My Feudal Lord

MY FEUDAL LORD
ni
hmina Durra
Reproduced by
Sani H. Panhwar
MYFEUDAL
LORD
Tehmina Durrani with William
and Marilyn Hoffer
Reproduced by
Sani H. Panhwar
Author's Note
There is a fantasy of a feudal lord as an exotic, tall, dark and handsome man, with
flashing eyes and traces of quick-tempered gypsy blood Images of him parrying thrusts
with the fiercest of swordsmen and riding off into the sunset on his black steed set the
pubescent heart aflutter. He is seen as a passionate ladies' man and something of a
rough diamond, the archetypal male chauvinist who forces a woman to love him
despite his treatment of her.
But the fantasy is far from reality, and my country of Pakistan must face up to reality if
it is ever to grow and prosper.
When I decided to write this book, I was aware of the perils of exposing the details of
my private life to a male-dominated Muslim society. But I had to cast aside my personal
considerations in favor of the greater good. There is a deep-rooted deficiency in the
feudal value system, it must be diagnosed before it is treated
T.D.
Dedication
I dedicate this book:
To the people of Pakistan, who have repeatedly trusted and supported their leaders
leaders who have, in return, used the hungry, oppressed, miserable multitudes to
further their personal interests. I want the people of my country to know the truth
behind the rhetoric, so that they might learn to look beyond the facade.
To the five other ex-wives of Mustafa Khar, who have silently suffered pain and
dishonor while he walked away with impunity. As his sixth wife, I am holding him
accountable.
To Mustafa Khar himself. I wish that this book might serve as a mirror, so that he may
see in it reflections of the man, the husband, the father, the leader and the friend he is.
To my beloved children, who, in our closed society, shall have to suffer the trials of a
family exposed. I trust that this book will help them muster strength and courage to face
continuing trauma. I want them to reject wrong and endorse right. I hope and pray that
their values may be based on true Islamic principles, rather than a distorted, selfserving
interpretation. May their love and respect for their motherland cause them to reject any
compromise. May my sons never oppress the weak; may my daughters learn to fight
oppression.
Finally, to my grandmother. None could have understood my story better. May her
soul, wherever it may be, know that I survived.
Acknowledgements
Four special people helped me through the nearly impossible task of writing this book.
They understood the risks of speaking out, of breaking the taboos of a dosed society, yet
bravely saw the project through. One remarkable man and two women have
encouraged and helped me relive the traumas of the past. A fourth person, under
similar restrictions of security, typed the manuscript. I cannot take the responsibility of
naming them, but I am indebted to them all.
I offer special appreciation to Bernard Fixot and Antoine Audouard for carrying the
story to the world.
CONTENTS
Part One: Lion of The Punjab............................................................................................................. 1
Part Two: Law of The Jungle............................................................................................................ 71
Part Three: Lioness............................................................................................................................ 167
Epilogue............................................................................................................................................... 251
Part One LION OF THE PUNJAB
1
My pale-green chiffon sari rustled softly as I moved, and my braided plait of auburn
hair fell all the way to my knees. Around my neck a row of diamonds matched my
earrings. As I checked my appearance in a full-length mirror my face flushed with
selfconscious pleasure.
It was spring 1974, in Lahore, the second-largest city of Pakistan. The reception was
being held in the main hall of the Punjab Club. Summoned by the honorary consul of
Spain, Lahore's beautiful people were celebrating Spain's National Day. My uncle had
invited my husband Anees and me to accompany him. Having arrived in Lahore only
the week before, it was our first opportunity to meet the city's elite. Anees felt flattered
and pleased to be included. He was only a junior executive in the state-owned National
Shipping Corporation - these were people, he felt he should know. As for me - could
any sense of foreboding have told me that I was about to have the most crucial meeting
of my life?
Anees wandered off on his own, making contacts, and I was suddenly alone - a
twentyone-year-old woman feeling very self-conscious among this older crowd, who
seemed so self-assured. Around me, in the spacious halls and shaded patios of the
Punjab Club, I could sense the atmosphere of the British Raj that had ended twenty-
seven years earlier with independence and the splitting up of British India into two
separate states. This was Pakistan, my country; beyond the border-crossing just outside
Lahore lay India, our overpowering neighbor. Sharing, to a large extent, a common
heritage of culture, language, and family ties, the two countries are locked in a fateful,
and at times bloody, relationship of love a hate. I found a seat and took a glass offered
by a bearer as waiters are called here. They are trained to attend a mere wink, to the
needs of the former colonial and now indigenous, members of this distinguished club.
With their long white coats, buttoned all the way down over baggy trousers, their stiffly
starched turbans arranged in peacock shapes, they were figures from our Imperial past.
Looking around, I exchanged a formal smile with my neighbor. She made an effort to
talk, and I was pleased to realize that I had a friend for the evening. Her name was Dr.
Shahida Amjad. She was a physician and well-versed in the game of who's who. I told
her that I was new to Lahore, and feeling rather lost. Too well-mannered to point, she
gestured with her eyes towards various people in the crowd as she delivered quiet
potted biographies.
Lahore proudly, calls itself, the cultural capital of Pakistan. Twenty years ago it could
still live up to this reputation with splendor. At its heart, the centuries-old walled city,
with its overflowing bazaars and its splendid though dilapidated family mansions,
My Feudal Lord - Tehmina Durrani; Copyright © www.sanipanhwar.com 1

broad canals lined by old trees, and shady avenues were not yet polluted by an
everincreasing flow of traffic. Formal gardens created by Mogul emperors centuries ago
had become public parks, but were not yet crowded at all hours with thousands of
visitors. Along the Mall, the city's main avenue, lay the stately buildings from its
colonial past the Governor's House, Aitcheson College, the High Court, the Punjab
Club. This was where the well-mannered and highly educated members of Lahore's
elite had congregated, this evening. The gentlemen were wearing western suits or the
traditional achkans, buttoned coats in black or white, made of silk or the finest wool.
Alcoholic drinks such as whisky-and-soda and gin-and-tonic were freely offered and
accepted (nowadays they have been banned as sinful signs of western decadence).
Politely chattering, in separate, but segregated, groups the ladies were most elegantly
draped in saris, each requiring a six-meter length of colorful, and often gold-
embroidered silk or chiffon (today, these graceful garments have become quite rare,
discarded as being
'Indian').
With Shahida talking on, my gaze settled upon a tall, dark and handsome man in a
black suit. His starched white shirt was set off by a burgundy tie and a matching
handkerchief. My mind classified him as a rake, a bit devilish in an appealing sort of
way. He had attracted a group of women around him, who seemed to hang on his every
word. But the buzz of gentle conversation, the tinkle of ice cubes and wellmanicured
laughter made it impossible for me to hear. I asked my new friend who he was.
Him? You mean you don't know who he is?' Shahida sounded surprised.
My face must have registered curiosity because she quickly explained, 'That is Mustafa
Khar' The two words were spoken as one: 'Mus-sta-fa-khar.'
'Oh,' I replied.
The ash on his Davidoff cigar was about to flake and fall on the expensive carpet, but he
did not seem to care. Slowly and stylishly, he raised a glass of Scotch to his mouth.
Instead of taking a drink he merely touched the vessel to his lips below his
wellgroomed moustache. His eyes glittered, like those of a cobra ready to strike. He
obviously relished his ability to mesmerize this elite female company.
An attractive young woman in an orange chiffon sari glided past us. She, too, carried
herself with an important, self-confident air. I asked Shahida who she was. 'That's
Shahrazad,' my friend replied. 'Sherry. Mustafa Khar's wife.
'Oh.' I thought: Mus-sta-fa-khar's wife is very beautiful.

I asked Shahida to tell me more about this man, and I learned that he had just resigned
as chief minister of the Punjab. This told me a great deal. The Punjab is largest province
of the country, ruled more or less the whims of the feudal lords who controlled vast
land holdings and whose vassals voted as instructed. The Punjab wielded great political
power in the federal government; therefore, its chief minister would be a man of
consequence.
Shahjda said that this Mustafa Khar was extremely popular here, having earned the
nickname 'Lion of the Punjab', and some said that he had been the second most
Powerful politician in the whole of Pakistan second only to Prime Minister Zulfikar Ali
Bhutto. But that situation had changed. He had annoyed Bhutto, his mentor, by
becoming an obvious threat. Mustafa Khar was committed to a political platform that
offered re reform for the myriad of social problems that beset the common millions of
the Punjab, who lived their lives in poverty and illiteracy. In the history of Pakistan
politics, it had always been necessary for the national leader to quash the leader of the
Punjab, lest the sheer number of his supporters assure his superiority.
Shahida knew that my curiosity was piqued. 'Come, she suggested, 'I'll introduce you to
Sherry. You'll like her.'
We made our way through the rich throng. Shahida presented me to Sherry and our
conversation, turned naturally toward our families. When Sherry learned that my father
was Shakirullah Durrani she jokingly asked if I would like to meet her husband. I
would. Mustafa Khar had been Bhutto's right hand man when Bhutto had sent my
father to prison. I told Sherry that I hated Bhutto this injustice, but certainly held no
resentment towards her husband.
Within moments Sherry was introducing me to the Lion himself, mentioning my father.
'I hope your parents are well,' Mustafa said graciously. 'Politics can be unfair. There was
nothing personal in what happened to your father. Where are they now?'
'They're doing well,' I said. I detailed how, after he was freed from prison and
exonerated, Father had taken a banking job in New York City, and had, a year later,
accepted another banking post in London. My parents, younger brother and three
younger sisters lived there now (an older sister was married).
Anees suddenly appeared at my side, and he too was introduced. Anees indicated to me
that he had apparently made a favorable impression upon our host, who had extended
an invitation for us to remain for dinner.
Mustafa Khar was the kind of man who could choose his place at the dinner table, and
he chose to sit directly across from me. We made small talk across the salt-cellars. He

asked about my parents again - how they were, where they were, what they were
doing. His words did not hold me, but his eyes had me riveted.
They grew lustrous, they glittered and blinked rather frequently, they peered across the
table at me hypnotically. Their message was far from subtle. Perhaps I should have been
frightened, instead I was drawn like a moth to a flame.
After dinner, we adjourned to a sitting-room for cognac and liqueurs. The men smoked
and so did some of the women. Mustafa was clearly the chief of this group, and all the
rest of us were merely rank and file. As he drained the last of his Napoleon brandy,
three men moved at once to replenish it. He rolled his cigar in practiced fingers and, the
very moment he lifted it toward his lips, a cigar-cutter appeared. When it was snipped
and ready, six lighters flicked open.
Mustafa took this deference in his stride.
I drank it in.
I was the perfect victim.
A painting hangs on the wall of my home in Lahore, depicting a breathtakingly

beautiful woman draped in an emerald green sari. Every feature is exquisite, as if an
artist hallucinated and then painted an imaginary ideal. Her translucent, ivory
complexion is complement by enormous almond-shaped brown eyes with heavy lids
and long lashes. She has a tiny waist even after six children, and her face remains soft
and innocent, masking her dominant personality. Yet the painting do not do full justice
to the subject. I should know, for she is my mother, Samina.
She came from the Hayat family of the Khattar tribe which had settled in Wah, on the
northern edge of the Punjab near the border with the Northwest Frontier Province. As a
result of loyal service to the Crown, British colonial masters had given vast tracts of
lands to the family. The Hayats had fought alongside the Moors in Spain, and claimed
that the family's renowned good looks were the result of intermarriages with Spanish
women.
My mother's Anglicized family had been actively involved in the politics of the princely
states that were scattered throughout India prior to independence. Before partition her
father, Nawab Sir Liaqat Haya Khan, had been prime minister of Patiala State and her
uncle, Sir Sikander Hayat Khan, governor of a the undivided Punjab. Both her brothers
had been knighted. In my mother's childhood home, the British way of lift was slavishly
aped. The Hayat men pursued the pastimes of the idle rich. They strove for sartorial
elegance with their classic, tailored clothes, played polo, learned all the latest dances,
went on shikar (hunting expeditions) and threw lavish parties. The beautiful women of

the family, who wore exotic Eastern dress, nevertheless spoke and behaved in an
Anglicized way and were thus considered, by the 'natives', to be 'advanced' or 'fast'.
They had 'come out of the veil'.
Only over, time would I come to understand what a shock I was to my mother. She was
a light-skinned beauty - and proud of it, her family was fair-skinned and considered
itself to be superior by that fact. A dark child was condemned to neglect. And yet there I
was, arriving in the world in 1953 with a dark skin. It seemed evident by my mother's
attitude that she regarded me as ugly and was embarrassed to present me to friends and
relatives. Even as a baby I felt my inadequacy. My surroundings seemed hostile to the
way I looked, and very early I withdrew into an isolated, 'condemned-by-nature' cell. I
never remember my mother hugging or kissing me when I was little.
Regardless of my growing, deep-rooted, internal complexes, my childhood must have

appeared extremely comfortable to an outsider. Our home was impeccable and always
orderly, as though waiting to be photographed. We were a model family, the sort of
offspring who are pointed out as examples of decorum to other, naughtier, children. We
were lavished with comforts and privileges and travelled the world.
My father is a Pathan, descended from the family of Ahmed Shah Durrani of

Afghanistan. He had met my mother after her divorce from the Nawab of Tank's eldest
son. He was a captain in the army, and aide to the governor of West Pakistan at the time
they met. After he left the army, during Field Marshal Ayub's presidency, he had
initiated and developed the first Investment Corporation of Pakistan (ICP). Then, in
1967, he was appointed Managing Director of PIA, our national airline. Later, when
General Yahya Khan declared martial law and became President, my father was
appointed Governor of the State Bank of Pakistan.
I loved my father. Six foot tall, he had the presence of a film star. He was as handsome
as my mother was beautiful. They made a very glamorous couple, though my, mother
was the dominant partner and seemed to have the final say in everything. To me he was
a rather distant figure, he controlled his affection. Whenever he had the chance he
would tell me he loved me most of his children, but chances were rare I never really
understood why he could not show his love or express it. I believe now that my mother
did not approve of him displaying any affection towards me, because I was his eldest
child and she felt insecure about Rubina, my half-sister through her first marriage.
My father would return home from work each day cheerful and full of life. In fact, to a
small daughter he was larger than life in his conservative suits and pinstripe shirts. But
despite the important offices he held, the instant he entered our home he seemed to
wilt. His demeanor turned serious as he reported the details of his day to Mother in
clipped, crisp English, as if looking for approval. If he ventured a joke, her lips

tightened. Father had to live by my mother's rules. He interfered with nothing in the
house, my mother took all the decisions regarding our home.
In our social circle in the giant metropolis of Karachi, in the southern tip of Pakistan,
Mother was renowned for her fashionable soirees, which featured recitations from poets
and readings from other intellectuals. She was very shrewd in anticipating who was
about to become 'In'. The guests were gleaned from Pakistan's version of the Social
Register. As children, of course, we did not participate in these events, except as a
homegrown set of helpers, along with the retinue of servants. We learned how to lay the
silver cutlery for a formal dinner party. We were told how to serve a five-course meal
using the appropriate Rosenthal or Wedgwood crockery. We knew the proper way to
sprinkle rose petals into the lukewarm water of a finger bowl - and never to forget the
lemon. We knew how to arrange the individual salt and pepper shakers and assortment
of condiments.
My mother demanded total obedience and, although I always complied, she discerned
early signs of rebellion in both my expression and my body language I obeyed, but my
crime was that I did not look obedient. I was sullen, and she resented my resentment.
We never spoke openly about this, however. Her disapproval was communicated
through pursed lips and a deep, icy stare that crumbled me - or anyone - into instant
submission. When my mother spoke it was a command, and we were to carry out
orders in silence.
We rarely ate with our parents in the evening - either they were going out to dinner or
entertaining, and we were not included. But lunchtimes, when my father was sway at
his office, were occasions for another command performance. Mother, immaculately
groomed and perfectly dressed, lectured from the head of the table with tuft-spoken
formality. When she grew silent, the meal became a muted symphony of silver cutlery
tinkling against fine bone china, the tempo was set by the ticking of the grandfather
clock. There was no play and very little laughter in the household and a childhood burst
of enthusiasm was frowned upon. Untidiness was a crime.
Mother accomplished her objectives without ever raising a hand to us. When we did
misbehave, we were subjected to a stern lecture which we could neither react to nor
counter. She was masterly at playing one of us against another, and we all became tiny
spies. 'I can find everything out,' she boasted. She never read Machiavelli's The Prince,
but she crafted a careful divide-and-conquer strategy that kept us all off-balance.
The lesson was clear and I learned it well blind acquiescence was necessary to gain
approval, being yourself earned only condemnation I was acceptable only when I was
unlike myself - whoever that was - because I wore a mask of submission. I developed a
personality that was against my true nature, but compatible with mother's. Inwardly I

became confused and sometimes ashamed that what I must really be was incorrect and
unacceptable.
Mother was not subtle in playing favorites. Almost every word and action indicated her
preference for her white-skinned children, her son Asim and her daughters Minoo and
especially the baby Adila Rubma, Zarmina and I - the darker daughters - never seemed
able to please her. This was especially difficult to comprehend in the case Zarmina, who
was the sweetest, most considerate and lovable child one could imagine.
My maternal grandmother Shamshad, was well aware of the stigma that a dark
complexion assured. She had blatantly favored my mother over her darker sister Samar.
Yet my grandmother loved Zarmina and me so much that she constantly sought to rid
us of the dark curse. Cucumber juice, lemons, fresh cream and a pungent-smelling
bleaching agent called Amex were rubbed into our mud-colored faces.
As we grew older nature bestowed the benefit - necessary if one is to be acceptable to

the Hayat family - of lightening the pigment of our skins. It was as if I shed the chrysalis
of my dark skin and emerged as a socially acceptable butterfly. Sometimes I wondered
whether my grandmother had been able to work the transformation through her
potions, or her prayers. But Mother did not notice, or if she did, the development did
not affect her attitude.
Our elder half-sister Rubina was placed in charge of the younger three girls, as a
training exercise in preparation for her own marriage and motherhood. At the age of
twelve I was given the position of wardrobe mistress. I was expected to maintain my
mother's bedroom, and to make sure that her lavish wardrobe was always in order.
Despite our modern lifestyle, Mother disdained the western manner of dressing and
demanded that our entire family conform to eastern fashion. Each day before school, I
laid out the appropriate outfit for my mother's morning, complete with the correct
shoes and accessories. She favored cotton saris or delicate drapes of chiffon across her
bosom. I had to select the jeweler with care from her exquisite and expensive, collection,
so that it did not clash with her ensemble. Once her toilette was completed, I was free to
leave for school.
After school, we repeated the ritual for her dinner outfit Mother never retrieved
anything from cupboards or dressers. She simply, put out her hand, and I was to have
the necessary item ready, leaving her concentration free to attend to braiding her long
hair, rimming her eyes with kohl and brushing her cheeks with color. I stood in silence
behind her. When she finally left her bedroom for the evening, I would sigh with relief
and lay out her nightclothes on the bed, place her slippers exactly where she expected
them to be, and tidy up the bath and dressing-rooms. The servant would turn the sheets
over and switch on the bedside lamps, place the water jug and glasses, and draw up the
curtains.

