Kibriya’s departing words at the airport were, ‘One day, the underworld in Karachi will overwhelm the upper world’
THE telephone kept ringing for some time. I woke up from my afternoon nap, cursed Graham Bell, and reluctantly reached out for the receiver, and said, “Are you looking for an assassin?”
“Taju.” He was Kibriya, my childhood friend. In a subdued voice he said, “I died today exactly at ten minutes past 3pm.”
What I heard from him was freakish. Before I could utter a word, he disconnected the call. I picked up the receiver and dialled Kibriya’s number. He responded in a crest-fallen accent. He said, “Haven’t I told you, Taju, I died today exactly at ten minutes past 3pm?”
He put down the receiver.
It was puzzling. Only last week he had sounded emphatic. He had glanced at me, and said, “Come what may, I shall never give in. I shall never submit to the demands of the corrupt bureaucrats of the Income Tax and Excise and Taxation departments.”
Kibriya has remained a fighter all his life. Like a panther he fights his battles alone, and to the last. Let me narrate a small segment from Kibriya’s life.
After acquiring a Masters degree in Political Science, Kibriya appeared in the competitive exams and qualified at CSS. He was appointed Superintendent of Police in District South of Karachi. Fearless and death-defying as he had always been, Kibriya busted the underworld. He caught hold of the notorious ringleaders of the gangsters and professional killers. He ordered the SHOs to arrest and incarcerate the elite and the influential if they approached them for the release of the criminals. Resultantly, a few politicians, businessmen and bureaucrats ended up in lockups. It stirred the good governance in the country. Islamabad was rocked.
Kibriya became a nightmare for the elite who had evidently harboured criminals and assassins. One day he was summoned by the DIG who contemptuously looked at him, and asked, “Why do you imitate Amitabh Bachchan?”
“What?” Kibriya was not prepared for puny utterance from a senior police officer.
“Remember, you are Mr Kibriya son of Mr Zakriya.” Mockingly the DIG said, “You are not Amitabh Bachchan. Therefore, behave like a responsible police officer of Pakistan.”
Kibriya was transferred to a godforsaken deserted district in Balochistan, and was written off by the interior ministry. He spent five precious years of his life galloping around aimlessly between the rugged mountains. One day, I received his brief and explanatory letter. It read, “I have received my salary regularly without earning it. It hurts me. I have resigned. I lived here for five years among the harmless serpents, snakes and scorpions. I am leaving the country with one regret that I was not allowed to battle with the most vicious serpents, snakes and the scorpions that obliterate Karachi.”
I shall never forget his departing words at the airport. He had said, “One day, the underworld in Karachi will overwhelm the upper world.”
After working for years in Oslo, Kibriya returned to Karachi two years ago. He invested his heard-earned money in a departmental store. It did not take him long to realize that obtaining an import permit without first greasing the palms of the petty officers was impossible. He took a firm stand and fought for his right for almost a year. He obtained the permit and placed the order with various firms abroad.
Meanwhile, his store earned a good reputation. One day arrived the officers from the income tax department for collecting ‘anticipatory tax’ that amounted to over a million rupees. Again, he entered into legal battle with the income tax department. He engaged senior lawyers on heavy fee and the case lasted for over a year. Resultantly, he couldn’t look after his store with same enthusiasm and suffered loses. His employees taking advantage of his preoccupations played havoc with his store.
His sincere friends advised him that since he was in Rome he must behave and act like Romans. I remember Kibriya’s reply. He said, “In Rome, I shall do what Gladiators did to the Romans.” Kibriya had pinned hopes on the timely arrival of his merchandise from abroad. His containers did arrive only to be impounded by the wolves of the Customs, and Excise and Taxation departments. The duties and advance Sales Tax, and Tariffs and what not together amounted more than the value of the entire material tucked in the containers. The agents approached Kibriya with a proposal that if he paid 25 per cent to the wolves, his containers would be released. Kibriya, as usual, opted for a battle.
Most of the items he had imported bore expiry dates. The lawyers, the judges, the often changing dates for the hearing of his case, his inordinate waiting in the corridors of the courts almost drove him crazy. Each passing day devalued the merchandise. He knew even if he won the case he would have to discard the entire stock that bore expiry date. Meanwhile, his store went to the dogs. Rentals for the containers swirled upwards beyond his bearing. It turned out to be a battle of nerves. In one of his angry outbursts he had said, “Come what may, I shall never submit to the demands of the corrupt officers of the Customs, and Excise and Taxation Departments.”
When he phoned me and said, I died today, and refused to respond to my calls I rushed to his house. He surprised me with a grin on his face. He spread his arms, and said, “Brother, I am Roman. Your friend Kibriya died today at ten minutes past 3pm. He did exactly what Romans do in Rome. He bribed the bureaucrats, and died.”
