{"id":581,"date":"2026-06-13T14:09:57","date_gmt":"2026-06-13T14:09:57","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/commercialrelocationpros.com\/?p=581"},"modified":"2026-06-13T14:09:57","modified_gmt":"2026-06-13T14:09:57","slug":"the-encounter","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/commercialrelocationpros.com\/?p=581","title":{"rendered":"The Encounter"},"content":{"rendered":"
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It was a simple plan<\/span>, but somehow, as he and his men followed the shackled man through the hills, Khawar wondered if it should have been simpler still. If they had been able to shoot him close to the police station earlier in the day, a story about a thwarted escape might have played out quite nicely. But his skinny constable, Javed, had noted that at that hour, there were too many day laborers passing by who knew the man, which could have created \u201ccomplications.\u201d Now he wasn\u2019t sure why they had come here\u2014to the mines, of all places. Who had decided that? Only he could have given the order, but he couldn\u2019t recall it; he was even having trouble remembering the drive over. The adrenaline was disorienting him, which he didn\u2019t like to admit but was perhaps natural, given that this was his first encounter.<\/p>\n

Read more A Canvas as Big as the Country<\/a><\/p>\n

The prisoner, Usmaan, a man in his mid-40s who looked a decade older, was handcuffed. Ankles bound in bar fetters, he shuffled through the grass. He was tall, and his head hung down, his eyes on the ground as he tried not to trip, and Khawar was struck by the man\u2019s caution, his care. Then he sniffed, and Khawar wondered if he might be crying. For God\u2019s sake, how would that help now? Then again, Usmaan wasn\u2019t the usual fit for an encounter, a protocol reserved for the worst of criminals\u2014rapists, dacoits, or gangsters of renown. Sometimes it was the only option the police had for delivering justice to men who were either impossible to jail or capable of easily buying their way out of it. An encounter was an act on behalf of the decent in the face of an indecent world, really; that\u2019s what he\u2019d been telling himself these past few days. Only here, they were trailing an anonymous, shabby-looking man with little to his name, a man whom they could all hear murmuring\u2014prayers, insults?\u2014under his breath.<\/p>\n

Up ahead were the abandoned barracks, glum and battered, behind a wire fence. The uranium mines had once brought the army, with its engineers and trucks, here. Khawar hadn\u2019t come out this way in years; no one did, other than the villagers who grazed their animals on the hillside. The locals liked to complain about the mines, about the yellow sludge sliding down the hills. They talked incessantly of the dangerous waste they\u2019d heard was buried in the mines, the damage it was doing to their animals and their children. And it was this that had brought Usmaan to their attention.<\/p>\n

Two weeks ago, he\u2019d dumped the bloated body of a cow on Sakhi Sarwar Road, the main route to the area\u2019s most visited shrine. A single act of protest might have been ignored, but day after day, he\u2019d dragged corpses\u2014buffalo, goats, their tongues lolling from their mouths, their hooves strangely swollen\u2014to the middle of the busy thoroughfare in his tiny Suzuki van. When they\u2019d asked him why he\u2019d done it, he\u2019d said that no one cared, and so he\u2019d had no choice but to make people see what was happening here by the mines.<\/p>\n

This was true: No one did care. But Usmaan\u2019s blockades had forced pilgrims to get to the shrine by the smaller back roads, where a group of newly assembled dacoits had taken the opportunity to lie in wait and rob them, often violently. Even if Usmaan claimed he had nothing to do with the criminals, he\u2019d made it possible for the gang to operate. So when Khawar and his men couldn\u2019t find any higher-ups from the actual gang to arrest, their patience with the man\u2019s theatrics wore thin, and they decided that dealing with Usmaan would be good enough. It would reduce the recent criminal activity and restore both the flow of tourists and the reputation of the district\u2019s police. So here they were, trailing this stooping man on a hillside caked in sandy effluent from the mines.<\/p>\n

Something snapped; they all stopped to look around. But before they could start up again, Usmaan turned to face them, as if he\u2019d decided this was as far as he\u2019d go. Khawar stiffened, alert to trouble. He\u2019d brought three constables with him\u2014 excessive, perhaps, but he\u2019d felt the more bodies, the better, and now he wondered if his instincts had been right.<\/p>\n