The muscles in my neck and shoulders still relive the tension created by the everpresent
fear that I would misplace something or be unable to locate the keys to her armoire or
jeweler box. To do so would render me inadequate in her eyes and create such wrath
that I became obsessed with the seemingly simple task. Panic would overtake me and
the location of the keys took precedence in my mind over everything else Schoolwork
and other responsibilities paled in comparison.
All the maternal love I remember came from my mother's mother. She pampered me so
much that we ended up squabbling - because I was so skinny she constantly tried to
force-feed me. Her emphasis on my appearance brought out the worst reactions in me.
'Parents like pretty children,' she would say. 'Your mother will love you more if you are
looking nice.' Waving her hands in despair at my rejection of her plans for my
beautification, she would' suggest, 'Put your hair over your ears. It looks nicer.' Or, 'Put
some kajal [kohl] over your eyes, they stand out more.' Poor grandmother never realized
how deeply the complex of being ugly was setting in - how much it would affect ivy
life.
Grandmother had another paranoia, because I loved to paint. She was convinced that
artists are usually eccentric and end up becoming mad. She would hide my paints, so
that I would avoid indulging in what might take me further into a mad World.
At the age of thirteen I was stricken with meningitis, which, it was whispered,
Grandmother and my father attributed to the strain brought on by the chore of caring
for Mother's wardrobe. I was not expected to survive. Doctors ventured the opinion that
if I did pull through, I might suffer paralysis or brain damage. My father hired
roundthe-clock nurses and converted our guest room into a hospital ward. For six
months a strange aura of life and death pervaded the household. Even after my survival
was assured, my parents considered me sickly and somewhat unstable.
It was during this time that my baby sister Adila was born.
Apart from my father, brother and a few close relatives, men were alien creatures, and
from my earliest moments I was trained to avoid them. My childhood was encumbered
by a lengthy list of don'ts, all designed to maintain an inviolate distance between myself
and the masculine world. Never wear make-up or nail polish. Do not look at boys.
Avoid modern girlfriends and avoid any girl who has an older brother. Never visit a
friend without special permission and without your nanny. Never pick up the
telephone. Never go out alone with the driver. Never stand around in the kitchen with
the male servants.
And yet, clearly, a man was the only future available to a Pakistani girl. My, role in life
was to marry and to marry well. Mother had an ideal man in mind for each of us. Our
husbands were to be the only males to whom we would ever be exposed. Not

surprisingly, they would exhibit a combination of eastern and western traits. They
would come from good and noble families and be well educated, preferably at Oxford
or Cambridge. Our marriages were supposed to add to our parents' social standing;
personal happiness would be an added bonus. To ensure that we kept no secrets from
her and that she knew our every move. Mother had us convinced that she would not
oppose anyone whom we wished to marry - as long as we informed her immediately of
our intention. Despite the fact that our mother had divorced her first husband, we were
taught that marriage was a sacred and irrevocable institution. If a husband turned out
to be a brute, it was the wife's duty to persevere until she changed his character. A
broken marriage was a reflection of a woman's failure.
My mother had been married by arrangement when she was only-fifteen years old to
the Nawab of Tank's eldest son and heir, Hebat Khan. Tank was situated in the remote
tribal belt, and the women were kept in strict purdah. My mother hardly saw her
husband - he only came indoors at night. The Nawab's seven sons had been educated
abroad, played croquet flew their own small planes. However, when my mother
became pregnant, the convent nuns who looked after her told her that it was believed
that the family practiced infanticide - the Nawab had no living female offspring, which
was in those days, not uncommon amongst remote tribes. My mother left for Lahore to
give birth at her own family home (this was quite normal— the wife stayed away from
her husband for forty days so that she could be well cared for and healthy enough to
return to him).
After her baby, my, half-sister Rubina, was born, my mother demanded a divorce, her
father had died and her mother realized the pressure on her. Although the divorce was
shocking, it was accepted by my mother's family who had virtually lost her to the very
backward family of Tank. She was branded as a divorcee, which was apparent by the
reaction of my father's family to his decision to marry her she was divorced, had a
daughter and was Punjabi. Although my father's family could not match my mother's
family in their affluence and social status, they were still very unhappy at his decision.
Looking back, I realize that we were being raised to be schizophrenic; an appearance of

perfection was more important than genuine feelings. There was no question of
discovering oneself. Identity and individuality were crushed. Personality failed to
develop. My mind became a sanctuary for secret thoughts of escaping from this
household. But for that, there was no other goal in life but marriage.
In 1968 my sister Rubina, only seventeen and still at school, married a commercial
airline pilot with the consent of her father, my mother's first husband. Although Mother
was appalled and very disturbed, everybody compromised swiftly and silently to avoid
a scandal.

By the time I was sixteen, nature had allowed me to evolve into a pretty young lady. I
was thrilled to hear people say that I was beautiful, but in our household, this was a
two-edged sword. Almost always a compliment was couched in the statement, 'You
look so much like your mother'. The comparison only partially pleased me. My mother
was stunning, yet I wanted to be beautiful in my own right and not compared to her. A
comparison with her always left me in second place. I was convinced that I would fail
any competition with her, therefore, the comparison always diluted the compliment:
'She looks so much like her mother - but, no, she is not a patch on her!' Mother, too,
silently resented the comparison, she remembered me as an ugly duckling and wished
to remain as the family's standard bearer of beauty.
Nevertheless, I attracted increasing attention. Weddings or any social gatherings were

glorified marriage marts where women bartered their daughters' futures. Mother, like
any Pakistani woman with five daughters to marry off, was an active player in this
game. My sisters and I were allowed to converse only with our eyes.
We flew north to Lahore to attend a wedding and it was there that I met Anees Khan.
His mother scrutinized me first and must have granted her approval, because he
approached and asked, 'Are you still studying?'
'Yes,' I replied.
'Where?'
'In Murree. At the convent.'
'Oh'
He asked, 'Which class are you in?'
'I'm, doing my Senior Cambridge,' I said.
I thought little more of Anees when I returned to the Roman Catholic boarding school I
attended in the hillside summer resort town of Murree until one Sunday my classmates
and I were allowed the treat of walking through the shopping mall. We were on guard.
We knew that the, mall was filled with Romeos on the prowl, strutting about for our
benefit. We watched them discreetly, and giggled amongst ourselves. I was surprised
when I saw Anees among this crowd, and even more shocked when he approached.
Anees invited me and my friends to have tea with him at 'Sam's', Murree's famous
restaurant. My friends and I shared nervous glances. A boarding-school girl's dreams
are fashioned of Sam's cakes and pastries, and we voted with our stomachs. As we ate
the glorious chocolate éclairs, we glanced nervously at the clock and soon fled in

undignified haste. Anees waved goodbye, and told me, that, he was leaving for Karachi
the next day.
But he did not go. I was shocked once more to see him, the following day, loitering
outside the school gate. All I could think was: he must know that we are not allowed to
converse with boys. He did not attempt to speak to me directly; rather, he smuggled in
a note, via one of the day students. He wrote: 'I am not going back to Karachi to my job
because I want to be close to you. I will stay on in Murree. At least here I can catch a
glimpse of you.'
I was in love.
Each of the next fifteen days Anees managed to have a letter smuggled in to me, and I
treasured them. When it was time to fly home for the summer holidays, I was armed
with these letters, and with my resolve to tell my mother that he was the man I wished
to marry. Anees and I travelled on the same plane, but we dared not to sit together or
speak to one another.
Once home in Karachi, my resolve wavered I could not muster the courage to confront
my mother face to face, so I penned a note, declaring that I had met a man who wanted
to marry me, and left it underneath her pillow. Then I prayed to Allah (Catholic
schooling never altered a student's commitment to Islam). On the prayer mat, I had a
personal relationship with God. I confided in Allah and asked him to soften my
mother's heart.
That day Mother disrupted my prayers, storming into my room livid, waving my note,
demanding to know all the 'lurid' details. I told her there were no details, only letters.
She requisitioned the notes and I handed them over. As she read, I sat before her with
my head bowed, blushing with shame.
Mother informed me curtly that Anees's mother had already proposed the marriage and
she had turned down the proposal on grounds of my youth. But the real reason was
that she felt that Anees was not good enough for me - or her. His family was not very
well-to-do or well known, and he was a mere junior executive, earning the paltry wage
of 800 rupees (about £618) per month. On the basis of this information, Mother classified
him as a loafer.
After a few moments Mother informed me menacingly that she would speak to Anees
and his mother, telling them once more that the marriage was out of the question.
I was left in a void of embarrassment, disillusionment and hopelessness. My one ray of

freedom had faded all too quickly. During the month's vacation I was a prisoner at

home, forbidden to go out, forbidden to approach the telephone. Mother said few
words to me, and when she did she made me feel unclean.
Mother accompanied me back to school and spoke to the nuns, instructing them to do a
better job of watching me, coercing them into censoring my mail. Deeply depressed, I
tried to concentrate on my studies for the final exams, but I lived for the clandestine
notes that Anees still, somehow, managed to smuggle in. I was also panic-stricken at the
thought of losing a man whom love had blinded, so that now he perceived me as some
great beauty. My low self-esteem convinced the and made me fearful that this error
might never occur again. No other man would find it possible, to love, me.
My mind turned to romance and I began to look for signs of Anees in the smell of pines
and in the sound of rain on the tin roof on a chilly night. I saw myself with him in the
mountains, walking down narrow, winding, dirt roads Murree was like Switzerland,
and I would rather be here honeymooning than sitting for exams. He did not give up
the struggle. His mother spoke to my mother on numerous occasions. Then he, too,
began to call on her. She made them wait for endless, hours and, when she did receive
them, did so with arrogance. They took the treatment with patience and grace.
I passed my final exams and returned home qualified with the requisite education for a
fashionable marriage. By now Anees was twenty-eight and I was seventeen. We were
virtual strangers, but were convinced that we were deeply in love. There were other
suitors - several more acceptable to Mother - but I grew quietly stubborn and visibly
rebellious for the first time; Anees was the first man, to fall in love with me and I felt
somehow that he was my only chance for happiness and a speedy escape. I told my
mother that, if I could not marry Anees, I would marry no one. For a time the stand-off
was bitter.
But Mother was in a bind. My father's conservative family worried that I would left a
spinster. At seventeen, I 'should have been engaged. This was the worst humiliation for
a Pakistani woman. My father's family, was even more averse to my coloring than my
mother's family. The Pathans are a very fair race - a dark' Pathan like myself was quite
rare and, in fact, terribly noticeable - and although I had 'lightened', I was still not quite
the conventional beauty. But someone would surely marry me because of my father's
position as airline chief, and that had tom made use of quickly, while he still held the
position.
Visions of a scandal flashed through Mother's mind and she could not cope with the
prospect of a stigma of this nature. As I tidied her dressing table, I overheard a
conversation between my mother and her best friend, who said, 'Samina, she's not your
best-looking daughter. It won't be so easy for her to find a boy who'll love her as Anees
does. I suggest you agree to the proposal. You still have three daughters for whom your
position will be stronger. 'I did not hear my mother's answer, Anees's love and gushing

compliments had allowed a little idea of beauty to creep into my mind, and it suddenly
evaporated. I had heard the verdict. It was cruel but I was sure that it was true. When I
looked into the mirror over my mother's dressing table, there were no signs of a swan
emerging.
And so Mother agreed to my marriage with Anees and, having made the decision, she
became the beaming mother of the bride-to-be. The engagement reception of S. U.
Durrani's daughter was a great event. Baskets of sweetmeats were sent off to friends
and relatives. Mother had a decorator flown in from Lebanon.
My father was appointed Governor of the State Bank of Pakistan, a position he valued
highly in that it took him to the most prestigious point of his banking career. But then
Pakistani politics intervened in our lives. In 1971, when the country was in the midst of
upheaval and on the brink of war with India, Bhutto had approached my father with a
proposition. At the time, Pakistan was divided into the two regions of East and West
Pakistan, separated by a thousand miles of India, and East Pakistan was attempting to
secede and form the independent nation of Bangladesh. As Governor of the State Bank,
my father was a key sideline-player. Bhutto, who was the leader of the People's Party,
was now, committed to fighting for the supremacy of West Pakistan. He asked my
father surreptitiously to withdraw state assets from the east. Although my father was
sympathetic, he refused to undertake such an unethical action, and Bhutto took the
rebuff-poorly. In December of that year India finally invaded East Pakistan. General
Yahya Khan accepted responsibility for the defeat and break-up of Pakistan and
resigned; and Bhutto became the undisputed leader of all that remained of our country
what had formerly been West Pakistan.
When the dust settled and Bhutto became President, one of his first actions was to
dismiss my father as Governor of the State Bank. He had him arrested and thrown into
a cockroach-infested prison cell on a - trumped-up charge that he was in league with the
CIA.
My father's imprisonment was traumatic for the family. My mother endured the
'trauma' with great dignity, although it broke her inwardly. She was shamed by the
charges, in fact she was quite unable to cope with the idea that her husband was
blemished or marked professionally. (This was always in private - publicly she feigned
courage and strength.) My father's family and her own family were very, supportive, as
were some friends, like BCCI's Agha Hasan Abidi, whose car was at Mother's disposal.
We moved out of the official residence to Rubina and Kemal's house. Mother was in
mourning when alone or with the family. There were constant prayers, and women
relatives and friends would read the Koran. Almost everybody in the house said their
'Ramaz' prayers five times over for father's exoneration and health.

I remember often crying at night for my father. Daytime was solemn and tense, there
was no question of laughter or fun. My parents were humiliated: the perfect image of
success, beauty and refinement seemed shattered by bad luck, we believed.
I knew nothing about their financial worries, except that we no longer had the official
residence and its ample facilities. The fact that we lived at Rubina's or in Lahore with
Uncle Asad or Auntie Samar did bring home the truth that we had 'fallen' from grace.
I knew it would be difficult for my parents to restart a life without official power, and
that they would have to live as ordinary people. Our own home had been rented out to
a Japanese company, so they would have to rent a house. But the comforting feeling that
I was engaged to be married detached me somewhat from their future plans.
Only my mother, Rubina and my father's brothers visited him in prison. We children
were not taken, perhaps because we could not contribute to the serious matters that
were being discussed. I missed my father a lot, and so did my little sisters and Assim.
Six months passed, and then the trial exonerated my father and he was released from
prison. Although Bhutto attempted to make amends, my father, disgusted and
humiliated, decided to leave the country. He accepted a post as vice-president of the
First National City Bank - in the United States. I was relieved that he was still valued
and could begin to continue his career without having to compromise further in
Pakistan.
My parents prepared to move to a suite in New York's Waldorf Astoria, but what were
they to do with me? Mother concluded that the convenient course of action was to
marry me off quickly in a simple ceremony. At first I was relieved that Mother would
not be in the same town, or indeed, the same country, as myself. The prospect of her
leaving made me feel free. Until now she had been paramount in my life, although I had
never felt the affection for her that I had felt for my father. The pain of parting from the
rest of my family was diffused.
Then reality dawned. Three days prior to the wedding, it occurred to me that, despite
our limited contact, I was already bored with Anees. I did not love him enough and
most definitely did not want to marry him. I suddenly saw an alternative. If I travelled
to, the States with my parents, I might have more freedom and more opportunities to
find whatever it was I sought I locked myself, inside my room and howled in distress.
My grandmother stood outside my, door, begging me to eat.
Gradually I composed myself and resolved to face up to what had to be done. I spoke to
Anees on the telephone and confided in him, 'I probably do not love you I was only in
love with the idea of love I wanted to escape from my family'.

He was disturbed but attempted to convince me that I was suffering from bridal jitters
'Everything will be all right,' he counseled 'You are just nervous'.
My father offered similar reassurance. As I hugged him and wept on his shoulder, he
lectured quietly daughters have to leave their homes and enter alien surroundings. A
marriage, he said, was a confluence of grief and happiness. He understood, my pain
and ambivalence at the thought of leaving him, but I had to embark upon my future.
I realized it was too late. No-one believed that did not want, to marry. They were all
ascribing this to last-minute nerves.
Three days later I became a most confused bride.
Two and a half years passed. My marriage to Anees reached a bland plateau. I knew
that something was amiss, but did not have a clue as to what it was. Although I was
now showered with compliments and loved dearly by my in-laws, my mind remained
troubled by a childhood with which I did not know how to come to terms - I did not
even know with what it was that I had to come to terms. I was haunted by feelings of
being a, non-person and by extremely low self-esteem. If Mother did not approve of me
and love me, Anees's weak opinion - and those of his lower positioning family - was of
little consequence.
When my daughter Tanya was born I was not only bewildered but puzzled at having
become a mother, understanding little of the women into which I was developing.
Emotionally I was hopelessly immature, as I struggled to cope with what should have
been the most rewarding relationship between mother and daughter. I loved Tanya
dearly, and yet I felt so unfulfilled as a child and daughter myself. My own craving for
motherhood still remained, and weighed heavily upon me. I tried to compensate
through Tanya, playing with her, dressing her and loving her, as if she might be me and
I my mother.
I knitted and embroidered clothes for her. She had a nanny but I always took her even
though it was only ever to my in-laws. I worried constantly about her food,
spoonfeeding her with mashed bananas and mashed potatoes - the fatter she became
the happier I was.
I still did not love Anees. If I had, perhaps I would have found Mustafa Khar less
intriguing, and less troubling.
That Mustaf was authoritarian, conservative and overpowering I knew from the start
but that was precisely what attracted me so much. Psychologically I had suffered from

my father's weak role in our family. Now here was someone who presented a quite
different personality.
The men of the Kharral tribe are known to be taller than average, with marked features
and legendary energy and endurance. One scholar described them as 'wasteful in
marriage expenditure, hospitable to travelers, thievish and with little taste for
agriculture'. A Persian proverb holds that they are 'rebellious and ought to be slain'
Their roots go back to the Neli Bar region of India, near Kamalia, but they fell into a
dispute with the British rulers when they refused to pay tribute. After several lethal
encounters, they decided to move west. They slaughtered their women and children so
as not to impede their journey, then packed their vast stores of gold and migrated to the
Punjab, settling along the banks of the Indus river.
There are various versions as to why, in modem times, one branch of the family
shortened its name to Khar. One of those holds that the name was bestowed by an
angry victim of their plunder, who dubbed them with the name Khar because it means
'ass' in Persian. But the more likely explanation is that their religious beliefs made them
refrain from using the full name, out of respect for their mystical leader, Pir Chishtian
Shari, who was himself a Kharral. Whatever the truth of the matter, it is, certain that the
Khars consider themselves superior to those who cling to the old name.
By systematically marrying the daughters of tribal chieftains, Mustafa's grandfather,

Malik Ghulam, eventually became one of the largest landowners in the Muzaffargarh
district of the Punjab. In the feudal system wealth equates with honor and power; thus
in 1940 Mustafa's father, Mohammad Yar Khar, was granted the title Khan Sahib by the
British crown.
Mohammad Yar Khar was sixty-four years old when he married his third wife, a
sixteen-year old girl from Multan, who became Mustafa's mother. All told, Khan Sahib
had sixteen children; Mustafa's mother bore him seven sons and a daughter. The seven
sons grew up in their isolated village of Kot Addu with little discipline from their
ageing father and submissive mother. Like his brothers, Mustafa was raised by a pair of
nannies, who breast-fed him for the first six years of his life. The women's diet was
carefully monitored and, during their wet-nurse years, the nannies were allowed to visit
their husbands only in the presence of a supervisor, to guard against, pregnancy. The
Khar brothers attribute their vigor to this childhood nurturing.
As young feudal lords, Mustafa and his brothers had few worries concerning legal and
societal proscriptions. The feudal system is a carry-over from the time when the British
ruled the whole of south central Asia. By bestowing land and absolute power upon
certain 'loyal'individuals, the 'white masters' were able to control the country's
multitudes with relatively little effort. With the passage of time, the privileged few

multiplied their wealth by exploiting the, feudal practices of tenant farming and
arbitrary taxation. Feudalism was a license to plunder, rape and even murder. The rich
got richer; the poor despaired.
In the areas that were later to become Pakistan, some feudal families utilized Islam as a
weapon of control. The patriarchs were venerated as holy men, who spoke with Allah.
And, indeed, at some earlier, time many were pious and righteous. But gradually power
passed to elder sons who were neither pious nor particularly moral, yet were revered by
the illiterate people of the area and perceived as 'envoys of Allah'. They had the
authority to justify their every deed on the basis of their own, quite convenient,
interpretation of the Koran. A feudal lord was an absolute ruler who could justify any
action.
When British rule ended in 1947, the stage was set for at least-4 half-century of turmoil.
The vast holdings of the Commonwealth were divided along, religious lines. The Hindu
stronghold became India. Muslim Pakistan was a country like no other in the world,
divided into two slabs of land by the immense impediment of India.
Democracy took hold in India and the feudal system collapsed. But in Pakistan,
although lip-service was paid to democratic principles, feudal lords remained in
control. It was they who decided who would sit in the National Assembly and who
would reside in the prime minister's house.
The Khar family elders were not interested in politics. Mutafa and his brothers lived for
shikar, the hunt. They stayed away from home for days at a time, tracking their prey,
mostly on horseback, sometimes on foot. Once they achieved success, they could not
wait to taste its delights. They enjoyed cooking the food themselves and ate the meat
rare. Shikar taught Mustafa courage, endurance and patience. And through hunting he
grasped the importance of strategy and tactical maneuvering. He learned how to lure,
entice and entrap.
When he was barely seventeen, at the decision of his father, Mustafa told me later, he
had married his illiterate cousin, Wazir, who was many years older than him. She
immediately became pregnant. Mustafa ran away from his village and his fate, fleeing
first to Multan and then to the great city of Lahore. Here he was fascinated by such
mysteries as the sight of a woman with a stylish hair-do sitting cool and poised behind
the steering wheel of a shiny car. He lacked the social graces necessary to approach such
an ice-maiden; at the moment, he could only lust from a distance.
At the hillside resort of Murree, Mustafa met women who purveyed their charms for a
price, and he discovered that he was comfortable with professional sex. He scoured the
market, inspected the wares and hired the services. For their part, the women were
fascinated by this wealthy young feudal chieftain who bemoaned his enforced marriage.

