The Proposition

“Islam is not merely a religion. It has been designed by Allah to be a complete code on how to lead life, for all times to come. Ponder over it, comprehend it, then follow it zealous, undeterred. For ye shall find it provides fulfilling answers to all your needs. For this world. And the hereafter.

Ideally,

the best method to lead life is to take the middle path. Remain moderate. Remain balanced.”

(Adapted from different verses of the Holy Koran)



The disclaimer, in this instance, came before the product itself, “Discussion of sex and religion in the same breath is taboo in all cultures, all religions – as far as I know. Besides, I’m an average man, of average means. Certainly would not enjoy being embroiled in any controversy, especially for events that have already taken place, passed, and now stand irreversible. The past can’t be changed now. Besides, as you well know, these times are difficult times for all religious people, especially Musalmans. Please think again. Do you really want to go through with this story?”

Upon what appeared my repeated assurances of keeping his identity classified, Iqtidar had consented to share with me what I shall reproduce here.

Having heard his disclaimer, I had thought immediately why he would desire the proverbial curtain, the so-called anonymity on his identity – after all he hadn’t committed any sin. As though through telepathy, he seemed to have read my mind. “Go on! Use my name! Use my father’s name too. Identify my village. I’ve done no wrong. Led my life on certain principles. Believe me, I don’t have a flying care. I was asking whether you desire to go ahead only for your sake.”

…..

He cleared his throat. “I suppose I was born with a large frontal cortex of the brain! You probably know scientists agree that that’s the part that controls the male hormones. Complex , intricate development of the frontal cerebrum determines male aggression, the primitive urge to dominate. In my case, my pronounced sexual urges. I’d say you can categorize me “very frontal”, in more way than one!!” I was surprised at the surety, the intelligence, the amorphousness of Iqtidar’s answer – at some level also it’s comical logic - when I had asked him to begin narrating his story. He was conveniently blaming everything on Mother Nature, on Lord God.

His next statement affirmed my drift. “It’s not my fault Allah chose to make me such. However, it’s been enjoyable to face the challenge in life to find answers to vent my sexuality…answers that are within the realm of religion, and somewhat acceptable in our culture.” Before I could determine whether Iqtidar was jesting, taking me for a ride, ridiculing me my femaleness, he spoke again, “I’m only 37. But my experiences are beyond what anyone would experience even in 370 years. My first recollections of sexual urges are from the age of 5!”

…..

Before I had decided to pick Iqtidar as a protagonist for a short story, I had conducted what my training as an investment banker on Wall Street had taught me: due diligence, a sort of personality recce, background search before investing resources – in my case time – in an asset. Iqtidar indeed was 37, and, as I’d been told, had been a man of many professions. He’d lost his mother soon after his birth. Hailing from Pluto-esque back-of-beyond, a small village in Jhang, the Punjab, Pakistan, Iqtidar had managed to be well-traveled. The singular anchor, determining vector, beacon of light throughout his life had been the influence of his father, an enlightened man of respectable worldly means combined with near-infinite wisdom derived from his age-old habit of voracious reading.

A school-master by vocation, Iqtidar’s father was highly respected, his opinion much sought in matters of all sorts across the entire district, nay entire province. Not to mention that he was frightfully well-connected. Some of the leading politicians, army generals, and industrialists of the country hailed from Jhang, had remained his students during initial years of their lifetimes, and continued to offer favors over the years in “any capacity they could help.” Master Sartaj Ahmad seized these opportunities. By asking for books. They’d bring him many, from as far as the US. Often times, by trunk loads. Some even went the extra mile. They ensured Master Sartaj had access to his passion by getting him memberships to libraries all across the country. The more he read, the more he learned. Sounder became his council, stronger became his respect, and in complete circular motion, more access they offered him to books. He kept reading…..religion, comparative religion, economics, history, biographies, fiction, press, comedy…..

The family was religious. Not fanatical, neither bigoted, but religious. The kind of religion that leads first to curiosity, then to intellectual debate, finally to fulfilling answers to life’s important questions.

…

From my female perspective, I can safely state I found Iqtidar a charming man, not in the same vein as some of my male colleagues had been on Wall Street – predictable, mass manufactured, mechanically methodical, intensely driven clones, but in a relaxed, devil-may-care sort of manner, as though all his worldly concerns were taken care of, as though he were satisfied, as though he were not aspiring to be the proverbial change agent – like most males whom I’d interacted with at Dartmouth and on the Street – but well-braced to accept, enjoy, relish any change that meandered along his path, his way. I wondered with regards to the correctness, the validity of his admission of being “frontal.” He seemed too winded down, too calm, too relaxed to be frontal.

