Kacchi Mooli

Film: Balughati Masail — Scene 2

“Aisi nazar se dekha uss zaalim ne chowk par
Hum ne kaleja rakh dia chaqu ki nauk par”

INT — Dimly Lit Room. 11am.

The screen is black.

A mix of sounds can be heard fading in — Chura Liya Hai Tumne Jo Dil Ko is playing on low volume in the background, with its jazz notes accentuated to a shriek by the poor speaker quality. Periodic slurping sounds fill up the room, making the song inaudible, followed closely by grunts in a husky, male voice that involuntarily breaks into a faint, strained see-soo-see-soo sound note.

The male voice of BASHEER MAULA grunts a bit heavier at an instance, followed by a light thud.

BASHEER
Pagla gayi hai? Ishq larra rahi hai? Gaana badal.

FADE IN.

The camera pans wide from the ground midway of a narrow, rectangular room. Silhouettes and shadows clutter the room. Right in front is a queen-sized bed that barely fits the room, barely a foot of space squeezed between the bed and sidewalls. A sandooqcha (medieval looking chest), adorned in scantily-dressed women riding peacocks, of Mughlai art-form, sits guard at the foot of the bed. Leaning over the sandooqcha is a silhouette of a man — knees stiff straight, calves uptight, his penis beginning to curve into a drooping limp. Leaning over his silhouette is the shadow of a petite woman sitting in a virasana pose. She draws a rushed yawn, muffling it in the small of her palm instinctively, before jerking her hand away abruptly.

The woman’s silhouette, HOOR, slowly rises, walks to the far end of the room, and bends over a rectangular shadow. The song stops playing, filling the room with an eerie silence. A click sound breaks the pin-drop silence, followed by a few more clicks and eventual crackle of the speakers. Neele Neele Ambar Par (female version) starts playing on a low volume.

BASHEER
Amma ki qasam naaray se gala ghotain ge agar tujh ko masti sooji hui hai abhi.

HOOR
(in low murmur)
Khudi gaa leti huun phir. Pata nahi kia (breaks)..

The song stops playing, followed by another click sound. Another click follows, and Tip Tip Barsa Pani starts playing.

BASHEER
Ayieen! Shabash-e, ab aya na maza.

HOOR slowly walks back to BASHEER, restored to her virasana pose. A suppressed yawn escapes her as she bends herself lower to reach BASHEER’s drooping penis. Her palm lifts up the limp silhouette before it hides behind her mouth’s shadow. Slurping sounds resume as HOOR’s mouth moves up and down his penis.

Only a few seconds later, a muffled cough rings through the room like gunshot. A resounding thud follows, as the audience observes BASHEER’s silhouette grab HOOR by her hair and throw her back forcefully against the floor.

BASHEER
(screams)
Manhoos kutiya!

CUT TO.

EXT — Café Piyala (Dhaba). 9am.

The camera is zoomed in on BASHEER’s portrait — on his fair, rugged face, peppered with the scars of a particularly nasty episode of chicken pox, with his long-drawn nose curved lightly at the end, a thick, ruffed moustache sitting, almost artificially, atop his parched lips, his bottom lip distinctly thicker than the other.

BASHEER
(in low murmum)
Auqat.. Auqat… Auqat.

JIMMY
Kia burh burra rahe ho sahib? Abhi tou din shuru hua hai, enjoy karo.

BASHEER runs his palms over his face and massages his temples.

BASHEER
Kabhi ginti ki hai? Chalo aagey bharo, ginti karo.

JIMMY
Sahab, tension mein ho?

BASHEER
Aisa nahi maane ga ye

The camera pans out as BASHEER lifts his kurta, reaches to his waist, pulls out a 9-mm Browning Hi Power handgun, and places it steadily on the table between them.