Back home, Wazir suffered in silence. Her humiliation was compounded when the
elders dissolved her marriage to Mustafa and gave her to her much younger brother-
inlaw. But at least she was spared the indignity of returning to her parents' home as a
divorcee - which, in the feudal system, is a dismal destiny. She bore Mustafa's first son,
Abdur Rehman.
Meanwhile, in Murree Mustafa befriended a man who had an attractive and somewhat
educated sweetheart Firdaus. When Firdaus discovered that she was pregnant, the man
fled and Mustafa provided a comfortable crying shoulder. To Mustafa, the fallen
Firdaus was a victim of society. He married her on impulse, and in the course of time
Firdaus gave birth to a son, bearing Mustafa's surname. And within a year a second son,
Billoo, was born. All this responsibility proved too much for Mustafa, who now decided
that he had confused sympathy with love. Even as Firdaus was in the hospital
recuperating from Billoo's birth, Mustafa sent her divorce papers.
Somewhat chastened, Mustafa returned to his village and - in typical feudal fashion was
forgiven by his elders.
The men of the Khar family were content with their isolated domain, and saw no reason
to expand the scope of their vision, until the time-old pattern of power-worship gave
them a jolt. Mushtàq Ahmed Gurmani became governor of the Punjab. The Gurmani
clan lived in an adjoining area and, suddenly having become so important, began to
make its presence felt. Over time, in bureaucratic fashion, the loyalties of local officials
were deflected. The police turned a blind eye to crimes committed by Gurmani
clansmen against the Khars. The precious water supply was diverted. Perhaps worse,
the peasants began to pay more attention to the new political leaders than to their
traditional lords. It was in 1962 when the Khars realized that their feudal world could
no longer function without political clout. Only politics could bring legitimacy, power
and protection.
Mustafa was twenty-four years old when he stood for a seat in the National Assembly.
He was a novice, but an energetic one. Patiently he travelled from family to family
within the region, explaining his concern for the erosion of their traditional power in the
area. He was pleased to discover that another powerful feudal clan, the Legharis, were
equally concerned by the political encroachment of the rival Gurmani clan, and he was
able to form a strong coalition that resulted in victory. Mustafa would be the first of the
Khars to travel to the prestigious National Assembly.
Ecstatic over his win, Mustafa's father presented his son with a substantial sum of
money. This he squandered on several shiny new American cars. At time as he drove
one of his new toys to Parliament, he instructed drivers to follow with his other
vehicles, producing a showy cavalcade.

Inside the National Assembly, Mustafa remained silent, very conscious of his status as a
country neophyte. But he listened carefully and absorbed everything. Fortuitously,
seated next to him was Ghulam Mustafa Khan Jatoi, a distinguished-looking, slightly
older man who came from one of the largest and wealthiest feudal families in the Sindh
province in the southern half of West Pakistan. Mustafa Jatoi was a valuable new friend
for Mustafa - a relationship that was to last for twenty-six years and with whom his
political fortunes were to remain closely linked.
Jatoi introduced Mustafa to the dynamic foreign minister, Zulfikar Ali Bhutto, and the
two men began a complex relationship that was to vacillate between the extremes of
love and hate. Like many young men at that time, Mustafa fell under the magnetic spell
of Bhutto, a hard-working leftist politician who cried out for social justice. For his part,
Bhutto was impressed with Mustafa's potential as a true son of the soil, a man who
understood the aspirations of the people and had the ability to address their issues.
Following the Tashkent Agreement in 1966, which ended the second India-Pakistan
War, Bhutto, believing that President Ayub Khan had won the war on the battlefield but
lost it across the negotiating table, resigned his post as foreign minister. He was an
immediate political pariah and as he prepared to board a train to return home to
Karachi no one came to bid him farewell - except for Mustafa Khar. The younger man
did so in direct defiance of the establishment and of the sympathies of the Nawab of
Kalabagh, the feudal governor of the Punjab, and this was an indication of the
antiestablishment course of Mustafa's political career. Bhutto, who was a shrewd and
cunning politician, immediately saw that there was more to Mustafa than a silly twenty-
four-year-old who arrived at Parliament in a parade of American made
automobiles. He commented on Mustafa's show of courage, and Mustafa responded
with his favorite, enigmatic phrase: 'Time will tell.'
Women entered Mustafa's life speedily and left just as quickly. The young member of
the National Assembly was still searching for the nebulous ideal, but he lacked the
selfconfidence necessary to court women of society, and for a time continued to settle
for low-life companionship.
During one of his numerous flights to attend Parliament sessions in East Pakistan,
Mustafa was smitten by an apparition in green, the flight attendant who served him his
meal. Her name was Safia and she was from a lower middle-class background, working
to help support her family. A feudal lord rarely met, such a 'liberated' woman
elsewhere; Safia exuded an aura of adventure. They spent the next two days, together
and married.
Mustafa immediately reverted to the dictates of his feudal heritage. He plucked Safia
from the sky and locked her in a cage. His formerly, modern bride went behind the veil,
banished to the oblivion of his home village of Kot Addu, where her mission was to live

in anticipation of his infrequent visits. At the time, there was no electricity or plumbing
in Kot Addu. The women of the family were completely isolated from the outside world
- the only sky Safla saw here was the patch above the compound of her new home. The
walls were built high and no males other than her father-in-law and brothers-in-law
could enter. She grew reconciled to a desert life, the area being renowned for its
barrenness and dry heat, and became part of the zannana (women's chambers) where in
every sense the male was king and the female slave.
Here, Safia bore Mustafa a son, named Bilal, and a daughter who, owing to a lack of
medical facilities, died of diarrhea.
It was at this time that Mustafa was called upon to perform a special duty under the
Jirga system, whereby the feudal lord acts as judge and jury to settle disputes among his
vassals out of court. Sentences are passed by consensus or merely on the lord's
authority. The case of two lovers was brought before him and he listened attentively to
the allegations against them. The woman, Ayesha, was in her mid-twenties, a beauty
who resembled the American film actress Ava Gardner. She was tall and regal-looking,
with glowing brown skin and deep black eyes. Ayesha was known in Kot Addu for her
mischievous and lively nature, and this earned her a reputation for being 'fast'.
Apparently she 'made eyes' at the young village men and constantly tried, to attract
attention. Her case was weak. She was a married woman who had fallen in love with
another man - also married. Throwing convention and religion to the winds they had
impulsively eloped, and now it was Mustafa's duty to decide the punishment. For
Mustafa this was an easy decision, he recognized that Ayesha was the legal property of
her husband, and ordered her to be returned to him.
The lovers had fled for sanctuary to a holy shrine near Multan, but they were caught
and brought before Mustafa. Ayesha pleaded not to be forced to return to her husband
and begged, instead, to be allowed to work for Mustafa and his family. For daring to
disobey him, Mustafa committed Ayesha's lover to an asylum, where he soon grew
truly mad and died. But Ayesha was installed as 'Bilal's dai (nanny). Mustafa agreed to
give her family a small portion of wheat each year, but other than that she received no
wages. Henceforth she became known by the name of Dai Ayesha and was, like
numerous others, a household slave.
Mustafa became Bhutto's protégé and, leaving Safia in the village, he moved into
Bhutto's residence at 70 Clifton in Karachi, where he was to live for many years, and
where his political and social education began in earnest.
The curriculum included the intricate tactics of how to mesh an elegant lifestyle with
political ambitions. One of Bhutto's heroes was the Indonesian President, Sukarno, who
understood that Third World peoples are emotional and illiterate, and require simple
oratorical slogans to keep them loyal to their politicians. In this view, the masses are

attracted to colorful leaders whose romantic liaisons are not so much overlooked as
expected. This philosophy allowed Sukarno to live a private life filled, with romantic
intrigue. Bhutto viewed moral license as one of the privileges of power, and his disciple
learned the lesson well. Citing Sukarno, Bhutto often said that exceptional men needed
extraordinary wives who were understanding and able to cope with their husbands'
eccentricities. As an example, he referred to Adolf Hitler's liaison with Eva Braun.
Bhutto did, indeed, have an extraordinary wife, the Iranian-born Nusrat. For, years she
was forced to live with the open secret that her husband was carrying on an affair with
the beautiful and vivacious divorcee, Husna Shaikh. Bhutto was passionately in love,
but at the time Husna played hard to get, skeptical of her suitor's playboy reputation.
Mustafa now became his confidant and often drove Bhutto to his clandestine meetings
with Husna.
Bhutto also had, a passion for Persian and Chinese carpets, and would pay lavishly for
any piece that caught his fancy. If he coveted a friend's carpet, he would not leave the
house until they had struck a bargain. And like India's Prime Minister Nehru, Bhutto
loved roses, and grew, specimen plants in his, gardens. The teacher nurtured, student as
carefully as his prize roses, tutoring him in both political and personal behavior. The
elder coached the younger on the importance of clothes which, in Bhutto's case, tended
to be rather rakish. Soon, Mustafa was sporting the same style of Savile Row suits and
Turnbull & Asser shirts as his mentor. Bhutto's library was one of the best in Asia, and
here his most prized possession was his collection of books on Napoleon Bonaparte; he
was fascinated by the little Corsican who had the audacity to crown himself Emperor of
France. Bhutto presented Mustafa with a recommended reading list, and later
questioned him on what he had read of it.
Mustafa did not totally succumb, but tried to preserve his identity and earthiness. They
made an odd couple. At breakfast; for example, Bhutto ate his fried eggs and baked
beans as Mustafa - proud of his culinary heritage - insisted on the traditional foods of
the rural Punjab - lassi (a yogurt drink), paratha (a thin, flat bread cooked in butter) and
an omelette with green peppers and tomatoes.
This was a mutually beneficial friendship. Bhutto discerned intelligence and native
cunning in Mustafa, although it was unschooled. The younger man understood the
plight of the illiterate, impoverished masses. Both men, even as they enjoyed the
trappings of power and prestige, ached to move Pakistan into the twentieth century.
Mustafa came to see the irony in their political quest, for in order to bring true
democracy and equality - and thus progress - to the country, they had to find some way
to destroy the archaic feudal system. If they were to realize their political ambitious they
had to annihilate their very own power base.

Mustafa continued to live the good life, and this revolved around Bhutto's spectacular
dinner parties. Each was a major event for Pakistan's social and cultural elite. Bhutto
was expert at the finer points of cuisine, and he dictated every detail of the menu. He
loved French food and was a connoisseur of fine wines and selected with great care. He
personally chose the china and cutlery. He inspected the attire and procedures of the
retinue of servants. He even supervised the floral arrangements.
In 1967 Mustafa became one of the founding members of Bhutto's Pakistan People's
Party, committed to fighting for the liberal cause. For the common man its message was
powerful, but for several years the new socialist party had to struggle. Its leaders toured
the remotest areas of the country, reaching out to the people who, they believed, were
the real power. Bhutto's zeal and energy filtered almost everywhere, and very soon his
hard work established the People's Party as a major voice of reform. Mustafa waited for
the moment when events would pave his way to power.
Pakistan was a nation in transition, and its political life was tumultuous. In the 1970
elections the Peoples Party swept to victory in West Pakistan, but the Awami League,
which had raised a six-point programme that had separatist undertones, captured all
but two seats in East Pakistan: this plunged the nation into a deep and divisive crisis.
East Pakistan exploded into riots, aimed at winning independence from West Pakistan.
The People's Party's regional triumph thrust Mustafa into prominence. He was
suddenly courted by power-seekers, some of whom threw lavish but sleazy parties
where women were part of the menu. At one of these events Mustafa met Naubahar, a
professional dancing girl who used her face and her body to ensnare the young
politician. Mustafa rented a house in Lahore and installed Naubahar there as his
mistress. Then he married her, despite the fact that he had a wife waiting for him in Kot
Addu. (The Koran allows a man to have as many as four wives, but; tempers this with
the almost impossible requirement that he love them equally.) He made Naubahar
promise to keep the marriage a secret.
Within a year, fuelled by a hostile press, mainly in India and Britain, the battle for the
liberation of Bangladesh had begun. The West seemed to have misread the plight of the
East Pakistani people. West Pakistan was attempting to stop the Indian government's
dismemberment of their country, but it was projected as though we were the villains by
not allowing autonomy to a people demanding their rights and freedom. In December
1971 Indian troops exploited the situation, in into East Pakistan under the pretext of
protecting refugees. The previous two wars between India and Pakistan, in 1948-9 and
1965, had been inconclusive, but this time Indian armed forces (benefiting from a shared
border with East Pakistan and the allegiance of the local populace) prevailed. The
Pakistani army and air force were severely crippled. Bangladesh secured its
independence.

By the end of 1971 West Pakistan was simply and humbly Pakistan. It would be a while
before we recognized Bangladesh as a country. In the meantime a coalition of military
men determined that it was time for new leadership to overcome this setback and
installed Bhutto as president and chief administrator of martial law. Operating from his
centre of power in Islamabad, the capital of the new Pakistan, he proved his acumen
with a series of swift, effective strokes that settled tensions between Pakistan and
Bangladesh, and won the release of 93,000 Pakistani POWs held by the Indians. Then,
knowing that he owed his new-found power to the military and would continue to be
subject to the demands of the generals who had installed him, he coerced them into
resigning and replaced them with men more loyal to him.
Bhutto appointed his young protégé as Governor and Administrator of Martial Law, in
the Punjab, the most powerful of the remaining provinces in Pakistan, and ironically
this great moment of triumph brought Mustafa's secret marriage to Naubahar into the
open. Word of Mustafa's new prominence encouraged the dancing girls of Punjab to
cavort joyously in the narrow old city streets, publicly celebrating the fact that one of
them was the new governor's wife! After the swearing-in ceremony, Mustafa drove to
meet Naubahar at her family home in an official limousine. As the garish car wound its
way into the red light district, Mustafa was mobbed by fans.
Hearing of this, Bhutto summoned Mustafa and warned that he must not flaunt his
position with impunity. The governor of the Punjab could not have a common dancer as
his wife. Mustafa was told to correct the situation immediately. He divorced Naubahar.
Safia was rescued from the exile of Kot Addu and installed in the Governor's House as
the legitimate and respectable wife, but this illusion was shattered almost immediately.
Mustafa's brothers came to him: 'Now you are governor, your honor is at stake. Your
wife has had an illicit relationship with your younger brother, Ghulam Murtaza. We
cannot hide this fact from you any longer.'
It did not matter that Mustafa had ruined Safia's life, that he had also married Naubahar
and ruined her life, that he had visited Safia for mere hours in the course of their seven-
year marriage, that he did not love her. Feudal law allows a man to act in such a
manner, but for a wife to betray a husband is the supreme sin. Mustafa's world tumbled
about him. He was the cuckold, the object of sniggling whispers.
He flew to Islamabad to seek solace from his mentor. The president of Pakistan and the
governor of the Punjab drank late into the night, and their conversation took on a
philosophical tone. Mustafa indulged in self-pity and pathos. He told Bhutto that he
wished to resign; he could not concentrate on affairs of state. Because of this great
betrayal, his self-esteem was shattered; he had lost confidence in himself.
Bhutto placed an arm around Mustafa's shoulder and proposed drunkenly: 'I think we
should both resign. We should give up this government. There is nothing but pain and

betrayal in life. If you resign, I will too. I cannot work alone. I've suffered your pain too.
Let's just go away somewhere, dammit - away from all this.'
But in the sober light of morning, Bhutto chastised Mustafa and told him not to be so
stupid and give way to emotions. They had a great destiny. They were the chosen ones.
They had to bring about change in Pakistan. History would not forgive them if they
showed weakness, especially for a mere woman. Bhutto's expression turned serious and
he suggested, with sincerity, 'I say, why don't you bump her off?'
Mustafa let the suggestion pass. In his feudal moral scheme, Islamic law allows a man to
kill his unfaithful wife in a fit of passion, but does not allow for premeditated
vengeance. So he simply divorced Safi and banished his offending younger brother to
Britain (It was at this time that I married Anees).
Bhutto wanted Mustafa to marry again, and the search was soon on for a modern
woman who could serve as the ideal hostess for the Governor's House Bhutto was
ready to embark on his first trip to the US as president of Pakistan when Mustafa met
Shahrazad, the niece by marriage of Bhutto 's education minister. Sherry was extremely
beautiful, and westernized. As was his pattern in these matters, Mustafa acted
compulsively, He was to accompany Bhutto to the US, and he was in a hurry to have a
charming, well-bred and - best of all, - stunning woman on his arm as he walked into
the White House.
Bhutto was against the union, Sherry was from an upwardly mobile, anglicized, middle-
class background, and Bhutto reasoned that she would not find Mustafa's feudal
background compatible. But Mustafa indicated categorically that he would not blindly
follow Bhutto. It was a further signal that he would not - now or later - take any
instruction concerning his private life. This was to become the great contradiction in his
character. He ignored Bhutto's objection and proposed Sherry accepted and, nine days
later, with the president attending, she became his fifth wife.
Mustafa served as governor for a year. When a new constitution was adopted in 1973,
Bhutto became Prime Minister and Mustafa's title was changed to Chief Minister of the
Punjab. He developed a reputation as an effective administrator. His close relationship
with Bhutto provided him with both the real and assumed power to crush any
opposition. The euphoria of a new, people's government hung in the air. Mutafa
genuinely believed in the party slogan: 'The fountainhead of power is the people'. When
the police force went on strike, Mustafa labeled the action a mutiny and appealed to the
people to take charge of law and order, to man the police posts and even direct traffic.
This worked, and backed up Mustafa's ultimatum to the police that anyone who did not
return to work within twenty-four hours would be fired. They returned.

It was during this period that Bhutto sent Mustafa to Washington as his most trusted
emissary, to meet President Nixon and deliver a special message.
Exhibiting a native canniness, Mustafa used the power of his office to re-establish his
financial position. Over the years he had sold off much of his land holdings in order to
finance his political aspirations. When he took over as governor, he owned only a paltry
area of Kot Addu. But now those who had bought from him found themselves hauled
in by the police on trumped-up charges and coerced into returning his land. Before
long, Mustafa had recouped almost all of his holdings.
Mustafa crushed opposition with the fierce hand of a feudal lord. When the students of
Punjab University went on strike, closing down the institution and resorting to
hooliganism. Mustafa was alleged to have had them stripped naked and marched in the
street. Some political leaders and opponents were said to have been sodomized in
prison. Mustafa was compared to the Nawab of Kalabagh, the previous governor,
favorably for his administrative abilities and negatively for his cruel tactics. On the
other hand, the gates of the Governor's House and, later, the Chief Minister's House,
were opened to the people of his constituency every Friday. He gave priority to the
people he represented and precedence to their problems.
However, gradually the relationship between Bhutto and Mustafa grew strained. The
Chief Minister of the Punjab was now a politician in his own right, emerging from the
shadow of his mentor. Bhutto knew that the Punjab, being the largest province, was the
vote bank of Pakistan, and thus the backbone of the People's Party; he could not afford
to lose it to his own Frankenstein monster. Everywhere Mustafa went he was greeted
with the slogan Sher e Punjab ('Lion of the Punjab'), and he acted the part of the number
two man in Pakistan, which he was. Bhutto worried that Mustafa's inflated ego might
persuade him to go his own way in politics — and, if he believed himself to be the
number two man, there was only one job to which he could aspire.
Indeed, there was reason to worry. Bhutto had many enemies. People with vested
interests regarded his theories of Islamic socialism as anathema. They realized that if the
Punjab could be extricated from Bhutto's control he would fall, and they started to form
a wedge between the two men. Mustafa also began to undertake crucial initiatives
without first clearing them with the prime minister. Disagreements sprang up both on
policy matters and personnel appointments. If Bhutto rejected Mustafa's nominees,
Mustafa sulked and turned down the alternatives presented by Bhutto. He developed a
strong political personality of his own. Islamabad was abuzz with stories of his
megalomania: he was rumored to have said that he would be the next prime minister;
the people of the Punjab would catapult him into power. Bhutto's advisers suggested to
him that two swords could not be accommodated in one scabbard.