Usmaan cleared his throat. If he had been crying before, no trace of it remained now. The wind was blowing in long, hot gusts, and Usmaan\u2019s kameez flapped up. He was balding, and the tufts of hair on either side of his head flew up too. He grimaced as the wind lashed his face. But Khawar could detect no tension in the man\u2019s body, no indication that he was waiting for a moment to charge at them or run; he looked determined.<\/p>\n

Khawar had thought about this moment a great deal the past few days; he\u2019d pictured exactly how it ought to unfold. But as the man stared at each of them, unblinking, he realized that although he\u2019d thought about the mechanics, he hadn\u2019t fully confronted the business of killing a man. He\u2019d known that it might come one day, particularly after his promotion to inspector, but he had expected that he\u2019d function on autopilot, as he did most of the time: overseeing the logistics, getting the job done, filing the paperwork, fastidious as ever. And yet here he was\u2014thinking!<\/p>\n

He nodded at his men to indicate that they should unshackle the prisoner. They crouched around his ankles and leaned over his hands, and Khawar felt embarrassed, as if he were watching something untoward, something private. He turned to look at the hills. With the smell of dirt hanging in the air and the grass lying in sheets of dull gold around his ankles, he had the urge to take off his boots and socks and feel the earth under his feet, God\u2019s name hovering somewhere around him.<\/p>\n

The prisoner\u2019s chains clanked. This wasn\u2019t the time or the place. Or perhaps it was. Perhaps this was exactly what a man supervising the death of another should be thinking about: God.<\/p>\n

Had Inspector Salim Mirza of Karachi, legendary for his record of encounters, felt the same during each of his? How many had Mirza overseen? The number was said to be in the hundreds\u2014it had transformed him into a folk hero of law enforcement. Perhaps the \u2026 protocols<\/i> were different in a city like Karachi. Not that Khawar had ever been there, but it couldn\u2019t be like this: like shooting a man from a neighboring village whom you\u2019d likely wandered past countless times on your way to buy cigarettes. Khawar suspected it must get easier. But surely everyone remembered their first\u2014the first time must feeldifferent.<\/p>\n

When he turned back<\/span>, the constables were still fiddling with the chains, for God\u2019s sake. \u201cWhat\u2019s taking so long?\u201d he yelled.<\/p>\n

The constables straightened and gestured that they were finally done. Then they all turned to look at Usmaan. Pervaiz and Musa stood behind Javed, their hands in their pockets, surveying the prisoner and the rolling hills behind him as though there were a great deal to see out here in the middle of nowhere.<\/p>\n

\u201cCome on, then,\u201d Khawar said, indicating that they should proceed. Javed made an After you<\/i>, sir <\/i>gesture. Khawar swallowed. He had no intention of being the one to shoot the man. Inspector Mirza might do that kind of thing, but Khawar was here to supervise.<\/p>\n

\u201cGo on,\u201d he said, and Javed, his shoulders dropping now, nodded at the others. They reluctantly took their hands out of their pockets and fiddled with their cuffs, their belts, their mustaches, but they did not pull out their guns. Khawar was feeling queasy; if they didn\u2019t get this done quickly, he might start to retch. Mirza, Mirza<\/i>, he thought in a bid to calm himself.<\/p>\n

\u201cCome on,\u201d he said again. The constables finally took out their guns.<\/p>\n

\u201cReady,\u201d Javed said. Khawar thought the prisoner ought to cry now, to whimper\u2014it seemed the right time. But Usmaan only closed his eyes, as if in prayer.<\/p>\n

\u201cSomething\u2019s not right, sir,\u201d Musa said.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n

Musa widened his eyes, trying to communicate something, but Khawar had no idea what he meant. Of course it wasn\u2019t right, nothing was right.<\/p>\n

\u201cShouldn\u2019t we shoot him \u2026 in the back<\/i>? Isn\u2019t that what we\u2019re supposed to do?\u201d<\/p>\n

Khawar flushed. Musa was right. An encounter was supposed to look like, well, like an encounter, like they\u2019d shot a man escaping capture. The man had to run. Khawar chewed his lip\u2014how would he ask the man to do that?<\/p>\n

\u201cYou need to\u2014\u201d he gestured into the distance, flapping his hand outward. Usmaan looked at him, but he made no move.<\/p>\n

\u201cI never meant for any harm to come to others,\u201d he said. \u201cYou all know I am innocent, that I am no dacoit. I work my land, that\u2019s all I do, it\u2019s all I\u2019ve ever done.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLook\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDid you know,\u201d the man interrupted, \u201cyou can love an animal, really love it, sir? One that you\u2019ve named, that you\u2019ve fed, that\u2019s fed you?\u201d<\/p>\n

