the time to give him a codename came, he was named as The Devil. It was a no-brainer as far as McNamara was concerned.

And now, The Devil lay lifeless and headless in front of him. He thought about the mysterious whooshing sound he heard. He looked at the enigmatic hole in the roof that had been precisely cut in a circular shape. 

One thing, however was crushingly clear to Bryan McNamara. Joseph Reid codenamed The Devil, President of the United States of America had just been brutally murdered.

With Ziarat Residency Burnt, A Piece of Pakistan Died Too

June 15, 2013 would now be remembered forever now. Today the legendary building that adorns our hundred rupee notes was burnt and destroyed in a targeted terrorist attack. All the historical photographs and furniture were destroyed and as always the militants escaped unhurt. Today, not just a wood and brick building was destroyed, but also a piece of Pakistan died with it too. 

Quick history check: Ziarat residency was constructed in 1892 with the idea of it becoming a sanatorium due to the presence of a Juniper forest in the area in which it was constructed. Later on it was converted into a summer residence of the Agent to the Governor General. But it being the building where Quaid e Azam Mohammad Ali Jinnah spent his last days is what it makes it truly historical. Nations all around the world, preserve such places, securing them, guarding them from any calamity, manmade or natural. But we failed to protect our revered founder’s second last earthly residence.  Jinnah, loved the peace and quiet of Ziarat, as Fatima Jinnah in her book My Brother informs us, but he also said that it was easier to breathe in Quetta rather than Ziarat.

It was a majestic building, with so much history in it. Its walls were privy to the musings of the ailing leader who was concerned about the genocide that was happening along the border, worried about the future of the fledgling new created state, worried about who would replace him in the future and would he be able to keep the ship of Pakistan afloat. Its walls saw many leaders arrive, begging for Jinnah’s guidance. Its walls saw Jinnah fighting bravely against tuberculosis, unwilling to give up. The walls heard everything, the walls saw everything, but we never will.

 

The very fact that the founder of the nation’s residence has now been burnt down to the ground- destroyed in a militant attack- speaks volumes about where we as a nation have come down to since 1948. It is not just about the priceless archives, photos and Quaid’s furniture, it is not about the loss of a tourist hotspot in Ziarat. It’s about preserving the memories of a man who gave his all for our freedom. It is about the preserving the idea of Pakistan, where every ethnicity and religious group is free to live and practice its customs because this has nothing to do with the business of the state. But when intolerance and tyranny seeps in, it destroys the ideals on which this state was founded. When people are alienated with daily abductions, killings, then you force them down the path of separatism that further leads down towards terrorism. Burning down Ziarat Residency was a symbolic act of terrorism. An act to show the world that they don’t want to be part of Pakistan any more. By burning down Ziarat residency the terrorists have shown that the idea of being part of Pakistan is abhorrent to them. The impact of this event are enormous. How many people would go missing? How many pipelines would be blown up? How many Punjabis professionals would be shot in the aftermath? Would we approach this matter softly or come down harsh?

In a way, the burnt down hulk of Ziarat Residency is a perfect metaphor for the state of Pakistan’s affairs. Pakistan lies burnt to the ground with militancy, corruption, nepotism rife. May be in the future, Ziarat residency might be restored, replicas of furniture installed. But would we and our country be able to rise out of the ashes? That remains to be seen. I hope that our authorities would take appropriate steps to ensure the security of all places associated with Quaid e Azam.

For now, Dear Quaid, I am sorry, we couldn’t protect your property.