Bhutto loved Mustafa like his own son and tried to admonish him like a father. In return
Mustafa pleaded his case. He argued that his 'emergence' as a leader in his own right
would enhance Bhutto's rule. A prime minister could not be expected to oversee
everything; the People's Party needed a strong second-line leadership. On several
occasions Mustafa reaffirmed his loyalty and support to Bhutto as well as to the party,
but his pledges did not hold water. He referred to himself as Bhutto's shock-absorber; 'I
take the flak and criticism upon myself,' he proclaimed. 'I do not direct it towards you.'
But Bhutto knew that Mustafa was chipping away at his power base.
It was not long after Mustafa became chief minister that he and Bhutto began to
disagree. At a Cabinet meeting in Karachi the tension finally erupted. At Mustafa's
instruction, a Punjabi bureaucrat presented a paper that argued in favor of protecting
the Punjab's water resources. Bhutto interrupted and raged, 'Nobody can tell me how to
allocate resources between the provinces of the country. If I wish I can divert everything
to Larkana [a village near the-River Indus in the south]. I have the mandate of the
people.'
'That Sir, is not correct,' Mustafa responded. 'You have a mandate to serve the people of
this country as a whole. Not only your village of Larkana. As long as I am Chief
Minister of the Punjab, I will protect the interests of the Punjab.'
Bhutto threw his papers on to the table and stormed out of the room, muttering, 'Either I
stay Prime Minister of Pakistan or you become Prime Minister.'
Mustafa's colleagues gathered around him and warned that he had overstepped the
bounds of his authority and urged him to apologize. Mustafa immediately sought out
Bhutto in his chambers and did so. Bhutto accepted the apology, but noted, 'You're
getting out of hand. I won't tolerate such insolence in public again. Talk to me privately
next time.'
Following this episode, the tension grew to intolerable proportions. Mustafa had many
colleagues who were jealous of his very trusted and comfortable position with Bhutto;
on the other hand Bhutto was paranoid about a Punjabi leader wresting power from
him. In 1974, an Islamic summit was held in the Punjab, attended by King Faisal of
Saudi Arabia, Libya's Colonel Gaddafi, the PLO's 'Yasser Arafat, Idi Amin, and many
other important Arab leaders. Mustafa presided over the summit at Bhutto's side.
Sheikh Mujibur Rahman was also there. It was at this summit that Pakistan at last
accepted the independence of East Pakistan. Following the meeting, Mustafa tendered
his resignation and moved from the Chief Minister's house into a rented house.
And soon after that, I met him at the Punjab Club in Lahore.

3
The morning after we attended the reception at the Punjab Club, Anees and I received a
call from one of Mustafa Khar's friends, inviting us to lunch. Anees had a previous
commitment and was desperately disappointed. 'No problem,' said the persistent voice
on the phone. 'We'll have dinner together.'
That evening, Anees and I became part of the charmed circle. Our new group of friends
had one thing in common - Mustafa Khar. The Lion of the Punjab had entered our lives,
and we were now two of the many satellites in orbit about him. Almost every day our
group met for lunch or dinner.
Mustafa was at his most passionate whenever the conversation turned to politics. He
was a socialist who wanted to do away with the feudal system that impeded progress in
Pakistan - even though he was part of it himself.
'I feel disgust for the upper classes, he raged 'I have no time for them I'm not interested
in their acceptance. They are merely, the litter of the British stooges.' He preached that
Pakistan was made for people who wanted to get on in this world, people who expected
to gain now that the power structure had been freed from the Hindus and the feudal
elite. 'The people who should have power are the rickshaw drivers, the peasants, the
factory workers.' He could smell the sweat of the poor and underprivileged in his
nostrils and he had styled himself as their leader.
He argued that the unchecked accumulation of wealth must not be permitted. He

wanted to take from the rich and give to the poor in a system where opportunities were
more equal and where resources were more equitably distributed. He supported trade
unions and other countervailing forces to curb the capitalists. He was eloquent when he
proclaimed, 'The proletariat is the responsibility of the industrialist. Their children must
be educated by the industrialist. There must hem job security, welfare provisions,
medical facilities and childcare centers for working mothers. Low-cost housing-schemes
must be initiated. The big industrial houses must contribute to society by setting up
schools, colleges, hospitals and orphanages. They must repay their debt to Pakistan
instead of feathering their own nests all the time.
I found this deliciously exciting. This was the sort of man considered very dangerous by
people like my parents. Such radicals were regarded as preachers of hatred who traded
in false hopes and widened the already vast chasm between the affluent and the
indigent. They allowed the genie of rising expectations to escape from the bottle.
Mustafa articulated thoughts that had buzzed in my brain since childhood I was a
product of the powerful, privileged class, but I had been a misfit, an underdog in my
own surroundings. I understood the zeal, for I was rebel in search of a cause. Mustafa

Khar defined the cause for me. For the first time in my life, I felt a purpose beyond mere
existence. He noted my interest, and from then on made a point of steering the
conversation toward politics. He could sense that I was hooked.
He was a perfect gentleman to the women in our group, treating them with respect,
courtesy and even veneration. Whenever a woman entered the room, he stood and
offered her a chair. His impeccable manners seethed to come naturally. I had heard
whispered accusations that he was coarse and vulgar, but I saw no trace of these traits, I
saw, instead, the epitome of good breeding.
Powerless to prevent it, I felt pulled by an undercurrent: I was magnetically attracted to

him. All at once my marriage to Anees seemed very dull I no longer loved him. I longed
for excitement. Yet Mustafa was married to a beautiful woman who appeared to be
devoted to him. He was forty-two, twenty years older than I was. He was mature, I felt
like an incorrigibly romantic schoolgirl.
As one dinner party merged with another, dreadful, tempting thoughts plagued me. I
knew that illicit liaisons were endemic in our social milieu - although one never
admitted to them in public - but the combination of my Catholic schooling and Muslim
faith produced a strong taboo.
I believed that there was safety in numbers. Everyone who attended the social functions
in our new crowd of friends did so with his or her spouse. There were no bachelors and
no girlfriends.
The male conversation, when it strayed from politics often revolved around hunting
planning expeditions or recounting favorite stories of the great hunts. The women
listened with pride and no traces of boredom. Anees was not a hunter. To my surprise I
discovered loneliness amidst the crowd Anees and I could not participate in these
discussions so we tried our best to become avid listeners.
At times, the conversational tone deteriorated to a very low level. Quite oblivious to the
presence of their wives the men spoke ecstatically about the sensual dances known as
mujras. The custom came from the days of the Mogul emperors, when the courtesans
were very well-bred and refined women trained to dance, sing and please men Nawabs
and noblemen sent their teenage sons to them for entertainment and etiquette training.
Virgins always commanded the premium price. By modern times, the custom still
existed but had deteriorated. The women were now lowly, uneducated peasant girls
who merely danced sensuously. The tinkle of their ankle bells enticed men to throw
rupee notes at their feet. The men in our new social circle took delight in discussing the
intricacies of the dancers movements - on the floor and in bed - and spoke openly of the
rates they charged for the night. The wives suppressed their feelings and pretended to
treat these discussions as harmless male fantasies. It was all very alien to me, and I

decided that the elite were sophisticated enough to deal openly with risqué topics, it did
not occur to me at the time that, for these men, this was simply another version of
discussing the hunt.
Some of our old friends warned Anees about Mustafa's reputation: 'He's a womanizer, a
compulsive Casanova. The man is evil. He'll damage you.' But Anees was unmoved.
Mustafa was his new and powerful friend, and Anees believed that the social
relationship would pay personal and professional dividends. He was too charmed by
Mustafa, too busy enjoying his newfound status, to worry about his young wife.
Mustafa made no direct overtures. He said nothing to me that could be remotely

construed as flirting, yet his eyes continued to cast an unmistakable message. He was
formal without being stiff, friendly, but at a carefully cultivated distance. He did not
contrive to get me alone. It was as if he were taking extra care to wash away the blots on
his reputation. His actions broadcast the message I'm not a lecher, I'm merely
misunderstood.
A more sensitive husband might have noticed the signs, but Anees never suspected. His
placid and complacent nature began to irritate me I prayed that he would notice. That
he would stop me before I went over the brink.
I understood the danger, but the abyss enticed me, inexorably. I knew that I would most
certainly fall.
Mustafa's shabby, greasy and unkempt home was my first indication about the state of
his marriage. Some of the chairs on the veranda were broken, their paint peeling, their
upholstery threadbare. Everything in the living-room matched the turquoise-colored
sofas, the lamps, paintings, rugs and ashtrays - even a wastepaper basket - were
turquoise! Thank god, the wall-to-wall carpeting and the walls were white. It seemed
like a furniture showroom selected as a complete setting.
The rest of the house was a mess. It smelled of food cooking in the kitchen and old fruit
Sherry walked through the chaos unfazed as my mind presumptuously redecorated the
house to suit my taste. I thought: l would not save food with the threat of flies falling
into it. How can she allow this? Where are the flowers? Has she not heard of house
plants? Where is the woman's touch?
Mustafa did not mind living this way. It was not his priority. But if he had hoped that
Sherry would bring some comfort and class into his home, she had disappointed him.
Mustafa may have been only vaguely aware of what he expected in a home, but this
could not even be a mild approximation of his ideal. His eyes searched me out and
silently complained Mine responded.

On one occasion, Anees and I happened to be visiting Mustafa and Sherry as they
packed for a trip to Murree. I found She bending over an enormous shipping trunk,
stowing Mustafa's clothes a muslin kurta (loose shirt), a greatcoat more in keeping with
the First World War, T-shirts, safari suits, starched dress shirts, striped shirts, checked
shirts, footwear that ranged from Wellittgtons to crocodile shoes, every conceivable
style of trousers), every conceivable style of suit.
I asked, 'Are you going away for long?'
'No,' Sherry answered casually, without looking up. Then she turned her attention to a
second large wooden chest. She inventoried its contents: Pharmaton, multi-vitamins,
cough syrups, cod-liver capsules, Listerine, throat paint, iodine, Litrosen, Alka-Seltzer,
blood-pressure pills, varieties of aspirin, bandages, band-aids, scissors, eye drops, nose
drops, a thermometer.
'Is Mustafa that ill?' I asked in bewilderment.
Sherry glanced up and remarked cryptically, 'No. But you never know what he may
want.'
The more I learned, the more I came to understand his inability to maintain a stable
marriage. I rationalized that, had he found the right woman at the right time, he would
have settled down as a good husband. But his reasons for marriage were always wrong,
based on expediency rather than love. He seemed to marry women in transit. His
political life exposed him to a high-powered world; he was changing and evolving all
the time and he tended to outgrow his women.
I became curious about his relationship with Sherry it seemed to be in a state of

disequilibrium. Her position as his wife should have given her stature, yet his
condescending treatment made her servile. Mustafa was the boss, the brain, the soul.
Sherry was in awe of him, and rarely made a remark that was not drenched in his
thoughts. She dared not differ from his views. She looked to him for constant approval.
The strength of his personality diminished her to the point where she existed only in the
reflection of his light. Sherry had surrendered her will to Mustafa and I saw this as her
failure.
Since Sherry was powerless in her relationship with her husband, she often flexed her
muscles in other directions, with inappropriate and hostile treatment of the servants,
and especially her seven-year-old stepson Bilal. At times it seemed that she went out of
her way to make trouble for the boy, perhaps in an effort to deflect Mustafa's aggression
away from her and on to a surrogate target. The dynamics of the family fascinated me,
yet I remained convinced that the failure was with Sherry, not Mustafa. She was simply
not woman enough for this charismatic, powerful man.

On one occasion, Anees and I drove Sherry to, furniture shop. On the way home I
wanted to stop and pick up some food, but Sherry was nervous She glanced sidelong at
her companion the ever-present Dai Ayesha, who functioned more as a stool pigeon
than a servant, and said, 'We can't stop here.'
'Why not?' I asked.
'Because I didn't tell Mustafa that we'd he stopping here to pick up food.'
'So what?'
I can't,' Sherry said adamantly. 'I don't have his permission. He'll be very angry.'
I suggested, 'Just tell him I decided to do so on the spur of the moment.'
'No. He'll be very angry. He'll beat me. He beats me if I do anything without his
permission.'
'Don't tell him,' I said.
'That's impossible,' she countered, pointing toward Dai. 'She will.'
We did not stop for food.
In public, Mustafa treated Sherry with contempt. In conversation - with her there at his
side - he constantly declared that Sherry was the wrong woman for him, and he made
no secret of the fact that he was in the market for the perfect wife. 'I've made another
mistake,' he would say. 'I'll have to marry again.' She laughed off the insults, pretending
- and obviously hoping - that he was speaking in jest. But deep down she knew that his
eye had begun to rove, and she did not believe that she had the charm or guile to keep
him riveted to her.
As she grew to trust me more, Sherry revealed other facets of Mustafa's character. She
was not allowed to visit her parents. Sherry's mother smuggled clothes, through mutual
friends, for her granddaughter, Amna. When I asked her why she was banned from
meeting her parents, Sherry replied, 'He says that my family abuses its relationship with
him. They get things done by telling people that their son-in-law was the
Governor.'
This type of behavior was common in Pakistan. Powerful men spawn opportunistic
relatives and Sherry came from a family that could never aspire to the heights that her
husband had achieved. But Sherry's stones sounded too fantastic to believe and I
wondered if she was exaggerating. The Mustafa I was coming to know was a gracious

and rational man I could speak my mind in front of him I could tell him what I thought
about a given issue and, to my pleasure, he carefully considered and often accepted my
views. I believed that Mustafa was desperately searching for a companion who could
challenge him, rather than indulge his whims. I found myself thinking more and more
about this misunderstood man who had become entangled with all the wrong women. I
came to view myself as the elusive companion whom he was so desperately seeking.
The force of my mother's legacy was surfacing in my daily life. Without actually being
aware of it, I was emulating much of what I had learned under her rule. I dressed like
her. I styled my hair in the same fashion as she had done. Even my relationship with
Anees echoed her voice.
The misgivings I had experienced prior to my marriage had proved correct. I now
viewed my husband as inconsequential. Try as I might, I had no faith in his abilities and
little respect for his intellect. I felt that he lacked the necessary drive and ambition to
enhance his career and I was constantly badgering him and questioning his decisions.
And yet I did not want a marriage like my parents. I needed a strong man who could
manage his own professional life without my interference. I was also thinking of how
inadequate a person I had become in my mother's eyes - eyes that represented the entire
world to me. I was weakened by my attachment to Anees, because he carried no weight
to strengthen me. Mother treated us with the same contempt that she had treated me.
My mind was in a turmoil: I began to imagine that Anees would be far more suited to a
woman like Sherry, and that the chemistry that Mustafa and I could combine would be
unstoppable.
No words were spoken, yet there was obvious electricity between us. Mustafa was
observing me, making sure that this time his choice was right. Sometimes the lack of an
overt advance upset and confused me. I felt nervous and a trifle guilty. How could I
countenance such a situation? Had anyone else noticed what I was feeling? Did Anees
know? Did Musrafa even know?
The women in our circle did not seem to look beyond their raised noses. They chattered
endlessly about disobedient servants, clothes, jeweler and interior decorations.
Occasionally they spoke about their children - about the horrible state of the schools in
Pakistan and of their dreams to send their sons and daughters abroad for a 'proper'
education. Many a day in the lives of these women was almost completely devoted to
the topic of what to wear that evening.
I was no different I now dressed for Mustafa I had been raised to operate on the
principle that appearances are paramount. I sampled all the clothes that had been
gathering dust in my wardrobe, exploiting, in particular, the French chiffon saris from
my trousseau. I was flattered when Mustafa noticed, and upset when he did not.

Picnics and shikar became a part of our lives. On the outskirts of Lahore, near the Indian
border, is a fertile hunting preserve. We would pile into jeeps with lots of snacks for the
journey, then find a flat, clear spot to pitch our tents and light fires. We women sat
around the fires as the men hunted, assisted by local beaters, who made loud bird
noises to flush out the partridge from the long grass along the bank of the Ravi River.
Mosquitoes, flies and a variety of other insects added to the melee. The area was rich
with migratory duck, water fowl, quail, partridge - and also wild boar, the eating of
which is prohibited by Islam. These would be left to the locals to sell. The night fires
kept away the winged predators and the cold. Local marasis ('professional singers') sang
to the beat of the dholki. The men exchanged stories of the day's shoot as the women
concentrated on the music.
Against this backdrop, Mustafa seemed always to be trying to impress me, but the
seduction was subtle. When he returned from the hunt he sought my approval by
showing off his bag. He looked very attractive with his khaki trousers tucked into his
Wellingtons, with his rifle in one hand and a Mao cap on his head. I happened upon
him early one morning, just as he was bending down to the waters of a lake to retrieve a
wild duck that he had shot. The sun's first rays etched his profile He looked up, and
straight at me My heart skipped a beat.
Mustafa was an excellent chef. The meat had to be young, and it could not be
overcooked lest it lose its flavor and nutritional value. He was a perfectionist in his art,
he prepared a partridge with meticulous care.
Amid this motley crowd, I mused, Mustafa and I were two intermeshing spirits. We
were both loners, who felt misunderstood. Ours, I decided, were artistic souls,
struggling to find a cause to which we could commit ourselves. Both of us were
searching for someone who could understand the turmoil in our hearts and minds.
Something told me that we were fated for one another. I wanted to help him dismantle
the facade of ruthlessness and callousness that had been erected by the superficial
perceptions of people who did not know the real Mustafa Khar.
What amazed me and what I admired most about him was his total disregard for public
opinion - especially so since images and public opinions had always been so important
to my family. He had the courage to be outrageous if he felt that his position was right.
Mustafa did not give a damn about conventions, and I believed that only extraordinary
men possessed such a trait. He was a natural leader who, having decided upon a course
of action, blazed a new trail in that direction. As a rule, politicians are circumspect,
especially in their private lives. Yet Mustafa's marriages and divorces were known in
the bazaars and alleys, of the countryside, and he did not care. Whatever mud was
flung at him slithered off. The people seemed to have balanced his political acumen
against his romantic interludes and concluded that the former was more significant.

We fell in love under a million stars. We both sensed it, but Mustafa postponed the
moment and prolonged the foreplay. When would he make his move? I wondered.
Would he make his move?
It was an Eid dinner, the feast celebrating the end of Ramadan, the holy month of
fasting. The setting was an old mansion, built during British rule; it had a marvelous
ballroom with sprung floors and old cut-glass chandeliers. The ball, was hosted by the
Khan Bahadur of Badrasha's son. Anees and I attended as part of Mustafa's entourage. I
dressed for the evening, with particular care.
Mustafa approached me with measured, determined steps. He believed, in body

language. He understood that a masculine bearing exuding confidence can make most
people crumble; he had perfected the art. He could achieve his will by the sheer force of
his posture. That night, he appeared very dapper in a steel-grey suit, light blue shirt and
black crocodile shoes. He asked me to dance. My eyes demurred: what would Anees
think? Suddenly Mustafa imperiously ordered Sherry to dance with Anees. Anees was
flattered by the supreme compliment that a feudal lord would allow his wife to dance
with another man. He escorted Sherry to the floor and indicated that I should not refuse
Mustafa.
I had waited eight months for this moment. Anticipation quietly merged with a tingling
uncertainty. I was sure that the diamond tikka dangling on my forehead took on an extra
measure of sparkle.
The band was playing 'Strangers in the Night' Mustafa trespassed with great
confidence, and I found myself unable and unwilling to resist. After only a few
moments he led me toward the edge of the dance floor and whispered bluntly, 'Will you
marry me?'
Stunned by the suddenness of the advance, I mumbled, 'But - but - I'm already married.'
'Leave it to God,' he said.
All too soon I became aware of the other couples in the room and imagined that
everyone had heard this exchange. I felt myself blushing. I broke away from Mustafa's
grasp, in the midst of the dance, to catch my breath. He walked me back to my chair,
appearing nervous, but also quite relieved that he had finally unburdened himself.
Now, try as I might, I was totally under Mustafa's spell. He would telephone me, and
we would talk for hours over the phone. I became convinced that my future was with
Mustafa, and that my marriage to Anees was over. We met as frequently as we could,
often at a prefabricated cabin within the compound of the large house that he was

having built Mustafa used the cabin as his den, his den of iniquity. Common sense
vanished along with caution, morality and decency: my emotions overwhelmed me.
Theoretically, under the Hadood ordinance, a woman could be stoned for adultery in
Pakistan. But that is not the reality. The Koran states that four witnesses to the actual
penetration must be present, or that one of the participants must publicly confess. At
any rate, I was not concerned for my life, in my heightened emotional state, I felt it had
only just begun.
Bhutto and Mustafa kept up an appearance of friendship, although their relationship

was marked by cool formality. Astute observers noticed the gulf between them, but
many others believed that Bhutto's apparent hostility toward Mustafa was an act. The
term noora kushti, 'fixed wrestling match', was bandied about. As a result Mustafa's
followers remained loyal to him, and Hanif Ramey, the new Chief Minister, found it
difficult to win support in the Punjab.
Ramey went on the attack against Mustafa, feeding the press trumped-up stories of the
ex-Governor's escapades. For example, they distorted Mustafa's role in intervening in
an abduction case, and used the incident to portray him as a badmaash (sex fiend). Wives
and daughters of the Punjab were told 'to fear the time that MustafaKhar would return'.
And, indeed, he did return. After a sojourn in the political wilderness, Mustafa was
reinstated as Governor of the Punjab in 1975, but Ramey retained the more powerful
post of Chief Minister - at least for the time being. Bhutto placed Mustafa on three
months' probation; if Mustafa acceded to Bhutto's wishes, he would again become Chief
Minister. Mustafa was back in power, proclaiming that Bhutto would never have
reinstated him had the slanders against him been true.
Anees and I drove to the huge gates of the Governor's House where Mustafa was to be
sworn in. They were manned by white uniformed armed guards, their high, starched
turbans bearing testimony to the everlasting influence of the British Raj. After
confirmation of our identities and much checking of our invitation card, we were
motioned inside.
The car turned into a sweeping driveway, in front of which stood one of the most
impressive architectural relics of colonial rule. The white building had been conceived
by a former governor, Sir Robert Montgomery, as if possessed by a desire to impose the
architectural will of the Raj on Lahore. It lay amid 300 acres of gardens, with a lake,
weeping willows, aviaries, tennis courts and cyprus-lined walks laid out for the private
delectation of India's masters. The house had dozens of teak-paneled, high-ceilinged
guest suites. Anees and I walked into the famous banquet room known as Darbar
('Court') Hall This grand room - the central feature of the mansion - could seat more

than 500 guests. On the walls hung portraits of the lords. and masters of the Punjab, on
whose smallest gesture the destiny of millions depended.
All around the building were balconies where a Scottish piper strutted up and down
playing tunes from the faraway, Scottish highlands. Throngs of people offered
congratulations to Sherry before we were silenced by the entry of the new Governor
and Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. I was emotionally distraught. As Mustafa
placed his hand on the Koran to take the oath of office, his eyes met mine. He noticed
my discomfort and my insecurity. Later in the day, he told me that no government
position could take precedence over his love for me.
He proved this statement with his actions Mustafa was an indiscreet lover - it was
almost as if he wanted Sherry, Anees, indeed the world, to find out about us. He called
one day and said he wanted to see me at once, and was coming over. 'But how' I asked
'Anees is at home'
'Don't worry,' he assured me.
Two minutes later the phone rang again. Anees took the call and listened carefully.
After he hung up, he smiled at me and announced, 'I have to go to the Governor's
House. Mustafa wants to see me. The Governor needs to talk to me!' He left
immediately.
When Anees arrived at the Governor's House, Mustafa met him with the news that he
had to rush off on urgent business, and told him to swim in the pool and await his
return. Mustafa's friend Rauf Khan provided a pair of bathing trunks and stayed with
Anees in the pool, guarding the unsuspecting prey.
Mustafa and I were still together, when Rauf Khan called from the Governor's House
and reported, 'Sir, we can't keep him in the water any longer. He'll pass out with
exhaustion. He looks cold and bothered.'
'Let him out in five minutes,' Mustafa said. 'Tell him I've just called I'll be there in fifteen
minutes' Mustafa hung up the phone and we collapsed in mirth.
Of course I felt an underlying guilt. Cheating on a man was an unnatural situation for
me. Anees was good-natured and innocent - I often felt torn and sorry for him.
However, on this occasion I was entering a new phase, and Anees was becoming
distanced from the way I saw my future.
Matters of state beckoned Mustafa was off with Bhutto on a tour of the Punjab, and I
was left in limbo with Anees in Lahore.