For God\u2019s sake. A ruse to distract them at the crucial moment. As if he had time for any of this.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe were just trying to protect our lives, our children. We\u2019ve tried everything else. Complaints. The courts. No one listens.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s enough,\u201d Khawar said.<\/p>\n

\u201cEnough? They\u2019ve buried barrels of poison in there. God only knows how much. They tell us it\u2019s safe because no one lives here, but we do, we live here. I have a son. I want him to live. Instead, the water we give our children, the food we feed our animals, makes them sick.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s not true\u2014and that doesn\u2019t excuse the merciless robberies\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

Usmaan took a step toward him. \u201cRobberies.\u201d He scoffed, narrowed his eyes to look at Khawar. \u201cYou don\u2019t care about what\u2019s true, sir. Our children get strange bubbles on their skin, they have breathing problems. They get cancers, young children. They die. Younger than they have in generations.\u201d<\/p>\n

Khawar\u2019s constables were staring at the man intently, their mouths open, their mustaches drooping.<\/p>\n

\u201cPlease, sir,\u201d Usmaan said. \u201cYou must listen.\u201d But he wasn\u2019t pleading; he was adamant, his tone defiant, even. The nerve of the man. What made him think Khawar, an inspector, should listen to him? Who did he think he was? Khawar needed to get this over with. Then he could go home\u2014to the cricket highlights, to hot tea after dinner, and put all of this behind him.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat way,\u201d Khawar said. \u201cAway from the sun.\u201d Better chance of a clean shot. He glanced at Usmaan, embarrassed that they needed his help. Each of the constables was looking down; big-eyed Pervaiz seemed on the verge of tears. What was wrong with him, with all of them? He wanted to shake them, to cry out: They were pathetic! Surely Inspector Mirza would not have tolerated such nonsense. \u201cHurry up!\u201d he yelled, and the constables shakily drew their guns.<\/p>\n

Usmaan looked around the hills, took in some deep breaths as if calming himself. He closed his eyes for a moment, then he nodded and said: \u201cOkay.\u201d He turned his back to the guns that were trained on him. He started to walk, then sped up to a gentle trot headed toward a distant ridge; a second later, he was sprinting.<\/p>\n

\u201cNow,\u201d Khawar shouted into the wind. The bang of gunfire rang out across the hills, but the man was still running. For God\u2019s sake!<\/p>\n

\u201cAgain,\u201d Khawar called, and the constables fired. The man was still running.<\/p>\n

\u201cFire!\u201d he yelled, and they fired again and again. Still, the man ran. \u201cGet him!\u201d he screamed at his men. \u201cCatch him!\u201d<\/p>\n

Usmaan disappeared over the top of a hill as they tripped and stumbled up the steep climb. Khawar\u2019s heart was pumping hard as he ran against the wind, his only thought oh God, oh God<\/i>. But where the hill plateaued, the constables stopped and looked around uncertainly.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat? What is it?\u201d he puffed as he caught up to them. Javed gestured to the open, yellow plain that lay before them. There was no one in sight. They staggered down the hill; they fanned out and searched. There was no place he could have fallen, no ditch into which he might have rolled. But he was gone, as if he\u2019d never been there at all.<\/p>\n

After an hour and a half of searching, Khawar led them back toward the car. His muscles were stiff with fear, and for good reason; they\u2019d allowed a man slated for death to get away, which would have terrible repercussions, because men did not just disappear into thin air.<\/p>\n

On the drive back<\/span> to DG Khan, Javed drove. Pervaiz closed his eyes, then fell asleep. Musa chewed his fingernails. None of them had said a word when Khawar listed a string of possibilities for where they might look for the vanished man\u2014known associates, family, clansmen. They all appeared fairly relaxed for a cohort of men facing a bigger problem than the one they\u2019d started with.<\/p>\n

Javed swerved to steer around a crow pecking at the remains of some dead creature in the road, and Khawar started.<\/p>\n

\u201cStop the car,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cSir?\u201d Javed replied.<\/p>\n

