Monsoon season wasn't merciful on anyone. The spray outside the window, barely made anything visible. Power had been cut as a safety precaution, as is the case mostly during monsoon. This ground floor flat was in a quiet neighbourhood. Even though the power was cut and the normal street lights were no longer illuminating the streets and the pavement, there were halogen bulbs mounted high on the side of the building that would trigger on whenever the mains were cut.
As the we zoom in on the above said window from the outside, people could be seen running left and right, with and without umbrellas or raincoats. They were desperately trying to get to their homes. We are however not distracted by this desperate rush. We are focused on the window. A faint glow gradually illuminates in the darkness of the flat. This illumination grows as we get closer and it eventually reveals an outline of a face.
Zaheer was contemplating as was the case mostly when it poured. The calm and comfort of being safe and dry inside his home while observing the mayhem outside, gave Zaheer time to reflect. His writing table was placed right next to this window. So whenever he was working on it, he could always take a break by looking outside. Power was cut today so he couldn't actually work. So, he sat there rocking in his chair and observing life through the wet curtains.
The noise of rain drops on the window was rhythmic. An occasional holler on the street by an excited someone (just because it was raining), contrary to the belief, added to the whole scene rather take away from it.
Zaheer's favourite smokes Capstan soothed him. He preferred the soft pack. Easier to manage, or so he believed. Creatures of habit anybody else would say. At 65 it really did not matter to him what others thought, or what their reasons for thinking such were. Heck he did not even care about his own reasons let alone other's. He had spent a fulfilling life, where he did not have to rely on anyone's mercy or else. He was truly independent. Period.
At 22, as he was finishing university, his parents died in an accident. Being the only child he did not have to worry about what would happen to the house hold. His uncle helped sell the house and Zaheer moved in with him. His uncle was not his father, and Zaheer was constantly reminded of this by the constant bickering by him with hopes of subjugation. At least that is what Zaheer assumed. His aunt lived a life of an oppressed wife and therefore she did not dare intervene.
The point where he was at and the turn his life took, drew him to some bad influences. He started hanging out with the wrong crowd. These friends introduced him to others who in turn introduced him to yet more. Eventually, before he became conscious of it, Zaheer, was working for a known local gangster. He had moved out of his uncle's house to pursue independence in the gang territory. He was independent and self-sufficient. He was happy.
Zaheer carried out various jobs for his boss. Bribing, extortion and theft etc. were the skills that he was now adept at. Gone were the days of dissecting frogs in a lab and observing Amoeba under the scope; the formal training he had.
He made a fresh brew of tea in the white tiled kitchen illuminated by a yellow glowing lamp. Milk and 3 spoons of sugar and he was ready to continue his journey down the memory lane. As he took his place on the writing table, he spotted the street light, outside his window, flicker on and shortly after so did his flat's. His relief and elation knew no bounds however brief. As it happens sometimes the power resumes but just for a short while. This was one such instance. He did have a freshly brewed tea so life was not all that bad.
When he was 40, the mere gang, that it once was, had established itself as an enterprise. Everyone was getting bigger jobs and Zaheer was no different. Hits, kidnappings, drive-bys etc. were not unusual.These services were than once enlisted by a local political party. As it was known politics was a dirty game but in Karachi it was just down right filthy. Entrapments, murders etc. were quite common and everybody was in on it. It was election season and the boss expected it to be busy. The gang got up to all sorts of tasks during that season. However, it was the last job he did that Zaheer will always remember. On the face of it, it was an easy job. A contestant for the local council was hindering the local goon's plan of area dominance. So a hit was called upon. Work was work and Zaheer made it a point not to find out extra details about his targets. The surveillance was taken care off by the younger boys in the enterprise. By the time a hit came to Zaheer, every day routine, address etc. would be known.
It was Sunday; an off day. The target would be at home. This guy lived in a normal area in a normal apartments building, unlike many of the people the gang served. Zaheer didn't think too much about it then.
The grilled door was kicked open and man sitting on the sofa, watching T.V. and enjoying his afternoon, was shot twice with a silenced T.T. Once in the head and once in the heart. It was an average flat and it hinted at the modest living. However, Zaheer didn't think too much about it then.
Screams came from the kitchen where Zaheer rushed to. He found a frantic woman trying to close the cupboards. As soon as she realised the assailant was just behind her. She turned around to plead and beg. The mascara was smeared and the woman was crying. Crying for mercy. 2 shots straight through the heart and peace was attained. No more howling and Zaheer could resume life. Thoughts could resume. Considering the Job done Zaheer took off the silencer from his gun. This he then pocketed. The kitchen utensils and stock told him that this man was nothing like his clients or his boss even. Very normal, quite modest and shamelessly average. However, Zaheer didn't think too much about it then.
Just as he turned around to leave he heard some sniffles. He immediately took out his gun and scrambled to fit the silencer. He followed the sound and it, apparently, was coming from one of the cupboards. The cupboard the woman was trying to close. Zaheer pointing his gun at the cupboard, quickly sung it open. A cute child was sitting in the middle of sacks of ration. The girls was wearing a pretty shalwar kameez, but was clearly scared as she had went her shalwar. The gun did nothing to scare her more as, at the age of hardly 2, she did not know what a gun is, does or used for. Zaheer, somewhat embarrassed at the reflection of this animal he had become, pointed the gun away and pocketed it again. Confused and somewhat shocked he wondered what his next steps should be. After much contemplation he decided to anonymously report to the police of some disturbance at the address. He reached and pulled out the girl, put the girl on the sofa, covered the father's dead body with a bed sheet and gave the girl a final check before taking his leave.
Over time, he realised that this episode had greatly disturbed him. Even though he did ensure that the little girl was now safely under the guardianship of some close relatives who treated her well, the thought did not escape his mind that he was responsible for making this beautiful child an orphan. Over the course of his life, he gathered a lot of information about this man that he murdered. He learnt that he was a good and kind man who meant well for the neighbourhood.
Just an year later he had learnt so much about that family, that he was disgusted with himself. So he decided to call it quits and retired from this hooliganism. That was 10 years ago.
As we zoom in on the window, yet again, the hustle bustle of the pedestrians on the pavement had calmed down. The grey clouds gave way to a bight sun and the rain had stopped after giving the area a good clean wash, The power had not yet resume so from the outside it was still difficult to make out the inside of Zaheer's flat. Inside, a tea cup was there half filled, a cigarette on the floor half smoked and a gun with its barrel smoking. Brains and blood sprawled across the Writing table and Zaheer with his head laid on the table, eyes wide open. A trip down this memory lane and a look back at his life was equivalent to a final check on the girl before he took his leave.