Wherever they travelled, the two politicians were met with banners such as Mustafa
Khar Zindabad ('Long Live Mustafa Khar') and Sher-e-Punjab Zindabad ('Long Live the
Lion of the Punjab'). At an appearance at the holy shrine of the saint Data Gangh Buksh,
Mustafa noticed how Bhutto's face paled as the huge crowds thronged about the
governor. The Prime Minister was clearly chagrined.
Meanwhile, I seized the opportunity to reassess my turbulent, double life I decided to

take my daughter Tanya on a visit to a relative in Kasowal, in the interior of the Punjab,
to get away from the intrigue. I wanted a place that would be inaccessible to Mustafa, to
see if I could live without him, and Kasowal was ideal. There were no telephones and
no electricity. A part of me also wanted to challenge Mustafa and his stated
commitment to me. Would he miss me? Would he follow?
When Mustafa returned to Lahore, he was frustrated to learn that I had left. Acting
quickly, he ordered a driver to take his official Mercedes 500SEL to Okara and await the
arrival of his aeroplane there. He assigned Rauf Khan to a covert task he was to send
Anees on a 'top secret mission' to Peshawar, to take delivery of a fictitious 'for your eyes
only' letter Rauf was to take Anees to the airport and make certain that he boarded the
flight to Peshawar and that the plane took off. Anees was told to remain in Peshawar
until the letter was ready. Mustafa then instructed his pilot to fly him to Okara. There,
he took command of the Mercedes and sped towards me in Kasowal.
The poor inhabitants of this godforsaken hamlet were I amazed and impressed when
the Governor of the Punjab arrived unannounced. Wide-eyed people crowded the alleys
and narrow lanes. I was inside my relative's house. When I heard the sounds of a siren
and an approaching car. Moments later, the cane blind covering, the front door of this
little farmhouse lifted to reveal Mustafa in his safari suit and Mao cap, silhouetted in the
light. He grinned mischievously.
He stepped into the house and proclaimed, 'You have to come back to Lahore Now. I
can't live without you'
I was shocked by his arrival - though secretly I had longed font. I made the excuses
necessary to cover up an extra-marital relationship - in retrospect they seemed
unbelievable. The Governor of the Punjab was a friend of my husband, I said, and
Anees had requested that he come to bring me home. It was a transparent ruse, but my
relatives were basking in the glow of a visit from the Governor, and showed no sign of
suspicion.
I could not just run from the house. This was the countryside, where respectable women
cover themselves. I fashioned a makeshift chader (face and body covering) from a white
bed sheet and wrapped it around my head and face, leaving only my eyes visible.
Musrafa, my baby, her nanny and I left together in the Mercedes. Mustafa drove

expertly, at speeds approaching 100 miles per hour, until we reached Okara. Then we
flew back to Lahore.
There, as we had discussed on the plane, Mustafa entered an official car and Tanya, the
nanny and I stepped into another, with darkly tinted windows. We drove to the
Governor's House escorted by a phalanx of motorcycles, with their sirens blaring.
The national press picked up the story of Mustafa's surprise visit to Kasowal and
portrayed the Governor as a benevolent public servant, eager to show his concern for
the hinterlands. No one knew that he was simply after a woman.
Tanya, her nanny and I were installed in the Presidential Suite of the Governor's House.
Mustafa joined me for dinner, with an impish smile on his face. But I was nervous
Anees was away in Peshawar, cooling his heels, but what if Sherry found out that I was
under her very own roof? Mustafa told me not to worry. He had told Sherry that he was
downstairs entertaining the ulema (a group of religious men). There was no question of
a female being present, so Sherry would remain in the private wing of the official
residence.
Late that evening, after Mustafa left me to return to his wife, I found it difficult to sleep.
I woke early. The nanny dressed Tanya and, we left for borne.
Shortly after we left, Sherry noticed that an inordinate amount of milk had been used
the day before, and she accused the servants of pilfering it. They pleaded innocence,
and explained that the little baby had consumed it.
'Whose baby?' Sherry asked.
The servants did not know my name, but with one sentence they changed the course of
my life. The begum Sahib with the long brown hair.
Now Sherry knew.
She confronted Mustafa, who coolly admitted that he was in love with me.
Nothing changed.
Everything changed.

Mustafa and Sherry continued as Governor and first lady of the Punjab. Our trysts
became more frequent and very brazen passionate emotions encourage total
recklessness, I was carried along on their wave. At the same time I hated being an
unfaithful wife to a decent man. But Mustafa's romance and personality blotted out the
wrongness of it all, and colored everything with expectations of a perfect relationship. It
was terribly traumatic because I was a one-man woman and felt unclean. Mustafa called
me three or four times daily, and professed misery if he did not see me at least once a
day. I learned to trot out excuses for being away from home.
Mustafa was an incurable romantic. Once, at 3 a.m., the ring of the telephone awakened
me. Anees was sleeping soundly at my side. Sensing whom it might be, I quickly slid
out of bed and picked up the phone that was just outside the bedroom.
'Tina, I'm dying to see you,' Mustafa's voice pleaded.
'But you can't,' I whispered 'I can't see you now.'
'I can't live without you I want to give up everything and be with you.'
'Mustafa, it's late I can't speak to you Anees—'
'Don't put down the phone,' he interrupted 'I'm going to drive past your house in ten
minutes. Go to your window and stand there. Just for one minute I want to see you.'
Quietly I replaced the receiver and tiptoed back into the bedroom Anees stirred and I
told him that the call was a wrong number. Moments later, he drifted back to sleep and
I slipped out of the room.
I stood at the window in my nightdress and soon the headlights, of the Mercedes came
into view. I smiled into the darkness, then drew the curtains.
A certain bitterness crept into our relationship, caused by my status as a married

woman. Mustafa began to cringe at any mention of Anees. Without actually mentioning
the word he was pushing me towards divorce. He wanted me to make the decision - as
proof of my love for him. I wavered, reluctant to hurt Anees, and worried about the
social consequences for my parents and unmarried sisters, my brother's honor, Anees
and his family's disgrace.
At social functions, Mustafa's provocative looks, and his comments, became bolder and
very obvious. Anees avoided the signals, but the women in our group stared daggers at
me. I felt as if a sudden chill had descended. I tried not to break down and thus confirm
the gossip. I was very glad that my parents were living in London, so that my mother
would not heart he rumors that her daughter had become an adulteress.

Led by Sherry, the women decided that silence did not hurt enough, so they began to
taunt me. They spoke loudly, to one another - aware that I was listening – about a
hypothetical married woman involved with a, married man. With their looks and their
acid tongues they enforced the Hadood ordinance, symbolically stoning me.
For, a time, Anees and I stopped attending the banquets. Anees knew that our
friendship was now established and accepted the various excuses I gave for not wanting
to go. But soon our disappearance from the social scene was noted. Mustafa called me
and asked, 'What's the problem? Why are you staying away?'
I told him that the gossip and mockery had become too humiliating and that my
conscience could not justify my position as 'the other woman', I said that I no longer felt
able to cope with the situation.
Mustafa was incensed. He demanded total loyalty from these people. They had no right
to champion Sherry; he expected them to respect his choices and decisions without
question. 'I'll take care of it,' he said. 'Everything will be fine.'
The very next day I was startled to find Sherry at my door, with her friend Kukkoo at
her side. I invited them into the privacy of my bedroom, but all three of us were visibly
uncomfortable. Eye contact was difficult. Sherry was upset, but she delivered her
rehearsed lines. 'I know about you,' she said. 'I accept it. I know my husband and you
are in love. He wants you to come to our dinners. I will not resent your presence. Nor
will the other women.' Kukkoo nodded to confirm this.
I was very embarrassed and could think of no response I felt like a slut.
Sherry had delivered the message as Mustafa commanded, but now she launched into
an impassioned speech. 'Listen,' she stressed, 'I'm here because Mustafa sent me but I've
come under duress I want to save my marriage. I don't want you to see him again. If
you do I'll - I'll have no choice but to commit suicide.' She pleaded with me: 'Get out of
my life! Get out of his life! He's a very difficult man. I know him. You don't know him.
He's no good for you. He'll ruin your life as he's ruined mine.' She tried to convince me
that Mustafa was a violent and dangerous man. She claimed that he beat her savagely
for trivial reasons: if she forgot to tell the servants to switch on the hot water, if she
misplaced something; if she delayed having his clothes pressed.
The stories were bizarre - quite simply, I could not believe them and Sherry could surely
see the doubt in my eyes. I looked beyond the stories at a very extraordinary, charming
but misunderstood man Perhaps I chose to bury my head in the sand. I rationalized his
countless marriages. To me, Mustafa was loving, gentle and, above all, reasonable. And
yet I knew that such things did occur in our society far more frequently than anyone
wished to admit. I knew that this was the routine manner in which most feudal lords

treated their women. The most unsettling part of the conversation was that I
sympathized with Sherry's position, and could understand the pain that these
disclosures - whether real or imagined - caused her.
I countered by asking why, if Mustafa was such a demon, she was fighting so hard to
hold him.
'I'm determined to keep this marriage,' she vowed. 'I can handle it. I have to survive. If I
try to leave, he'll take my, daughter away. I can't live without her or leave her to a life
with him I've adjusted to his life now, I want to be settled. There's no meaning to life
without him. He has got into my system. You must help me by getting out of his life.
Please.'
This statement also rang true. A Pakistani woman will endure almost anything in order
to hold a marriage together. In our society, marriage may be purgatory, but divorce is
hell. Despite my love for Mustafa, I found thyself wavering. Sherry was in love with
him, and yet she hated him, I thought.
I struggled with my conscience I desperately wanted to want to do the honorable thing.

Late that night I decided: it had to end. I would not see Mustafa any more I would
sacrifice him. But at the same time a quiet, more powerful inner, voice was mocking me.
A voice that was saying I want to be the one he chooses.
I called Mustafa and told him that I intended to end the relationship. 'We're going to
hurt too many people,' I said. He was involved in political business and his attention
was diverted elsewhere, but he said that he would get back to me soon. I spent the next
few days vacillating I had done the right thing. Why was I so unhappy.
Four days passed. Then Mustafa arrived at my door, with Sheri at his side. She must
have been broken and beaten, but she spoke her lines with conviction: she pleaded with
me to return to their social scene.
Mustafa was using his wife to court his lover! Was this a sign of how deeply he loved
me, or was it evidence of the type of perverse behavior that Sherry tried to warn me
about? I pushed the nagging doubts aside and the darker, selfish side of me smiled
inwardly at the victory.
Anees and I re-entered the social circuit. The hostility was muted but it was still in
evidence, particularly during that inevitable part of the evening when the women
separated from the men. Sherry often held court on these occasions. Discussing her
'perfect' relationship with Mustafa, she laced her conversation with barbs, such as:
'Mustafa says women who have affairs with married men are sluts.' Such words were
met with sniggers and nudges, all directed at me.

At one dinner, the wives of two of Pakistan's leading industrialists made several
sarcastic remarks that reduced me to tears of humiliation. Mustafa was furious when I
told him, and promised to teach them a lesson. The following day he summoned the
husbands of the two women to the Governor's House and dictated: 'I Want your wives
to go to Tehmina and apologize. Today. If they don't, I won't take it lightly. You'll pay
the price for their insults. You can go now.' Within a matter of hours, the two women
appeared at my home and issued the required apologies.
Sherry was made more distraught than ever by these developments, and she decided to
go to Mecca for umra (the Muslim religious pilgrimage). Mustafa and I used the
opportunity to spend much of our time together. I saw him alone during the day, in the
evenings, he entertained Anees and me, along with other friends, at dinner. I enjoyed
the extra time with Mustafa, but remained frightened by the realization of Sherry's
proximity to Allah and my growing disregard for His commands.
Sherry returned, exuding holiness and calm. It was obvious what she had prayed for
and I felt unclean and exposed. I worried that God would answer her prayers.
But instead, for His own mysterious reasons, God answered mine. Perhaps it was His
way of exacting retribution.
Magazines began to pry. Everyone seemed to know about our illicit relationship,
including my in-laws. Poor Anees continued to dismiss the talk as malicious gossip.
News of our romance spread all the way to my mother in London. With the word
scandal blazing in her mind, she flew to Pakistan for a heart-to-heart talk with Anees,
warning him of the rumors. 'Stop meeting this man,' she said 'If you don't, you'll lose
your wife'.
Anees told my mother. 'I'll see whomever. I want to see. I'm not afraid.'
My mother was furious. 'What kind of a husband are you' she asked 'My daughter met
you while still in her school uniform; What she's becoming now is your responsibility.
Her father gave her protection. Now you're exposing her to a man as disreputable as
Khar.' She shook her head at him and said, 'I knew it would never work. You can't
control her.'
Anees was not the last to know, he simply chose not to know. I felt a glimmer of respect
for Anees. It was the first time I had seen him demonstrate the backbone necessary to
stand up to my mother. It was a paradox. He stood his ground but the ground he was
standing on was quicksand.

When Anees left for a week of business in Singapore, Tanya and I accompanied him on
the first leg of his journey, to Karachi. Soon after Anees left us, Mustafa arrived on the
pretext of official business. He invited me to dinner with his old friend and political
ally, Mustafa Jatoi, who was Chief Minister of Sindh, the southern province.
On the afternoon prior to the dinner, a friend had dropped by to see me, and warn me
that Mustafa's love was only superficial. 'He just loves you because you look good,' she
charged. 'You dress well. You're good for his image. Once he sees you with curlers or
with night cream slapped on your face he won't love you. He likes the package - not the
reality.'
I was curious to find out if this could be true I decided to put Mustafa to the test. That
night I walked into the official residence of the Chief Minister of Sindh looking like
BoPeep. I wore a light-blue, checked gingham dress with absurd puffed sleeves and
three layers of frills trailing at my ankles. A yoke in front had yet more frills. The dress
had a plastic sticker on it depicting a pastoral scene of a cottage and a long-tailed cow.
Mustafa was in the bedroom when I arrived, and I went to meet him there. He appeared
very dashing in a finely tailored black suit. His eyes were lowered as he knotted his tie,
but when he looked up at me his face fell. 'What the hell is this?' he said. My
selfconfidence immediately evaporated. It was too late to turn back, with an expression
of disgust and resignation, he escorted me to dinner.
Beautiful older, sophisticated women with enticingly deep cleavages and flashing
navels revealed beneath exotic saris stared at me. I felt completely out of my league. The
sound of rustling chiffon mocked me.
Mustafa dumped me for the evening. He circulated among the other women, and made
a point of flirting with the most attractive of them. A few men came up to me and
ventured words of polite conversation, but they moved on quickly, having fulfilled the
duties of etiquette.
I stood around with a glass of Coca-Cola held to my chest, trying desperately to hide the
cow's tail. No matter which angle I tilted the glass, I could not cover it completely. In
my nervousness I spilled the drink all over My Bo-Peep dress. Humayun Baig
Mohammad - who ironically owned the local Coca-Cola franchise - came to my rescue.
He led me to the bathroom, where I washed out the stain. Then I stood in Jatoi's
bedroom, alone for what seemed like eternity, hugging the air conditioner, praying for
my dress not only to dry, but to evaporate. Cinderella needed a fairy godmother, but
she did not appear. Eventually I slipped back into the party, still wet and very
embarrassed.
Mustafa asked one of his friends to drive me home. That night I howled my eyes out.
My friend had been right, Mustafa did only love me for my appearance.

He called the next morning. When I told him that my outfit had been a test, he asked,
'Why do you do these things? You embarrassed yourself more than me. I love you as a
person. You are a very gracious woman. You look ridiculous when you try to act
undignified. Don't go around accepting stupid challenges. I love you for what you are.
Why must you change? If you become a completely different person, I might change my
mind. Do you understand?'
I whimpered, 'Yes.'
He cemented his point when he turned the tables. 'Look,' he said, 'if I came to pick you
up dressed like a joker or a clown, would you accept it? Never. You'd feel embarrassed
So don't be silly. Be yourself'.
The dinner party was significant for another, more important reason. Everyone had
noticed my presence - how could they not - and Karachi was abuzz with fresh rumors.
What was a beautiful young woman of my background doing in the company of
Mustafa Khar when her husband was away in Singapore?
Upon his return Anees heard about this, and at last confronted me.
I could not lie to him. I decided that putting him out of his misery was the only way to
quash my own I confessed everything, and asked for a divorce. Marrying Mustafa was
not the relevant issue, I could not live with a man whom I had betrayed, whom I did not
respect, and who did not hold my interest.
Anees was very civilized, even in this moment of crisis. He told me that he would grant
the divorce. All he wanted from me was custody of Tanya. 'I need her,' he said. 'She's all
I have. She will remind me of the woman I love. You can get her by going to the courts
(Islamic law allows the mother custody of children prior to puberty), but please leave
her with me until I get over, your loss. I'll be desolate without both of you. That's all I
ask for.'
I was moved by the speech, and remembered what a good person, and devoted father,
poor Anees was. At the same time, Anees would have disintegrated with both of us
gone. I knew that Tanya would make him feel the loss less. I wished to remove nothing
more from him than myself. I also knew that in time he would heal and would be
decent enough to return Tanya to me. It was simpler breaking my own heart than
breaking his already broken one again. I felt that of the two of us, I was the stronger. I
could withstand the loss more easily than he. I agreed.
Mother was livid; Father was furious. Once more Mother flew in from London,
determined to prove that my infatuation with Mustafa was due to some form of mental
derangement. She arranged for Dr. Haroon, Karachi's most eminent psychiatrist, to pay

me a visit and more or less demanded that he diagnose me as insane. If she could not
convince me that my actions were the result of mental instability, perhaps the good
doctor could. This was a variation on an old theme. Ever, since my childhood
meningitis, Mother had sought to explain away all my rebellion as madness.
Before the consultation she took me aside and warned, 'Don't tell him .... everything.'
Her message was implicit. If there had been a physical relationship with Mustafa, I was
not to divulge it.
After one extended session, during which the psychiatrist did, indeed, discern the truth,
he declared to my mother that I was disappointingly normal, and he singled out the
cause of my 'fall': 'Mustafa Khar is a professional seducer. Your daughter is a victim.'
This only partially appeased her. By this definition I was not a complete slut, but she
proclaimed that Mustafa would not have attempted to seduce me unless and until I had
transmitted the message that I was available. Thus I was culpable for the misfortune
that smeared my - and the family's - reputation. 'You had availability in your eyes,'
Mother charged. 'A man with a track record like Mustafa Khar clearly does not
approach decent women. The kind of women he is attracted to are the kind who become
kept women and mistresses. None of my other daughters would have been
approachable.'
Mother now concentrated her efforts on damage control. I found myself passive and
acquiescent guilty. I reverted to the status of, a little girl and bowed to parental
authority and economic reality, for my parents were my only source of financial
support. My mind was too jumbled to make independent plans. Whatever little
personality I had developed, I now lost. Mother sent me back to Lahore to live under
the surveillance of my grandmother. I was not allowed to go anywhere on my own, nor
was I allowed to make or receive telephone calls. I could not meet my friends. Mentally,
I felt at a dead end. Mustafa was a more-than-taboo subject and, in any case, he was still
married and heavily involved in politics. I became an outcast even in my own eyes.
Public perception was obviously different from what I had intended. 'Discarding Tanya'
was how the situation was perceived by people who had no idea of my reasons for
behaving this way. That and my scandalous reputation and divorce sank my confidence
to rock bottom. I fell quite naturally into the old pattern of following Mother's orders. In
my more lucid moments, I prayed for divine intervention.
I was moved to my father's family home in the Northwest Frontier - which is truly like
America's wild west - and placed under the control of my father's elder, brother. Here, I
lived amongst my simple Pathan relatives, where speaking of being in love or divorce
was completely taboo - even the women avoided letting me indulge. I either slept or
listened to music all day in my room.

