Moth Smoke

12 the best friend

I’m Aurangzeb. Ozi to my wife, my friends, and even those of my friends who sleep with my wife. But mostly I’m Aurangzeb. And regardless of what you’ve heard, I’m not a bad guy.

You see, the problem is, I make people jealous. Which is understandable. I’m wealthy, well connected, successful. My father’s an important person. In all likelihood, I’ll be an important person. Lahore’s a tough place if you’re not an important person. Too tough for my best friend, apparently.

Some say my dad’s corrupt and I’m his money launderer. Well, it’s true enough. People are robbing the country blind, and if the choice is between being held up at gunpoint or holding the gun, only a madman would choose to hand over his wallet rather than fill it with someone else’s cash. Why do you think my father got into it? He was a soldier. He served in ’71. He saw what was going on. And he decided that he wasn’t going to wait around to get shot in the back while people divided up the country. He wanted his piece. And I want mine.

What’s the alternative? You have to have money these days. The roads are falling apart, so you need a Pajero or a Land Cruiser. The phone lines are erratic, so you need a mobile. The colleges are overrun with fundos who have no interest in getting an education, so you have to go abroad. And that’s ten lakhs a year, mind you. Thanks to electricity theft there will always be shortages, so you have to have a generator. The police are corrupt and ineffective, so you need private security guards. It goes on and on. People are pulling their pieces out of the pie, and the pie is getting smaller, so if you love your family, you’d better take your piece now, while there’s still some left. That’s what I’m doing. And if anyone isn’t doing it, it’s because they’re locked out of the kitchen.

Guilt isn’t a problem, by the way. Once you’ve started, there’s no way to stop, so there’s nothing to be guilty about. Ask yourself this: If you’re me, what do you do now? Turn yourself in to the police, so some sadistic, bare-chested Neanderthal can beat you to a pulp while you await trial? Publish a full-page apology in the newspapers? Take the Karakoram Highway up to Tibet and become a monk, never to be heard from again? Right: you accept that you can’t change the system, shrug, create lots of little shell companies, and open dollar accounts on sunny islands far, far away.

I’m really not that bad. A victim of jealousy from time to time. But definitely no hypocrite.

Speaking of hypocrites, let me tell you a thing or two about good old Daru.

Daru’s an educated fellow. No foreign degrees, it’s true, but he went to the most prestigious school in the city. A very exclusive school, mind you. A school that’s difficult to get into. The sort of school unlikely to admit a boy if he comes from a no-name middle-class background, if his father’s main distinction is being dead.

So how did Daru get in?

My father got him in, that’s how.

You see, my father knows something about loyalty. Captain Shezad (that’s Daru’s dad) died of a rotting shrapnel wound in East Pakistan. But before he died he went to the military academy with my father, served for a time in the same regiment, got married the same December, had a son the same age. My father and Captain Shezad were like brothers, and my dad treated Daru like his son. He sent us to the same school and paid both of our tuitions. My father gave Daru his pedigree.

You didn’t know that, did you? I didn’t think so.

But you did know my father got him his precious bank job? Well then, you must admit Daru has some nerve calling himself a self-made man, whining that he’s the victim of the system, that he never took advantage of anyone, that he was wronged, and wronged by us, by me of all people.

He’s full of it.

Now, I’m a money launderer, right? Money launderers are bad, right? Bad because they take dirty money and make it look clean. Bad like Pol and Idi and Adolf and Harry and the rest of the twentieth century’s great butchers of unarmed humanity. Oh, not quite that bad? Thanks, you’re too kind.

Well, what about the guys who give out the Nobel Prize? What are they? They’re money launderers. They take the fortunes made out of dynamite, out of blowing people into bits, and make the family name of Nobel noble. The Rhodes Scholarship folks? They do the same thing: dry-clean our memories of one of the great white colonialists, of the men who didn’t let niggers like us into their clubs or their parliaments, who gunned us down in gardens when we tried to protest.

And what about the bankers of the world? What about family fortunes held in accounts that make more in interest than the income of every villager in the Punjab put together? Where did all that money come from? How much of it was dirty once, how much came from killing union leaders and making slaves pick cotton and invading countries that wanted control over their natural resources? Would you like your money starched, sir? Box or hanger? Thanks for using GloboBank.

Luckily for the downtrodden, in the midst of all this money laundering, of transforming ill-gotten gain into prestigious titles and luxurious mansions, we have a Champion of the Good. Tan-ta-ta-ran! It’s Darashikoh Shezad. But wait a minute. What does he do? He’s a banker. An account manager, as a matter of fact. And whose accounts does he manage, what clients does he please, whose asses, if you’ll pardon the expression, does he kiss? Men like my father’s. So enough of this nonsense about me being the big bad money launderer and Daru being hung out in the wash. We’re all in this together.

And let me tell you something else about Daru. Just before she left me, Mumtaz hired a houseboy. A very hard-working kid. Good-natured. Sweet. Cooks. Cleans. And I was glad to have him, because, jokes aside, it’s difficult finding good servants these days. Anyway, the boy’s name was Manucci, and it turned out he used to work, if you can call slave labor work, for Daru. For the man of the people himself. Why did he run away? Because Daru beat him, humiliated him, and didn’t pay him, sometimes for months. That’s right: self-righteous Daru is a hypocrite and a menace. Ask Manucci. As soon as his knees stop knocking together, he’ll tell you.