ABDULLAH FEROZ HASHMI, AKA. JIMMY, seated on the chair next to him, scuttles off as the gun lands on the table. JIMMY, possibly in his early 30s, carries a slumped posture despite youthfully swift movements of the torso. At once, he is an aspiring Bollywood dancer; at once, he is the cashier-cum-accountant of the dhaba. His well-oiled moustache trails beyond the ends of his face, in tandem with long wisps of hair oiled and forcefully combed backward in a slick heap, having since resisted water while giving way to gusts of dust. He is dressed in a tight white v-neck shirt, a worn-out, denim jacket, and a light blue jeans faded white at his knee caps. A shy, squiggly tuft of hair peeks through the v-neck.

BASHEER sits on a lop-sided, red plastic chair adorned in intricately designed circles. An equally feeble, square plastic table in grey sprawls across him, dotted with a pattern of overlapping dark-brown circular stains. A blue-green ceramic bowl, slightly chipped at the top, full to the brim with hot light brown tea, sits on the table, letting steam into the air. A faded white saucer, with an embroidered rim, sits next to the bowl. To BASHEER’s back, a rhythmic bustle of traffic edges through the bend in front of Cantt, criss-crossing the blockade of an eight-wheeler coach bus arriving into the mega-city of Karachi, 35 migrant dreams from upper Sindh on each deck. A butt naked toddler defies the honks of a silver C300 Mercedes Benz in the middle of this bend’s chaos.

The camera follows JIMMY scuttle towards the cashier’s counter into the dhaba, as BASHEER eases his grip on the gun. To BASHEER’s left, the front of the dhaba is prefaced by a large, blue board reading Café Piyala in an italicized bold white font. The name of the most bustling, iconic, and prestigious dhabas of Cantt is stamped at the end by the more iconic red-blue logo of Pepsi.

Though load-shedding makes a chilled bottle a rarity, it is difficult to escape the logo of the popular cola, the nation’s pride, the age-old sponsor of the Pakistan National Cricket Team. In this city, Coca Cola existed only in rich Defence bungalows and exquisitely priced steakhouses. For the common man, Pepsi is the soft drink of choice, synonymous with cricketing legends (and brand ambassadors) like Wasim Akram and Shahid Afridi, its memorable ads ingrained in patriotic songs — Hai Koi Hum Jaisa. This generation did not grow up listening to Ay Watan Ke Sajeelay Jawano; this era was not about the ’65 or ’71 wars. This decade was about the turf wars of ’92 and ’99; this generation stormed the streets with Dil Dil Pakistan.

The camera regains focus on BASHEER’s table as he drops a heavily chained set of keys of a Toyota Hilux VIGO truck, strapped to a squashed pack of Malboro Reds. He rearranges the keys to a side while drawing out a withered box of Hockey matches. He loosely strings a cigarette in his fingers, rolling it around, before lowering his head into his palm again.

BASHEER
(to himself)
Auqat.. Auqat..
Auqat ho nasib tumhe
Barraay aadmi ho tum, bohat barraay

BASHEER lights his cigarette and draws in a deep puff before letting out a lingering cloud of smoke.

CUT TO.

INT — Café Piyala (Dhaba). 9.30am.

The camera pans outward through the length of the dhaba, a smoking BASHEER visible in the background. The inner hall of the dhaba is a mid-sized space with mud walls plastered in lucid green. The hall is packed with sturdy wooden chairs and low tables, in contrast to the weather-resistant, easily movable, plastic furniture of the outer hall by the roadside; a few chairs are missing a leg or half. Most tables have a cardboard fitted underneath their legs to balance out the poor craftsmanship of their carpenters. The hall is empty, with the exception of an old man, sporting a white beard and a kufiyyah tied loosely on his head. The inner hall is demarcated from the outer by the rusty lining of a drawn-up shutter, hook and lock dug into its ground.