One day, Anees was allowed to visit me. At first, his presence made me feel very guilty,
but when he began to haggle over custody of our possessions, I began to view him in
another light. He asked in to sign a document signing that I had sold all my belongings
to him for a specified sum - which he would, of course, never pay. I signed, and found
that a portion of my guilt was washed away. I thought how little it took to make some
men heal. Before he left, Anees promised to send Tanya to me.
After a suitable period I was released from confinement, but only after my parents were
convinced that I was no longer 'reformable' and would carry on relations with Mustafa
Khar from their London residence if they took me there, thereby contaminating their
home and setting a bad example for my younger sisters, one that would affect their
marriage prospects. They decided to withdraw from my life. My mother said, 'She's a
black sheep. If she has stooped to Mustafa Khar's level, she cannot rise again to ours'
They broke off contact with me.
I left for Karachi so that Tanya could return to me, start school and be near her father. I
rented a tiny apartment, just big enough for Tanya, her nanny and me, and took a job
working in the office of a construction company owned by my friend - Farooq Hasan.
He and his wife were among the few who were very gracious and supportive.
In truth, the job was merely a favor, created to help me during this difficult time. I
redecorated the office and spent the morning hours drinking cappuccino and
breakfasting on fried eggs and baked beans on toast. I spent hours on the telephone
talking to my friends and freely used the services of the office driver to take me
wherever I wanted to go. Occasionally Farooq Hasan entered the office and interrupted
me on the telephone, reminding me to make a business call. When that was finished, I
resumed my routine.
The driver fetched Tanya from school and brought her to join me for lunch. Afterwards,
I spent some time shopping or reading magazines until the close of the business day.
For this grueling labor I was paid 1,500 rupees (about £34) a month.
Very quickly I became aware of my new sub-status. A divorcée in Pakistani society is

always a prime target for malicious gossip. Wagging tongues and leering glances
turned me into-a recluse. I spent most of my time either at home or in the office.
Mustafa was never available. A political storm was brewing, with him in its midst. He
had grown increasingly agitated with Bhutto. In Mustafa's view, his mentor had strayed
from his commitment to the people. He had isolated himself from the source of his
power - the common man - and was now surrounded by cronies and quislings. When
Mustafa once more resigned as Governor of the Punjab, I concluded that he was truly a
man of honor. He had decided to give up all the perks of high office in order to
maintain his ideals.

In 1975 Mustafa wished to stand in a by-election for the Provincial Parliament (Pakistan
was now divided into five provinces, provincial legislatures had become operative
under the 193 constitution). Bhutto, realizing the problems Mustafa would create in the
Punjab assembly, refused to sanction his candidacy. Instead, to get him out of the way,
he offered him the ambassadorship to the United States. The break between the two
former friends was now in the open. Mustafa resigned from the People's Party,
announcing that as many as forty members of Parliament would follow and form the
core group of a new party. But only a few members rallied to his cause; known as the
Khar loyalists, many of them were arrested and imprisoned at the dreaded Dalai Camp.
Nevertheless, Mustafa persisted in an independent run for the Provincial Assembly,

capitalizing upon a slowly rising wave of anti-Bhutto sentiment. The masses were
disillusioned by the failure of Bhutto's promises of prosperity, and Mustafa articulated
their thoughts for them. His words of criticism rang true, after all, be had once been the
Prime Minister's closest associate.
Bhutto panicked and sent a brigade of People's Party functionaries to campaign against
Mustafa. He was shaken by Mustafa's opposition, and was heard referring to him as
'Brutus'. As the election neared, Bhutto's People played ditty. During a Mustafa rally in
Taj Pura, Bhutto' henchmen released poisonous snakes in the midst of a crowd of
100,000 people. A stampede resulted and many people were trampled. Gunshots were
reported.
Mustafa returned from that meeting shaken and disturbed. One of his loyalists, Sajad, a
member of the National Assembly brought the body of a young man to Mustafa's
house, cradling in his arms tile evidence of Bhutto's ruthlessness. He suggested that if
Mustafa led the funeral procession, the entire Punjab would take to the streets in his
support. But Mustafa was not interested in seizing the opportunity to publicize the
atrocity. Instead, he screamed at Sajid, 'Are you mad? Why have you brought the body
here? Don't you know that I could be hauled up for murder? Sajid turned away sadly.
It was a time of great unrest. Trade Unions in various cities were protesting against high
prices, low wages and non-existent social security. A popular trade union leader was
killed the following day by police which led to some bloody scenes in the Punjab. When
Mustafa went to console the family and to announce that he would, indeed, lead the
funeral procession, he was assaulted by militant workers and had to be rescued by the
police. He thought it politically unfeasible and sought to back out of his commitment,
but realized that it would be difficult to do so without losing face. He and his advisers
hatched a scheme.
That evening, Mustafa and Choudry Hanif, a member of the Provincial Parliament,
were driven secretly to Sialkot. Meanwhile, Sherry played her role, making frantic

telephone calls, finally managing to get through to Bhutto himself. 'Where is my
husband?' she screamed at Bhutto. 'You've killed him, I know. Where is he?'
The innocent Bhutto did not know.
From Sialkot, Mustafa and his companion started back to Lahore on foot. They reached
a wayside cafe, where Mustafa was immediately recognized by the proprietor, who
rushed to the authorities for help. Thus 'rescued', Mustafa was driven back to Lahore.
The morning newspapers carried the incredible story that Mustafa Khar had been
kidnapped, and the clear inference was that Bhutto's people were behind the deed.
Mustafa staged a press conference where he declared, 'I am a shikari [hunter] I did not
know where I was, but I found my way back home by looking at the stars.'
Mustafa joined the conservative Muslim League so that he would have the protection of
a party platform, changing political colors like a chameleon I thought this was a
mistake.
He was now Bhutto's Number One Enemy. He was under constant surveillance by the
intelligence agencies, dodging arrest and incarceration. There was no way that he could
risk making contact with me.
I had been living in Karachi for five months when I learned that Sherry was pregnant. I
also heard that Mustafa had developed a relationship with a singer. Angry and
humiliated, I managed in reach Mustafa on the phone. He protested his innocence in
both matters, but I did not believe him. The pain was too great to ignore. I told him that
I had finally decided to break all contact with him. It was over.
Five more months passed in loneliness, anguish and insecurity Finally, craving
forgiveness, I left for Mecca to perform umra, as Sherry had done earlier.
Standing there before the House of God, I half-prayed, half-cried. Oh God, I don't want
to be known as a 'fast woman.' I have strayed. I seek Your forgiveness. Give me strength
to restore my, honor. My relationship with the man was 'cheap'. Please show me the
right path. Stop these loose tongues from wagging. Stop these figures from pointing at
me.
The revelation came to me: the only way to restore my mauled reputation was to marry
the man. It was the only honorable course of action. Mustafa Khar had branded me for
the rest of my life: I was condemned to the lowly position of a 'mistress', which is what
men like Mustafa had, apart from his respectable wife. If I could even find someone else
to marry me, the man would taunt me whenever he was reminded of the stigma on my
soul. I had no choice Society would never accept me unless I became Mustafa's wife.

Even my parents would not accept me unless I improved my status. Mustafa was a man
who would command my mother's respect. He was not somebody she could push
around, his sheer presence did not permit it. My marriage to him was my only salvation
now. I prayed to God, asking Him to make this miracle happen.
Sherry's Pregnancy disturbed me, yet explained her effort to keep him. Although I
understood her situation, I was overwhelmed by my own messed-up life. There seemed
no other way to redeem my honor. I also believed that Mustafa would not remain with
Sherry, no matter how many pregnancies she had.
Almost at the very moment I returned to Karachi from Mecca, Mustafa called. He said
he was flying in to see me.
He arrived at in house hidden in the boot of a car, so as to shake off surveillance. I

found the fact that the mighty Mustafa Khar would fold himself into such a position for
me incredibly flattering. He asked me to marry him immediately. He said that he would
not take no for an answer. 'I'm going back to Lahore,' he said. 'You get there. I'll be
waiting. We'll get married straightaway.'
I left Tanya with Anees, promising to return for her in three days, and flew to Lahore.
Mustafa and I travelled to his home village of Kot Addu. On 25 July 1976, in complete
secrecy, we were married by a trusted mullah.
Mustafa held my hand and spoke with great sincerity: 'Tehmina, you must never fear
me. You must talk to me about everything, whenever you want to I'll always love you
and be kind to you.'
I returned to Karachi to pack, and only then realized how disoriented I was. I was
relieved that I was no longer just Mustafa's mistress. But what was to happen now. Our
marriage was legal according to the laws of Pakistan and moral according to the Koran,
but it was not expedient. Was it to remain a secret until the political environment
improved. Would I remain sequestered until Mustafa divorced Sherry? I did not know
the answers to these questions, and my tangled mind seemed unable to absorb all that
had happened. I knew, however, that Bhutto's cronies would love to hear of Mustafa's
latest dalliance. The gutter press would devour this story at a time when Mustafa could
ill afford a new scandal.
In a panic as to what was to become of me, I made the bitter decision to leave Tanya
with Anees until everything was better defined. It was dreadful to have to do this, but I
wished to have her with me only when I was sure she would be accepted and loved,

and felt she would belong. Over the phone, I arranged the details. Anees was the first to
learn of my new marriage, and he was obviously upset. But he agreed to take Tanya
back for a time, and return her to me once my life became more settled. I hoped
somewhat misguidedly, as it turned out - that the uncertain situation would last only a
few weeks - a month at the most.
Mustafa called, complaining that he could not bear to be separated from me. He asked
me to speed up my return to Lahore. I agreed.
Tanya was sensitive to my sadness. Her wide, dark-brown, three-year-old eyes watched
with alarm as I packed all her clothes into several suitcases and placed all her toys into
cardboard boxes. Packing the boxes was traumatic for us both, and something neither of
us has ever forgotten. As my driver carried Tanya's world out to the car, my baby's lips
began to quiver. 'You are going to see your father,' I said, trying to keep my tone bright
'I'll be back in just a few days.'
What was I? An underdeveloped irresponsible mother A child? I couldn't say.
Tanya loved her father. She visited him every week. But her innocent mind sensed the
different nature of this episode. She clung to me quietly throughout the drive.
The nanny stood outside Anees's home, awaiting us. I opened the car door. As the
nanny arms reached for Tanya, the little girl turned her face away. Her tiny fingers
grasped at my clothes. She howled, screaming out her fear with deep despair, such as I
had never heard.
Through my tears I cried out, I be back soon. Tanya I'll be back soon.
The nanny pulled at Tanya. She tried desperately to cling to me but I pushed her away.
Within moments it was over. Tanya was gone and the car sped off. I could hear her
terrified wails grow more faint with distance.
I could not look back.
As I flew to my second husband in Lahore, the memory of Tanya 's cries was
heartwrenching. So were mine. I needed a mother myself. Sitting in the plane, I had no
idea just how far I was actually was from her. I never thought she would have to grow
up without me. I stared out at the ground far below, and wondered what was to become
of us. The sudden appearance of a cloud obscured my view.
Mustafa's young aide Sajid met me at the airport, and announced that his house was to
be my hideout for the evening. The following day Mustafa drove me to the ancient city

of Multan, where I was to in seclusion for several months. About a two-hour drive from
Mustafa's village of Kot Addu, Multan is surrounded by sprawling feudal estates, fruit
orchards and rich alluvial soil.
The Qurarshi and Gilani clans hold sway in this ancient trading centre. Originally the
two clans were satraps of the mighty Mogul emperors; later, most of them found it
convenient to transfer their loyalty to the crown, which awarded them vast tracts of
land. The city is built around one of the most magnificent Sufi shrines: where, every
year, the faithful gather, and pay millions of rupees in tribute. The Qurarshi and Gilani
clans fought for generations for this windfall, and the old feud continues to affect local
politics.
In this milieu, I tried to set the house in order. I had to keep busy, lest my ache for
Tanya took over.
Mustafa visited frequently, but his impulsiveness kept me unsettled. Sometimes he left
for Lahore, telling me that he was going to be away for a week, yet he would return the
very same night. He fought ambivalence: he could not risk exposing our marriage; he
could not bear to be away from me. He said that the six-hour journey between Lahore
and Multan was worth the few moments he could spend with me.
But he soon tired of the drive. Before long, he moved me back to Lahore, installing me
in the prefabricated cabin that was the site of so many of our illicit liaisons. The cabin
held many memories for me - both sweet and sour - and living here made me feel
uncomfortable. I yearned for legitimacy, and the chance to be reunited with Tanya.
Mustafa visited me in the cabin during the day, and then spent the night with his other,
still unsuspecting, wife at the main house on the same premises.
One evening, after Mustafa had left, I fell asleep. I was startled when he awoke me, and
much more startled to see Sherry at his side. He had tried to break the news to his
pregnant wife, but Sherry did not believe him, so he had brought her here to prove his
confession. The subterfuge was over, and I moved into the big house. Whatever the
consequences, our families and associates would now know that Mustafa had two
wives, although he was determined to keep the information away from the press.
My new home was a Spanish-style villa, with a sloping, red-brick roof and many arches.
The six bedrooms were all occupied by Mustafa's relatives, so I moved upstairs to the
den.
The rumor mill reached my parents in London. They were very upset. Once more their
rebel daughter had brought disgrace to their household. They announced that I was
dead for them.

But our marriage was so easily accepted by the people around Mustafa that I wondered
why I had ever been apprehensive. And my grandmother approved. When she came for
a visit, I saw fear for my future in her eyes, yet there was also a contentment, a peace
brought about by the decent status I had at last achieved.
It was comedy; it was tragedy. I wanted to spend all my time with Mustafa, yet I did not
want him to neglect Sherry. I was self-conscious when he showed affection to me in
front of her. Sometimes at night I pushed Mustafa out of my room and sent him to her. I
did not want to hurt Sherry, but her pain was palpable. I could never forget that she
was pregnant and therefore doubly humiliated.
We attended social engagements as a threesome. Mustafa took this in his stride and
Sherry did not seem to mind, but I felt alienated and acutely embarrassed when we
entered a house together. To me, we appeared anachronistic in this modem age.
I noticed an interesting phenomenon when Mustafa went away on a hunt. I was

miserable in his absence, but Sherry was happy that he was gone. As the time for his
return approached, I grew happy in anticipation, but Sherry was visibly upset.
Sherry opened up to me, more than before, and began to tell me stories that featured
Mustafa as a grotesque sadist who derived pleasure from humiliating the ones he
professed to love. It was only now that I learned what had happened when Mustafa had
divorced Naubahar,, and the dreadful way he had treated Safia and her nanny.
Once he had discovered that it was not politically expedient to be married to a dancer,
he had sent for Naubahar. She sat in front of him, quietly waiting administer to his
wishes. With his feet on his desk, Mustafa had puffed calmly on a cigar and stared at
her through the 'V' of his crossed legs. Very directly, he told her that, as things had
turned out, she had become a liability to him and that the marriage had to end. 'In my
position, I cannot afford it,' he said. Naubahar screamed out her pain at the new
governor of the Punjab, but he accepted this with stoicism. She begged him to
reconsider but he refused. Finally, Naubahar stood up, stared directly into her
husband's eyes and uttered a curse: 'Mustafa Khar, may you suffer like you have made
me suffer. May you know the pain of being scorned. I pray to God that in every street of
this country, your children roam. Every stone you pick up will reveal a child of yours.
You shall never be at peace.' Her final words burned into his memory: 'A woman will
destroy you liken you have destroyed me.' Although Naubahar was gone, the curse
lingered.
When he had discovered Safia's infidelity, he had, apparently, beaten her without mercy
and broken several of her ribs. But, even worse, he had ordered one of the maids to
insert red chili powder into the vagina of poor Dai Ayesha, the nanny, for not informing
him of the affair.

Sherry theorized that he suffered from an inferiority complex. He resented women from
our social background and made it his mission to subjugate them. He disguised his
class envy by assuming a feudal air. She claimed that his political idealism was merely
an attempt to gain access to our class and that his concern, for the poor and
downtrodden was a sham. In truth, she said, It was a manifestation of his hatred for the
elite. He wanted to demolish the structure that ridiculed his origins and laughed at his
lack of breeding and style. Women were his obvious victims. He was out to destroy us.
A part of me wrote off such statements as the ravings of a woman scorned; another part
of me filed them carefully in my memory.
I watched the evidence build.
In his dealings with Sherry, Mustafa exhibited extreme impatience. He treated her with
contempt and abused her with filthy language that made my ears burn. One morning
he asked her for his Pharmaton multivitamins that he ordered specially from London.
When she produced a half-empty bottle, Mustafa was furious. Where are the rest? he
demanded.
I took them,' Sherry admitted. 'I needed to because of my pregnancy.'
Mustafa kicked her in the buttocks. He pulled off his thick rubber-soled shoes and
struck her with them. Then he roughly pushed her out of the room. I froze in shock, but
could not find the courage to express my revulsion.
My first experience as the target of Mustafa's wrath came soon after, when I had a
dental appointment. Sherry was to take me. I knew that Mustafa was still attempting to
keep the news of our marriage out of the papers, so I asked him what name I should
use. 'Begum Mustafa Khar,' he replied. When we reached the surgery, I decided that I
did not want to humiliate Sherry, so I did not register as Mustafa's wife. I simply called
myself Tehmina. Sherry reported to Mustafa that I had disobeyed his instructions.
Mustafa interpreted my consideration as betrayal and raged: 'Never - ever disobey me!
You have to do what I tell you to do.'
On another occasion, I was in my bedroom when Mustafa sent a message that he

wanted to see me on the veranda I was changing my clothes, so it took me a few
minutes to comply with his request. When I strolled casually out on to the veranda, I
found Mustafa livid. His eyes were bloodshot and bulging out of their sockets. 'How
dare you keep me waiting" he raged 'I told you to come immediately. When I send you
a message it means that you have to drop everything and obey' I tried to explain, but
my words were angrily dismissed.

