---
" What did you just say?" the stranger asked, drawing his hand with the money back in shock. "What happened for four hundred and fifty rupees? Quickly, tell me! Tell me at once!"
"May God never let a poor and helpless family bear a daughter," the woman wept. "Go! Leave us! You came here to throw wealth into our misery?"
"For God's sake, sister, tell me what happened? I'll take the money, but at least tell me something."
"Yesterday evening a thug came…" Ibn's wife said, fixing her eyes on the roof, and the girl got up and went outside. "Just like you, he counted four hundred and fifty rupees into my hand and kept talking flattering sweet words for a long time. In the midst of those talks, he took my daughter into the other room. After a while, I heard her muffled cries. I called out—'Zainat! Zainat!' That accursed man must have strangled her. I didn't have the strength to get up. The children had gone outside. Somehow stumbling, I reached the cot by the door. I opened it—and what I saw…" She could not go on, and broke down, sobbing with hiccups.
The stranger's face turned red with rage, his eyes seemed about to burst out. He bit his lip, stood up in anger, and throwing a bundle of notes on Ibn's wife's chest, said:
"These four thousand rupees Ibn has sent from Lahore. This is your husband's money. Ibn and I are doing business together. This is the profit. I'm not here to do you a favor. This money is yours."
"Who are you? What's your name and address?" asked Ibn's wife.
"I can be anyone—what concern is it of yours? Just make sure no one finds out someone came and gave you this money. Hide it somewhere the police won't find it. Bury it in the courtyard, and use it little by little. When will their father return?"
"I'll tell you that sometime later."
"And why are the police after him?"
"He's a witness in one case, nothing more. Don't be afraid." He turned to leave, then stopped and said: "Oh yes, hearing this grief, I nearly forgot something important. Ibn has sent word that I'll keep sending money like this from time to time. Enroll the boys in school, and before anything else, get yourself treated by a good doctor. And sister, think of me as your brother, think of me as that girl's father. Our business has begun to flourish. Stop considering yourself poor. As for the police matter—if you want, I can move you to such a house where the police will never find you."
"My brother!" Ibn's wife pleaded. "If you can do that, it would be a great favor."
"It will be done," he said. And just as he had appeared from the darkness, he left the room, crossed the courtyard, and disappeared into the night.
The night in Karachi kept passing by.
Naz lay in her room tangled in thoughts. A little while ago she had been reading Jaida's diary. She had shared her heart with Jaida and resolved the matter of freedom. Resolved it in such a way that she decided to stay, and she felt a kind of peace. That very evening, she had thrown aside some magazines, opened the drawer of the table, and pulled out Jaida's diary. In it, there were even a few lines about her own story with Aslam.
Naz read countless pages and realized Jaida was not just a criminal—he was something else too. A beast, yes, but also a human being. She felt that before reading the diary, she had only seen Jaida as a crude figure, but in those pages, he had laid bare every broken fragment of his shattered personality.
Naz stopped reading not because the diary was too long, but because her nerves could not bear the bitterness written in it. Two or three times, her tears flowed.
"One evening," Jaida had written, "I remembered the days of childhood when my mother was alive. Had I died with her, how good it would have been."
When Naz read this line, she closed the diary and lay down. Beyond the flowing moments of time, she too could see her childhood standing there.
Meanwhile, Muna, Tipu, and Badal were preparing to sleep in their room, surrounded by hashish smoke. Half past eleven was not their bedtime, but digging a grave for Ibn's corpse had exhausted them.
These were creatures of the world of crime—creatures that steal, pick pockets, rob, and commit every crime that terrifies civilized society. But their nature never changed. When together, they talked about their victims and laughed heartily. Their jokes were obscene, their curses foul. They never kept one thing in their hearts and another on their tongues. They had no secrets, no fake laughter, no false flattery. Among the civilized, however, they became masks of deceit—their oaths false, their smiles artificial, their tears crocodile.