\u201cNow,\u201d he said. Now<\/i>.\u201d<\/p>\n

Khawar got out and paced a little as the men sat inside. Dust blew across the fields. The wheat swayed. He recalled the interminable jangling of the chains, the mournful faces of the men as they\u2019d pulled their guns from their holsters; they had seemed more worried about the prospect of getting rid of the man than they were about his disappearance. They weren\u2019t terrible shots, and the man had not been that fast. He leaned down into Javed\u2019s open window. \u201cYou missed on purpose, didn\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n

Javed held his gaze. He said nothing. The other constables looked away.<\/p>\n

\u201cGet out, all of you,\u201d he said. The men climbed out of the car slowly. They stood, their eyes trained on the ground.<\/p>\n

\u201cDid he pay you? Are you connected to him? Is he from your clan or something?\u201d Javed shook his head.<\/p>\n

\u201cThen why?\u201d Khawar braced himself, but they said nothing. \u201cIt\u2019s over, for all of you. Do you understand? I have a list of men ready to have your jobs. Jobs they\u2019ll actually do\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSir, it\u2019s not what you think. He showed us. We couldn\u2019t, not after we saw it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSaw what?\u201d<\/p>\n

Javed glanced at Pervaiz, who nodded back. Javed took out his phone and scrolled through it, then stopped and held up a photo. Khawar squinted. He could just make out the edge of a shoulder, perhaps, a brown patch.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat the hell is that?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s him. Usmaan. He\u2019s marked by God, sir. See? There\u2019s a birthmark. On his shoulder. God\u2019s name. It spells God\u2019s name.\u201d<\/p>\n

Khawar peered at the picture. Javed told him that Usmaan had shown them the mark last night in the holding cell. The picture wasn\u2019t that clear\u2014there were some long lines and a curve, true, but it didn\u2019t look like anything more than an unusual birthmark. Only, Khawar couldn\u2019t say that out loud to them, just as they could not have denied Usmaan\u2019s claim once he\u2019d made it; to deny seeing God\u2019s name written could be dangerous, ruinous, a potential death sentence.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt would be a crime to do anything to him, sir. A crime against God,\u201d Javed said. \u201cIf he hadn\u2019t had such a mark on him \u2026\u201d Javed shrugged. \u201cAnd look at what just happened, sir. He disappeared\u2014that must be the work of God.\u201d The other men looked up at him now too. \u201cI wasn\u2019t sure before, but now, after what we just saw, I am. Sir.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe ran,\u201d Khawar said. \u201cHe grew up around these hills, he knows the area better than we do. He knows some special hiding place out there, and that\u2019s where he is, lying low.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, sir.\u201d Javed, usually so ready to acquiesce, was firm, \u201cNo, sir. We didn\u2019t fire directly at him, that\u2019s true, but we didn\u2019t just watch him run away, he vanished<\/i>.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cEven when we brought him in, sir. Even before we saw the mark, there was something about him, sir. Something different,\u201d Pervaiz said. \u201cWe could all tell. The villagers told us the same thing.\u201d<\/p>\n

Khawar squinted at the constable\u2014baffled by him, by all of them. He looked at the picture again.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt was a miracle, sir,\u201d Javed said.<\/p>\n

\u201cGet back in the car,\u201d Khawar said.<\/p>\n

He had only half-entertained the idea that the man had vanished, not really believing it until Javed had said it out loud. A man marked by God. A man whom his three constables had conspired not <\/i>to kill. Now they would all lose their jobs. The men were right to be afraid, perhaps of God (his wife would say so) but also because if this man had such a mark and others knew it, who could say what might happen to any of them for harming him?<\/p>\n

Mobs had surrounded the homes of people for all sorts of alleged violations on far flimsier evidence. He thought of the photos he was sent sometimes on WhatsApp, pictures of the unlikely places you might find God\u2019s name: watermelons cut open, wheat fields shot from above. The branches of the tree on the side of the road quivered. A kikar tree: a friend through joy and sorrow, Muneeza had said of the ones she\u2019d planted in their garden. Perhaps there were words buried in the grooves on its trunk, or the crows in the sky, circling the carcass on the road, might be making letters. If you looked hard enough, if you believed in signs, God\u2019s name might be anywhere you set your eyes.<\/p>\n

