Karachi, You're Killing Me! by Saba Imtiaz

Author:Saba Imtiaz
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9788184005615
Publisher: RANDOM HOUSE PUBLISHERS INDIA PRIVATE LIMITED

CHAPTER 8

Wednesday, April 6, 2012

Headline of the day: ‘Pakistan bans condom ad starring controversial actress’

11 p.m.: I’m weaving all kinds of excuses to explain to my father why I’m only just getting home. ‘I had to work late and then had to meet someone for dinner,’ I say, trailing off. Luckily it’s the cat’s dinnertime and he’s not really paying attention to me.

I open up my laptop to get started on the research for the piece. There are no news updates on him, which is fantastic. I trawl through news archives for the past decades, scribbling down points about when he was first reported missing, a petition filed by his wife and son about his disappearance, a file detailing his initial interrogation at Guantanamo Bay, where he insisted he was just a businessman who had no idea that a client his company had billed was a front man for Al Qaeda. There’s another report, from 2008, about him requiring emergency surgery. These are the two things I really want to talk about.

It’s a one-line e-mail titled: ‘love you’. A jolt goes through me at seeing the word love, before I shake myself. It’s Saad. We’ve always used ‘love’ as casually as most people say hello or goodbye. I scroll down. He’s sent me a bunch of scanned photos of us at school and university. We’re in our geeky glasses, drinking Pepsi at the school canteen. There’s another one of us on a school trip to Mohenjodaro, goofing around next to a stupa. We’re posing at interminable weddings, throwing our mortarboards off gleefully after graduation. But instead of looking older, these photos make us seem younger and happier as the years have gone by.

The last photo makes me laugh hysterically. It’s from a late night at home last year, and I’m wrapped in a shawl to go outside to meet the bootlegger. Saad’s girlfriends have often told me they find him far too aloof and emotionally detached, but as I stare at this e-mail I realize they only know the urbane, suave Saad with the highflying job, not the gawky teenager who threw up after his first beer.

Wake up from a nightmare in which Saad is interrogating Jamie regarding his relationship with me. What does this mean? Perhaps I should consult some sort of dream analyser. Do these people even exist? The last time I saw an analysis of dreams was in the back pages of the weekly Urdu magazine Akhbar-e-Jahan. Check phone.

Jamie has sent me a bunch of texts, wishing me luck for the interview. I smile. It is kind of heartwarming to have someone care about you.

11 a.m.: Get to work to find Kamran poring over a couple of lunch menus. ‘Chairman Mao or Okra?’ Kamran asks as I walk into his office. ‘Chairman Mao, always,’ I reply, hoping Kamran will order me some of their amazing prawn toast and green curry as well.

I run Kamran through the interview.

‘This is fantastic,’ I urge, as he looks thoughtful. I know

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