The Cure

I watched Neelam, the most famous courtesan of the Heera Mandi(The red-light district), move her elegant body to the music that came from the tabla, sitar and harmonium. Her body was hard to ignore but the matter that kept on pressing its urgency in my mind was much more harder to disregard. Sami Duranni. This bastard, after raping and killing 20 prostitutes of Heera Mandi, gave himself up to the police. Now who does that? I mean it was really nice of him that he did, but why after 20? Why not 10? Why not 1?
Before he gave himself up, the police did everything in their 'limited' power to expose this serial killer(that is what they called him) so that they could get over dealing with the 'filthy prostitutes', the same one's they used to have all the fun with. I say limited because had it been the daughters of the elite who were raped and murdered, action would have been taken and this very limited power would have been converted to an ample amount. However, these were prostitutes and frankly who cares about them? No news, no nothing. Their illegality somehow made it legal for them to be raped and murdered. Prostitutes were just for pleasure and fun. Not to forget, mostly Women.

It is incumbent upon me to tell you that, had it not been for the love I had of watching Neelam perform her classical mujra, I would have never come to know of this brutality that was being suffered in the narrow, insignificant streets of Heera Mandi. My name is Saadat Mazhar Abbas, and back in the days which I am writing about, I was a famous journalist. They used to call me Saadat bhai 'The truth teller'. Not to sound modest, but I did always prefer writing the truth, because no matter how much people tried to hide their own, they always found solace in the truth of another person.

So I had to know the truth behind this sudden change in Sami Durrani's heart. Neelam was still dancing and I, still thinking. There was this calm that gripped me when I saw her dancing. So, this Kotha she danced at, was where I came whenever I had to write about something. Would sound funny when I say this, but Neelam was my literary motivator.

Sami was to be hanged in two days and I needed to get an interview with him. He was a highly guarded prisoner and it would have been impossible for me to get an interview with him, if it wasn't for the blessing of money and how it had the power to make people do unfathomable deeds.

So on the evening of October 21st, 2000, a day before Sami was supposed to be hanged, I found myself at the police station where he was imprisoned; winked at the inspector, gave him money from under the table and expressed the desire to have a conversation With Sami.
The inspector asked me how much time I would take and I replied that I didn't know. When he said that he'd have to think about it, I slipped him more money from under the table because that is what he was implying indirectly. Finally, after thinking for 2 minutes he allowed me to an interview with Sami and told me that it was to be at maximum, finished an hour before he was going to be hanged. I agreed and followed the constable to Sami's high security lock up.

His lock up was like all the lock-ups with only one difference in sight- It was his. I assure you that I expected Sami's appearance to be as ugly as his deeds. However, I should have known better because his sur-name 'Duranni' suggested that he was a Pashtun and Pashtun's we all know, are blessed with a special kind of beauty. Light brown hair, hazel eyes, 6'1 height and a fair complexion. He looked nothing like a serial killer. But then again, the worst kind of monsters are the one's who appear to look like angels.

The wide smile he wore while looking at me, startled me. Then he said, "Saadat bhai! Alas we meet." While saying this he advanced towards me, his hand ready for a handshake. I hesitated for a moment. However, I reminded myself that these were the very hands which had undertaken the brutal endeavours I was to write about and so it would be rather intelligent to make acquaintance with them. And so I shook hands with him. His was a hard, cold and a rough hand.