This Commonwealth Prize winner’s new novel is more than a cross-border love story

The message from Ali, my confidante in Karachi, reads: Meet me at the Promenade by the Seaview at 4.00 am.

Sitting by a beachside shack with the sea in front of me, I read the email Mehr had sent when she was here, at the same spot, not so long ago. The same sea at dawn, with its distant calm, its immediate fury, had been in front of her. The same papery moon perched listlessly over the sea had been a mute witness to Mehr’s desperation and courage.

Deceitful and uncaring, the waves swallow everything left behind by people. Sand castles, footprints, shells, dead starfish, broken bangles, glass beads. It is the grey morning Mehr describes over and over again. “This is my Karachi,” she screams. “The Karachi of sullen mornings. The meek moon refuses to make way for the sun to rise. This is the hour of stillness. The morning tricks you into believing that everything is fine and peaceful. It prevents you from thinking of the catastrophe that is going to happen again and again. The morning gives away the smell of despair. It sings of freedom that’s near yet so far. Where’s the promised morning of miracles? Where’s the morning of happy dreams? Dreams that come true and take the sadness away.”

The sea roars and breaks the still of the dawn. I haven’t seen the sea for this long in my life. Mehr had once taught me how to look at the sea and how to listen to its rumblings. The sand enters into my shoes like it does when I am at the frontline tracing the journeys of those who don’t return home. This is the same desert sand that has travelled miles to meet its end here. The sun labours to rise from the horizon. Its golden crust, struggling against unseen forces, peeks at last. Streaks of yellow invade the sea and the sky. Yet, no light falls.

Of the sunshine that’s gone missing, Mehr writes: “I miss my roost in London, my sun-kissed apartment, and my neighbour’s garden of lilies. There, the sunshine gobbles up all ugliness and sadness. Why can’t it do the same here in Karachi?

Why does the sun give up so easily here? Am I not deserving of its benevolence? All I see is the dark here. The sun doesn’t keep its date. It hides out of fright. And out of what is to come. Like you, the sun is helpless. It can’t do a thing. It can’t take away my despair. It’s unjust.”

Ali drives us through flyovers, intersections and grand residential localities. Opulent houses with desolate terrace gardens wear a sombre look. “Arrivals in Karachi have never had such a strange foreboding,” says Ali. “This is no longer the city of lights. is is the city of gloom, of darkness.”

Ali isn’t himself. I know what is bothering him, but I don’t want to tell him anything. That he is worried for me is clearly evident. His fidgety expressions give him away. He can’t even hide his fear. The events of the past few days have shaken him. It is not unusual for even the most hardened ones to falter. Ali is required to be daring but cautious. He’s required to be calm and in control of his frailties. He isn’t supposed to give away his thinking and workings. He isn’t expected to harbour fear under any circumstances. He is expected to be impervious to external events. I don’t know what is going to happen to him if he doesn’t regain control over his weaknesses.

Hassan Colony is where we are headed, despite Ali’s concerns over going there. “No deviations from the plan,” Ali insists fearfully. He knows how I operate. He knows my habit of going off route, for reasons best known only to me. He knows why I am here. But he imposes conditions purely to keep me out of trouble. He agrees to take me to the bazaar in Hassan Colony where the blast had taken place. The explosion had been the handiwork of the nameless anti-Shia groups Mehr had written about. It had killed many Shias and maimed several others. Among the ones who had escaped the deadly plot to strike at the heart of the Shia colony were some children. It was neither by chance nor by a miracle that they had cheated death. The survivors owed their lives to Mehr and her madness. Mehr had willfully thrown herself into that bloody pit of horror where no human would ever want to be.

Ali’s plan forbids me from lingering in the colony. After all, this is his territory, not mine. He is the only one I trust here. We’re rivals, yet we trust only each other. This is not unusual in our line of work. There are some who don’t trust their own people but would give anything to protect the lives of their trusted rivals.

Ali tells me everything he has seen and heard. Not much of what he tells me is different from what I already know. “Another bloody massacre,” he fumes. “The fourth this year, but not the last! Soon, there will be another. Everyone knows. No one asks why! No one does anything to stop the killings. The only question we ask is: How many dead this time? Families wrecked. I can’t do a thing. You might ask why the civil society doesn’t rise against this brutality. Why the silence and helplessness? Those who rise are singled out, harassed, humiliated and put away. They are afraid. They keep mum. They don’t speak against the savagery publicly. They can’t speak about it at all. They know what they are up against. It’s an invincible dark force that has been kept alive to crush Shias. It’s lurking interminably near our own shadows. What makes them kill children? We condemn the deaths, but we can’t condemn the act and name the killers. We fear speaking against the dark forces that have vowed to wipe us off the face of Pakistan. You know it is blasphemous to question these beasts. Our lives don’t matter. Our existence has become paltry. Our history is summed up in a newspaper headline. We don’t matter to our own country, our government. Our protectors are our destroyers. We are expendable, and born to be condemned and massacred. All of us will be meted out the same fate as was to our ancestors. We are doomed from the very moment we are born. Nobody will rise for us. We have fallen silent as if our tongues have been chopped off.”