When he got home<\/span>, Muneeza was sitting wrapped in a chador on her prayer mat, with a glass of water beside her and her phone playing a prayer. He sat down on the bed. Once the tinny sound of the zikr was finished, she picked up the glass of water and drank it. This was some new ritual her pir had prescribed, another snatch of verse he\u2019d sent her and the women in her WhatsApp group. Something to dispel the force blocking whatever it was that each of them sought: an end to menstrual cramps, better-paying jobs for their husbands, good exam results for their children\u2014children, always children. Babies. He would find her scrolling through the zikrs, one male voice followed by another, on nights she couldn\u2019t sleep, something frantic about her search, as if whatever wrongs they had suffered could be righted only through the selection of a certain passage, the correct words to speak to God.<\/p>\n

When she got up, she rested her hand on his cheek for a moment, but when he reached for her, she was already gone. He wanted her to ask him about his day, the way she used to. But piety had become all-consuming; prayers could make the impossible possible, could make life<\/i>, the pir said, and that was what Muneeza wanted most of all.<\/p>\n

What would Khawar tell her if she even cared to listen? That he had abandoned a pile of paperwork on his desk? Or that he had tried to kill a man and failed? The revulsion hit him then\u2014she would never believe that he could sit a man down in a car with such intent. It\u2019s a job, it\u2019s my job<\/i>, he would say to her. You cannot hold my job against me<\/i>.<\/p>\n

She came back into the room, a small cloth purse with her. \u201cLook,\u201d she said, emptying out a handful of semiprecious stones. She smiled, delighted. \u201cI have to grind these and wash with them.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd then what?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt will help to dispel the dark cloud that\u2019s blocking us.\u201d<\/p>\n

He felt his eyes filling, though he wasn\u2019t sure why. \u201cAnd how much did you give him for this?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnything we give him goes to the poor.\u201d<\/p>\n

She sat down by her bedside table and set about grinding the stones against a nail file, collecting the dust in a tissue for her bath. He surprised himself by grabbing the stones from the table, marching out to their small veranda, and hurling them into the dirt among the kikar trees she\u2019d planted after the first miscarriage.<\/p>\n

Perhaps it was his failure to do what had seemed a simple task this morning, perhaps it was years of waiting for God\u2019s blessings to be visited upon them, perhaps it was months of watching his wife\u2019s face open to strangers selling her prayers and holy relics, touching her head and hair with hands that claimed to have felt God\u2019s power. Idolatry<\/i>, he wanted to shout as he stared at the trees, the stones lost in the dirt.<\/p>\n

Read more Why Calls to \u2018Save Democracy\u2019 Don\u2019t Work<\/a><\/p>\n

She stood behind him. He wanted her to cry. To watch her scrabble around in the dirt, to feel the rightness of his belief. But she didn\u2019t. She only said, \u201cYou will find those stones, and then you\u2019ll bathe in the water too.\u201d<\/p>\n

She turned, walking away from him, and the desperation he felt was sharp as he followed her into the bedroom. He wasn\u2019t thinking when he spoke, the words just came out: \u201cI met a man marked with God\u2019s name today. A birthmark.\u201d<\/p>\n

Muneeza stopped. She turned to look at Khawar, a blank slate.<\/p>\n

He thought his legs might buckle under him, but he spoke, thrilled and terrified by the intensity of her attention. He detailed his desperation that morning, his horror at his failure, the dread at what might follow in the days ahead. If the truth got out, he was well and truly finished.<\/p>\n

As soon as he stopped speaking, she began to pace, muttering frantically. He realized that he had not expressed much discomfort about the task itself, the plan to kill the man. She must think him a monster.<\/p>\n

\u201cMuneeza,\u201d he said, trying to calm her intensifying panic.<\/p>\n

She stopped. \u201cIt\u2019s him,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

\u201cWho?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s him<\/i>. Pir sain told me, he said there would be a man. A man who\u2019d seen extraordinary things. A man who would bring a message.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat man? What message?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThis man, this is obviously the man. Why else would this have happened? God saved him for a reason. You have to find him. He has a message that will help dispel the djinn that\u2019s plaguing us.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThis is the man who will lose me my job, Muneeza.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cKilling is not much of a job.\u201d She looked contrite for a moment, as if she, too, was startled by the frankness of her speech. But then her expression hardened, and she crossed her arms. He blinked. That <\/i>is not my job, he wanted to yell, but it was exactly what he had just described. \u201cMy job,\u201d he said, \u201cpays for all of this\u2014the endless feeding of your pirs, for the sadqahs, the ta’weezes, for the things you keep buying to make a miracle happen.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGod saved him and you. He saved you from your own sin for a reason. You\u2019ve been blessed.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBlessed? I\u2019m a dead man. My life is over if this gets out.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cA man marked by God\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYa Allah! Is there nothing you won\u2019t believe? Palm readers and fakirs, black magic. Now this. God\u2019s mark. It\u2019s not faith, it\u2019s not devotion. It\u2019s desperation. You\u2019re so desperate, you\u2019ll believe anything.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve never denied that I\u2019m desperate.\u201d She closed her eyes and held in a breath, the way she always did when she wanted to stop herself from crying. She looked at him, defiant now. \u201cWhat\u2019s wrong with it? With wanting what I want? With needing it.\u201d<\/p>\n