During the days I was meeting with him, he sported a carefully trimmed beard, more of a close-cropped, ten-day stubble, I should say. I admit, I am still unsure whether the beard was intended in deference to religion, or was just the traditional and customary growth of facial hair that many men prefer in rural Pakistan. Iqtidar was tall, his height accentuated by an extremely lean, bony frame, a cavity in the stomach area where one would normally expect a bulge on a 37-year-old. His bones were strong, bordering maybe on extraordinary strength, as I assessed from the wide girth of his wrists and forearms. Atop the lean, lanky frame was, understandably, a bony, long face with very slightly sunken, concaved cheeks, penetrating eyes, and a set of white, quite beautiful, teeth. His hair was parted on the side like a schoolboy and, contrary to the hue of his beard, was beginning to gray somewhat where his schoolboy, protruding flick seemed to have been custom-barbered to purposely shade the sun from his eyes and the top of his forehead. His sleeves were rolled up beyond the elbows, betraying a narrow, silver wristband on his right arm.

It was clear he had made no special effort for our meeting. Not pushed, he was dressed to suit himself…traditional white shalwar kameez, and a black-leather sandal.

…..

Iqtidar had first got married at 11!

I shall narrate to you the events that had led to this outcome.

Master Sartaj Ahmad had discovered the picture from Playboy, carefully folded and tucked away in his trouser pocket. Iqtidar was only 6. The wise Master knew at that very instant his son had come of age. Better still, he knew people only procrastinated when they thought a task was either too big to start off, or too small, too unimportant for their stature, their time. The task to guide his son was neither. He required to have a talk. Iqtidar doted on his father, and if Master Sartaj would have things his way, things should be no different in future.

He decided to be direct, “Iqtidar, son, you in love with this woman?” holding out the picture to Iqtidar over dinner.

A moment of silence, perhaps, just perhaps, a fleeting moment of guilt. Then, as expected, the doting Iqtidar, trusting, always trusting his father, his innocent, young brain not oblivious to his father’s fame as a wise man, the constant stream of advice-seekers in their house, “Not her, just women generally.”

“Nothing wrong with it. Just make a promise to me and I shall try to help you. Until you are an adult, preferably – and if need be - even thereafter, please trust your father. Together we shall find solutions.”

To this day in Iqtidar’s life, the promise had been forthcoming. From heart and soul. In letter and in spirit.

Ever since that day 31 years ago, Iqtidar’s journey through life has helped him discover that if properly, sensibly, wisely guided by, correctly followed, and judiciously interpreted the religion called Islam revealed such a wide array of solutions to not one, but all of humankind’s needs that immersing oneself in its throes could potentially bring fulfillment, satiation, virtual heaven to a serious follower right here, on this earth. From early childhood, he recalled few needs, but that for sexual gratification. This is the story of how father and son, Master and Iqtidar, charted a course through cultural conflict, personal demons, self-imposed stigmas, East-West divide, societal pressures, family obligations, and all sorts of what-nots, learning as they went along that there exists a charted, documented, exemplified path, adherence to which may bring forth executable, clear-cut solutions to many an issue. Even answer the sensitive, challenging, hush-hush question of wanton lust within a young man.

…

For 5 years, between Iqtidar’s ages of 6 and 11, Master Sartaj had planned. If he were to embark on this journey, endeavor to find spiritual, almost metaphysical guidance from religion in bringing up his only son – one who had shown signs of rebellion very early on - the prerequisite was that the fundamentals needed to be engrained right. Consequently, Iqtidar was encouraged to begin ritualistic prayer at 6, and had developed a habit of it by 10. He enjoyed fasting with other young boys of the village, but – not owning any personal property as yet – happened to be exempt from compulsory alms. He was growing into a strong, athletic, popular boy and his father had plans for him. As had been ordained, understood by his sense of comprehension - and appeared logical - a boy should be married off once he reaches the age of puberty. The previous 5 years had been slightly tumultuous for father and son. The young boy harboring a fully-grown man’s libido. The father trying to find a solution to the caveat that a husband must be in a position to support his woman. Master Sartaj prayed. And he trusted the best would come his way.

…

Then, soon after Iqtidar turned 11, God seemed to have presented Master Sartaj an opportunity. Naghma, the pretty, divorced, 18-year-old from the village had wanted to go back to her previous husband. Village elders, including Master Sartaj, had been brought into the picture. According to Islamic law, the prescribed method was “Halala” - to marry her off to a man – with full connotations – at least for a period of 40 days before she could remarry her previous husband, severed through divorce. Master Sartaj had never cared much for social pressures, stigmas. Part of his respect over the years had been derived from his ability to think independently. He bit the bullet. Eyebrows were raised. Village women, with little better to do but gossip, cackled. He reasoned, “Why would God make circumstances so ideal, time so congruent if He in His infinite wisdom and superior design desired only inaction?” For a pre-contracted 40-day marriage, Master’s family could simultaneously provide for Naghma’s needs of food and shelter – and for the growing needs of Iqtidar.