Mustafa and I were sitting in our, bedroom when Sherry reported that she had caught
nineteen-years old Abdur Rehman, his son from his first marriage, smoking in the
bathroom. Immediately Mustafa summoned Abdur Rehman and the servants.
Officiously, he asked his son if he had been smoking. The boy lied Mustafa rose to his
feet and ordered the servants to ford the lad to the floor and hold him there,
spreadeagled. He began to beat his hapless son with a stick. With each blow the boy
screamed for mercy. I cringed at the horrible crack of stick against skin, and at the sight
of blood. Mustafa swung it so violently that the stick broke across the boy's back.
Undaunted, Mustafa called for another suck, and flailed away until that too, broke. He
was on his third stick when I could take it no longer. I tried to intervene, but was
pushed out of the way.
I was petrified and shaken by Mustafa's unreasonable and callous violence toward his
own son.
That evening we were invited to Taj-ul-Mulk's house. He was an old and trusted friend,
and his home held a special feeling. It was here that Mustafa had first proposed
marriage. Mustafa asked me to take cash with me. That evening, when the group
decided to go out for dinner, Mustafa asked me for money. I explained that I was not
used to carrying a bag, and had forgotten. In front of everyone he snapped, 'Get in the
car Go back home. Pick up the money and come back. I did as he commanded, but I felt
very degraded.
One day Sherry asked idly if I would leave my 'foreign clothes' for her when I went
away, as she could not buy them in Pakistan. I was confused, and asked what she
meant. We had no plans to travel outside Pakistan. Sherry was confused too, and
explained why she had accepted my presence in the household, with at least a measure
of equanimity. Mustafa had told her that he had only married me to save me from all
the vicious talk that was going around, and had said that I would only be in the house
for a few months — until the muck had settled. After that he would send me abroad
and arrange a quiet divorce. Sherry believed him, because he wanted to.
Mustafa had taken me along for a shoot when we received word that Sherry had
delivered a son. He was thrilled. He visited the mother and child immediately upon our
return to Lahore, then brought the child home for his mother to see. She made the baby
lick honey, an old custom that is believed will help the child develop the qualities of the
person performing the ritual. She lifted her lips to his tiny ear and called the azaan three
times: 'Allah ho Akbar' ('God is Great') Then she said the Kalima 'La Illaha Il Allah
Mohammad ur Rasool Allah' ('There is no God but God and Mohammad is His Prophet')
Thus was the boy established in the Islamic faith.
Mustafa took the infant back to the hospital, but that night he fell ill with pneumonia
and died. Vicious rumors circulated that Mustafa was unhappy at the birth of the baby

and had killed him. It was not true, I had seen how shaken he was by the boy's death.
Also, it did not seem to matter to Mustafa that his children were not born into stable
marriages. Mustafa had children in various pockets of the country and he felt no sense
of responsibility for them. In his view, a child was a victim of his own fate. Mustafa
would have no reason to dispose of him. But once again Mustafa's reputation preceded
him, people were quite willing to believe the worst about him. Not unreasonably, this
was especially true of Sherry's family, and their animosity caused a final break. Mustafa
served Sherry with divorce papers. 'Talak, Talak, Talak,' he said, and it was all over.
We left the house for Sherry and her mother to take what they wished. The jewellery
was worth a fortune and included some eighty sets given to her when she had married
Mustafa the Shah of Iran had presented her with the most exquisite turquoise set,
watches and jewels came from the King of Saudi Arabia; Bhutto's wedding present was
a spectacular gift of gold and precious jewels Sherry packed up everything and moved
out.
I felt sad that Sherry had had to leave her own home for me; but I also felt relieved - two
wives together is very medieval and 'cowlike' to me. I began to redecorate the house
that was mine now. I removed the thick velvet curtains and went about creating a very
Americanized interior. The high ceilings were decorated with intricate designs made
with vegetable paints in the traditional colors of Multan, Mustafa's area. Bright orange,
green, blue and white complemented the pale furnishings perfectly. I began to train the
servants a slice of lemon decorating the Coca-Cola glass, tea served in silver, with a
triangular-folded paper napkin between cup and saucer. The house became orderly, my
mother's training was evident.
Mustafa thought that I needed government bureaucrats to be our servants 'These poor,
illiterate boys aren't good enough for you.' He laughed when I gave the bowed,
unwashed heads a lecture on cleanliness.
I felt that it was now time to include Tanya in my new, life. Mustafa granted his
reluctant permission for me to call Anees in Karachi to ask him to send our daughter, to
me, as he had promised Mustafa stood over the as I dialed, clearly agitated by this
reminder of my previous involvement with another man. The conversation was curt
and devastating Anees had heard the rumors of Mustafa's alleged infanticide, and he
proclaimed that his daughter would not be allowed to live with such an evil man.
Henceforth, he said, I would have no contact with Tanya. He hung up on me.
I turned to Mustafa for solace. 'He won't give her to me!' I wailed.
But Mustafa's expression silenced me. His eyes said: I have granted you this
tremendous privilege to ring up your former husband. Now, be done with it. I am the
important one in your life, not Tanya.

There was no sleep for me that night I knew that Tanya's school was reopening the next
morning, and I was plagued by dark visions of her motherless existence. Who would
dress my baby? Who would prepare her lunch?
In the morning, Mustafa found me crying 'If you loved your daughter so much, why did
you marry me?' he asked 'You should have known the consequences of your action You
can't ruin my life now by crying for Tanya. You have no business crying for her. I never
want to see you crying for her again. 'Never Ever.' Do you hear' I glanced up sharply
and recoiled at the sight of his face. Anger, bitterness and menace were combined in one
terrifying expression.
Soon after that, I learned that I was pregnant.
Mustafa insisted that I start my day by consuming buttered parathas and eggs. He
ordered me to eat all of this and to wash it down with a sixteen fluid ounces glass of
fresh cow's milk. I was to drink yet another glass of the creamy beverage in the evening
- which always left me nauseous. Mustafa claimed that the regimen was nutritious for
the unborn child. The rich food left me bloated and uncomfortable, and I came to
believe that he forced it into me to ensure that I became fat, to assure my
unattractiveness to other men. Dai Ayesha was assigned the task of serving the milk,
morning and evening, and making sure that I drained the glass.
One evening Mustafa came into the bedroom and asked if I had drunk my milk. I had
not. He immediately summoned Dai and railed at the frightened woman, 'Why has she
not had her milk?' Dai mumbled an explanation: I had not asked for it, she had
forgotten to bring it. Mustafa thrust his foot squarely against Dai's backside, sending
her flying through the doorway.
The awareness that had been, growing slowly now blossomed into full and ghastly
flower. I had fallen into the classic trap of the Pakistani woman. The goal is marriage
and, once achieved, the future is a life of total subordination. I had no power, no rights,
no will of my own.
Early in 1977, after Mustafa and I had been married for little more than half a year,
Bhutto called for elections, pitting the People's Party against a patchwork coalition of
programme made the US nervous, America was nine opposition parties calling
themselves the Pakistan National Alliance. Mustafa and I left, for a month-long
'vacation' in London so that he could avoid a political confrontation with his estranged
friend. The People's Party won a large, majority, but the opposition refused to accept the
results, claiming that Bhutto's henchmen - had resorted to large-scale rigging and ballot-
stuffing tactics. Mobs took their anger to the streets. A plague of strikes and violence
disrupted the country's economy. There was mounting chaos in all the major cities,
Pakistan was on the brink of self-destruction.

The opposition leaders smelled a popular victory, and perhaps found a strong ally
Bhutto's independent foreign policy and his pursuit of a controversial nuclear afraid
that the so-called 'Islamic bomb' would find its way into the hands of countries like
Libya and Syria - not to mention terrorist organizations. Rumor held that opposition to
Bhutto was fuelled by US dollars. The opposition also knew that Pakistan's military
leaders were waiting in the wings they feared that a nuclear capability would result in
massive cuts in conventional forces, thus eroding their personal power. Events
snowballed. The strikes and demonstrations became so severe that in three large cities
Bhutto had to call out the army.
Mustafa and I returned from London to find Bhutto struggling for political survival.
The Prime Minister knew that he had to win back the allegiance of the Punjab, and the
only man who could do that for him was Mustafa Khar. Bhutto swallowed a
considerable amount of pride and invited Mustafa to Islamabad and back into the
People's Party fold.
Mustafa weighed options, negotiating terms for his return. Times were tense and the
pressure built within Mustafa until it erupted with irrational fury. He could not vent his
wrath in the political arena, so he chose as his victims those who were closest to him.
The servant was five minutes late laying the food for iftaari, the sunset meal that breaks
the day's fast during the holy month of Ramadan. When he finally arrived, a hungry
Mustafa exploded. In the presence of his mother, who lived with us, he thrashed the
poor man until he was, barely conscious. Then he sat back down at the dinner table and
commanded, 'Eat up.' His mother began to eat, but I mumbled that I had lost my
appetite. Mustafa turned a hate stare upon me and spouted obscenities. Quickly, I
pecked at my food.
For the next four hours, Mustafa's temper grew progressively worse. By the time we
retired to our room, violence was thick in the air. In the dressing-room I donned my
infamous Bo-Peep frock, which served as a comfortable nightgown for my pregnant
body. I walked toward the bed, but found Mustafa blocking my way, standing in the
midst of the room, lit only by a crack of light emanating from the dressing-room door. A
chill ran up my spine. He instructed me to sit on the edge of the bed, and sat beside me.
Then he began to interrogate me about my marriage to Anees. How had we met. Where
I answered these simple queries, but then the questions became more intrusive. With
each question his tone grew angrier, his breathing uneven. His eyes reddened. The skin
of his face stretched taut with anger. And with each answer, my own heart beat faster.
He wanted to know all the details of our wedding night.
'Can't we forget it, Mustafa' I requested softly. 'It's all over. Must we talk about it now?'
'I've asked you a question,' he responded curtly 'Answer me'.

I was very scared, and I could only stammer. 'You're hiding things from me,' he charged
'There's more to it.'
'There isn't. I've told you everything before. I don't think we should discuss this now.
It's upsetting you.'
'Who the hell are you to think? I have asked you a question. Answer me?' He grabbed
my right wrist and twisted, forcing me to my knees. Even as a shriek escaped from my
lips, I told myself to be quiet, lest the servants, or his mother, hear.
He released his grip and I scrambled to my feet, gasping, rubbing my sore arm. He
ordered me to sit down again on the bed, and the interrogation continued. He asked
'When you had sex with Anees, did you respond?'
I whimpered, 'I was only eighteen I Wasn't interested.'
'Liar!' he raged I could feel his body tighten I could hear his breathing grow heavier. In
the dark, I could sense that his eyes were bulging out of their sockets. I knew that his
fists were clenched. With deliberate malice he asked, 'If you did not want sex with
Anees, how did Tanya come to be born'
The answer - whatever I chose to say - would condemn me, but I had no opportunity.
Suddenly he threw me down on to the bed and jumped on me. Sitting astride my belly,
he slapped me in the face repeatedly with his open palm, forehand and backhand. The
sounds of his blows seemed too loud to remain confined to the four walls of the room. I
fought to stifle my screams as he pulled at my hair, thrusting my head from side to side.
Like lightning, he leaped off me. One hand clutched my long, braided hair and jerked
me off the bed and on to the floor. I felt a wetness run down my legs, but had no time to
realize that my bladder leaked the strength to face this kind of fear. He threw me
against wall, picked me up and threw me against another one - again, and again, and
again. I no longer knew what was happening. Something burst in my ears. I felt an
agonizing pain in my eyes. Something split. Something swelled. Then the pain merged
into one deep, enthralling sense of agony.
I did not know how long the beating lasted. It could have been ten minutes; it could
have been two hours. The intensity made it an eternity. Then, quite suddenly, it was
over. His fury was sated.
I begged in a weak voice, 'Please, God! I need to go — I need to go— to the bathroom.'
He allowed me to stagger off.
I leaned heavily against the sink top and struggled to catch my breath. Slowly I raised
my eyes to the mirror. I gasped in fresh fright at the monster who gazed back at me. A

shiver ran through me. My teeth chattered. My, body shook; My braid had opened and
my long hair was wild and strewn, like a witch's. The right side of my nose had
disappeared, merging into a swollen cheek. My lips protruded in an exaggerated and
grotesque pout. My eyes were deeply sunk into huge, purple patches; one of them hurt
badly and was bloodshot. A piercing pain screamed in one ear. The left side of my scalp
was matted with blood. I pulled at it and tufts of hair came out in my hands. I rinsed
my mouth and tasted blood.
Suddenly I was terrified that I had remained too long in the bathroom. I stumbled back
into the bedroom, shaken, drained and near collapse. My back ached severely. Mustafa
sat on the bed with his head bowed and his palms placed over his temples. He looked
up at me, shattered, transformed from a wild, vengeful beast into a meek and
frightened little child. He fell at my feet and wept. 'I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!' he
wailed. 'What have I done to you?' He begged forgiveness. He said that he must have
been possessed by an evil spirit. He had not meant to hurt me. He could not understand
his actions - perhaps the jealousy over another man in my life was insufferable because
his love for me was overwhelming. He had no control over his behavior - he could not
bear the idea of his wife with another man - even if it was a past husband.
I was very confused by the unaccountable pity I felt for this man who had his forehead
on my feet, anointing them with his tears. I tried to forgive him, hut the pain would not
allow me to forget. All night long I twisted in agony. All night Mustafa sat up, doing his
best to ease my discomfort.
We both knew that I needed medical attention, and Mustafa was very nervous about
arranging for it. It was obvious that I had been assaulted and cruelly battered, and he
begged me to endure the pain in order to keep up appearances. The timing was critical
because he was scheduled to go to Islamabad to meet Bhutto and was worried that the
servants - or his mother- would see the extent of my injuries and talk. 'If this leaks out
people will not give our marriage a chance,' he warned. 'Your position will be reduced
to the lowly one that all my other wives had. I don't want you to be humiliated. Nobody
should ever say that I dared or wished to lit my hand to you. I want people to respect
you - if they thought that I didn't, why should they?'
He had touched the effective spot. My humiliation at his hands was relatively less than
if I exposed it to others. I was mortified by the thought of publicity. Fear of the indignity
made me cringe. I was conditioned to believe in the concept that image is the
paramount thing. This was a personal and private matter between my husband and me.
We would work it out. I wanted no one to know - least of all my mother.
'I'll stay in the room till you get back,' I promised. 'Tell everyone I've gone with you.'

Mustafa was visibly relieved. Dai Ayesha was assigned to smuggle food into the room.
She also applied poultices to my face to quell the swelling.
Mustafa journeyed to Islamabad, where Bhutto appointed him as special assistant and
chief political adviser, with Cabinet rank, and sent him immediately to the Punjab to
ease the tension. At a mammoth public rally in Rawalpindi, wearing his trademark Mao
cap and waving an open palm in an imitation of an imam's blessing, Mustafa told a
spirited crowd that the opposition should realize that Bhutto and the People's Party
were showing restraint, 'We shall retaliate, if pushed any further,' he vowed. 'We can
match fire with fire. If they are crying for our blood, we too will go for their throats?'
Once more Mustafa blessed them with the same palm that he had used to lacerate my
face. The crowd roared in approval. The Lion of the, Punjab was back.
Meanwhile, I waited quietly in the bedroom for four days, pretending not to be there.
The time I spent in hiding made me even more convinced that exposure of my
husband's violence would reduce me to Sherry's position. Too many people were
waiting to prove my mistake and mock my humiliation. My marriage would lose
credibility and Mother would not think me significant. Mustafa was correct when he
said, 'If they think I don't respect you, why should they?' My insecurities and
inadequacies paled the event, and I wanted it erased quickly.
More than two weeks passed before we deemed it safe for me to journey out to see
doctors. By then, my face was an approximation of the original I visited an ear
specialist, a physiotherapist, and an eye specialist who told me that the burst capillary
in my right eye would bother me for the rest of my life. The thin red latticework appears
even now, whenever my eyes become tired.
The psychological damage was worse. Now, whenever Mustafa came home, I
shuddered in fright. His unpredictable word was law. It was not for me to reason. My
love for the man had now turned into fear. I knew that anything that I might say or do
could make him angry. Sometimes even a sullen look would send him into a rage. 'Who
are you thinking of, a lover, Anees?' he demanded. I was suspect because I had betrayed
a husband; my track record sentenced me repeatedly.
I began to say my prayers tinder my breath constantly: to keep him cool, to soften his
heart toward me, to make him love me. I was incapable of thinking of any other issue.
Nothing else was significant.
Mustafa told me one day that I was not allowed to read a newspaper; I obeyed without
a squeak of protest. From then on, when he found me in a room that contained
newspapers, I felt caught, and prayed that he would not think that I had actually
attempted to read one of them. My prayers usually went unanswered. If he walked into
the room and saw a paper, he was likely to ask, 'Did you read a newspaper?'.

I would answer, trembling, 'No.'
Invariably he raged, 'Don't lie to me!' Nothing further was said. His fists did the talking.
There was not a day that Mustafa did not hit me for some reason: the food was late, his
clothes were creased. With a shudder, I realized that I had become just like the
nowdiscarded Sherry. Perhaps the greatest tragedy was that, like her, I stopped
questioning his violent outbursts. I just tried my best not to provoke him. If I dared to
object in some meager way, the beating was only worse. At last I understood Sherry's
dilemma - by the -minute I became like her.
He continued to use my first marriage as a stick to beat me with; my divorce and

remarrage had proved to him that I was capable of adultery. This produced complete
sexual confusion in me. I was afraid that my slightest response to his advances would
reinforce his image of me as a common slut. This was a feudal hang-up: his class
believed that a woman was an instrument of a man's carnal pleasure. If the woman ever
indicated that she felt pleasure, she was a potential adulteress, not to be trusted.
Mustafa did not even realize that he had crushed my sensuality. His attitudes were
contradictory: he expected response, yet disallowed it. I was on automatic pilot,
responding as much as was important for him, but never feeling anything myself. If he
was satisfied, there was a chance that he would be in better humor. It was at these times
that I realized that prostitution must be a most difficult profession.
I could only develop in the direction that he chose. To think independently was a crime
that he had the right to punish. Many of his beliefs ran counter to everything that I
considered right, but there was no way that I could dare to engage him in a rational
debate. His values were steeped in a medieval milieu, a mix of prejudices, superstitions
and old wives tales. High on the list was the role of the wife. According to feudal
tradition, a wife was honor bound to live her life according to her husband's whims. A
woman was like a man's land. 'The Koran-say so, he said. This was a revealing simile. A
feudal lord loves his land only in functional terms. He encloses it and protects it. If it is
barren, he neglects it. Land is power, prestige and property. I interpreted the Koran
differently. To me, land had to be tended and cultivated; only then could it produce in
abundance. Otherwise, it would be barren. But, of course, I was expected to accept
Mustafa's interpretation without question.
Yet he was not completely backward. He was a feudal lord who had been exposed to
the modem world, and his philosophies were eclectic. He kept me suppressed and
cloistered, but then again he treated me as a companion. He discussed politics with me
and expected me to take an active interest in his work. I was like a wall on which he
could bounce off ideas, but I was expected to bounce them true, rather than attempt to
deflect them in any way. He also allowed me to drink wine, but only in his presence

and when he chose. In fact, he insisted upon it. 'It will make you relax,' he would say.
'You are too tense in bed.' But no matter how much I drank, I never allowed myself to
forget in whose presence I was. I discovered that the human mind was strong enough to
control the effects of alcohol in times of danger.
I became incapable of thinking logically, indeed I was afraid to think, for irrationally I
was certain that he could penetrate my mind. He fed this fear frequently, by saying, 'I
know what you're thinking, Tehmina, believe me. You daren't think of anything that I
have forbidden you to think about.' My brain was washed, bleached and hung out to
dry. I was afraid to sleep, lest I dream images that would annoy him.
Mother's words, based upon her interpretation of the Koran, rang in my memory: If I
tell any of my children to jump from the roof, they must obey without hesitation or
question'.
Only the schizophrenic quality of his behavior - and my own ambivalent reactions to
him - allowed me to survive. When he was in a sunny frame of mind he was loving and
considerate. He fed me with his own hands. He dreamt with me. He promised to be a
good husband. I grasped desperately at these signs of his approval. My goal was to
keep him in this mood.
He was obsessed with my knee-length brown hair. He would not allow me to sit with
my back to a fire, lest the hair suffer damage In his tenderest moments he returned to
this passion, oiling and combing my tresses. He made me promise that I would never
cut my hair, or even trim the split ends.
I knew that I could not leave him. I had entered into a controversial marriage, and I had
to strive to keep it intact. I recognized that there was always an effort and a price to pay
for success. I must not fail at any cost. A lasting and happy marriage was my only
value. Under its respectable shroud, alongside my powerful husband, my mother
would not be able to shun me, and the fear of that happening became equal to - or even
greater than my fear of him. The two fears kept me shaken and traumatized I did not
have the confidence to walk away. I reasoned that Mustafa would-hunt me down, and
find me, no matter how far I ran.
Then he would murder me I was convinced of it.
By the time I was eight-months' pregnant, Mustafa's rich, force-fed diet had caused me
to balloon from my normal eight stone to almost eleven stone. I looked and felt like a
bloated cow.
We moved to the State Bank House in Islamabad, so that Mustafa could be at Bhutto's
side during what had become a deepening political crisis. We lived amid intrigue, and

were forced to maintain strict security procedures. We were guarded by a live-in
gunman named Matin.
One of the men whom Mustafa frequently encountered at Cabinet meetings was
General Zia-ul-Haq, the Army Chief of Staff. He was noted for his silence and apparent
obsequiousness, and he seemed to hold Bhutto in awe. On the evening of 4 July 1977,
my grandmother and I were waiting for Mustafa at a restaurant, where he was to meet
us after a Cabinet meeting. When he finally arrived he was both very late and very
disturbed. I asked what troubled him. Anxiously he reported, 'General Zia suddenly
seems to have opinions of his own. The man was disagreeing with some of the plans we
were putting forward. His attitude change means that he is being manipulated by
bigger powers. I warned Mr. Bhutto Something's brewing.'
That night, at 3 a.m., Matin rushed into our bedroom. Instantly alert, Mustafa reached
for his rifle. Matin indicated with his hand that Mustafa should follow him. I was only
vaguely aware of this, and drifted back to sleep.
Ten minutes later I was reawakened by a loud banging on the front door. Tired and
sleepy, I stumbled out of the bedroom and encountered Matin, who told me in an
urgent tone to go back inside I retreated, but left the door slightly ajar and peeped
through the crack. Within moments I was startled to see two uniformed men walk past
stiffly. Five soldiers followed, with the Sten guns at the ready. One took up a position in
the corridor and noticed that the bedroom door was ajar a that a light was on. He
turned quickly and kicked the door into my protruding belly. I winced in pain. The
infant in my womb kicked back I banged the door shut and sat on the bed, trying to
figure out what was happening.
Had the army come to arrest Mustafa? Had Mustafa annoyed Bhutto again, or was this
a coup, initiated the proverbial midnight knock on the door? Was this drama being
played out in houses across the length and breadth of the country?
The clock on the bedside table ticked loudly. Half an hour passed.
Finally Mustafa returned to the bedroom. He was calm, and I could almost see his mind
working out permutations, analyzing, trying to plan He told me that the army had
moved against Bhutto, martial law was declared. He ordered me to pack his suitcase
and added,. 'Don't forget my vitamins - and my cigars'.
'Is it going to be dangerous' I asked.
I don't know. It might be a bloody coup. They've come to get me. You'd better go to
Ghulam Arbi and Saima's house today' Arbi was his brother. 'Don't worry,' Mustafa
said. I packed his, things. He kissed me on the forehead and left.

