areed Budha’s body was found exactly in the same spot Mushtaq Cheetah’s was a few years ago.

Mushtaq was murdered early one morning at a lassi shop during ethno-linguistic riots. The police failed to track down the killers. The one person who made a half-hearted attempt to come forward as a witness was dismissed as a madman and the case was quietly shelved.

After that murder, Fareed Budha ascended the sector’s throne. Though not well-suited for the position, his Aligarh family background, muscular physique and ability to fire a pistol made him popular in the neighbourhood, especially after he had set his opponents’ market on fire during the ethnic clashes.

Fareed was young when the hair on his head turned white, earning him the nickname Budha. When he joined the armed wing of a political party, the suffix stuck.

Roshan Town was a dark, troubled lower-middle-class settlement, divided along linguistic lines.

Twenty-five years earlier, Fareed’s father had bought a house there at a low price. He had once worked as a radio announcer, but addiction eventually ravaged him.

Fareed’s mother had completed her intermediate education and ran a private school in the neighbourhood. The school ran at a loss, so she gave private tuition in the evenings to make ends meet.

Fareed’s childhood memories were worse than a bitter pill. Every night, his father would come home drunk and shout at his wife. When she answered him back, reminding him that she was from Ambala, he would beat her mercilessly.

As a child, Fareed would cower in a corner when this happened. When he had grown a little older, one muggy night, as his mother’s screams echoed through the lane, overcome by emotion, he had grabbed his father’s hand.

His father had looked at him with astonishment and dismay.

A little while later, Fareed’s screams were ringing through the lane. The man might have shown some restraint in his wife’s case, but he crushed his son’s rebellion as ruthlessly as cotton beaten and fluffed apart.

The boy was almost unconscious. Late that night, his mother took of his clothes, warmed a towel on the griddle and used it to apply warm compresses to his bruises. Being so helpless and exposed in front of his mother at that age made him burst into tears.

Those tears dug deep roots in the soil that was rebellion.

Soon, standing up to his father became a routine. This defiance began to unsettle and agitate his perpetually drunk father.

The neighbours grew accustomed to hearing the boy’s voice, mixed with the woman’s screams, rise from the announcer’s house. After a year or a year and a half, they realised that drink and advancing age had robbed the announcer of his strength. His hands no longer carried the force they once had. Meanwhile, the beatings had gradually toughened up Fareed.

One winter night, the moment arrived. The announcer took off his belt to thrash Fareed, but his trousers fell. Unnerved, he dropped the belt and hurried to pull up his trousers.

That night, the neighbours heard an older man’s sobs.

Fareed Budha stepped out into the lane, bought a cigarette from a kiosk, lit it, spat contemptuously on the ground, and celebrated his youth.

A few days later, the announcer died.

Mushtaqe Cheetah, once a student of Fareed’s mother, had carved out a place for himself within the party setup.

People said he was the finest of his generation, because the growl of his pistol could be heard from afar. Mushtaq enjoyed the patronage of an influential member of the provincial assembly, who had promised him a seat as a councillor.

His intimidating reputation amongst opponents had earned him respect and standing in the neighbourhood. Whether it was a communal gathering to stir haleem during Muharram or a religious assembly for Rabi-ul-Awwal, he was always the first to be invited. Whenever he held a neighbourhood meeting in his black sunglasses and crisp white shalwar qamees, women sent tea and sherbet from their homes, accompanied by Bihari biscuits.

One day, after he took his seat as sector in-charge and became the undisputed king of the area, Fareed’s mother went to see him. As soon as the woman entered his office, all the young men stood up out of respect. She was offered a chair and Mushtaq did not sit down until she had taken her seat. Cream-topped tea was ordered for her from Mushki’s Hotel, along with a buttered bun.

The woman did not touch the bun. Sipping her tea, eyes glistening with tears, she told Mushtaq Cheetah of her husband’s death, the school’s losses and the worries of running a household.

“What can I do for you?” Cheetah asked, placing a hand on his chest.