The halala was solemnized. At 11, Iqtidar had his first experience of the flesh.

The sanctity of the village remained preserved. Naghma was facilitated in her return to the man she really loved. Rather than misdirecting his energies, causing what many back then – for the world was not then modernized, globalized, westernized – would have termed gradual moral, social, economic decay in his community, Iqtidar had been initiated while remaining well within the bounds prescribed by creed.

As had been decided by the families, the marriage was annulled after 40 days.
…

Apart from vast applied knowledge, widespread genuine respect, a healthy, obedient, growing son, and his job at the village school, Master Sartaj had another asset. Ancestral land. Reasonably vast amount of it. As a matter of fact, he was no less better placed than an upper-level, medium-sized landlord. When Iqtidar finished his matriculation – only at 12, his father decided to send him to the city of Lahore. Primarily to market the produce from his land. Secondarily to study further at Diyal Singh College. In 12 years, Sartaj Ahmed had assessed that almost nothing brought any glimmer, any twinkle, into the dreamy eyes of his son – no mention of money, neither alcohol, nor food, nor sport. In a queer, unexplainable sort of way God seemed to have afflicted his son only with one evil – lust. He hoped a sojourn in the city would round out, complete, untangle his son, so to say.

“The city was full of tough boys. I didn’t adjust well, at no level – I had no interest in being there. Some of my classmates would frequent the brothels of Heera Mandi . I pined to accompany them, sometimes getting up in the middle of the night with high fever resulting from my artificial control, but was carried through those days by recalling my promise to my father – to trust him with my physical needs. Within 2 months I was back at my village,”

It is my second meeting with Iqtidar, and for just a quick second he seems to be almost melancholy, as he remembers that time from Lahore, the slight pang of defeat for not having lived up to his loving father’s expectations aroused suddenly from some abyss within him.

…

The second meeting is slightly different – he’s worn a white shirt, jeans. But the same leather sandal. Ironically, after trusting me with so much, he has again begun this meeting with a step backward, playing from the back-foot, trying to secure his crease.

“My story is fable-like. Spread over epic proportions. Even to begin to understand, much less narrate, you shall have to make a concession, start from a given, establish a premise with me. I grappled with it for some years. Now I stand completely resolved. You may feel, think, hate me for my declaration but I must tell you that men and women are essentially different. Sexually”

I am a feminist. I believe in equality of genders. In fact, I believe in women’s time-tested superiority in many realms – higher threshold of pain, superior crisis management instinct, greater longevity and so forth. But I am also open to opinions, and I really want to hear this man out. He has, however, caught the look of disgust that momentarily passes my face.

For the next few minutes he propagates his point, argues his case. He says the distinction may not be clear in our religion – or, for that matter, any other belief system, but the way humankind has evolved 150,000 years sets clear examples. He says no religion allows for polygamous womenfolk but many religions allow polygamy in menfolk. He quotes Islam. He quotes the Utah Saints – the Mormons. He points towards no culture around the world having male-staffed brothels. He quotes from “Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus”. He says its much, much, much easier for a woman to convince a random man to go to bed with her than vice versa, illustrating that men have stronger sexual urges, weaker control systems. He says that monarchy in the Middle East - even Saudi itself where Islam originated from – maintain large harems. He draws an example from Osama bin Laden, his 50 odd siblings from umpteen step-mothers. He drawls on and on, wasting valuable recording time, space on my cassette player emphasizing an argument, a viewpoint, I’m not going to buy, at least for now.

“OK! I say, “I get your point,” only to make him move on.

…

He had returned to the village, frustrated in the only manner he knew – physical and sexual– for he seldom thought of anything else.

Master Sartaj’s ancestral lands meant a lot. Agricultural land meant hands working there. Some of them pretty, young, nubile hands. Master Sartaj knew of a reasonably clear, but societally muted injunction buried deep within the body of the Koran. Rather than letting his wanton son go off, commit Zina – fornication – he would study it, understand it, invoke it.

