The pioneer of academic commentary in this field is Professor Julius Superb. Although his ideas received a cool reception when first aired, they are now widely influential and are discussed not only in doctoral dissertations but also in board rooms and living rooms throughout the land. Indeed, Lahore will not soon forget the Superb paper presented at the Provincial Seminar on Social Class in Pakistan.
Professor Superb walked to the auditorium with a determined smile on his face and a growing ink stain on his shirt pocket, the work of the unsheathed fountain pen he had used to add the final touches to his speech. Those of his students who saw him at the time recalled that he seemed distracted. This did not arouse their curiosity, as the professor was known for his absentmindedness.
Reaching the doors of the auditorium, he attempted to hurl them open, failed, and then struggled unsuccessfully until he realized that he was pushing, not pulling. His awesome mind broke the problem into discrete parts, solved each with the inhuman speed and precision of a supercomputer, and he was inside before fifteen seconds had passed.
Professor Superb then waited in the hushed gloom until it was his turn to speak. When the time came, he strode to the front of the auditorium, mounted the stage, cleared his throat, and delivered a few introductory remarks. Finally, he was ready.
‘There are two social classes in Pakistan,’ Professor Superb said to his unsuspecting audience, gripping the podium with both hands as he spoke. ‘The first group, large and sweaty, contains those referred to as the masses. The second group is much smaller, but its members exercise vastly greater control over their immediate environment and are collectively termed the elite. The distinction between members of these two groups is made on the basis of control of an important resource: air-conditioning. You see, the elite have managed to re-create for themselves the living standards of, say, Sweden, without leaving the dusty plains of the subcontinent. They’re a mixed lot – Punjabis and Pathans, Sindhis and Baluchis, smugglers, mullahs, soldiers, industrialists – united by their residence in an artificially cooled world. They wake up in air-conditioned houses, drive air-conditioned cars to air-conditioned offices, grab lunch in air-conditioned restaurants (rights of admission reserved), and at the end of the day go home to their air-conditioned lounges to relax in front of their wide-screen TVs. And if they should think about the rest of the people, the great uncooled, and become uneasy as they lie under their blankets in the middle of the summer, there is always prayer, five times a day, which they hope will gain them admittance to an air-conditioned heaven, or, at the very least, a long, cool drink during a fiery day in hell.’
Smiling, the professor walked out of the hushed auditorium, his footsteps echoing in the silence.
Most of the students present were either asleep or too bored to pay attention. Others had not heard a word, because Professor Superb eschewed the use of a microphone, thinking himself a great orator when in actuality he had a faint and unsteady voice. However, some of those who were awake and listening in the first three rows later said they were transfixed by the speech. Among them was the professor’s former pupil Murad Badshah, who regularly attended the Provincial Seminar Series.
Murad Badshah was never very fond of ACs. He was a man who liked to sweat, and he sweated well and profusely. In his own opinion, he had supremely athletic pores and a finely honed sweat distribution system which sent trickles of coolness wherever they were most needed.
He also enjoyed the natural aroma that clung to him like pollen to an errant bee.
But Murad Badshah was in the rickshaw business, and he had to accommodate passengers whose opinions (at least on this subject) often differed from his. Accordingly, he bathed three times a day in the summer: morning, midday, and evening. He found bathing almost as effective as sweating in its ability to cool his body, and thought of his combined bath-sweat cooling regimen as a way of augmenting rather than diminishing his body’s natural cooling capacity.
ACs, on the other hand, he considered unnatural and dangerous. Your pores will get out of shape if you rely on ACs for your cooling, he would say. It’s fine as long as you stay in your little air-conditioned space, but one day you might need to rely on your body again and your body won’t be there for you. After all, fortunes change, power blackouts happen, compressors die, coolant leaks.
He loved load-shedding for this reason. It amused him to see the rich people on the grounds of their mansions as he drove past their open gates, fanning themselves in the darkness, muttering as they called the power company on their cellular phones. Indeed, nothing made Murad Badshah more happy than the distress of the rich.
