The Wish Maker (54 page)

Daadi said, “The judges are making a mistake.”

The Supreme Court building was attacked. A clip from the storming was shown again and again on the news channels: a minister from the present government was leading the mob of agitators toward the big white building in Islamabad. The judges were hearing the case inside.

Daadi said, “Judges? They are the most corrupt.”

The president of the country resigned and a new one was appointed.

Daadi said, “It happens.”

My mother said the new prime minister was trying to become the king of the country.

Daadi said it was a misunderstanding that had happened between two people. “It happens all the time,” she said. “People come and people go. Not everything is like your politics.”

Then, at the start of the summer, it was reported that India had tested a nuclear missile. The footage was shown on the channels, the beige uniforms of the marching Indian soldiers and the slogans of the crowds that cheered for them in the streets.

Daadi said, “They are coming.”

My mother said, “There will be sanctions.”

But Daadi said, “They will come. Allah may help us. But they will come for us now.”

Pakistan responded to India’s nuclear tests by conducting its own: the footage of the trembling desert, where the tests were conducted, was accompanied by the sound of a distant rumbling. There was dancing in the streets of Lahore. Naseem came home at night from the market and said that the world was ablaze with lights, there were firecrackers and fireworks everywhere, she had heard the firing and seen the men with the Kalashnikovs standing on rooftops.

Daadi said, “He showed those Indians. Now they will not come, those little black Hindus.”

Naseem became emotional and said,
“Vekho ji
,
bum da kamal
.
”

The government declared a state of emergency. A voice on Radio Pakistan announced in the morning that the right to convene any court, including a High Court or the Supreme Court, had been temporarily suspended.

My mother laughed and said, “King of this country.”

He appeared on PTV, sitting at a desk with a portrait of the Founder of the Nation in its golden frame behind him on the wall, and said that the world was trying to punish Pakistan for declaring its independence and was going to subject it to economic sanctions. These were trying times, he said, but Pakistan had always emerged from its trials. He urged his fellow citizens, his brothers and his sisters, to stand with him in this time, to cut down on their daily spending and to pause and to think.

Hukmi said, “Be a Pakistani and buy the Pakistani,” and it was a formal-sounding version of the slogan that was attached to the back of her car.

Suri said, “If we don’t, who will?”

So the air-conditioner settings were altered from high cool to low cool and the number of dishes at lunchtime and dinnertime was reduced from four to three. The use of air-freshener, identified in this time of introspection as an unnecessary expense, was temporarily suspended; and there was no more buying of imported goods.

At night Naseem sat before the TV on the carpet, the lights in the room switched off, her face flickering in the TV darkness, and watched Pakistani songs, Pakistani ads for Pakistani goods, and cheered on the sports channel for Pakistani teams. Then she switched it off and went away, saying that she wanted to save the electricity for the country.

“It will not take long,” said Daadi, “for things in our country to improve. Everyone is doing something. Everyone, from top to bottom, is making an effort. Everything will be all right.”

One day in late summer, a hot, windless day on which the clouds were dark and bulging but gave no rain, Suri and Hukmi came to the house and announced that there was going to be a new way of referring to the prime minister.

“Ameer-ul-Momineen,” said Hukmi, drawing it out.

Daadi was impressed. She said, “What does it mean?”

“It means,” said Suri, “that he will be”—she thought about it—“from now on”—she was thinking—“the
ameer
”—she was hesitant—“of the”—but she was succeeding—“of the
momins
. Yes, from
momin
, the word, comes
momineen
.” She looked at Hukmi and said, “Is that right?”

Hukmi closed her eyes and said, “Quite right, quite right.”

Daadi looked from one daughter to the other. “I see,” she said, “I see.”

“Yes, yes,” said Suri, and lifted one foot from the floor and brought it up to the table, and settled it there, just to show that she could.

“Oh, very good,” said Hukmi, who couldn’t have done the same with her own foot.

Daadi said, “It is a good name.”

And Suri laughed wildly and said, “It’s not a name! It’s a title!”

“A title,” said Daadi.

Suri looked at Hukmi and said, “She thinks it’s a name!”