He flushed; there was discomfort in her naming it, her longing, in its loud unfurling between them, so alive and uncontained when she wasn\u2019t weaving it into her prayers.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know. God could have turned him into a bird to save him, or showed him some invisible path out of there\u2014I don\u2019t know how<\/i>\u2014but I do know that what you saw was a miracle.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cJust because I don\u2019t know what happened doesn\u2019t mean it was an act of God. I investigate things like this all the time. They are not miracles, they\u2019re just the things we don\u2019t know. Yet.\u201d His throat felt tight, his rage strangling him.<\/p>\n

When she spoke, her voice was steady, \u201cGod has given you\u2014us\u2014a second chance. You would be\u2014\u201d she stopped herself. \u201cIt would be foolish of us to ignore it.\u201d<\/p>\n

She glanced out the window; the sunset had dissolved into the dim light of dusk. She put her hand to her heart. \u201cI\u2019m late for Maghrib,\u201d she said, and she left, disappearing from him as she always did.<\/p>\n

He kicked over the small side table on which she had placed one of her embroidered doilies. He stared at the fallen table, the underside of the embroidery with its stitching crudely visible, as the bedroom door clicked shut.<\/p>\n

For two days<\/span>, he thought of nothing but the vanished man. He ignored Muneeza, who trailed him around the house, neglecting her prayers, asking what he intended to do. Would he find the man, could he? Would he at least talk to the pir, listen to his prophecy? Could she<\/em>talk to the pir about it?<\/p>\n

\u201cYou talk to no one, tell no one,\u201d he snapped, bristling every time her WhatsApp pinged, saying nothing when she noisily cleared the plates from the table, sloshing curry onto his uniform.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, sorry,\u201d she said, in a tone that didn\u2019t sound at all sorry. She was seething, but so was he. Instead of comforting him, she had turned his professional crisis into a spiritual one. It was ridiculous for her to think that this\u2014whatever it was\u2014meant something, to even put the idea in his head. But in all these years of watching Muneeza pray and pay for access to God\u2019s favor, hadn\u2019t he longed for a sign? Hadn\u2019t he told himself that all he needed to keep going was some message that they weren\u2019t throwing away their money, their time, the years of their marriage on some futile hope? What if this was that very\u2014but then he stopped himself; he couldn\u2019t afford to waste time on such thoughts, on superstition. He had to think straight, rationally, to get himself free of this. The intercessions of holy men would achieve nothing.<\/p>\n

At the station<\/span>, he told his constables to avoid doing anything that might draw attention to what had happened; they were to appear occupied with station business. They trudged around town, around the station courtyard, silent and morose. If this was a miracle, it had not delivered much in the way of jubilation. Instead, a new kind of dread seemed to hover over them. The sense of God\u2019s nearness, God\u2019s truth, was perhaps enough to make even a constable reflect on his life. For God could <\/i>hold your job against you, and a police officer might well be first among sinners to be punished. Javed even asked for leave to visit Sakhi Sarwar\u2019s shrine, where Khawar presumed he intended to ask the saint to intervene preemptively on his behalf.<\/p>\n

His own plan, if he had one at all, was to resolve the matter before his superiors found out, but he dithered and delayed, unsure of how to appease his bosses, his wife\u2014God. Before he knew it, he was summoned to see the superintendent; secrets were not well kept in stations, and miracles, it seemed, were even less so. It was cowardly to blame his constables, but then, it was also the truth\u2014they had not followed orders.<\/p>\n