So take another look at us, Daru and me. I may clean dirty cash, but I don’t beat defenseless children and I don’t screw my friends’ wives and I stand by my father when push comes to shove.

Not convinced? Still think I’m the bad guy? Then do me a favor and try to put yourself in my shoes. Just for a moment. Don’t think you can? Well, let me tell you a story.

Once upon a time there were two boys. Let’s call them Hero and Villain, or Ro and Lain for short. Ro’s a pudgy little kid, quiet, studious, with a runny nose. He has no real friends. You know, one of those social misfits you had in your junior school class who hung out together because they were ostracized by everyone else.

Anyway, this kid, Ro, drives to school every morning with another kid, Lain. They’re driven by Lain’s dad’s driver in Lain’s dad’s car. Lain sits in the front and Ro sits in the back, and they hardly exchange a word, because Lain’s ashamed of Ro. Lain, you see, is a stud, even at age five. He’s not the fastest sprinter in the class, the best batsman, the most brilliant student, the scrappiest fighter, or the cheekiest prankster. But he can run fast, he is good with a bat, he does get solid marks, he will stand up to bullies, and he isn’t scared of getting caned if a joke is funny enough. And most important of all, people like him. He can make friends with a grin, and he knows it.

Yes, I won’t deny it, Lain’s a little asshole.

Lain isn’t mean to Ro. Not exactly. He just ignores him. But the more he does, the more Ro looks up to him with puppy-dog affection, ready and eager to do Lain’s homework whenever Lain will let him.

Anyway, this pathetic state of affairs lasts until the end of junior school. Until the arrival of Ataris in Lahore, to be precise. Lain is the first kid in the class to get one, and his father forces him to invite Ro over to use it, which Lain does rather ungraciously.

The funny thing is, fat little Ro is actually good at it. Combat, Adventure, Space Invaders: by the end of a day he’s teaching Lain new tricks. And a friendship begins to form between the two, not much of a friendship, it’s true, but something. They start playing every weekend. Ro spends a night once. Twice. Then sleepovers become more regular. And because Lain’s parents force them to go to bed when they’re still wide awake, the two boys find themselves chatting until they fall asleep. Neither has a brother, so each is getting to know another boy really well for the first time in his life.

Lain has a wild imagination. He’s always liked to pretend that he’s stranded on a desert island, or fighting in a war, or whatever. And the boys are now getting to an age where make-believe is uncool. But to Ro, everything Lain does is cool, so Lain feels comfortable playing games with Ro he wouldn’t play with his other friends, and telling him things he’d never tell anyone else. And Ro, for his part, turns out to be the most loyal friend imaginable.

Well, things might have stayed like that, Ro remaining Lain’s loving pet forever, but Defender came to town. By now, many boys in school have Ataris, and they decide to have a competition at somebody’s house, a video-game battle to find out who really is the best of the best and who’s just talk. And naturally, the game for the competition is Defender.

The week before, Lain practices every day. And by the time the weekend rolls around, he’s ready. When the dust has settled and all twenty-eight boys have taken their turn, it’s official: the highest score goes to Lain. He’s the champ. And Ro, the video-game wunderkind, is number two.

Ro has probably never been second at anything in his life. All the boys are impressed that he’s done so well. But I guess he wanted more. He wanted to win, to be the best, just this once. So when Lain goes up to his friend to congratulate him, Ro says, ‘If I had an Atari at my house, I could have scored double what you did.’

Lain, shocked at this display of bad sportsmanship, says without thinking, ‘You might as well take mine, then. You’ll never have one unless my family gives it to you.’

And right there, as twenty-six of their classmates look on, oohing and aahing, Ro turns red as a tomato and starts to cry.

The other boys laugh at him.

And Lain, for probably the first time in his young life, realizes what an asshole he is.

Ro won’t talk to Lain for a long time after that. They still drive to and from school together every day, but Ro won’t say a word. Lain, surprisingly enough, is miserable. So one day he goes to Ro’s house and breaks down in front of Ro’s mother and starts sobbing and tells her how sorry he is. She calls Ro into the room and Ro forgives Lain. And after that the two become best friends.

Ro still looks up to Lain because he’s cool and popular. Lain gives Ro his first cigarette, his first blue video, his first joint. He sets Ro up on his first date. Helps him pick out his first leather jacket. Teaches him how to use gel and pull a one-eighty.

And Lain, for his part, respects Ro for his honesty and decency.

Meanwhile, both boys are going through some changes. In particular, fat little Ro isn’t quite so fat or little anymore. His uncle is teaching him how to box, he’s exercising like a maniac, and he’s becoming stronger by the day. He isn’t a pretty boy by any stretch of the imagination, but girls are beginning to notice him. Together, Lain and Ro share the adventures that are the plus side of developing a bad reputation.