And Hukmi glowered and shook her head and said, “Just look at her,” and reached with her hand for the crystal bowl on the table, a bowl that was empty. She looked around the room and said, “Some peanuts, some cashews. There must be something.”

Suri said, “Must be.”

Daadi raised her head from the pillow on her bed and turned on her side and cried, “Naseem? O Naseem!”

In the morning the text of the proposed bill appeared in the newspapers. The prime minister wanted to amend the constitution, and the amendment included the clause that mentioned the change in his title:

My mother came into the room for breakfast and Daadi gave her the newspapers.

“Have you seen this?” said Daadi.

“Seen what?” said my mother. She had sat down in her chair and was making her tea on the tray.

“The bill.”

“What bill?”

“This one,” said Daadi, and indicated the newspapers. “The one you are holding in your hand.”

My mother said, “I will look at it.”

She read the pages and drank her tea.

Daadi said, “So?”

“So what?”

“What does it say?”

“You have read it. It says what it says.”

“But what does it mean?”

My mother folded the newspaper and placed it in her lap, looked at Daadi, then at Naseem, and said, “It means that you have voted for someone who wants to make himself a king of your country. That is the meaning of your bill. Your savings and your spendings, all of it has been for this.”

Naseem was amused.

Daadi said, “It is all exaggerated,” and drew her hands into her lap, and made efforts to smooth out the wrinkles in the hem of her kameez, and continued to smile and sway her head from one side to the other.

A few months after the journalists were attacked, on an afternoon in October, Daadi was woken by a lilting, steady sound that she knew to be the voice of a newsreader. At first she turned her head on the pillow in resistance. Then she sat up and saw that someone was in the room.

She left the bed and joined my mother on the sofa. The prime minister was attaching shiny medals to a man’s shoulders, a smiling army man in the army uniform. The people around them were clapping.

“What is it?” said Daadi.

“New army chief,” said my mother.

“Where is the old one?”

“On a flight.”

They watched for developments.

Then Daadi said, “To where is the flight?”

“To nowhere,” said my mother. “He’s been sacked and his plane is not allowed to land.”

Daadi thought about it and said, “So where will he go, then?”

“I don’t know.”

“What will they do?”

“I don’t know.”

They watched the rest of the bulletin in an uncertain silence. Naseem came in, saw their expressions and sat down on the carpet.

The TV screen was black.

Daadi said, “The wires.”

But the wires were in their places.

Now there were flowers on TV, an unmoving picture, and then an old recording of a singer with many mirrors behind her.

My mother went to the mantelpiece. She picked up the phone and dialed a number, waiting with her elbow in her palm, the phone in her other hand. “Nargis?” she said, and listened. Her mouth opened, closed and opened again, but her expression was the same. She nodded and said, “Yes, yes, I will.” She hung up the phone and said, “Change the channel, change it, change it.”

Naseem scrambled across to the TV.

“Stop,” said my mother. “Leave it there.”

Soldiers were climbing a wall.

“Say something!” said Daadi.

My mother said, “Four army jawaans and one major. Surrounded PTV headquarters. Prime minister under house arrest.”

“Allah!” cried Daadi, and placed a hand on her mouth.

Naseem said, “Should I change it?”

“PTV,” said my mother.

PTV was still showing songs.

“It’s started,” said my mother.

They watched the foreign news channels and heard the discussions about the fragile situation in Pakistan, where ordinary people, it was being said, had not shown any signs of participation in the drama that was occurring in Islamabad. The footage was the same—soldiers climbing a wall—and was combined with pictures of the empty streets. They returned to PTV but it was still showing songs. And then, from different sources, the story was made to move: the army was everywhere; their trucks were going into the streets; PTV headquarters was surrounded; the prime minister was still under house arrest; the sacked army chief had finally landed, with very little fuel in his aircraft, and was going to change his clothes and appear on PTV to address the nation.

“Martial law,” said Daadi.

“Martial law,” said my mother.

They changed the channels and Naseem went into the kitchen.

At assembly the next morning there was no mention of the takeover, except for a suggestion that occurred when Coordinator Hassan, handing out medals to the wrestling team, said that brawn too was important in life. Later in the classrooms there was talk of arrests: they were going to take in the ministers and aides who were closest to the former government; and they were setting up an accountability bureau and had begun to make lists.