“Fareed,” the woman said, wiping away her tears and speaking her son’s name. “Find him some work. Otherwise, I’m afraid he might go astray.”

At the mention of Fareed’s name, Cheetah heard a mysterious growl. He dismissed it and told the woman to send the boy over the following evening.

When he saw the boy, Mushtaq Cheetah felt a little disappointed. Fareed seemed unfamiliar with his forefathers’ culture and refinement; instead of chewing paan, he chewed gutka.

“Even this line of work has its rules.” With this cinematic dialogue, Mushtaq began the boy’s training.

It began with writing slogans on the walls. Fareed’s handwriting proved better than the others’ for his mother was a schoolteacher. He also introduced a degree of originality into the slogans, having grown up reading Taleem-o-Tarbiyat and Naunehal. His performance during the fundraising campaign was astonishing. He had a gift for words and knew how to win over older women. The election campaign proved to be the turning point in Fareed’s career. The enthusiasm with which he distributed pamphlets reminded Mushtaq Cheetah of his own younger days.

On the day of the rally, Fareed showered rose petals on the distinguished guests who had arrived from the party headquarters, served fresh kinnow juice to the member of the provincial assembly, raised slogans and won the hearts of the people of Roshan Town.

At that very rally, it was announced that Mushtaq would be a candidate for the councillor’s seat. The neighbourhood resounded with slogans.

The chants reached Mushtaq’s opponents, who were based in the nearby hills. They hunkered down.

The echoes of those slogans were still hanging in the air when the city was swept up in major political changes.

One morning, the radio announced that the local elections had been postponed. As tensions mounted, old rivalries between political parties found fresh fuel.

Hatred flourished once again, gathering strength. It first cleared a path for accusations, then disagreements took hold. Before long, bloody confrontation stood at the door. The linguistic fissure widened into a chasm, the neighbourhood split apart and violence found its way in.

After orders came from above, Mushtaq Cheetah assembled a team of young men, assigning them such important duties as stone-pelting, setting tyres on fire and attacking opponents. It was at this stage that a pistol was placed in Fareed’s hand for the first time. Mushtaq had quite forgotten that Fareed’s mother had once been his teacher.

At that age, being so helpless and exposed in front of his mother made him burst into tears. Those tears dug deep roots in the soil of rebellion.

Just as Mushtaq had expected, Fareed swiftly moved through the stages of cruelty, savagery and brutality. When he set a bus on fire for the first time, he burnt his own hand in the process.

That night, his mother noticed for the first time that despite his youth her son’s temples had turned white.

When she asked him about it, he brushed the question aside and went out to smoke.

The day Fareed fired his first shot at his opponents, Mushtaq Cheetah was sitting at Mushki’s Hotel when his black sunglasses fell to the ground and shattered. Mushtaq mourned the loss. He had had those glasses brought from London.

A few days later, Fareed’s mother realised that her son’s hair was turning progressively whiter. In Fareed’s frame, she saw his father, the announcer. This frightened her. It had become common knowledge in the neighbourhood that Fareed had already committed two murders. He was also accused of rape.

And so Fareed became Fareed Budha and was known by that name until his death.

The moon was eclipsed; Eid fell on a Friday; and two sermons were delivered.

A superintendent of police was murdered during the Eid prayers. The days that followed were bitter and stained with blood. Mushtaq’s party was removed from power. Political tensions mounted, much blood was shed and a police operation began.

The important young men went underground. Arrests followed. Some were arrested openly; others were quietly picked up. Several key figures disappeared from the story. Accidents became commonplace.

Mushtaq Cheetah went underground after the lunar eclipse. Fareed Budha, however, fell into the hands of the police. He was tortured so severely at the police station that he was reminded of his dead father.

Neighbours claimed to have heard the young man’s screams around Fareed Budha’s house, even though the police station was miles away. The vine growing at his house withered.

When his mother went to see him, tears in her eyes, she could barely recognise him. He had become someone else.