CHHOTA, a boy of age 9 or 11, ran back and forth between the outer and inner halls, then stopping at the cashier, then throwing his signature cleaning cloth on an empty table in a swift swipe, then disappearing into the kitchen, beyond the view of the audience. His real name and age was forgotten by all the day he walked into the dhaba, by choice or circumstance, did not matter any more. Of all the people shuffling through the dhaba round the clock, this boy seemed to be living the happiest, most content life, an attitude common among children his age in the neighbourhood. Cantt was probably the kindest to little boys; they did not ask questions, did as were told, knew no difference between right or wrong, petting or penetration. To that effect, they never failed to find a share in the much coveted assets of Cantt — roti, kapra, makaan.

JIMMY appears in front of the camera, partially blocking the audience’s view. He pulls a Nokia 5610 XpressMusic to his ear and begins a hushed conversation. The howl of morning rush traffic and the caw of crows, echoing from the British consulate nearby, fills the backdrop.

JIMMY
.. Hain? Rukshar bibi ko phone dou bhai, kyun subhe subhe mazak kar rahe ho.

(pause)

Humara jab mood hoga hum phone karien ge, theek hai? Ziyada abbay mat bano.

(pause)

Tum se hum aakay nimat-tay hain, abhi Rukshar ko fatta fat phone dou warna agla phone hum tumhare abbu ko ghumain ge.

(pause)

Hello? Haan, Rukhsar? Haan? Aray hum bhol rahe hain behen, aaj sab kawwaa khae ho naastay mein?

(pause)

Baat suno.. (breaks).. Aray baba humari tou koi sun le..

(pause)

Haan. Pagal nahi hain, barraa haath hai issi liye keh rahe hain

(short pause)

VIGO.. (breaks).. VIGO mein aya hai, tum batao?

Afghan Jalebi starts playing in the dhaba.

JIMMY
Tum jo kehti ho waisa hee hota hai. Third class hum ne bhi kabhi nahi kia hai.

(pause)

Haan theek hai. Bus pooch ke batate hain.

(pause)

Aray.. (breaks).. Behen, behen, thand rakho. Pooch liya hai, haan, pooch liya hai. Plan pakka hai. Sirf waqt pakka karna hai, chai tou khatam honay dou.

(pause)

Acha sunno, khaas Hoor ki farmaish hai.

(pause)

Saala Hoor ka chachcha thori hai, hum ne bataya hai tou farmaish ki hai na.

(pause)

Repit tou pakka nahi hai, hum pehanch jaatay warna

(pause)

Hain? Aise kaise? Yahan konsa kabhi baarish hoti hai jo nazla hogaya. Coldrink pi thi? Mana kiye thay hum…

(pause)

Tou behen hum kia karien? Haspatal mein lita dien? Subha anday parathay ka naasta karte tak tou koi zukam nahi tha.

(pause)

Dhanda chor dete hain, batao phir. Ghar baith jaatey hain sab ka nazla zukam goud le kar. Teen din se uska bacha roomal pehne ghoom raha hai, batao phir potra bhi chahiye.

(pause)

Chalo koi nahi, tum tayyari karao, hum pohonchte hain.

(pause)

Hosla rakho, behen. Bus dou minute mein.. aik, aik minute mein phone karte hain. Magar.. Aray aray ruko, hello? Hello? Hel.. (breaks)

Haan. Keh rahe thay ke khuda ke liye aagay se iss dallan ko phone mat dena, bohat time waste karta hai.

(short pause)

Waste matlab waqt barbaad karta hai, ab tum bhi karlo. Bye.

JIMMY cuts the phone, slips it in the breast pocket of his jacket, and walks back to the outer hall as the camera follows him. The camera revolves around JIMMY as he exits the inner hall, his steps shortening as his face turns into a resolute, familiar-looking grin upon approaching BASHEER.

JIMMY
Sir! Sir, sir, sir! Sirf chai chale gi aaj? Aise kaise?

JIMMY takes a seat from across BASHEER, as BASHEER throws the butt of his cigarette into the howling traffic.

JIMMY
(lowering his voice with a wider grin)
Malai tou khae ge na?

