Drifting in the World

Lahore. Around 1:30 a.m. It is the best time to surf the Internet if one is using a modem. The hardcore chat addicts have not logged in yet. The speed is sufficient to download PDF articles on Foucault’s limit-experience through the Iranian Revolution from the Project Muse database at Johns Hopkins University. After the downloads finish, I plan to go for some chai and an egg-plastered bun-and-butter deal at Poondpura Chowk, Temple Road. Yaqu’s chai joint is open 24 hours. Because he knew he was never going to shut his shop, the owner did not even get a shutter installed. Many journalists hang out there after they have sent the newspapers to the printers. The most juicy and cerebral talks begin after 2:30 a.m. It is difficult to get this luxury at this hour of the night on a weekday in many other places in the world. Not in Canberra, Australia. You can get stale coffee at a gas station there but not chai. And definitely no egg-plastered, artery-choking luxury buns freshly fried in butter of dubious origins. Not in Rio de Janeiro where you can get the malt and hops infused kidney-wash at 6 a.m. but no chai. My mental journeys to different continents are interrupted by a ring on my I-mate. It is Amjad, a computer programmer. He should be asleep at this hour because he has a regular office job.

I press the green button and go, “Yar, what’s up?”

“Yar, I have got a project, outsourced to me from America.”

“What kind of a project?”

“I have to design a website which will host pictures and videos of wet t-shirt competitions. And if I do it well, they’ll give me more projects.”

“Do they know that you are in Pakistan and a devoted Muslim?”

“They know everything. That is why they are hiring me. I am cheaper than an American programmer. They don’t care about my religion as long as I don’t object to the material on the website because of my faith.”

“Great. Congratulations! Keep the administrator’s password with you. A lot of us will need free subscriptions later on.” He lets out a hearty laugh. After some more congratulations on his having been hired by American cyber-capitalism, we say goodbye. I get ready to leave for the chaiwallah.

Outside, the streets are silent, semi-lit. I walk through the nippy November wind, past the pickup vans which haul fridges and TV sets to every neighborhood of Lahore all day. After I cross a line of clinics which house clandestine abortion experts, the smell of fried eggs enters my nostrils. Covering half of the road are the chairs on which men are busy soaking the entire spectrum of global politics in chai and juicy gossip. I head straight for the stove on which a perennial pot is always on the verge of boiling over. The owner of the joint is always on nocturnal duty. He keeps telling everybody that he has not seen the sun at noontime for fifteen years. That’s how much he loves his night shift. As long as he can make a killer brew -- by boiling the crap out of tea leaves, water, milk, and sugar -- nobody is going to worry about the ever-increasing distance between him and the sun. I order my tea and take a chair. On the table next to mine is sitting Mehboob, nursing a cup of chai in his hands. I know him since we met a year and a half ago in a workshop on human rights and youth activism. Then, some months later, there were rumors he had gone to Kashmir to join an outlawed jihadi group. It was a surprise for me. He was studying for an MA in sociology. I walk up to him to find out if he actually went and joined some training camp.

“Salam. How are you, Mehboob? Haven’t seen you for a long time.”

“Yeah I was away. I was in Rawlakot, Kashmir.”

“What were you doing there?”

“I had joined a Jihadi training camp there.”

“What?”

“Yes, true.”

“Why did you do that? Got tired of studying sociology or what?” I ask, picking up a cup of hot chai the waiter has just placed in front of me.

“No. Nothing like that. You know I am overweight. My weight was going beyond 130 kg. I thought I should go and do some exercise up in the mountains.”

“You are kidding me? No way. That cannot be a reason to join jihad.”

“Why not? When I was in the training camp I found out others had even crazier reasons than I did. About me, you can say that I was moved by the sociological idea of participatory observation and that I was trying to control my obesity. But there were many boys in the camp who had decided to join because of unrequited love.”

“That’s insane. How can unrequited love make you join jihad?”

“Well. You see. You are a boy in your late teens or early twenties. Loaded with hormones and, in most cases, a virgin. You fall in love. Your love is not reciprocated. You lose heart and you want to end your life. What can you do? You can’t imagine a life without that special person and suicide is haram. The only halal exit that comes to your mind is jihad. And, in my estimate, about 30 to 40 percent boys were in the camp for this reason. I was just worried about my obesity. I lost 25 kilos in three months and came back. I have gained 10 kilos again now. But I think now I can write a very convincing paper on the positive correlation between gender segregation and militancy.”

“So you are not going to go on a mission?”

“What mission? I lost weight. That was my mission. Mission accomplished.” He chuckles.

“Great! Well done. But, sure, there are less radical ways of losing weight.”

“Yes, there are. But they are not as insightful.”

“Maybe.” I have finished my tea. I begin to feel uncomfortable so I get up and say, “take care.”

“Yes now I can really take care of myself.” He laughs.

I leave. I have no words. He is more confident than I can ever hope to be. His confidence reminds me of a prayer uttered by Lyutov, a character in a short story titled “After the Battle” by Isaac Babel. Having failed in a battle, Lyutov implores fate to grant him “the simplest ability – the ability to kill a man.” It seems Mehboob has acquired this simple ability.

On my way back, I decide to pay a surprise visit to Amjad. He lives alone. If he is busy constructing design templates for the new website, he must be awake. I hail a rickshaw and huddle in. The noise of the engine drowns all thoughts for five or six minutes and I reach Ganga Ram Chowk. I pay and the rickshaw leaves. The light in a window on the first floor of Roshandil Hostel tells me that Amjad is awake. I climb the stairs and walk down the hall way. The last door on the right is slightly ajar. I knock gently and push the door. Amjad is sitting on a hand-woven prayer mat, his RSI-afflicted hands up in the air. I take a chair and wait for him to finish his prayer.

When he is done, I ask him what he prayed for.

“Forgiveness.”

“What have you done?”

“This website I’m going to design is full of sinful images. But I really need some dollars. My Pakistani job does not pay me much. I am always in debt. I think Allah will forgive me.”

“Man, nobody knows what Allah will do? Just design the best website you can and get the dollars.”

“Yar, stop this bullshit.”

Ok. Let us go out for a walk, then. He gets up and starts looking for his Nike runners.