He was facing charges of arson and violence. Through negligence and laziness, the police remained entirely unaware that he had also committed two murders. To secure her son’s bail, his mother sold her jewellery. She also sought help from her maternal cousin, who had once been in love with her and now practiced law at the City Courts.

Somehow, Fareed got bail. When he returned home, pus was oozing from his wounds. His mother bathed him in hot water infused with neem leaves and applied warm compresses to his injuries.

Once again, being so helpless and exposed in front of his mother made him burst into tears.

Fareed spent three months confined to bed. He went to court hearings in a wheelchair. His beard had grown out. Whenever he went to court, he wore a mesh prayer cap - the one his father used to wear for Friday prayers.

His mother’s cousin tried to convince the court that Fareed wanted to spend forty days with the Tablighi Jamaat and that the cases against him were baseless.

The court was not prepared to be convinced so easily. The case would drag on for a long time. The Tablighi Jamaat departed without him.

An unexpected and noisy turn came in Fareed’s dreary life one day, when he heard the sound of wedding drums in the dusty lane. He peered out of the window. A procession was moving through the street. Young men danced to the beat of the drums. Among them Mushtaq Cheetah shone in all his splendour. He wore a crisp, starched white shalwar qamees and wore a new pair of black sunglasses ordered from London.

Overcome with emotion, Fareed tried to raise a slogan, but tears choked his voice. He waved at Mushtaq, who looked at him as though he were seeing him for the first time.

The following day, Fareed shaved off his beard, threw away his prayer cap, pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, and went to see Mushtaq. Mushtaq’s warmth was cautious, but Fareed rested his head on his shoulder and began to cry. Mushtaq patted his shoulder, offered him encouragement and entrusted him with the ideological front.

“You’re educated. It would not be right to waste you. Take charge of the study circle,” Mushtaq instructed him.

Fareed Budha felt that his mentor had begun to regard him as weak. It hurt him, but he kept silent and took charge of ideological training.

Now his life was pamphlets, booklets and speeches. Through this work, he met several prominent figures, including the same member of the provincial assembly to whom he had once served fresh kinnow juice. The man had grown wealthier and more mild-mannered. He wanted to introduce new trends in the party.

“Your father was a remarkable radio announcer. I met him at a Bazm-i-Talaba programme,” the assembly member said, squeezing Farid’s shoulder. “Come and see me after Muharram.”

Muharram passed and Safar arrived.

Nine months had passed since Mushtaq Cheetah’s return when, one morning, without warning, an unknown person murdered him.

They say the glass of lassi in front of him turned red with blood.

After Mushtaq’s funeral rites were over, Fareed Budha was handed his mantle of power. The party now wanted to bring ideological workers to the fore.

“We have to wash the stains of violence from our name. Those are the orders from above,” the member of the provincial assembly had said.

Fareed felt humbled and indebted as he accepted the responsibility. Whenever he remembered Mushtaq, he would break down in grief.

He vowed to make an example of Cheetah’s killers, renewing the vow on every anniversary of his death.

He announced that he would cover the educational expenses of Mushtaq Cheetah’s son and arranged a stipend for his widow. The stipend continued until Fareed’s own death.

Fareed Budha’s reign lasted another four years. People said it was better than those that had come before. Several development projects were completed in the area. Educational institutions and medical centres were opened. Sewing machines were distributed among widows, the fine arts were promoted and the number of khawaja siras increased.

Fareed dismissed Mushtaq Cheetah’s rabble of young roughnecks and recruited new men. He considered the old lot bone-idle and homosexual. He joined hands with a banned religious organisation active in the area, made friends with his opponents and sent expensive gifts to the officer in charge of the local police station.

All in all, the next four years were years of peace.

It was then that Fareed’s mother set about arranging his marriage. She brought home a beautiful girl from a poor family and explained to her how to bathe Fareed in lukewarm water and apply warm compresses to his wounds whenever he returned home injured.

“Daughter, this is your responsibility now. I have grown old,” she told the girl on the day the marriage was arranged.

