Returning to Rawalpindi after a day of tedious administrative duties in Islamabad, I was planning a quiet night. I had a 5am departure to Peshawar the following morning.
I headed back to my bare room, but my progress was interrupted by meeting a seasoned Pakistani named Qazi.
He looked at me quizzically, but seemed to be squinting through one eye. He appeared to be in a very jolly mood. Quite a short man, he was very rotund and with a low centre of gravity. The curve of his pot belly projected well beyond his knees, and it was covered in a soiled blue and white striped kurta, although the colours were not easy to identify. He looked like he was born to push a heavy wheel-barrow. Although he was physically repugnant, his comic personality initially attracted me.
He worked as under manager at the Taj Mahal hotel, where I was staying. It was a small and basic guest house designed to accommodate temperatures of 40 degrees, rather than the 4 or 5 degrees it was on this particular day. I had just returned when he invited me into his room where a boy was making tea; he asked me if I would like some. Whilst I was making up my mind he paused, then like a naughty schoolboy, he asked if I might prefer some of what he had. My curiosity was aroused. The delinquent Qazi had secreted away a bottle in the inside pocket of his kurta. From it he poured a glass of orange liquid. I wafted it under my nose. It jolted my head back as the fumes caught the back of my throat. All of which went some way to explaining his jolly mood and the squint in his eye.
I drank the black tea, and without sampling the orange liquor, I left his room and made my way upstairs. Qazi was having none of it, he wanted company and he followed me. Inviting himself in, he was careful to bolt the door behind him, he poured another glass of liquor. The boy had followed his master up to my room, and he gingerly rapped on the locked door to be let in. He offered a password in Urdu, so Qazi unbolted the door. In came the boy carrying a jug of water.
Qazi was clearly well under the influence, further confirmed when he began singing the Pakistan National Anthem to me in a slightly slurred speech.
He picked up his glass of liquor, presumably to toast President Zia, but sent the glass jug crashing to the bare concrete floor. There was a pause in his performance, followed by a very deliberate stare at the ground. Qazi looked up at me like a guilty little boy. ‘Oh, not good’, he said, and ordered the boy to replace it, so that the hotel proprietor should never find out. ‘Cost money!’ he explained.
When Qazi had drained the bottle of its powerful moonshine, distilled from oranges by a local shopkeeper, he invited me to his own house across the road. Always looking for an adventure, I accepted his invitation. It was there that he took out another plain glass bottle. I didn’t know what to make of this, it was only my third day in an Islamic country. I was under the impression that Pakistan was strictly teetotal. My lack of experience put me a little on edge, partly because I didn’t know the social protocols in this country, but more so because I feared landing in jail as an accomplice to Qazi’s activities.
Qazi was getting going, and he started to rant, championing a ‘very intelligent man’ whose name I had never heard. He thrust leaflets written in Urdu into my hand, insisting that I read them 3 or 4 times, and to ‘put it in my brain’. I remain unclear as to the identity of this mentor.
When he calmed down, he was in the mood for entertainment, and suggested we went off to look for a house with a television. I was behaving rather tentatively, but was so inquisitive about life in Pakistan that I could not let this opportunity pass me by. Qazi replenished his supply of moonshine and prepared to leave.
Pulling himself together he held out his cheek and asked for a kiss. Now, I was in a quandary. I wondered if this was appropriate, or even expected social behaviour in Pakistan. Or was it a case of an inebriated homosexual feeling aroused? I quickly pecked him on his rough lower jaw and swiftly recoiled, hoping that it may have acceptably resolved the tricky situation. I sidled, crab-like towards the door and complimented Qazi on his fine idea of finding a television set.
Before Qazi could find the co-ordination to say anything, I made sure that we were back on the street. He walked with one foot on the pavement, and the other in the gutter, muttering his discontent at the uneven surface of the road. We soon arrived at his friend’s house, situated down a narrow alley.
The door was opened by a man in western clothes. He greeted me with a natural charm. It was a relief to not only find him sober, but to find that he was the most urbane and intelligent of gentlemen with good English. There was already a guest in the house, a portly man who loved to talk cricket.
I was having difficulty trying to fathom the connection between these three men, but I was already enjoying the twist of fate that had brought us together, with my own presence making the juxtaposition even more unlikely.