Farm hands back then in villages were almost like personal property. The Koran propagated the concept of Baandi – widely interpretable as maid servant – who fed from a man’s right hand – widely interpretable as property. For their own convoluted reasons, way beyond the scope of my story, the village mullahs - clerics, not to mention their city brethren, had eradicated the populace’s ability to see the wider context. The most common argument - if the topic ever was discussed mutedly – from mullah pulpits was that this leeway was time specific to 1400 years ago, whereas all mullahs in the very next breath propounded that the message of the Koran was for all times to come.

There, however, was a catch. Raising offspring from such relationships was a paternalistic responsibility – obligatorily. In those rustic, olden, simplistic times when children were reared easily, Master Sartaj saw little problem on this count. There was another catch, too. Although based on sensible grounds by his own, personal judgement, this was not Saudi Arabia and Iqtidar was not a Prince. The girls working at their farms had families they were answerable to, had plans to settle down in the traditional, age-old family unit, were masters of their free will, were certainly not cattle, animals in the wilderness who would share their most intimate privacy with a near-stranger.

But, rhetorical as it may sound, a human being gathers tremendous energy - resulting in a snow-ball, domino, ripple effect - when he sets forth on a task – irrespective of magnitude - in true earnestness, with true sincerity, and with heartfelt honesty. Such turned out to be the case with Master Sartaj. As circumstances would have it, the social structure in those days in his village and its adjoining areas happened to be such that menfolk far outnumbered the women. The primary affectees of this naturally occurring skewness were the relatively poorer, destitute, or orphaned girls. Dowries could not be arranged, scores upon scores went through life unmarried. The astute, perceptive, somewhat empathetical Master Sartaj did his math by adding two and two, figured out that – as was natural – some of these young girls harbored intense sexual energies, and advised his son to begin spending more of his time at the farms. Ideally, with the most downtrodden of workers, for not only were they the ones looking for a staff for support, a shoulder to lean against, but also came without the baggage of families.

Iqtidar was 13. He looked 17. Big. Strong. Goodlooking. All he had ever done was to dream about charming women, and practice had quite nearly perfected him in his art. “I must have gone through intense sexual relationships with at least 10 pretty, ruddy, wholesome women over the next 4 years,” he recalled to me.

“It was during this time that I was blessed with my first children, too,” he added. They were taken care of by their grandfather in the traditional village ways.

“Coming from a source so close to home – from a village right here in the center of Pakistan - all of this may seem strange. But if you just relax, take a few deep breaths, and reflect, I was only doing what all men do, all over – keep mistresses, concubines. You mentioned you had traveled to Paris. I believe it’s fairly common there.”

…

Iqtidar had also had the rare, quite nearly singular, experience of being married simultaneously to 4 different women.

I was flabbergasted to hear his opinions regarding that experience. “Firstly, our religion does not expect the man to treat them all well. Only equally. We normally fail to see this fine distinction, believing – as culture may have taught us – that each must be provided a fancy roof, a car, and a set of household staff. On the other hand – in my specific case – since I was unemployed, living only on inheritance, they all shared that experience with me. Back then, as at present, many landlords, businesspeople, politicians had two wives. One for the city and one for the village. This made my mission a wee bit easier. Secondly, it is a fallacy to believe that our religion, in its most orthodox form, requires permission from prior wives to engage in wedlock with a subsequent woman. My father went to the village jirga – council of superiors – to show – to validate his point learnt through painstaking research - that religious injunctions were separate from Pakistan Family Laws.”

At the time he was slightly above eighteen, Iqtidar had simultaneously lived with Memoona, Salma, Ayesha, and Sawda. He explained to me how God regarded, and determined the outcomes, the net-results, the bottomlines, for each of our actions based solely upon what the deepest, most underlying intention had been behind that action. Many a time, religion outlined an ideal, a lofty ideology, an unattainable state - as regards actually trying to practice that ideal in real life. In such cases, according to Iqtidar, it may be deemed sufficient by the Lord to see his people just persevering, trying, aspiring towards that ideal. Equal treatment of four wives, in effect, was once such ideal. Iqtidar could only persevere, try, aspire towards that ideal. He hoped and trusted he had done a good job.

This happened to be our third meeting. We sat in the courtyard of his village home, a fresh milk-and-butter drink, lassi, something akin to watered down yoghurt just having been served to us by a dark, almost pretty village girl. She held a veil up on her head as she served us with her free hand, the wrist and forearm of which was covered in multicolored glass bangles with small chunks of glass, fake, make-belief diamondies. “I wonder what his arrangement is with this poor girl,” I couldn’t help but think to myself. Today, again, he chose to wear a shalwar kameez, traditional Pakistani long shirt with baggy trousers held at the waist by an interwoven waistband. The shirt was raw silk, boski, as they call it. I couldn’t but help notice the gold Rolex watch on his wrist today. He wore patent leather moccasins. “Both hideous,” I thought to myself, quickly adding mentally – albeit reprimanding myself for thinking in an elitist, socially stratified manner, “Probably fly for a Greek shipping tycoon, maybe a Russian drug czar, or an Italian mafia lord from Brooklyn. But quite cheesy on a man from Jhang.” I knew I was thinking non-sensically, thinking rubbish, but sometimes in life one fails to arrest a train of thought as it runs through one’s mind.