Lazy pores, he would say to himself, and laugh joyously. And the rich people would stare at the retreating lights of his rickshaw on their darkened streets and wonder what anyone could possibly be so happy about when it was so damn hot.
Murad Badshah was a firm believer in the need for a large-scale redistribution of wealth. After Professor Superb’s speech, he vowed to break the barriers that separated the cooled from the uncooled, like himself. Indeed, he used this principle to justify his piracy campaign against yellow cabs, since they were not only taking market share from rickshaws but were air-conditioned as well. He was fond of asking his victims, ‘Why should you be cooled?’ A populist, he rebelled against the system of hereditary entitlements responsible for cooling only the laziest minority of Pakistan’s population, and he embraced Darashikoh as a partner when the latter fell from cooling.
But in the Shah household, in the compound financed by the corrupt millions of Aurangzeb’s father, the hum of the air conditioner was sucking the life out of a marriage. For air-conditioning can be divisive not only in the realm of the political but in the realm of the personal as well.
Aurangzeb loved ACs with a passion unrivaled by his love for any other species of inanimate object. He insisted that his father install central air-conditioning in their new house, that the system be supported by a dedicated back-up generator, and that he have a master remote control for the entire upstairs portion. He was never happier than when his bedroom was so cold that he needed a heavy blanket to avoid shivering in the middle of summer. Conversely, he liked it to be so warm in winter that he could comfortably sleep naked without so much as a sheet. Aurangzeb, more than most men, sought to master his environment.
Mumtaz hated ACs with the sort of hatred one normally reserves for members of other religions and ethnic groups. An AC had almost killed her when she was young. She came home from a school football match (she was a star midfielder with a vicious left foot), took off her clothes in front of the AC, caught pneumonia, and spent two weeks in a hospital with a tube draining her lungs, battling for her life. Although Mumtaz was only fourteen at the time, and although people told her she had brought her illness on herself, she swore never to forgive and never to forget. Having once been betrayed by an AC, she branded them all traitors, and avoided their use except under circumstances of egregious warmth.
And so it was that the marriage between Aurangzeb and Mumtaz was doomed from the start.
In New York, a city of hot, muggy summers, Aurangzeb insisted that only an insane person would sleep with the air-conditioning off. Mumtaz disagreed, but baby Muazzam settled the question: he would cry all night unless serenaded by the cool hum of the air conditioner. A triumphant Aurangzeb agreed to Mumtaz’s terms of surrender: the AC would be left on at night, but at a thermostat setting of no more than three (with nine, of course, being the coolest).
When the couple returned to Lahore, where young Muazzam had his own room and a nanny, Mumtaz renewed her campaign. ‘We have to conserve electricity,’ she would say. ‘The entire country suffers because of the wastefulness of a privileged few.’
‘I couldn’t care less about the country,’ Aurangzeb would reply. ‘Besides, you have a delusional and obsessive fear of pneumonia.’
‘I think you underestimate the risk pneumonia poses to all of us. Besides, I real
ly do feel that we have a duty to use electricity responsibly.’
‘Then sleep outside. The AC is staying on.’
The results of Mumtaz’s renewed attempts to reduce the air-conditioning in the life she shared with Aurangzeb were minimal in terms of any change in the temperature. But her relations with her husband had grown chilly since their return from America, and his persistence on the AC issue did nothing to restore the warmth that had disappeared. In fact, now that they were back in Pakistan, Aurangzeb was far less conciliatory toward her than he had been before. For his part, he felt that she should be grateful for the style with which he (actually his father) supported them. He felt that the cars and clothes and dinner parties made him a good husband, and he resented her inability to demonstrate gratitude through obedience as his wife.