The three of us talked about each other’s countries; cricket of course, with Imran Khan and Zaheer Abbas being particularly appreciated for their contributions; coal mining and fruit production in Northern Baluchistan, and the impact of religion on the daily lives of Pakistani people. Qazi was too drunk to join in, but he did contribute, ‘But there has to be a God, He is everywhere’, he blurted. Our host looked over at Qazi for a little more substance, but Qazi turned his gaze to me, and changing the subject he asked, ‘Would you like a Pakistani woman?’
Before our host could intervene to cover my awkwardness, Qazi continued by changing the subject once more, ’Foreigners can get liquor at Flashman’s Hotel’, and he smiled with an unsaid, but clear implication.
Qazi was clearly bored with our conversation, and after taking another deep swig of the orange moonshine, he demanded that we all shut up, and that someone should turn on the TV, as he was incapable of doing it for himself.
The small and tidy sitting room had an Art Deco 3-piece suite which was arranged in an arc around the black and white set. It stood on a table draped in a cotton cloth with embroidered lace edges. There were old sepia family photos hanging on the wall. It was cosy and well cared for.
The film that had already started was ‘The Day they Robbed the Bank of England’. Amongst my new Pakistani friends, Elizabeth Sellars was considered beautiful beyond belief, and Peter O’Toole and John Le Mesurier were seen as archetypal Englishmen, leaving me with a lot to live up to, especially as my host consummately echoed their demeanour.
Qazi was leaning at an unnatural angle on the settee next to me, and his interest in the film quickly waned. Eventually he slumped to within 6 inches of my crotch with his eyes in a fixed stare. The naughty child re-emerged when, through my trousers, he tweaked my penis. I was startled, but was simultaneously supported by my gracious host, who instantly looked appalled. He lifted himself from the armchair and abruptly shouted, ‘Qazi, what are you doing?’ then apologised profusely on Qazi’s behalf. I thought of what John Le Mesurier might do, and replied, ‘Please don’t worry’, and gently propped Qazi into an upright position.
Qazi had had enough of the evening and insisted that I escort him back to the Taj Mahal hotel, and so we took our leave.
I propped him against my shoulder as we negotiated the narrow passage, with Qazi bouncing off the walls like a bobsleigh. We reached the main road, and gulping deep breaths, Qazi showed serious concern. Despite him being so drunk, he was most aware of the consequences of being caught inebriate, and like an experienced practitioner, he held onto me and tried his best to behave like a sober person.
It had been a great effort for him. He relaxed once he had entered the hotel reception, and I quickly made a move upstairs before he realised what was going on. I left him in the hands of an unsuspecting Afghani guest who had just arrived.
A half hour later, Qazi, who had somehow managed to climb the stairs, fell against my door. Without respite he continually banged upon it, until I could ignore it no longer, so I got out of bed and unbolted the door from the inside. I felt no threat from him, he had just become a bit of a nuisance. He fell into the room as I was about to assert myself, and he then crawled onto my bed like he was climbing into a life boat. He tried to grab hold of my leg, and doubting that this was any kind of Pakistani social custom, I pushed him off. ‘No problem’, he slurred.
‘Yes problem’, I replied. ‘Big problem!’
I told him to get out, and to my surprise he got up to leave. He stumbled past my table, and as he did so he picked up my watch, saying, ’Good watch’, and put it in his pocket.
‘Yes, good watch’, I said, ‘Put it back’. He carried on walking as if I had said nothing.
‘Qazi, put it back’, I insisted, ‘I need it’. He simply put it back with a look of incomprehension on his face. He again tried to leave. Half way towards the door he paused, coughing and wheezing, and leaned on the wall with one hand. He had one foot anchored to the ground – backwards, forwards, and sideways he swayed, taking staccato steps with his other foot, whilst spitting on the floor beneath him.
I thought he was going to collapse, and as I did not want his comatose body lying in my room, I helped him to the door. He groped for the bolt, presumably to lock himself in, but he couldn’t find it, and I ushered him out into the corridor, and that was the end of my quiet night.
At 5 o’clock the following morning, I left the guest house. The corridor was empty, Qazi was nowhere to be seen.