(pause)

Ye aaj kal ki tension na — tch, bohat buri bemaari hai. Lag jaye tou, tou.. (breaks, leans in closer).. tou sirf malai se saaf hoti hai.

(pause, leans back)

Aray sahib, garanti hai, maza nahi aya tou paise wapis.

(long pause as BASHEER eyes him)

Kia kehte hain phir, ho jaye?

BASHEER
Desi ya wilayati? Teri ye.. malai?

JIMMY
(slamming the table in front of them)
Sir! Aray sir, ye hui na baat. Maanay ge nahi aap, gori chitti Kashmiri hai. Naam hai Hoor, shakal pe bharpoor Noor! Yes.

JIMMY pauses, looks around, then starts tapping the table lightly with his nails.

JIMMY
Aap se dost wali filling arahi hai tou keh dete hain..

(lowers voice)..

Aklothi Hoor hai pooray sheher mein jis ke.. kia kahen, wo.. jis ki
pahar ki chotiyan aik dum first class gulabi hain.

(pause)

Samajh rahe hain na aap mera ishara?

He pauses again, looks at BASHEER with a grin, and leans back in his chair with his arms stretching loosely above him.

JIMMY
Yaqeen na aye tou Bori Bazaar ja ke check kar li jiyo, sahib.

BASHEER
Tu banda solid hai, bus baat bohat karta hai. Baat kam kia kar.

(long pause)

JIMMY
Sir. Chalien phir?

BASHEER
Cha tou ghat kar lien.. (drains his bowl of tea in a gulp)..

Apni Hoor se bol sajh dajh kar le.

JIMMY
Set hai, sir! Samjhe done.

JIMMY gets up and walks towards the cashier, pulling his phone to his ear with the occasional furtive glances over his shoulder towards BASHEER.

JIMMY
Haan, tayyaari rakho bus, wait nahi karwaiyo, haan.

(pause)

Ok boss, no tension.

JIMMY puts the phone back in his pocket as he walks back to his waiting customer.

CUT TO.

EXT — KHAWAJA GENERAL STORE & SHOP. 9.40am.

A woman in her 40s is leaning over the glass counter-top of a run-down convenience store, the tail of her teal-covered dupatta slipping off her back; the peacock prints of the dupatta strut in sharp contrast on her plain, off-white shalwar kameez. The cramped store runs shallow along the width of the counter top, a wooden plank latched at the far end of the counter guarding the shopkeeper’s expanse. The glass shelf below the counter, cracked by a ripple through its edge, hosts a wide variety of children’s snacks — mostly the middle-class Slanty, Chili Milli, Prince Biscuit, etc., with a rare, unmistakably red canister of Pringles sitting snugly undisturbed.

The woman collects a small carton of Haleeb milk, wrapped in a dark, translucent polythene bag from the counter and walks away, past a boarded-up wooden stall, and disappears into a pastel-green apartment building. A large, black board atop the building entrance reads SHAHEEN APARTMENTS in white font. She walks down the corridor, her feet instinctively dancing through pools of cat pee and empty cigarette boxes strewn across the mosaic floor. She holds her dupatta steady across her breasts with one hand, balancing the packet of Haleeb in the other. As the corridor draws to an end, the woman swings herself right onto a u-shaped staircase, clambering up the seven steps on each half-level. A fusion of unordained graffiti and bird droppings cover the baked-mud railing of the staircase. The woman’s pace slows as she reaches the fifth floor landing. Her dupatta slips off her back, revealing a red two-hook bra strap through her kameez, as she turns right into the corridor, a poster on the wall to her left announcing the annual Shaan-e-Nabuwat Jashn Naat Khuwani at the local Nabi Paak mosque. An adjacent poster, presumably advertising a Bollywood flick, is decorated in blood-red paan spit. An abandoned elevator stands guarded by an iron grill next to the posters, an unlocked padlock slung across the grill.

CUT TO.

INT — Apartment. 9.50am.