He was still talking. I didn’t want to miss that. Addressing me as “my friend”, he continued, “It requires a certain type of woman, unmarried girl, to enter into a marriage knowing at the outset that her man may take another woman along the way, and then yet another. My father says the Koran states clearly that the Lord has created chaste, sacrificing women for chaste, straightforward men, and loose, debased women for the debauch menfolk amongst us. By the way, both of us know Musalmans are not in a position to deny, challenge, ridicule, question, what is revealed, stated, ordained in the Holy Book,” he had said.

I had looked away, intending to hide the look of incredulity I had anticipated would automatically cross my brow.

“It requires a lot of sacrifice on the part of a woman. You know, it requires the type of woman that believes if the Lord had made it permissible to worship, to bow to anyone apart from Him, it would be the husband. Marriage is not only a sexual relationship, it’s also a social contract. The reciprocity, the give-and-take, the compromise, has to begin right at the outset. At the very time of the contract. For example, my father thought – and has always insisted – I allow right of divorce to all my wives. Similarly, he has insisted I pay divorce alimony – called haq mahar – equivalent to one year of my income in advance to each of my wives. And, of course, child support. Oft times, he’s had to pool in for these monies. Also, we’ve sacrificed financially – I don’t remember any of my wives bringing much dowry, though I admit some have worked along with me on the farms and so forth. I feel women working alongside their men is in congruence with the teachings of our belief system. With financial security, a pre-secured right to walk out anytime, my father’s iron-clad guarantee to support grandchildren and so forth, many of my village women – given the shortage of men – were rendered much easier, much facilitated in entering this contract. I would sometimes feel – what’s the word – self-conscious at the obligatory Valima feast, wherein a Musalmaan man implicitly declares consummation of marriage to a girl. However, my father’s voice always resounded, lending me confidence, “You are well within your rights and obligations. If and when you stray, you shalt be tested. As for worldly face-saving, the socio-cultural cackles and voices, the sooner you learn to ignore them, the better. Whatever you do – whatever – there shall always be people with dissenting opinions.”

Iqtidar continues, “I feel my father, in the sense he practices our religion, is a modern, advanced man, maybe even ahead of our times. He says the problem of our society is that we don’t make it easy for both parties. In today’s world, people – every boy and every girl – desires to marry up, so to say. Resultantly, many highly eligible girls and boys – some whom could marry three or four or five times, staying within confines of our religion and our society - remain single all their lives. People have got to start to look at people around them, perhaps sometimes, only sometimes, below them. In our society everyone is too busy looking too far up. Husbands and wives don’t fall from the sky, my father muses.” I’m quite tired of hearing his soliloquy. But what he is saying is striking some chords somewhere in my being.

From experiences shared with many of my female friends, his next comment seems so striking, so pertinent, so dot-on, that I have to brace myself, quickly put my glass of lassi on a nearby table, shift slightly in my chair, so far as even steal a glance at my watch, contrary as it may be to my years of training on Wall Street – you never looked at your watch in a meeting, especially if the other person had spared some of their time at your behest.

“I don’t speak for the Arabs, the Egyptians, the Turks, the Russian Musalmans, the Dubai wallas but I do speak for Pakistani men. And I speak for them loud and clear. Most Pakistanis men are impotent with their wives, at the most beyond the initial span of 3-4 years. While our religion makes that alone sufficient ground for the girl to sever the contract, millions of our girls are suffering in silence – right as we speak – for shackles of culture, family, self-imposed stigmas bind them down, anchor them. Those boys are also affectees, I must add. It’s completely permissible for them to bow out too. If only the elders, the thinkers, the planners in our societies were to make some U-turns as regards making it easier for our young ones to get into – and get out of – marriages. The finer details in the contract and all that. Somehow, tragically, we manage to get entangled, constricted in religion, losing complete sight of the vast, vast gray areas, the myriad concessions that it provides. ”

Sometimes this man from the village spoke a lot of sense – and with authority. My mind raced.

On my way back to the village rest-house in Iqtidar’s Suzuki Potohar Jeep, I request the driver to stop at a small, nondescript, roadside shop. I purchase a pack of cigarettes and light my first cigarette in 2 years.