\u201cSuperstitious nonsense,\u201d the SP said, with disgust. \u201cI almost never see any of your men at Jumma, and some of them don\u2019t even fast. And here they are, spouting this rubbish. It\u2019s an affront to the sanctity of our beliefs, but I\u2019ll leave that punishment to the Almighty.\u201d He paused and looked at Khawar. \u201cYou\u2019ll have to be firm. Appropriate disciplinary action for defying orders will be necessary. After you find and deal with the dacoit, of course.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSir,\u201d Khawar said. \u201cSir\u201d to everything. He didn\u2019t raise the matter of what the villagers might do if they heard that the police had killed a man marked by God. The only thing likely to appease them would be the return of the man himself. When, after a week, no mobs had arrived at the station, he knew that Usmaan must have returned to his village safely. That meant it wouldn\u2019t be long before the SP and higher-ups found out the man was still alive too; no doubt a new pile of animals would appear on the highway soon. His only choice\u2014if no one was prepared to finish the job\u2014was to chase the man out of the area. Whatever Usmaan still had here\u2014land, family, animals\u2014he would have to be persuaded to abandon it all.<\/p>\n

The constables said nothing<\/span> when he gave them their orders, but they would not look at him. \u201cYou\u2019re not going to do anything to him,\u201d he promised. \u201cYou\u2019re just going to bring him in, and I\u2019m going to ask him to leave.\u201d<\/p>\n

He had thought about accompanying them, but he worried that their mistrust of him would lead them to sabotage the plan. Trusting them to find Usmaan ought to show that he meant him no real harm. That he, like them, was a believer, that he, too, had witnessed the miracle.<\/p>\n

The moon was fat and bright by the time he heard a car pull up in front of the station. When he stepped outside, he found not the returned constables but his brother-in-law, Raza, parking his Toyota in the courtyard, with Muneeza in the passenger seat.<\/p>\n

\u201cIs everything all right?\u201d he asked Raza, who squinted at him through cloudy glasses with tired eyes.<\/p>\n

\u201cMuneeza said she had to come,\u201d Raza said. \u201cInsisted. Not sure what\u2019s so urgent that you\u2019d have your wife come here in the middle of\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI didn\u2019t ask her to come.\u201d<\/p>\n

Muneeza tapped the bonnet of the car, signaling that Raza could go, the look on her face pleading him to do so. \u201cThanks, Raza bhai.\u201d He sighed, seemed about to say something more, but then reversed out of the courtyard, clicking his tongue at Khawar as he went.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat are you doing, coming here?\u201d Khawar snapped as the car left. \u201cAnd why did you call your brother, of all people?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou haven\u2019t called me back all day. Or responded to my messages. I wanted to see if there was any news. And I knew you wouldn\u2019t have let me come.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGo home,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019ll get someone to drive you.\u201d His jaw was tight.<\/p>\n

\u201cI went there,\u201d she said. \u201cI went to the mines to see for myself. It all looks \u2026 normal.\u201d She was exasperated.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow did you get there?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cRaza took me.\u201d<\/p>\n

He closed his eyes; soon, everyone in town would know about the man, the mines, the failed encounter.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt all looks fine up there, but it\u2019s not, is it? Maybe we can\u2019t see the poison, but it\u2019s there. He sees it,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t have to be a holy man to see it,\u201d he said, thinking of the dead animals Usmaan had dumped in the middle of the road.<\/p>\n

\u201cPerhaps you have to be a holy man to speak out about it. Who else will speak of it?\u201d He turned to walk away.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat will you do when you find him?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m going to get him to leave the area,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou can\u2019t. He has to stay. The miracle happened there for a reason\u2014so we wouldn\u2019t forget it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou have to go. Now.\u201d<\/p>\n

She looked at him closely. \u201cYou\u2019ve found him, haven\u2019t you? He\u2019s coming, isn\u2019t he?\u201d She seemed to quiver, and then she walked toward a plastic chair outside the station doorway. She sat down; she would not be leaving. He started to speak, but she was already lost to him, her fingers gliding across the smooth beads of her tasbih, the light of the moon falling gently on her hands, on her lips as they moved silently. He went inside the station, pretending not to watch her from his window as she stared at the gate with perfect concentration. He\u2019d always dismissed Muneeza\u2019s rituals, her relics and saints and talismans\u2014the practice of the poor, the ignorant, the illiterate. Those in frantic need. But what if some people just couldn\u2019t see signs, no matter how clear\u2014what if he was one of them? The kind who, even when God made His power visible, would only ever question it, doubt it? In the stories of the prophets, the glorious stories of the birth of his religion, the shadowy presence of the unbelievers also existed\u2014the enemies, those who did not come around, who doubted, who just could not see what God was revealing to them. What if\u2014and this made him shudder\u2014he was like those men?<\/p>\n