Mumtaz would later wonder whether Darashikoh’s lack of air-conditioning played a role in attracting her to him. No one will ever know the answer to that question, but it must be said that if air-conditioning doomed her relationship with her husband, it doomed her relationship with his best friend as well. You see, Mumtaz was over-air-conditioned and longed to be uncooled, while Darashikoh was under-air-conditioned and longed to be cooled. Although they walked the same path for a while, Mumtaz and Darashikoh were headed in opposite directions.
Yes, and no matter how important air-conditioning was to Mumtaz, to Aurangzeb and Murad Badshah and Professor Superb, it was more important to Darashikoh Shezad, for it took his mother from him and propelled him inexorably toward a life of crime.
On a midsummer night that followed a day when the temperatures spiked into the hundred and teens, much of Lahore was plunged into darkness. The pull of innumerable air conditioners stressed connections and wires and the systems that regulated the eddying currents of electricity past their capacities, and one after another, they failed. The wind chose that night to rest, and neighborhoods baked in the still heat.
Perhaps it was not surprising that Darashikoh’s mother decided to sleep on the roof on that tragic night. After all, she had often done so as a child growing up in Khanewal with no air-conditioning. She told her son and servants to carry two charpoys up to the roof, and such was her command over her household that they managed to do so.
Darashikoh would remember having a cup of hot tea with her before lying down on his charpoy, his arms crossed under his head, staring up at the stars. He fell into a deep sleep, so deep that he never heard the firing of the bullet that would claim his mother’s life.
His mother may have been asleep as well, for when her son found her dead the next morning, she was lying on her charpoy with her eyes shut. Or she may have been awake. She may have heard the repeated coughing of a Kalashnikov being fired into the sky. But even if she did, she probably thought nothing of it: there were two weddings in the neighborhood that night, so the celebratory sound of automatic gunfire was only to be expected. Of course, the bullets might not have come from those weddings. Someone might have fired a Kalashnikov in the air to announce a victory in a kite fight, a job promotion, or the birth of a child. A young man may have fired just to fire, or to let the neighborhood know that his was not a house to be robbed. Perhaps the weapon was fired at the moon, a metallic human howl.
Indeed, it is possible that only the one bullet was fired that night, for only one was found in the morning. It pierced Darashikoh’s mother’s throat from above, passed through the charpoy, and rolled, spent, to the edge of the roof. Her death was probably not instantaneous, since her spinal cord was not severed by the injury. The coroner was of the opinion that she bled to death in silence over the course of some minutes, unable to get up or to make a sound. The pool of her blood was already dry when the lightening sky roused Darashikoh from his sleep.
After that night, Darashikoh would have a recurrent vision which came to him not only when he was asleep but when he was awake as well. Once he was sitting with Mumtaz when the vision came, and he described it to her in this way: ‘I imagine Lahore as a city with bullets streaking into the air, tracers like fireworks, bright lines soaring into the night, slowing, falling back on themselves, a pavilion collapsing, the last dance of a fire before its fuel is consumed. And I lie on a field in the center of town, on grass fenced in by buildings, looking up at the stars with a sweet stem in my mouth, watching the brilliant arcs descending toward me.’
Mumtaz could not understand why people fired into the air as though the bullets would never come down again. She said, ‘People don’t believe in consequences anymore.’
But Darashikoh believed in consequences. He knew that his mother would not have died if the AC had been cooling her room that night, and when he lost his job and had his power disconnected, he felt more than just the discomfort of the heat in his house. He felt an insecurity, a disease that gnawed at him day and night. Perhaps he merely feared the loss of social status that the end of his air-conditioning represented. Or perhaps he feared something more profound and less easily explained. He needed money to have his power and air-conditioning and security restored, and he swore that nothing would stand in his way. He, a man who hated guns, came to accept that he would have to use one.
It is possible that Darashikoh could have learned something from his young servant, the mystically minded Manucci.
If one had asked Manucci during his days as a street urchin, as he sat, in defiance of municipal orders, astride the gun Zam-Zammah, Manucci would probably have said that ACs were hot. The first time he saw one jutting out into the street from the wall of a shop in the old city, he walked up to the noisy box and was amazed at the blast of hot air it sent straight into his face. Why do people turn on hot air in the middle of summer? he often wondered.