The camera focuses on the inside of a white ply-wood door as the lock clicks and the woman (above) cautiously steps into the apartment. Her heels slide past the camera as she walks down the corridor and disappears into the living area. The camera follows.

The woman, RUKHSAAR, plops the bag of Haleeb on a square plastic table, covered in a shabby floral cloth. She throws off her dupatta on the takht behind her. The soaring dupatta momentarily blocks the camera, before resuming the audience’s gaze on RUKHSAAR’s back, as she secures a most sultry, jet-black wave of hair in a tight bun with a black rubber band. She disappears from view to her left, and returns a few seconds later with a large, murky glass in her hand. Her bra strap protrudes visibly as her kameez clings to her sweating body, her size-able breasts adding to the strain. She wipes droplets off her forehead, unwraps the polythene, cuts open the carton with her teeth, and drains the viscous milk into the glass. RUKHSAAR leaves the polythene and nearly empty carton on the table, picks up the glass of milk, and proceeds to the room on her right. The camera follows behind her into the room.

The room is akin to a narrow corridor, with enough space for a single bed, a bare steel chair seated next to the bed, and a two-shelf, steel cupboard with a mirrored face lodged tightly between the foot of the bed and the wall. The curvaceous figure of a girl, in her early 20s, is curled into an ajrak khatho. Her dark brown hair partially cover her rosy cheek, her voluptuous lips drooling on a flat foam pillow. RUKHSAAR briefly pauses at the door, then walks over to the bed and seats herself on the floor next to the girl, placing the glass of milk on the steel chair.

RUKHSAAR
Babay, uth ja. Bohat so li.

The girl grunts, turns her face away, and snuggles into the flat pillow.

RUKHSAAR
Betay Hoor, uth ja na bitya. Gal sun le hun.

HOOR
Sonay dou na, bajo. Raat vi dair hogai si, tabiyat vi hun theek nai si.

RUKHSAAR
Dekh tere liye dudh laiyi hai tuhadi bajo. Uth na, mera bacha. Wo aatay hongay.

RUKHSAAR sits by the bed, idling with HOOR’s long, curling hair. Her stern features, a sharp jaw cut, stand opposed to her wrinkling, blemished skin. Her cheeks look visibly drained, sunk-in, and slightly pale in the barely lit room. Between her and HOOR, they could complete a before/after advertisement for Olay’s. As she strokes HOOR’s hair, a phone starts buzzing distantly. RUKHSAAR reaches into her bra as the buzzing grows louder, and draws out a Nokia 1100 to her ear.

RUKHSAAR
Haan bol?

(pause)

Haan tayyar ho rahi hai, tu aja.

(short pause)

Thora time laga ke aana, abhi ho rahi hai tayyar.

She turns towards HOOR as she snuggles the phone between her breasts.

RUKHSAAR
Chal bus uth, hun nai sunu gi tuhadi. Jimmy nikal para hai.

(pause)

Uss hee ka phone tha.

She picks up the glass of milk in her right hand.

Har waqt hukmain chalata rehta hai.
Rukhsar ye kar, Rukhsar wo kar.

(pause)

Suuar saala.

RUKHSAAR shifts the glass of milk to the floor and yanks at the khatho.

RUKHSAAR
Uth ab! Bohat hogaya tera nakhra.

CUT TO.

INT — Dimly Lit Room. 11.20am.

A muffled cough rings through the room like gunshot. A resounding thud follows, as the audience observes BASHEER’s silhouette grab HOOR by her hair and throw her back forcefully against the floor.

BASHEER
(screams)
Manhoos kutiya!

HOOR lies on her back, her knees crouched to her tummy, her forearms hovering defencelessly above her face. BASHEER towers above her, slaps her arms away, forcefully squeezes her cheeks in his palm, and spits generously on her face.

BASHEER
Gashti! Lun khae gi hamara! Hain? Bol?

