Children of Dust_ A Memoir of Pakistan - Ali Eteraz [94]
Yet the anger I felt wasn’t directed at Ittefaq and his associates. It was directed at myself. I had been tested by an offer of pornography, and by accepting it I had essentially conceded that I was impious. No wonder they didn’t respect me. No wonder they didn’t consider me anything other than an extension of America. No wonder they didn’t let me be part of Islam despite all the love for the religion in my soul. My sin was my indictment.
I pulled out my wallet, threw the picture toward Ittefaq, and excused myself.
12
The next morning Ammi woke me up by shaking my shoulder and yelling, “Get up! Someone is trying to kill your grandfather! He already has a heart condition. Those animals!”
I ran downstairs and saw that Dada Abu hadn’t gone to work, nor had the other men. They were all inside the house with the gate locked. Dada Abu looked worried—his skin had taken on a darker hue of concern and he was shaking at bit—though he was clearly trying not to show his fear.
“He was sitting on the porch this morning, up the street near his brother’s house,” Dadi Ma said. “Two young men on a motorcycle drove by and slowed down in front of him. They pointed their guns at him and pretended to shoot. After driving to the end of the block, they turned around and made another pass. That’s what happened, right?” She looked at her husband for confirmation.
Dada Abu nodded.
Speculation began as to who the assailants might be. The first theory was that it was thieves, but everyone knew that common thieves didn’t intimidate. Another theory was that it was someone with a personal grudge against Dada Abu, since he’d recently been involved in some litigation about a piece of land.
“They told me they will be back,” he said. “That’s the last thing they said.
When he revealed this fact, everyone began chattering and gesturing.
“In all these years, no one has shown such blatant disrespect to an elder,” Uncle Tau said.
“My father is a wise buzurg,” my younger uncle said. “These people have no shame.”
“Respect is dead,” Dadi Ma concluded. “This is not the country it used to be.” Spreading her jai namaz, she began making prayers to ward off the devil. She extolled everyone to pray, saying it was the best defense against aggression.
Ammi, meanwhile, tried to persuade Dada Abu against going to work. She didn’t want him going to the mosque at night, either.
“I’ve done those things my entire life,” he responded. “I’m not going to stop now.”
“But your life is in danger,” Ammi said.
“A Muslim that is murdered is a martyr. I am assuredly a sinful and hell-bound man. This will give me a shot at Paradise.”
I wanted to laugh at the joke but couldn’t.
Nor could Ammi. In fact, she began crying.
Once Dada Abu and the men had left for work, the women began to entertain the vague hope that the drive-by was just an act of random belligerence. That hopeful theory evaporated when strange phone calls started coming in during the day.
“I picked it up,” Dadi Ma said after one such call. “I just heard breathing on the other side. There was obviously someone there. It wasn’t just a wrong number.”
“I had the same experience,” Aunt Tai said. “If you don’t hang up, they’ll just stay on the phone and breathe.”
“Just let the phone ring,” Ammi said. “We don’t need to pick it up.”
“It’s no use. They’ll just make it ring ten or twelve times and then call back.”
I wondered if we needed reinforcements. “Should I go to the bazar and tell them what’s happening?” I asked.
“No!” said Ammi, grabbing my arm. “It’s not safe for you to go outside.”
Around midday prayer there was a lull in the phone calls. Ammi used the opportunity to call Pops back in the States, concerned enough about the situation that she didn’t mind waking