When you have innumerous tales to tell, you are left dumbfounded. We remained there for hours. We sipped tea, and then dined together without conversing
IT was after years that I received Zeni’s telephone call. In her inimitable accent she said, “Virag, welcome back home from bunvas (exile).”
“Thank you, Zeni,” I said. “You sound as sweet as ever.”
“Do you still believe in timelessness?”
“Yes, I do.”
“The archaeologists last month excavated a pyramid in Egypt, and discovered a pot full of three-thousand-year-old honey.” She gave out a mischievous laughter, and said, “You know Virag, it was as sweet as ever.”
“Earlier, archaeologists had once found five-thousand-year-old crystallized venom of a serpent that had stung Cleopatra to death,” I said. “You know Zeni, it was as deadly as ever.”
Zeni burst out laughing, then cursed me, and asked, “How long were you in bunvas in Islamabad.”
“As long as Rama was in bunvas in Lanka,” I said. “I was in bunvas in Islamabad for fourteen years.”
She suddenly asked, “Did you come across Ravan there?”
“Frequently,” I said. “Islamabad is a city of Ravans.”
“You sound cynical, Verag,” Zeni said. “Let us have a cup of tea together, and celebrate your return from bunvas.”
“I feel honoured.”
“Don’t try to be ridiculously formal.”
“I am dying to see you, Zeni.”
“I am Rider Haggard’s She. I remain the same,” she said. “Let me look at the ravages of time on you.”
“You’ll be sadly disappointed,” I said. “I have put on a joker’s mask. I keep smiling.”
Zeni said, “Then, let us face each other today at Chandni around 6 O’clock.”
Zeni more than likes me. She intimately confides in me, but she doesn’t love me. During turbulent patches in her life she has clung on to me like a dismayed child. She doesn’t hide anything from me. It is an enigmatic relationship between us.
Zeni was totally disillusioned by her first husband D.G. Khan, a Deputy Secretary in the Ministry of Procurement. He exploited her vivacious beauty for his personal gains, rapid promotions and lucrative postings. He first became Joint Secretary, then Additional Secretary, and swirled to the post of Federal Secretary.
Having used Zeni to his heart’s content, D.G. Khan divorced her, and married a thirty-year younger personal secretary in his office. Thereafter, Zeni unsuccessfully entered into wedlock three times, and every time her marriage culminated into a fiasco.
Zeni now works as a public relations manager for an international bank in Karachi. After seeing her, and conversing with her for some time, a number of businessmen have transferred their accounts to the bank she works for. Without being a professional banker, Zeni has made the bank richer than most of the banks in Karachi.
As far as I am concerned, she has maintained a mystic relationship with me. Once in her blue moods she had said, “Virag, I want you to remain my best friend. Never ever fall in love with me. I do not want to see you ruined.”
I had looked in her eyes, and said, “How can you ruin an already ruined person!”
“No, Virag, no. Don’t you ever do that.” She had held my hand, and said, “You are a precious person in my life. I do not want to lose you.”
Thereafter, sensing I might have fallen in love with her, Zeni stopped seeing me. Karachi became meaningless for me. She, either in the company of eminent bankers or businessmen, often saw me loitering in and around Frere Hall, and avoided me in a conspicuous way. Before getting into the limousine, she always turned around, and looked at me, as if saying without saying, ‘please, Virag, do not love me’.
Those were the days of dejection. Nights became darker, longer and dreary. After late-night transmission of my programmes I instinctively flung on the lush green lawns of the Broadcasting House, and remained sprawled for hours.
One ominous morning, the Station Director summoned me, and said, “Congratulations, Virag. You have been promoted, and transferred to PBC Islamabad.”
I landed in Islamabad during a merciless winter. I bought woollies from Lunda Bazaar in Rawalpindi, and warmed a shivering soul. It did not take me long to realize that most of my colleagues at the PBC despised me for my out-of-turn promotion.
I became a lone wolf. I stopped going to the Islamabad Club. I turned down invitations for receptions, book-launchings, and get-togethers. One day it transpired that I was promoted and then transferred to Islamabad on the explicit orders of the Minister for Information and Broadcasting. It augmented my plight into unannounced exile in Islamabad.
Around 6 O’clock Zeni entered Chandni Restaurant. She appeared as vivacious, and as graceful as I had left her fourteen years ago. I rose to my feet. We kept looking at each other without uttering a word. Then, she smiled, and said, “Won’t you ask me to sit down!”
We sat down in front of each other. When you have innumerous tales to tell, you are left dumbfounded. Zeni and I remained in Chandni for hours. We sipped tea, and then dined together without conversing. I finally broke the silence, and asked, “Zeni, were you instrumental in my promotion and then transfer to Islamabad?” Sadness suddenly descended on her. She said, “I was left with no choice, Virag. I had to protect you.”