BASHEER releases his pinching grip on her cheek before slamming the face of his palm back onto her cheek; the splat echos. Tears roll down HOOR’s reddened face as she cowers into the floor, her knees rolling away from her tummy lifelessly. A fleeting image of a gushing river parting neatly to reveal barren land beneath it flashes through her watered eyes.

BASHEER
Haraam zaadi. Lun pe khaansti hai, khusri.
Tujhe hum batatay hain, phir kabhi nahi khaanse gi.

His eyes search in frantic fury around around him, as he sweeps HOOR’s white linen bra off the floor walks up behind her, lunging his knee into her back and prodding her into a sitting posture.

BASHEER
Uth! Chal uth, randi. Ab dekhte hain tu kaise khaansti hai.

HOOR reluctantly sits up as BASHEER slings her bra across her throat, tightly grabbing the strap in his hands behind her throat, leaning back with full force.

CUT TO.

INT — Apartment. 11.45am.

RUKHSAAR is sitting cross-legged on the takht in the lounge of her apartment, idly playing with her hair, looking aimlessly towards the bedroom door to her right, a crystal glass of Rooh Afza-flavoured milk, topped with chopped pistachios, losing warmth in her hand. She jumps up, spilling milk on her toes, as a man scuttles out of the room to her left, walking past her in short, hurried steps while fumbling with his cellphone. Not noticing her, the man cuts through the audience’s view of RUKSHAAR as she finds her voice to address his ominously unexpected flight.

RUKHSAAR
Sir! Sir, doodh tou peetay jayio, garam hai.

BASHEER disappears into the corridor, towards the exit of the apartment, apparently not having heard RUKHSAAR’s hospitable plight.

RUKHSAAR
(running after him)
Sir! Koi kami thi sir? Koi hor try kar li jiyo sir! Sir, sir!

The camera stays focused on the takht, losing sight of RUKSHAAR as she hurries after BASHEER. The loud slam of the apartment door is followed by a heaving RUKHSAAR reappearing in the camera view, holding the glass of milk and leaning against the takht, chewing her lower lip. Then, her head perks up with a jolt; she drops the glass of milk on the takht and runs through the bedroom door left ajar minutes ago, snatching her phone from her breasts on the way. The camera remains still as RUKHSAAR disappears into the dark room.

The room comes to light, followed by the hysteric howl of a woman and the clank of a cellphone hitting the mosaic floor.

CUT TO.

EXT — Apartment Building. 11.50am.

BASHEER scrambles down the staircase, splashing his Kashmiri Chappal in a shallow pool of cat pee as he distractedly puts his Nokia 3300 to his ear.

BASHEER
Kaand hua hai, izzat pe aanch na aane chahiye.

Police sirens start to wail in the background, growing louder, as BASHEER slips his phone into his kurta’s side pocket, almost toppling over a white cat curved into the staircase wall.

CUT TO.

EXT — Shaheen Apartments. 12.30pm.

The camera faces a growing crowd of mostly middle-age, lower-class men gathered in a semi-circle, A man stands in the centre of this amphitheatre, his posture stiff, his back facing the camera. His hands cuffed to his back, BASHEER drags his foot to itch a scratch on the back of his leg, the sole of his shoe gleaming in cat pee.

To BASHEER’s left, a stone’s throw away, RUKHSAAR stands awkwardly. Her dupatta amiss, the top of her bountiful breasts dutifully host the thirsty eyes of our crowd. Her hair are wrapped in a frenzy, responding gleefully to the smoke-muddied wind from the diesel engines native to Cantt.

Behind BASHEER’s right, beyond earshot, THAANEDAAR is intently engaged in a phone conversation. Periodically, his mouth opens and falls back close, his moustache twitching in proportion to his escalating irritation, his voice receding to the back of his throat.

MAN
(voice over) Chawal insaan! Ab tu kis lafray mein ulajh gaya hai? Hain?

(short pause)

Chut-ya gaya hai kia? Nikal wahan se, itna bara daftar diya hai tujhe thaanay pe, ja AC mein baith, doodh pati down kar, chal shabash.

