Siyah Dupatta

Film: Balughati Masail — Scene 1

INT — Police Station (Cantt Divisional Office). 12.30 PM.

THAANEDAAR, a middle-aged, stout man in his mid-forties, is the Station House Officer / Police Inspector (SHO, BS 16 grade) for the Cantt Divisional Police Station, located across from PACC, underneath the bridge that leads from Cantt to Teen Talwar. He sits across a mahogany-finished desk, his legs extending clumsily underneath the desk. To his right is a hexagonal glass ashtray, full to the brim with Malboro Gold butts, an expensive choice for a police officer. Next to the ashtray is a ‘Camel’ match box, slid partially open towards the THAANEDAAR. His police baton lies diagonally across him, its polish peeled off by the handle, exposing light-brown wood underneath. He has a habit of picking the baton from each end using his chubby thumbs and delicately twisting it with a lustful grin on his face. His desk is positioned across the entrance of the police station, with the perimeter of his office loosely defined within an L-shaped open space. The length of the open space extends itself into a corridor, gated by a camel brown vintage saloon door, leading up to the three temporary cells of the station. Diagonally above the entrance of the station, a 24-inch Panasonic CRT TV is wedged between the wall and the roof, playing a continuous stream of PTV News. The camera angle pans out from the TV, facing the THAANEDAAR, as if the audience is observing the scene from within the TV.

He adorns the traditional khaki uniform, out of pride, per his narrative, but primarily because of his Superintendent’s (SP) assertion on all subordinates to wear the full uniform while the SP himself patrols in black or white polo shirts tucked into khakis. It was a symbol of authority, by distinction, that was a long-held tradition within all Pakistani forces. To rebel this tyranny, however, THAANEDAAR would keep unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt, his greasy, grey chest hair sprawling outward. And to avenge the tyranny, he would force all his subordinates, in turn, to fasten all their shirt buttons, with the chai wala made to fasten even his collar button.

In fact, one chai wala had quit, citing a better, more relaxed work culture at the countless dhabas just across the road. Cantt is brimming with chai walas, yet each is highly sought-after. Some even handed out business cards; the cards would usually be crafted from disposed train tickets stamped with the first name of the chai wala followed by his street name, and at least four mobile numbers, one with each carrier of the great city of Karachi. The happenings of our story did indeed occur during what is considered the golden age of the Karachi Cantonment Railway Station; the cash handled by the chai walas, coolis, and dallaas combined was possibly larger than all of II Chundrigar’s economy at the time. The proliferation of SIMs had peaked, too, with disposable phones serving as dutiful instruments in bombing imambargahs and torching pilgrim vans.

THAANEDAAR is a tall man for his position, covering 188cms of altitude on a straight posture. Mostly, though, his posture eludes him, with his neck tapering off in a downward bend. Breaking tradition from his Sindhi counterparts, he stays true to his Chaudhry tradition with an unoiled, scuffed moustache extending unevenly on either side of his nostril, heaving up and down with his puffy breathes marred by frequent coughing, his recent cigarette’s smoke making a show every once in a while. Being a heavy smoker, (and the occasional drinker in the warm lounges, or arms, of Cantt’s luxurious residential arrangements), he refused to be profiled as a paan chewer. According to one of his drunken sob stories, his mother lost a finger to the kattak of their family paan daan. And anyway, paan is a vice more fitting of a muhajir, he felt.

Embarrassed of not just his baldness but of its oddly conical pattern, while lacking the courage or, more rightly, the cultural permission to shave his scalp clean, he insisted on wearing his police cap in the sweltering heat of Karachi. Karachi! Karachi, meri jaan, bus tapish bohat hai thoday vich, he used to say. For Sindh’s police department, especially for the Cantt office and its notorious association with the phatak karwai, our THAANEDAAR was considered a good man, an inconvenience even, for that matter. His subordinate officers had a betting pool on how many days the THAANEDAAR could survive corruption before, one hot afternoon — with his half-bald scalp sweltering underneath his cap, his yester night’s erectile dysfunction haunting him still — he would burst out at them for not pursuing justice vigilantly, per their code of honour, sworn by every police officer at his induction ceremony. Predictably, as most professions, this outburst almost always fell on a Monday, though by Tuesday midday the THAANEDAAR had gone back to the regular proceedings of bribery, back-alley shootings, assisting bigger-than-him drug deals, or turning a blind eye to the the most popular vice of Cantt Street — rape and murder. Fuck and throw, as feisty journalists claimed it.