The tremble in Ali’s voice is worrying. He isn’t detached any more. He isn’t supposed to behave like an ordinary civilian. He can’t conceal his fright. It is not that he fears for his life, but that he fears for the lives of his people. That he can’t do anything about what is happening to his own people in his own country is making him weak. It is the same weakness Mehr hadn’t been able to conceal. We should not make a ritual of this abomination called guilt. We must be resolute.

Rangers are patrolling the roads leading to the Hassan Colony. Gloom reigns all over their faces. The vigil they are keeping is a masquerade for the day to end.

“Look, it happened over there, next to the Imambargah,” Ali says, pointing towards a mosque. “Look at that wall. See the red splashed on it. Do you see how it masks the truth? We just had the bloodiest Ashura. The crimson plastered over the wall was supposed to be the blood left by the mourners and not by the dead. The crimson recounts the last struggle of the mourners against darkness. It won’t go away. Nothing can wash it away. We must leave now.”

This is where Mehr had returned after bidding goodbye to London. This is where she wanted me to be. Sabri’s house must be close by.

“The first thing you will hear when you enter the colony is not the azan,” Mehr had said. “It will be a marsiya sung by Sabri. He sings it early in the mornings when the sun is yet to rise. Follow his voice. The voice will lead you to me. I won’t be far away. If you can’t find me, don’t call my name. Look for Zainab – the girl I have adopted and named after the mad woman’s infant. She’s naughty. Call her name. She will run towards you. Her eyes are blue. No, not just blue. There’s no colour like that of her eyes. Her eyes are indescribable. She will bring you to me. Don’t be late. You must come here before everything is over. Don’t break Zainab’s heart the way you broke mine. She’s just a little girl and she can’t go through a heartbreak. Don’t make her lose hope. She has been waiting for you more than I ever have.

Come for her. She’s the only one I will leave behind. Who will look after her once I am gone? The only person she will have is you. You must take her away from the ugliness that rules this place. She deserves a glorious life.

She should fall in love with a beautiful soul. Someone who will love her more than anything else in the world. Someone who will die for her. Someone who won’t let anything bad happen to her. Someone who won’t allow anyone else near her. Zainab should live a long life. Will you take her with you? Will you take her to a place where she can dream and live and be happy? Where she will be free of fears. Where her dreams will come true. Do you know of a place where hate doesn’t exist and never will? Where everyone is happy and full of hope. Where love shines. Zainab should find such everlasting love. This is my wish, my only hope. Take her with you. Protect her. Give her a life I never had. She will love you more than I ever did. She will be your hope when nothing else is left in your life. She will grant you a second life. Do not betray me this time.”

The bazaar is vacant. Ali is impatient to leave. He suspects everybody. He thinks the worst is yet to come.

“Anything can happen,” Ali whispers to me. “We must not be seen. You could be in danger.”

The danger has already passed. Mehr is gone. I haven’t found her yet. She could be gone forever. Or maybe she has survived.

In an instant, everything that has happened here comes to light. It unfolds before me image by image. Bare-chested men and boys have congregated by the Imambargah for Muharram. Clenched in their fists are chains with knives and blades tied to them. To an outsider it may seem like revelry. It is not. It is Ashura, the tenth day of Muharram. The mourning begins with shrill cries. The men and boys raise their voices and lash themselves with the chains. The blades tied to the chains pierce through their skin. Gashes appear. Blood flows down their scarred bodies. The road is stained crimson. Singing erupts:

Ya Ali! Ya Ali!

Ya Hussain! Ya Hassan! Karbala! Karbala! Karbala! Karbala!

The ritual goes on and on. Women watch through chinks in the windows. ey are unable to tell one man from another, one boy from another. Drenched in blood, the agellating men look alike. Then, all of a sudden, a deafening blast rips apart the bazaar. Smoke engulfs everyone. Moments pass. The smoke settles. The noise ebbs. A deathly hush descends.

Excerpted with permisson from Mehr: A Love Story, Siddhartha Gigoo, Rupa Publications.