…

Most of next day, I transcribe his statements from the audio-player onto my notebook, praying hard there’d be no electricity shut-down – wiping off data from my machine – as I had somewhat got accustomed to during my week in the village.

Later, I call him up to schedule our fourth meeting. After exchanging pleasantries, he advises me to dress down - dress comfortably - for he intends to take me to his lands. The day passes quickly. He driving his jeep, puffing away on his cigarettes. Me, noticing the farm hands and thinking back to our conversation of a few days ago.

The only new learning I acquire, the only fact worth the mention during this meeting, the only thing of materiality as far as this story is concerned, is when he addresses me again as “my friend” and continues, “Have you ever heard of a system called Mutah?”

I roll my head. I haven’t.

“Well, there are two main sects in Islam – the Sunnat Jamats and the Shiaiites. According to Shiaiite law, a man can be with a woman under the state of mutah, by exchanging financial return for sexual favor for a specified period of time. Again, offspring out of such an arrangement is the sole responsibility of the sire. I am still in touch with a few of my friends from Diyal Singh College in Lahore, some that frequented the brothels of Heera Mandi.” He pauses for a few seconds, feigning to light his cigarette, though I feel this conversant, knowledgeable, young man is somehow groping for words.

Then he begins again, “Although clerics maintain mutah is time barred from our religion, my friends tell me differently. They tell me…and they swear…that within the confines of the Mandi, there still exist two types of call-girls. The first would exchange sexual favors, no strings attached. The second - and my friend please hear me out carefully – insist on Mutah. While all else - the happenings of the entire night - is pretty much the same, at the outset the girl would make her customer say a necessary phrase in Arabic, promise her to rear any child if he impregnates her, and determine the exact duration of the relationship. My friends say that men of influence – Ministers, and Senators, and Businesspeople, and Army Personnel, and so forth – look out for such girls. Their basics being correct – so to say – their method-to-madness approach often ensures that –as opposed to run-of-the-mill call-girls - these are the call girls who are eventually hand-picked, recruited to be film-stars, models, TV personalities, full-time concubines, even second wives. However base their profession, however limited their universe, they are attempting, endeavoring against tough odds to come up through a system, through the ordained proper-channel, within their tiny spheres of influence. Principles, however small, and integrity – whatever someone’s vocation - go a long way. Of course, the Divine ultimately decides where one ends up, but He sends His humanly sources to guide, lift up, moderate, and decide somewhat the destinies of lesser people – like call-girls.” Iqtidar looks at me for a long, long, long time maybe trying to ascertain whether his statement has sunken in into this Western looking, Western trained girl who is interviewing him.

That alone was the thing of substance I learned on my fourth sojourn. It set me thinking hard. How would I relate this story to my magazine? Where would I start? How would I end? Would my story ever, ever be read – much less be well taken – by my audience, Harper’s Bazaar readers. Would they ever be able to grapple with how simple, yet how complicated, may be the issue of sexuality in divergent religions, divergent social set-ups?

He drops me home to my rest-house as the sun is setting far away on the horizon.

Up, up, in the sky, birds are returning home after a busy day of a thousand busy chores.

…

The quadrilateral marital arrangement had continued four years. At 22, Iqtidar had a fairly large set of children.

“You were rather single-minded. Religion also has other aspects,” I had probed.

“Oh, yes! My friend! Oh yes!” He had answered. “At 24, I began feeling slight tremors of guilt. Don’t get me wrong. I had no guilt about women…I had proceeded guardedly, cautiously, within my rights and obligations. On the other hand, I began feeling guilty towards my father for not being a support to him, for leaning on him, for being somewhat of an extortionist, an exploiter. My father had always educated me that the most highly desirable form of sacrifice – jihad – in our creed was silent, continual, day-to-day warfare to suppress our internal baser instincts. The second highest form of jihad was to serve ailing parents. I had failed on both counts but I harbored a deep, deep desire, almost a yearning, for participating in jihad. By this time, my father had bequeathed some of his lands to me, hoping – as the case generally is – that the potential to make money of my own would prove a great motivator.”

Iqtidar, however, had other plans. Using his father’s connections and leverage he secured employment in the army as a commissioned Second Lieutenant, and decided to move to Afghanistan to fight alongside the Mujahideen in their war against Russian occupation.

Before leaving, he confided in his father that part of his intention was to see the world, sample women – if put in a raw, crude manner – from another country, another system, as he had tired himself out of the limited exposure to his village women. His friends from 12 years ago from the city of Lahore were now all over – Dubai, USA, Canada, Europe – studying, doing odd jobs, working at petrol stations, in super markets, and in mom-and-pop mechanic shops – and Iqtidar wanted to enlargen his horizons. His father had been happy, at a certain level, and had offered his blessings. As mentioned, seeing his son was 24, and perhaps maturing, Master Sartaj had also taken the bold step of bequeathing some of his land against Second Lieutenant Iqtidar Ahmed’s name.