The girl from the poor household loved someone else. The young man ran a paan kiosk. When the kiosk owner learnt that the girl’s marriage had been arranged with Fareed Budha, he packed up his belongings and disappeared, never to be seen again.

On the day of Fareed’s mehndi, the guests who came to the house were served quorma. On the day of the baraat, decorative lights were strung throughout the neighbourhood and guns were fired indiscriminately. The station-house officer slept on, a muffler wrapped around his ears.

When the nikah registrar asked the girl for her consent, she could only mumble. Her heart still belonged to the kiosk owner. Her mumbling was accepted as qubool hai (I accept).

The valima was held at the area’s only wedding hall, situated beside the library of a religious political party. Biryani, karahi, plum chutney, kheer and soft drinks were laid out for the occasion, despite the ban on serving food. The caterer refused to accept any payment.

“You are the hero of our community, brother,” he had said to Fareed Budha.

Mushtaq Cheetah was remembered with particular affection throughout Fareed’s wedding celebrations. Suits were made for his widow and son. They were seated in the front row and sent home with gifts.

“You’re exactly like your father,” Fareed told Mushtaq’s son. “He was a great man. We’ll track down his killers.”

Unlike on previous occasions, Mushtaq’s son held back his tears this time and kept looking at Fareed’s face. He was growing up.

Fareed’s wedding was also attended by his mother’s maternal cousin, the lawyer who had once defended Fareed without charging a fee. No one paid him any attention. A few days later, he was killed in an accident while returning home late at night.

Next four years passed peacefully.

And then the final morning dawned.

Fareed returned home late that night. His wife was awake but pretended to be asleep.

The man had satisfied all his appetites outside the home, so he ignored his wife and stretched out on the bed. Tired and content, he soon fell asleep.

In his dream, he saw himself eating a buttered bun in the early hours of the morning, the kind his father used to feed him when he was a child.

When he woke up, the call to the Fajr prayers was sounding. The world seemed new. He remembered the days when he used to offer the dawn prayer with the Tablighi Jamaat. He resolved to pray, but then thought of the previous night and abandoned the idea.

His wife was no longer in bed. He could hear water running in the bathroom.

Perhaps in pursuit of his dream, perhaps for no reason at all, he stepped into the lane and walked all the way to the lassi shop. The cold made him turn up his collar. He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. He had brought neither his pistol nor his wallet.

The darkness was beginning to lift. From a few houses came the clatter of utensils. The lassi seller was churning lassi and there was some activity around the mosque a little way off. Fareed took a seat at a table and gestured.

The lassi seller’s son, wearing tight trousers and a dirty vest, placed a glass of lassi and a bun in front of him and walked away. The lassi was cold and refreshing.

Fareed took a few bites and closed his eyes. His head tilted backwards and he felt as though he were dreaming. Perhaps he had fallen asleep.

A dog barked in the distance. He heard the faint sound of a motorcycle engine. Through his half-open eyes, he saw a star fall from the sky.

All of a sudden, he felt as though an animal was stealthily creeping towards him. His sixth sense warned him of danger.

The moment Fareed straightened his neck, a human silhouette wrapped in a shawl emerged from the half-light.

Alarmed, he patted his pockets. He had brought neither his pistol nor his wallet.

In the dense darkness of despair, beneath the fading light of a bulb, he saw his attacker’s face.

Wrapped in a shawl, frail and slight, young in years . . . he saw Mushtaq Cheetah.

In that dying moment, Fareed Budha grasped the truth and smiled bitterly.

“The last face your father saw was. . .”

“Dhass.”

Before Fareed could finish his sentence, the gun went off.

Another star fell from the sky.

*Translated from the Urdu by Intsab Sahi.

Iqbal Khursheed is an Urdu fiction writer, journalist, interviewer, columnist and film critic. He is the author of the short story collection Chinal Aur Degar Afsanay, the novels Tikon ki Chauthi Jeht and Gard Ka Tofan, and Fiction Se Mukalma, a collection of interviews with leading fiction writers. He edits the literary journal Ijra and has conducted over 800 interviews with national and international personalities. He is based in Karachi.