Another hour passed<\/span> before the constables returned. He heard them banging on the gate outside the courtyard to announce their return or that they had a prisoner with them. He went to stand in the doorway, and Muneeza raised her head to watch as the car crawled into the courtyard. She called to Khawar and stood, ready to move toward the car.<\/p>\n

\u201cWait,\u201d he said to her, watching Pervaiz open the car door. The tall man stepped out into the darkness of the courtyard. Muneeza was breathing heavily. \u201cWait,\u201d he said again. \u201cWhat if it\u2019s all just luck? All the good things, all the bad things.\u201d<\/p>\n

She clamped her lips together. \u201cGod wills the good luck, the bad luck. Everything is God\u2019s will. He just asks that we show patience\u2014faith.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat if there\u2019s no message? What if this isn\u2019t the right man?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThen we wait, we wait to see what God has in store for us.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSome days I\u2019m not sure,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019m not sure about anything. About what we\u2019re doing, about what any of this is for.\u201d He gestured to her tasbih, paused. He had said too much. She swallowed, looked around: Quiet<\/i>, she meant. These were not things to say, not out loud.<\/p>\n

The constables were heading toward them with Usmaan in tow. Once he stepped inside the station, once he was seen here, Khawar would have to make a decision; people would know what he, Khawar, had done, what he had not done. Even with the weight of this, what he really wondered was how much more of his life would be spent in pursuit of this want, her want; how many more places would they travel in search of messages and signs? How many more paychecks would be spent in pursuit of what he sensed was an impossible wish?<\/p>\n

\u201cI can\u2019t go on with it. I can\u2019t keep on with all this,\u201d Khawar said, because he could not stop now.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou can, you will,\u201d she said, her eyes unmoving. \u201cYou will not deny God\u2019s message.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGod\u2019s plans are better than your dreams. Isn\u2019t that what your pir says?\u201d he said. \u201cIsn\u2019t that the lesson we\u2019re supposed to learn?\u201d<\/p>\n

She looked taken aback for a moment, her shoulders slumped. \u201cMaybe. Maybe this is God\u2019s plan.\u201d She closed her eyes a moment, then opened them and stared at him. \u201cBut we don\u2019t know that yet. And I\u2019m not leaving \u2019til I know if God has sent him here. For us.\u201d<\/p>\n

As Usmaan reached the threshold of the station, she said, \u201cSain \u2026 pirsain,\u201d and Usmaan stopped.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou are?\u201d Usmaan said. He sounded clear, firm, not at all fearful in the presence of men who\u2019d seemed ready to shoot him a few days ago. She was silent. From inside the station came the sound of the radio. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked, a rickshaw spluttered.<\/p>\n

Khawar braced himself, instinctively put his hand on his holster\u2014wouldn\u2019t it be, even now, the easiest solution? He reached into the edges of his mind for a story that would make sense, but just then, Muneeza stepped in front of Usmaan, shielding him.<\/p>\n

\u201cI heard what happened, sain. My pir said I should watch for a sign, and after I heard about the miracle \u2026 I came to find you.\u201d She paused. \u201cI\u2019ve been waiting to hear \u2026 your message,\u201d she said, as if Usmaan ought to know her.<\/p>\n

Khawar wanted it to be true, he wanted to feel it could be true that God sent messengers and gifts and even punishments. That He could turn men into birds. That He could plant life in wounded bodies, in broken marriages. That people could be transformed from djinns into men, into decent men, even men like him who were, when so instructed, ready to walk other men to their death.<\/p>\n

Usmaan squinted at Muneeza. The constables stared at her too, and then at Khawar, awaiting instructions, loath as they might be to fulfill them.<\/p>\n

\u201cI do have things to say,\u201d Usmaan said, and Muneeza inhaled sharply, her face open with hope.<\/p>\n

Khawar gestured that the constables should hang back, and he stepped back as well, his arms now limp by his sides, desperately trying to imagine what it felt like to know<\/i>,to be sure the way she was\u2014a sense of flight, or a warm wind blowing her hair about her face, the strands tickling her skin, what? And he watched as she, just as desperately, willed this stranger to gift her something, while the poisoned hills stood in the darkness behind them, silent and mysterious as God.<\/p>\n

Read more David Hockney Slowed Down Time<\/a><\/p>\n<\/section>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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