“My flirtation with jihad lasted only 2 years. It’s a different thing to read newspapers and to actually see men being killed. One thing that came out of that experience was that all 4 of my marriages to wives back home were rendered null and void. In our creed, if a husband campaigns forth on a journey in such a manner that his wives – for whatever reason – do not hear from him for a year, they can exercise their right to call the marriage quits. I missed Sawda quite a bit. She had been pretty, young, gifted and giving as a woman – you know what I mean.”

But, wise men say, “If the Divine shuts one door, He opens another. It may take time, but you shall see the light filtering through from it.”

Iqtidar, comically, not only infiltrated the ranks of, but made friends with some Russians. Here he was, meant to be in combat, but befriending the enemy. Genetically, he was an intelligent, wise man. Believe it or not, as Iqtidar told me, the secrets filtered back to his camp from the Russians led to a quick elevation to Captain in the Pakistan Army! Also, his forays into the army camp led to lots of exposure to pretty Russian women. He stuck to his guns…..no fornication, but taking war-ravaged widows into wedlock. He had plenty to offer…..looks, sexual experience, his new-found inheritance, which he was gradually, so gradually, beginning to sell off.

He even recalls affecting a few conversions, in cases where the girls were not Russian Muslims.

“So you see, my friend, I have done my part for religion. Religion alone hasn’t done its part for me.”

In 1993, when he returned back to his village, the Captain – a miniature war hero – but a war hero nevertheless, was given a rousing welcome.

…

Between 1994 and 2002, Capt. (Retd) Iqtidar Ahmad continued with life in the same vein. He married many times, simultaneously being with baandis, living off a combination of sold land – his own and some presented to him upon retirement from the army - agricultural produce, and pensions.

I have few days left now to gather, glean, cull the facts. A story of this quantum would require my extremely best effort to narrate. That would take time. I am starting to feel the performance pressure. Deadlines. However, Iqtidar still seems relaxed.

On our fifth meeting, I throw in the million dollar question.

“Have you ever been in love? Do you think you are capable? I mean, excess leads to diminishing returns, diminishing sense of value for something. You seem to have always had an excess of women.”

He lights up a cigarette, inhales rather deeply straight into his lungs. Today he’s wearing a ring – a semi-precious stone. Aqeeq. The type spiritual men in the Middle East sometimes choose to adorn.

“Once. Once only!”

He never fails to surprise me, intrigue me. He comes tops once again. Iqtidar relates the story of how for the last 3 years he had lived in Dubai – as a taxicab driver, as a shop salesman, even as a small-time business consultant. Money is good. Dubai is booming. He’s enjoying supporting himself. He continues to get attention. But this time he’s fallen for someone, and she for him. After all, he’s still fiercely good-looking, fiercely independent. Women like strong personalities, more than they like looks. More than they even care for finances. Women are smart. They know strong personalities always gather strong finances along the way.

She was a French woman, rich, almost loaded rich. Genevieve Denieuve. When her family had invested in property, secured a resident visa, she had settled in the desert oasis, sponsoring along with her – through her local partner - a group of young people to design clothes for her chain of boutiques. Most of her outlets were in top-end hotels.
Iqtidar seemed to skipped the details – I stayed silent in deference – for he was speaking now, for the first time about someone he had cared for, respected. Someone he had loved. They remained married 3 years. He contributing his looks, charm, physical strength, opaque, obscure, artistic ideas for her businesses. She contributing her finances, her beautiful physique, her foreign charm to sustain their marriage. They had traveled twice around the world. He had picked up some French. They had performed the obligatory pilgrimage – Hajj. They were so much into each other – at all levels – that he felt no problems getting through the intricate maze, the countless possibilities of the flesh on offer that sometimes the world of modern-day Dubai may lead many couples to fall-out. He confided in me, “Those were the only 3 years of my life that I remained monogamous.” He mentioned that the marriage had been called off recently. I pined to know why. He seemed still in love, not revealing anything behind Genevieve’s back. Not back-biting.

…

On our fifth meeting, I throw another million-dollar question. My exuberance is explainable to myself. My role as Pakistan staff-writer for Bazaar is over. Journalism is too back-office. Doesn’t even pay the bills. I have accepted an anchor position at CNBC Pakistan. In future, I shall be required to ask pointed, cryptic questions. Shall be required by the nature of my job to put people on the spot. I desire to prepare myself for that role.