When he asked, people thought he was crazy. ‘What do you mean ACs make hot air?’ they would say. ‘They make cold air. Everyone knows that. That’s the way it is: ACs make cold air. That’s what they’re for.’
‘Do you have an AC?’ he would ask. ‘No,’ they all had to admit. No one had an AC. The other beggars, the vendors, the runners at paan shops, the ne’er-do-wells: none of them had an AC. But they all knew ACs made cold air, everyone knew that. That’s what ACs were for.
One day Manucci met an AC repairman. ‘You don’t seem to be doing a very good job,’ Manucci told him. ‘All the ACs around here are making hot air.’
‘You’re crazy, boy,’ the AC repairman said.
Manucci realized what all this had to mean. It meant people thought what he called hot air was cold air. So whenever he walked down the street past the back of a protruding AC, he would smile and say, ‘What cold air it makes. Wonderful.’
And people would shake their heads.
But Manucci knew they would call him crazy if he said this air was hot, so he always said it was cold. And when they shook their heads at him he shook his head right back.
It was not until the day that Darashikoh’s mother grabbed Manucci by the ear as he was trying to slip her wallet out of her purse and, deciding what Manucci needed was a home and some discipline, brought him back to her house, it was not until that day that Manucci finally went inside a building that had an AC. When it was turned on, he felt cold air blowing right into his face. And that is why he said, without blinking an eye, ‘This air is hot.’
He was very pleased with this statement.
But Darashikoh, just in the door from his first college boxing practice, was surprised, and strangely unsettled.
9
five
The ashtray’s full, I haven’t brushed my teeth, and there’s no place for me to spit out the dry paste that’s on my tongue.
My temples throb. Slow, sweaty throb-throbs. Joints have started giving me a headache rather than a buzz. Their smoke lingers in my sinuses, in my nasal cavities, air trapped in pockets between irritated membranes, drums reverberating with my heartbeat. I rub the ridges above my eyes with my fingers, the rooted hair of my eyebrows slipping over hard, impenet
rable bone, swollen flesh over dead skull over incessant pain. Maybe I’m dehydrated. Maybe it’s the heat. But I’m getting sick of sitting at home with nothing to do but wonder whom I can convince to lend me some more money.
It would be nice if Murad Badshah really were hardcore, if we really could take his gun and walk up to some rich little bastard, some nineteen-year-old in a Pajero with a mobile phone and nothing to do but order around men twice his age. A kid like that would have a few thousand in his wallet. Ten thousand, maybe. I could use some nice, new, thousand-rupee notes, like the notes Mumtaz pulled out of her pocket at the party when she bought us the ex. But Murad Badshah’s just a big talker. And when I think of the boy Ozi killed, of his flattened head like a half-cracked egg, the shell shattered but its shards still clinging together, keeping the wet stuff inside, I know I don’t have what it takes to use a gun.
But you get no respect unless you have cash. The next time I meet someone who’s heard I’ve been fired and he raises his chin that one extra degree which means he thinks he’s better than me, I’m going to put my fist through his face.
I yell for Manucci.
‘Yes, saab?’ he says, coming in. His face has begun sprouting fluff like a caterpillar spinning a cocoon. I’d better teach him how to use a razor before he takes on the fundo look.
‘I need to spit,’ I tell him.
He looks at me expectantly. When I don’t say more, he ventures another ‘Yes, saab?’
‘Bring me a tissue.’
He goes off to the kitchen and reappears carrying a trash bin. ‘We’re out of tissue, saab. You can spit here.’
‘Good thinking.’ I spit into the bin, scrape the paste off my tongue with my upper front teeth, and spit again. No more tissue. No more meat. Soon no more toilet paper, no more shampoo, no more deodorant. It’ll be rock salt, soap, and a lota for me, like it is for Manucci.