LARKI, a taller-than-average girl, with a slightly chubby, curvaceous figure, sits across from the THAANEDAAR, her back facing the camera. She adorns a white shalwar kameez with a black shawl draped across her, covering her head partially while fringes of hair fall out playfully across her fair forehead. Her clothing suggests a middle-class city lifestyle, the edge of her white dupatta blackened by the smoke of her fiancé’s Hyundai, blending well with her shawl. She wears a thin, gold-coloured ring, slightly de-shaped, on her right hand. Her handbag is top notch, glossy black with three red ruby-coloured crystals studded on one side in a floral pattern. She sits proudly on her wooden stool, her legs clutched at the ankle, her breasts heaving visibly in her straight posture. Her fists are clenched, rigidly smashed into each other, levitating awkwardly above her thighs.

LARKI was gifted with the most ordinary of faces, except, unfortunately, for her lips;

misl e arq e gulaab, shabnam, chandi,
baad-e-sabaa, jaam-e-kousar, ya mayeda,
aatish-e-tar hai, haajat-rawaee, posheedah,
baadah-kash su-e-mehrab e hujrah

Her lips were the most succulent Cantt had ever kissed. Then, Cantt too had a fascination for thick lips; if buttocks and breasts were to draw, the bazaari based its pricing on the succulence of lips and the softness of palms.

THAANEDAAR
Beta, aap baligh ho kia? Ye hadsa kab hua aap ke saath, bacha?

LARKI
Jee, mein choubis saal ki thi.. ki huun.

THAANEDAAR
Tou beta aap ko tou pata hona chahiye na phir. MashAllah, baligh ho aap, macheeyor ho.

LARKI
Jee?

THAANEDAAR
Bacha aap ko pata kaise nahi chala? Dekho beta sach sach gal dasso hun.

LARKI
Mein.. wo mein motorcycle pe bethi thi, wait kar rahi thi. Uss ne aa ke (breaks)

THAANEDAAR
Aap kyun baithey thay motorcycle pe akele? Beta ye Cantt hai, aise ghoomo ge tou aise hee hoga.

LARKI
Wo mera mangetar gaya tha ke achanak (interrupted)

THAANEDAAR
Tou aap mere paas kyun aye ho? Mein kia kar sakta huun, aap ke mangetar jee ko dekhna chahiye na kia ho raha hai.

LARKI
Jee magar aise (breaks into whisper) touch kese kar sakta hai wo, ye galat hai sir (breaks)

TULLA, a characteristically lanky figure, dark-skinned, wavy mess of hair, sunken eyes reddened by either lack of sleep, or cocaine, or likely both, casually strolls behind the THAANEDAAR, casting furtive glances at LARKI, hoping to catch a slip of the shawl, an unintended eye contact, a smile even. On a good day, he was THAANEDAAR’s favourite Constable, and always betted in favour of THAANEDAAR’s continued commitment to the honour code. This, in turn, had earned him the title of tatta from his peers. THAANEDAAR, having misheard this name-calling once, had since begun calling him TULLA. And as THAANEDAAR was particularly dedicated to his nicknames, TULLA lost all hope that day of being called by his rightful name within the confines of the Cantt police station.

As LARKI gathers her voice to respond to THAANEDAAR’s latest inquiry, Donald Trump’s victory speech for the US Presidential Elections (2016) blares from the TV (only audio, no visual for the audience).

THAANEDAAR
(slaps his ear repeatedly, pointing to the TV and then to TULLA)
Aray awaaz bund kar na ab ye konsa niya amreeki kutta bhonk raha hai?

TULLA
(walking through the saloon door)
Boss kehte hain ye America ka sab se bara randi choud hai.

THAANEDAAR
(slamming his desk)
SHUT UP! Lady baithi hai, nautanki mat dikha apni.

(turning to Larki)
Dekho baitay, ab jo hona tha, so ho gaya. Next time khayal rakhna, ab ronay ka kia faida, bhool jao bus, koi (interrupted)

The camera shifts as the interruption happens, maintaining its height but now facing LARKI and the entrance, with THAANEDAAR’s back towards the audience.

CHOTA, a young boy, no older than ten years in age, bursts through the entrance of the police station, and rests his hands on his knees to catch his breath before bursting into dialogue. He is dressed in a plain black V-neck and light-blue, naturally faded jeans stained by random black lines and spots. Missing socks, he wears mustard green All Star converse shoes, with their ankle patches rolled down and their white heads polished glossy black. His hair is spiked in thick gel.

CHOTA
Saab, fori ao raita phel gaya.

THAANEDAAR
Kidhar?!

CHOTA
Purani dilleech, (pointing to the roof) Rukhsar ki toli.

THAANEDAAR
O paynchoud!

THAANEDAAR picks up his cap and bolts out of the door, sending his chair flying spinning behind him as LARKI breaks into quiet, breathless sobs and hides her face in her palms. A few seconds later, THAANEDAAR bursts back in, picks up his baton from his desk, and runs out again, panting already. As he disappears out of the door, TULLA breaks into a whistle, humming ‘darling tere liye’ in between.

Munni Badman Hui plays as credits roll on-screen, camera focused on LARKI sobbing quietly.

FADE OUT.