“Would you advise our young people – our young men – to live life as you have lived it?”

He smiles. “No! I wouldn’t!”

Iqtidar continues, sipping today on his fresh orange juice, ostensibly from his own fields. “One requires to maintain a balance. Too much of a good thing, too much of single-mindedness is not the ideal condition to be in. Life is more fulfilling if you cover all the angles, keep all bases loaded, if you strive in all directions – a father, a son, a citizen, an employee, of course, a husband. I focused too narrowly. As regards my quest for women, I have achieved most of what can be achieved – answering my needs within The Framework – as I mentioned. But I have lost out on my other roles, most of my lands are sold, my children haven’t found the true love of a father. History is witness that men, even strong Emperors, have lost whole empires for lust. Most of us go through our lives with obsessions – some for money, others for fame, still others for power. But being obsessive is undesirable. If you seek something too much, much too much, at any cost, it becomes a curse. I got my castle. But I got the ghost with it. To attain something one has to sacrifice other things. I sacrificed too many important things. Maybe the pains will be more than the gains. I’m only 37. Let’s see how life unfolds in future…”

“My circumstances through life were different,” he continues in his habit of long monologues. “I had a support system, was landed aristocracy, had a supportive father, belonged to a village, was handsome. And much, much more. Not everyone has all of this to support their single-minded, maybe stray, maybe wanton needs. I certainly wouldn’t advise our young boys to follow my footsteps.”

“I would hope – though – that in certain other matters I have highlighted, society may take notice of my story. Make amends while we still have our lifetimes, enabling us to make amends.”

I came back to the rest-house that day. The ten-day interview was over.

But at night a thought kept nagging me, keeping me tossing and turning, the noisy air-conditioner tripping several times during the night, the mosquitoes extracting some sort of revenge from me.

…

Early next morning, I called Iqtidar. I didn’t require to convince him much, convince him at all, to have me over one more time.

“I was wondering, how many children you have,” I shot at him as soon as we sat down, the pressure of rendering complete my story, tending in my resignation, and moving on now beginning to tell on me.

He smiled. Then, he looked over his shoulder and called out, “Abba!” to his father. “Please come here. Please tell her how many children I have.” The wise, old man entered the room and I saw for the first time the seventy-something who had so craftily, ever so incisively, led his son through a mythical life. I don’t recall much what Master Sartaj Ahmad looked like, neither what he wore, but I remember the rumble, the boom of his voice and a saintly, satisfied look on his face.

“Daughter, I have 23 grandchilden. 12 girls, 11 boys. In perspective, it’s not even 50% of the siblings that bin Laden has; lesser than 25% of the siblings enjoyed by King Abdullah, monarch of Saudi Arabia.”

As was customary to be towards elders, I had stood up. I wanted to engage Master in conversation, glean some wisdom in the little time that Nature had allowed me with him.

“If you were asked to market your village – Jhang – to an outsider, would you rather propagate it as the hometown, the soil of Dr. Abdus Salaam, Pakistan’s sole Nobel laureate, or propagate it as the land where the world-famous romantic folk story of Heer Ranjha is played out?” I darted, my anchor-person personality taking the better of me.

The answer was immediate. “Both. And much more.” Then he was gone.

…

I was packing up to bid my final farewell, when it came. The proposal, the proposition. Calling me for the first time ever by name, Iqtidar held both my hands in his, looked straight, searchingly, into my eyes, saying, “Maria. I would like to marry you!” He had very strong hands, extremely luring – oh, so different from the metrosexual, manicured hands I had known all along my adolescent, and adult years.

“Oh my God!” I remember thinking. I was thrown off-balance for we had met – what – six or seven times? My mind whirred, as though his question had set off a small electrical generator somewhere within. He was handsome, young, intelligent, had varied life experiences, some money, knew how to make a woman feel right. He had a lot going for him. But isn’t it true that we all resist change. I thought quickly that he was too much of an aberration, a deviation from my sense of normality. I’d rather be settled with one man, even though he may become impotent with me beyond 3 years.

“I need time to think,” I blurted, meaning actually that I had no interest.

I am not sure, but I think he saw through me.

…

I spend a day in Lahore, then board the aircraft to Karachi, my hometown. On board, I sip Coca Cola Light, while writing my last essay for Bazaar.

As I think of Capt (Retd) Iqtidar Ahmad, an old-time joke that oft did the rounds amongst my white-male infested Wall Street friends repeatedly comes to my head.

A White man dies, meets God, and is reincarnated. Everyone he meets is interested to know what God looked like. One day he answers, “She was Black.”

…