(cuts phone)

THAANEDAAR
Seth, kuch hamari bhi tou suno.

THAANEDAAR, realizing his superior, the Assistant Inspector General (AIG, BS 19 grade) had already departed the conversation, clutches his phone tightly in his sweating palm and turns towards RUKHSAAR.

THAANEDAAR
Gun istimal..

(pauses, nods towards BASHEER)

..kiye hai?

RUKHSAAR shakes her head once slowly, her arms crossed protectively across her breasts, as BASHEER pipes in his husky voice.

BASHEER
Gussa kiye hai, haivan thori hain..

THAANEDAAR
(thunders)
Aiy!!

BASHEER falls silent, as THAANEDAAR walks up to him slowly, drilling his eyes into the back of BASHEER’s head. The sinister beat at the beginning of Teri Keh Ke Lunga starts playing in the background. He approaches BASHEER and jerks him around by his arm to face the THAANEDAAR. BASHEER stumbles, regains his stiff posture, flexing his arm and sticking his chest out, his hands still cuffed to his back. Both stare each other in the eye.

“O ras bheege sauday ka ye khooni anjaam, teri keh ke lunga
Teri keh ke lunga
Khanjar se doodh giray aur ho qatl-e-aam, teri keh ke lunga
Teri keh ke lunga”

Song continues to play low in the background.

THAANEDAAR slowly draws his gun out of its sling, cocking it towards BASHEER; he fires the gun in the air above them. The ringing shot is drowned by the horn of an incoming train at the Cantt station. BASHEER does not flinch as the gun spits out smoke, while RUKHSAAR’s face is covered in her palms, her sobs inaudible. The crowd of men seems unfazed by THAANEDAAR’s theatrics.

THAANEDAAR orders BASHEER’s cuffs off; a sub-inspector jumps to call of duty. BASHEER slowly massages his wrists, straightens his kurta, walks towards the end of the road,and looks back at THAANEDAAR with a mischievous calm, as the song grows louder in the background,

“Saanson ko saanp sungha ke,
Jungli tilchatta laa ke, teri keh ke lunga
Teri keh ke lunga
Bichhoo se honth kataa ke,
Loree jehreeli gaa ke, keh ke lunga, munnnaa”

BASHEER straightens his moustache between his fingers, crosses the road blindly, sits in his VIGO, and races off, with THAANEDAAR’s eyes tracing his car zooming through traffic.

The screen turns black.

CUT TO.

EXT — Shaheen Apartments. Time Unknown.

The black screen dissolves away, with the camera now zoomed onto HOOR’s lifeless, naked body from atop, her blank eyes wide open. A butt-naked, 3-year old boy, with messy brown hair, lies on HOOR’s chest, suckling her left breast, her pale-pink right nipple visible to the audience. The camera pans away vertically above, showing the street where the VIGO had sped away. HOOR’s pale white body rests on the road, clean-shaven with the exception of a well-kept tuft of pubic hair, contrasting the fresh, black tar of the road.

As the camera pans further away, four Pathans wearing Afghan topis, waving AK 47s in the air, are seen slow-dancing in a circle around HOOR’s body. They are singing Afghan Jalebi, releasing a round of bullets in the air at the chorus of YA BABA.

“Makhtool Jigar (Ya Baba)
Qaatil Hai Nazar (Ya Baba)
Aik Mahajabi (Ya Baba)
Aik Noore Nagi (Ya Baba)
Rabb Ki Rubaai (Ya Baba)
Ya Hai Tabaahi (Ya Baba)
Gardan Zuraahi (Ya Baba)
Boli Ilaahi (Ya Baba)

Afghan Jalebi, Mashooq Farebi
Ghayal Hai Tera Deewana
Bhai Wah, Bhai Wah..

Bandooq Dikha Ke Kya Pyar Karegi
Chehra Bhi Kabhi Dikhana
Bhai Wah, Bhai Wah..”

FADE OUT.