By the time they enter senior school, they’re in love. No, no, nothing like that. Do I really have to spell it out for you? Many boys, probably most boys, have a first love before they fall in love with a woman. It begins the moment two boys realize they’d die for one another, that each cares more for the other than he does for himself, and it lasts usually until a second love comes on the scene, because most hearts aren’t big enough to love more than one person like that.

Ro and Lain realize they’re in love one evening on Ro’s roof, as they lie on their backs sharing a joint and holding the string of a battered patang, undefeated after five kite fights. ‘I love you,’ Lain says suddenly. And Ro, who’s probably surprised, even more so when he realizes that he’s been longing to hear those words for some time, says, ‘I love you, too.’ And they don’t look at each other, they’re too embarrassed, but all in all, they feel pretty good.

Then SAT season arrives and Lain does well and Ro does better. They apply to the same eight colleges. Lain gets into three and Ro doesn’t get into any, because he’s asking for financial aid and it’s hard to get when you’re a foreign student. So Lain jets off to the States and Ro enrolls in GC. After that, they see each other only during vacations, but their lives are following different paths. Lain loves college abroad. Ro hates GC. And even though he makes the boxing team year after year, he’s never good enough to win a title for himself.

On the rare occasions when they meet, Ro is angry and Lain is sad, because both sense that one of them is going nowhere.

Then Ro’s mother dies and Lain goes to law school and gets married, and the two hardly see one another for years. And when Lain returns to Pakistan, wife and son in tow, Ro seems more frustrated than ever by his situation. But Lain reaches out to him, tries to broaden his social circle, asks his father to find Ro a new job.

Lain still loves Ro. He’s still his best friend. And if Lain doesn’t invite Ro to every dinner and get-together he has at his place, it’s only because he knows Ro wouldn’t like the superficial people Lain now socializes with.

But Ro is jealous of Lain. His resentment, dormant since childhood, has begun to rumble. Lain can see it (he isn’t blind), but he knows Ro well and trusts him completely. He’s certain Ro’s anger will pass.

Then one day there is a reunion of sorts at the Punjab Club, and the same twenty-eight boys, more or less, who gathered for that Atari competition long ago are reunited. And again Ro is humiliated: this time he’s called a drug dealer and mocked because he has no job. So the next evening Lain goes over to console him.

And there, from the driveway, through an open window, the curtains spread wide, Lain sees his best friend on top of his wife, moving. Moving.

Now put yourself in Lain’s shoes.

What would that do to you?

Maybe I should have suspected it. After all, Mumtaz and Daru hit it off from the very beginning, and there were certainly enough hints. But hindsight is twenty-twenty, and besides, I trusted him.

I trusted her, too. I knew Mumtaz was up to something, wandering all over town, telling me she’d been to places I later learned she hadn’t, getting defensive whenever I’d ask what she did while I was away. But I didn’t mind, because I’d found out about Zulfikar Manto. I discovered his first article in the computer’s trash folder. And I let myself preview his later work, files hidden on an unmarked floppy disk in her handbag. I could see that she was passionate about it, so I let her keep up the pretense for as long as she wanted, certain she’d eventually tell me. I once gave her a book of Manto’s short stories in translation, a gentle hint, to see if she’d open up. And I was a little hurt when she kept her secret. But what could I say? I adored my wife. And I was thrilled that she was having adventures.

I just had no idea that journalism was only half of it, that Mumtaz and Daru were having an affair.

Once we were eating mangoes, the three of us together. I said, Sindhris are my favorite. Daru said, You can’t juice Sindhris, you can only cut them. I said, So what, cutting is more civilized. He said, It lacks passion, Chaunsas are my favorite, because they’re the best for sucking. I looked at Mumtaz and smiled and said, I like fruit from Sindh. She said, Both cutting and juicing have their merits. Then she said, I like Anwar Ratores, because they’re small and you can have two or three at a time. She said Daru and I were overly preoccupied with size.

I wonder if they were making fun of me, even then.

But I’m not going to treat you to a look inside the mind of the cuckold, a view into the near crack-up that accompanies the realization that your best friend is sleeping with your wife. I don’t want your pity, thanks. And even if I did want it, I couldn’t put what I endured into words. There’s a reason prophets perform miracles: language lacks the power to describe faith. And you have to land on faith before you can even begin to hike around to its flip side, betrayal.

So what did I decide to do?

Nothing.

I couldn’t confront Daru. You haven’t seen him when he’s angry: he can be a scary guy. If he’d become twisted enough to sleep with my wife, who knows what he might have done to me. I could have had him killed, I suppose. Shot like a favorite dog gone rabid. But I didn’t.

I told you, I’m not a bad guy.

And I couldn’t bring myself to confront Mumtaz either. Because I didn’t want to lose her. You see, I knew things hadn’t been going well in our marriage for some time. And even though I wasn’t sure if I could ever forgive her, I still loved her and I didn’t want her to leave me. Can you understand that? If you can’t, you’ve never been in love, not really.

But she left me anyway. And even though she denies it, I know she left me for Daru. My one consolation is that they won’t be seeing each other for a while.

So: no, I’m not sad to hear he killed the boy. I won’t lie to you. But I certainly didn’t frame him for it. I’m not the sort.

He was my best friend, after all.