But that night, Badal carried a weight on his heart he hadn't shared with his fellows. Twice he thought of telling Muna and Tipu, but held back. He was restless, yet concealing it.
As they lay down, a knock came on the door. Naz's servant boy brought out a lantern and opened the door. Jaida was there—wearing a white muslin cap, pajama, and kurta, with a sheet draped over him, glasses on his eyes, and a black beard on his face. He had just returned from giving four thousand rupees to Ibn's wife. After the door closed, he handed the beard, cap, and sheet to the boy.
"Where are they?" he asked.
"In the room, maybe waiting for you."
Jaida entered the room where his three companions usually sat. When they met after some job, they laughed warmly. But this night, though Muna and Tipu laughed, Badal didn't even smile. Jaida's face too remained serious. Normally, it would light up like a flower when he saw his companions.
Seeing Jaida's seriousness, then Badal's, then looking at each other, Muna and Tipu thought: "Something's wrong. Definitely something." Their master's eyes stayed fixed on Badal. Quickly, Muna tore some tobacco, mixed it with hash, rolled it into a cigarette, lit it, and offered it to Jaida. After a puff, Jaida passed it to Tipu.
"You went to Ibn's house, didn't you, Master?" Muna asked.
"Yes," Jaida sighed, "I gave his wife the money." Then looking at Badal, he said: "Our friend Badal also gave four hundred and fifty there. Before you all, I gave him five hundred."
"Huh? Why didn't he give the full five hundred?" Tipu asked.
Badal's face went pale. He looked blankly at his companions.
"Are you stupid, bastard?" Muna snapped. "We're thieves, pickpockets, but not faithless. The Master gave five hundred, and you ruined your honor over fifty?"
"It's not the fifty that grieves me," Jaida said. "He's done something far worse. And I want to hear it from his own lips. You two listen as well."
Badal looked at Muna and Tipu pleadingly. But they turned their eyes away. They knew he had committed some unforgivable act. They also knew mercy would be useless.
"You went to Ibn's house to give four hundred and fifty?" Jaida asked.
"Yes, Master," Badal answered in a broken voice.
This was the same Badal who had fought two or three men alone, who had three robberies on his record. Jaida's brave comrade—but before him now, he felt paralyzed, helpless.
"You gave the money to Ibn's wife—and what did you do to her daughter? Did I send you there to commit such a vile act?"
"No, Master," Badal answered like a frightened child.
"Have I ever let you forget you are a man?"
"You have, Master."
"Did I give you permission to dishonor Ibn's daughter?"
"No, Master."
"But you did dishonor her?"
"Forgive me, Master. It was a mistake."
"You trampled on the chest of the dead!"
"She was a young girl, Master, and when I saw her…"
"You both heard his crime?" Jaida cut him off, asking Muna and Tipu.
"We heard," they said.
"Then is he guilty?"
"No doubt," said Muna, and Tipu nodded.
"And whatever punishment I give him—you'll accept it?"
"Yes, Master," said Muna.
"Badal," Jaida said, "we've been together for years, pulling off all kinds of jobs. Name one time I broke into a hut or a poor man's house—or let you do so. Have we ever robbed the homes of those who cut their stomachs to save dowries for their daughters? How many times have I told you to size up the target? From their clothes and faces, you can tell if a man lives half the month on salary and half on debt!"
"You're right, Master," Badal begged. "Forgive me, I made a mistake. Friends, tell him! The girl… she seemed so beautiful to me that—"
"Shameless bastard!" Jaida cursed. "She's the daughter of a dead man. The daughter of a poor father who sold his faith just for her sake. There is no shortage in this country of men who sell their faith to feed their children. Honesty starved them, but you—you dishonored that poor man's daughter!"
Badal had been cowering, but now anger flared in him. He had bowed only because Jaida was his master. The arts of lockpicking and burglary that Jaida had taught him—no one else could.
---
To be continue....