I stared out of the window. In the darkness I could make out a jeep filled with army
officers. Mustafa got in and the jeep, sped off.
At Arbi and Saima's house I listened carefully as General Zia gave a televised speech.
He had assumed power, but he promised to hold elections within ninety days. He said
that the politicians were being held, in protective custody, but would be freed soon.
For fifteen days I knew nothing of Mustafa's where bouts. Then he was able to send me
a note. He was well. He was in Abbotabad, north of the capital.
Three weeks before my baby was due, Mustafa and other political prisoner were moved
a short distance to detention facilities in one of the state guesthouses in Murree - the
mountain resort where I had studied - and I was allowed to visit him there I
remembered how different my father's imprisonment had been. There was no shame in
political incarceration and yet I was conditioned by Mother's behavior in her situation
to be naturally in a state of mourning - a good wife whose life had come to a standstill
because her husband was in trouble. My conditioning suited Mustafa. I shopped
carefully and brought along a great deal of food, concerned for the welfare of my poor,
suffering husband.
To my shock, I found Mustafa and the others living in conditions that would be the
envy of the common man. The prisoners decided the menu and the food was served by
uniformed waiters. The politicians who, only weeks before, had shuffled the fate of our
nation, now sat around all day shuffling cards. Only the sound of marching boots
outside their quarters shattered the illusion of tranquility.
I shifted temporarily to Murree, spending the days with Mustafa and the nights at his
friend Taj-ul-Mulk's home.
Even in incarceration, within the Prime Minister's house in Murree Bhutto held court.
Each day his imprisoned advisers were driven in a van, to see him. Over dinner they
discussed the current situation. Bhutto was furious with Zia and, even now, arrogant.
He charged that the generals had violated the Constitution; Article 6 outlawed military
intervention and martial law. He openly abused the generals and accused them of
treason. He swore that he would make them accountable. Mustafa and others gently
warned him against such reckless statements, but Bhutto persisted.
Bhutto clung to legalisms, ignoring the fact that the generals had the guns. At times, he
mellowed and spoke of the future, of how the next five years were imperative for him to
consolidate and implement the reforms that he had begun and that would grant him an
exalted place in history. He felt short-changed by the generals, a Man Of Destiny locked
out of his own future. He believed that the VIP treatment that he and the other People's

Party captives were receiving was a tacit acknowledgement that Zia still needed them.
These conversations were most certainly taped and, as the generals listened to them,
their determination to rid themselves of Bhutto must have grown.
I could sense that the time of my delivery was at hand. I visited a doctor in Murree and
was astonished when she told me that the Civil and Military Hospital in the city did not
have the facilities to deliver my child I had no choice but to return to Arbi's house in
Islamabad and wait for the labor pains to begin.
Three days later a huge, black limousine with military license plates arrived. We were
all shocked to see Mustafa emerge, smiling Zia had allowed him special permission to
visit his pregnant wife. He spent the night with me and left early the following morning
in the dictator's car.
This aroused that suspicion in the minds of Bhutto and Mustafa's fellow inmates that
Mustafa had struck a deal behind their backs. The generals fanned the suspicion by
holding Mustafa in Rawalpindi for the next few days. Mustafa had requested the
meeting with me in all innocence, but he was now suspect and became somewhat
isolated from his allies.
Two days later Zia released Bhutto and all the political leaders. Bhutto flew back to
Islamabad in a helicopter, And Mustafa was returned to us.
And a few days after this, on 29 July, I gave birth to our daughter Naseeba. She slept in
our bed with us. Mustafa instructed Dai Ayesha to fashion a semi-circular enclosure of
clay to hold the baby's head as she slept. This was it medieval custom that he said
would make the shape of her head flat and beautiful. I shuddered as I saw the
contraption take shape. Finally the trap was ready and Naseeba's tiny head was placed
inside it. She was very uncomfortable in this strange, restrictive device. Her head
directly faced the ceiling. She could not move it at all, and wailed all night long; She
grew purple with agitation. I feared that she would choke and desperately wanted to
put her on her tummy, but this was not allowed. Her bawling disturbed Mustafa, and
he ordered me to quieten her, but he would not allow me to remove her from the 'head-
trap'
I was very frightened. Servants had told me stories about his behavior toward Sherry's
daughter, Amna. If the poor baby howled as he tried to sleep, Mustafa picked her up
and shoved her under the bed.
On a number of occasions, Mustafa stifled Naseeba's yells with his hand, or with a cloth.
He reacted so fiercely that I feared he would suffocate her. My beautiful baby girl,
instead of being a source of joy, became a cause of new, frightful tension. Now I had
two of us to protect.

But at least the arrival of the baby tempered my mother's mood. She flew in from
London to stay with us for a time and, especially in the context of her previous
disapproval, I sought to hide the brutality of my - marriage from her; I knew that
Mother would approve of my life only if we were happy.
'Mother was invited to a ladies' dinner, and she wanted me and two-week-old Naseeba
to accompany her. Mustafa reluctantly granted his permission, to avoid drawing my
mother's attention to his true nature, but he was irritable and said that it was the last
time he would permit such a thing. He set a firm curfew of 10.30 P.M. and ordered me
to handle the situation on my own, next time, without involving him.
Here was a form of mental torture. He pinned me against my strong-willed mother, but
disarmed me by removing the weapon of truth. It was left to me to create the proper lie
that would enable me to meet Mustafa's arbitrary curfew. I spent much of the evening
nervously glancing at the clock. As is common in Pakistan, it was 10.30 before dinner
was even served! We had only begun to eat when I was called to the telephone Mustafa
growled, 'If you are not home in the next five minutes, I'll fix you.'
I returned to the dinner table, terrified I repeatedly hinted to Mother that I had to leave,
but she was involved in conversation and waved aside my protests.
We finally arrived home at around midnight. Mother went into her bedroom, still
unaware of my tense condition. Clutching Naseeba protectively to my bosom, praying
to God for His help and mercy, I rushed into the bedroom I wanted to get to him
quickly, and yet I did not. Mustafa stood in the dark, waiting for us. He snatched the
baby froth my arms, put her onto the bed, and slapped me so hard that I fell. I
suppressed my cries, so that nothing would carry to Mother's adjacent room. I allowed
myself a muted whimper, 'Mother will hear.'
'Come upstairs,' he ordered menacingly.
By now, Naseeba was howling. I picked her up and ran quickly out of the door and up
the stairs to another room a torture chamber - as Mustafa followed. I knew what would
happen but my primary concern was that my mother not know my reality. He locked
the door behind him. Again he plucked Naseeba from my arms and cast her aside. To
the accompaniment of the continuous yells of a bewildered baby, he tore my sari to
shreds and beat me savagely, avoiding my fate.
Next morning I faced my, mother as if nothing had happened. I was learning to hide my
feelings — and my bruises— from the world.
Bhutto decided to take his case to the people. He arrived in Lahore driven from the
airport by Mustafa and was greeted by a vibrant crowd. In his waning days as Prime

Minister, the people had grown tired of his promises of bread, clothing and shelter, but
now he was the underdog and they wished to forget his mistakes Bhutto was elated.
The motorcade moved at a snail's pace toward the house where Bhutto would stay.
Once he was inside the crowd trying to get closer, surged out of control. The pressure of
people broke down the gates of the house. Excited spectators shattered the windows,
climbed the walls crowded onto the lawns, nested in the tree-tops and clung
precariously to utility poles. Everyone wanted a glimpse of the man. Everyone wanted
to hear the stifled voice rise again.
Bhutto stepped out onto the balcony, remarking that he felt as tall as the Himalayas, and
delivered a rousing speech General Zia has committed treason. He has tampered with
the Constitution. The people of Pakistan will not spare the traitor. The army does not
have the right to usurp power by ousting the people's representatives and deposing an
elected Prime Minister. The listeners responded with wild cheers. In their enthusiasm,
they did we realize that they were signing Bhutto's death warrant.
The scene shifted to Islamabad. In a calmer, moment Mustafa warned Bhutto that he
must change his hard line stance or the generals would eliminate him. Bhutto was aloof
and, cold in the face of this advice. He felt that his confrontational-nal policies would
unnerve the generals, and believed; that the people would stand up to save their leader.
He forgot that tanks and guns were more palpable than the mood of the people.
Mustafa informed Bhutto that the generals wished to have a meeting with him, and
Bhutto agreed that Mustafa should attend, since this would give him an opportunity to
assess the military's thinking. During Mustafa's discussion with Zia and two of his
compatriots, the three military leaders heaped praise and proclaimed that they needed
people like him. But they were hostile toward Bhutto, and declared that he could
survive only if he tempered his arrogance. The generals said that they were not opposed
to the idea of Bhutto going into exile, if he would guarantee that he was retiring from
politics for ever. This, Mustafa though was like asking a human being to live without
oxygen.
When he reported back to Bhutto, Mustafa tried to convince his leader to flee the
country, and asked permission to do so himself, to live to fight another day Bhutto
granted the latter request and paved the way. He invited the ambassador of the United
Arab Emirates an introduced him to Mustafa. He then wrote a note to Shaikh Zayed bin
Nayan, the ruler of Abu Dhab presenting Mustafa as 'my brother' and asking him to
provide all necessary assistance.
As for himself, Bhutto proclaimed that he understood the gravity of the situation, but he
had no choice other than to stay and fight.

Soon after this meeting, in September, Bhutto was re-arrested, on a charge of attempted
murder, and witch-hunt rounded up his key supporters. Mustafa was called into secret
sessions with several generals. On night he informed me that we had to leave for
England - immediately, before dawn, without Naseeba. He said: would be too
inconvenient, and dangerous, to bring her along.
Shattered at the prospect of leaving behind another baby, even for a day, I was
panicstricken at given instructions for her routine but it had to be. My pining meant
nothing to anyone at this serious, difficult time least of all to Mustafa. I suffered alone,
just as I had suffered for Tanya.
I did not know what sort of understanding Mustafa had achieved with the generals. I
smelled betrayal, but I did not dare voice my suspicions. Mustafa sensed this and
lectured that, in politics, compromises are necessary.
We boarded at 6:30 a.m., in flight from Islamabad. As the aircraft waited for clearance at
the end of the runway, I saw beads of perspiration form on Mustafa's brow. The veins in
his temples pounded. There was fear on his face. We both knew that the generals were
capricious.
Finally the aircraft moved slowly into its take-off roll. The pilots pushed the engines up
to full throttle and the craft picked up speed. It rose into the air, and Mustafa's face
showed relief, he had sidestepped the gallows.
We had no definite plans. All we knew was that we would first stop in Mecca, to
perform the pilgrimage of umra, then head on to London. We had only 50,000 rupees
(just over £1,100) with us - which would exchange to a pittance of British Sterling.
Immediately, I was lonely. I had lost both my babies. I glanced out of the window, and
saw our country fall sway beneath us.

Part Two LAW OF THE JUNGLE
6
In Mecca, Mustafa placed his hand on the kaaba, the house of Allah, and swore that he
would never took at another woman in his entire life. For a Muslim, there is no greater
testament.
As we flew on to London, Mustafa was recognized by a Pakistani immigrant who was

anglicized enough to call himself Harry. The two men passed the six-hour flight in
philosophical conversation and, by the time we landed, Harry had converted to our
political cause and was our friend. There were no problems passing through
immigration: Mustafa's political affiliations with Bhutto and his position caused no
problem at all. We were granted political asylum. Harry offered us hospitality, and
Mustafa accepted.
Harry lived in a small, uncomfortable council flat in Earls Court. Mustafa adapted easily
to the crowded conditions. He was in exile, and exile meant sacrifice and discomfort.
But I lay awake most of the first night, embarrassed that we had run away, leaving
Bhutto in what was certainly his death cell. I did not know how Mustafa had arranged
passage out of the country, but something told me that he had bartered his honor for his
life. I resolved that if I was ever confronted with a similar situation, I would stand and
fight on my own soil. Finally I fell asleep and dreamed of revolution and marching. I
held my head high as I stood on the gallows, and I did not flinch as the noose tightened
around my neck.
I pined for Tanya and Naseeba. There was no other equivalent pain. Tanya and Naseeba
merged into one deep agony. Every time I saw an infant on the street or in a pram in the
park, my maternal ache was stirred, as though they might replace it, but I sensed that
Mustafa viewed this as weakness.
He did not tell me the details of the bargain he had struck with the generals, but by
picking up shreds of information and overhearing telephone conversations, it was not
difficult to discern. He had won his life by promising to return to Pakistan the following
month November, bringing documents from London that would incriminate Bhutto.
What documents they were supposed to be I never discovered, and it was most
probably a hoax, though I did not know so at the time I could not understand the
Brutus-like betrayal. When his leader was fighting for his life against an unscrupulous
regime, Mustafa conspired with the executioners. I expressed my qualms to him, but he
replied in a philosophical tone, 'Time will tell.'

He spent the first few weeks in London contacting other exiles, making his presence felt.
He was in his element, making and breaking alliances, plotting, scheming, persuading
the skeptical. In exile, a political activist quickly develops an inflated opinion of his
importance, and Mustafa came to believe that he was the man who could unite the
expatriates in a victorious struggle to overthrow Zia and his cronies Mustafa saw his
great chance to remould the People's Party under his influence.
Nevertheless, he knew that it would be difficult to unite Bhutto's fanatical admirers

behind him. He was contaminated by his own past Mustafa had helped to found the
party, but then he had abandoned it. True, he had rejoined, but his vacillation made him
suspect in the eyes of the hard-liners. They remembered how he had tried to humble
Bhutto. They thought that he was too ambitious. Many also doubted his integrity,
because of the manner in which he had left Pakistan. The party-in-exile was paranoid
and informants were everywhere.
As the deadline for the delivery of the documents approached, I sensed Mustafa's
restlessness. If he did not comply as promised, he would raise the unforgiving ire of the
generals and could not return to Pakistan. Mustafa decided to prove his loyalty to
Bhutto and the party by reneging on his agreement with the generals, and I heartily
approved. I declared that it was better to live on the run and in poverty than to return
home to play Judas. I was very comfortable with this decision.
He called one of the generals in Pakistan. In a nervous conversation, he managed to

extend the deadline, buying an additional two months to test the strength of his support
among the exile community.
My family was living in London and I talked to my mother on the telephone frequently.
But my father adamantly refused to accept the scandalous Mustafa into his family.
Mother and Father currently had their own problems in the form of my sister, Minoo,
who had just turned eighteen. In England this fact emancipated her. One day Minoo
called and said, 'I have to see you urgently.' We arranged a rendezvous at a restaurant
Minoo told Mustafa and me that she wanted desperately to study photography at a
boarding school on the Isle of Wight. The problem was that it was a coeducational
institution, and my parents could not conceive of such an environment for their
daughter. But the more they refused, the more adamant Minoo became. She disclosed to
us that she planned to run away. We tried to dissuade her, but she would not accept our
counsel. Mustafa advised me, 'Don't get involved.'
The following day. Mother called me, supremely upset. 'Minoo has run away!' she
wailed.

Mustafa took the phone from my hand and spoke directly to Mother. 'No matter what
happens, I'll get Minoo back,' he promised.
With that one vow, Mustafa built a special relationship with my mother. His voice
carried the power and authority that Father could never summon. Without really
knowing my family, Mustafa had assumed the mantle of the big brother. Mother was
immediately relieved. Before Minoo had taken her desperate action Mother had
planned for the family to journey to its continental retreat in Marbeila, Spain. Mustafa
told her to go, and pledged to bring Minoo to her there.
Mimoo called us, as we knew she would, and Mustafa employed his powers of
persuasion to convince her that she could get what she wanted without severing her
family ties. His key argument was financial. Without money, how was Minoo going to
live, let alone go to school on the Isle of Wight? 'Come to Spain with us;' he said 'We'll
sort it all out there.
The three of us flew into Malaga, I rented a car, drove to Marbella and checked into the
Holiday Inn. Soon after our arrival, Minoo phoned Mother and attempted to begin the
process of reconciliation. Mother snapped, 'You can't ever leave again'.
Minoo responded by screaming her frustrations into the phone, but Mustafa yanked it
from her hand and said sternly, 'You cannot dare to be rude to your mother in my
presence.' He lowered his voice and spoke into the mouthpiece 'We'll call later I have to
talk to her.'
He hung up and turned to my sister. From the expression on Minoo's face, I could see
that she realized that she was trapped; The small motel room suddenly seemed
claustrophobic Minoo bolted for the door, but Mustafa grabbed her and threw her on to
the bed. He held one strong hand against her throats choking her. I attempted to pull
him off but was pushed aside by his free hand Minoo struggled briefly, then realized
the hopelessness of her predicament and became subdued.
Mustafa released his grip. He sat on the edge of the bed and allowed Minoo to catch her
breath. Then he lectured calmly, in a gentle, caring tone 'If you're going to react like this,
they'll never let you go,' he advised. 'You have to play another game. Don't shout them.'
Too stunned to speak, Minoo sat on the bed, suddenly docile and acquiescent. Her eyes
told me that, she realized that she was surrounded by enemies. She had to wait to fight
another day.
While Minoo was in the bathroom, Mustafa phoned mother and told her that Minoo's
only problem was she was spoiled. She needed control and discipline.

Mother cried about the difficulties of bringing up young girls in the permissive
environment of England are a active family, she said 'We don't know.'
By now, Mother had convinced my father that it was to accept us back into the family
fold. In her brief dealings with Mustafa, she had found him to be an honorable man,
and it was a time of adversity for him. She felt it inappropriate to continue the boycott.
She invited us all to a reconciliation dinner and sent a car to drive us to their villa
overlooking the sea.
Father met me amidst tears and affectionate hugs, he was cordial to Mustafa. Obviously,
Mustafa's strong hand with Minoo had gained him favor. I was glad that our isolation
was over. I respected my father's principles as quietly proud that he had stood by them
in spite anguish of our separation. It had caused us both pain, however, for I knew that I
was his favorite. And I knew, that he was ready to, accept our marriage, convinced that
whatever other faults Mustafa might he was a family loyalist.
Minoo was on her best behavior, feigning cheers. Our younger sisters were also there.
Fifteen-year old Zarmina, an aspiring clothes' designer, had outfitted herself like a
señorita, in a frilly Spanish dress by set off by a rose in her hair. Adila, the youngest,
was thirteen. She wore black jeans and a T-shirt and seemed very curious about us. I
sensed that she admired my rebellion in standing up to our dictatorial mother and
running off to marry this famous man with a notorious past.
As soon as he could speak to me alone, Father outlined his manifesto: 'I'm making up
with you today despite the fact that I'm hurt and upset by your decision. This is your
second marriage and I don't want you, for, any reason at all, to leave him. You can only
leave his home in a coffin. This is the point on which I take you back into the family.'
Over dinner, Minoo chattered non-stop. Zarmina was very affectionate and caring. But I
felt something strange between Adila and Mustafa; there was a sense of presentiment in
the air, as if two minds - who had never encountered one another - had established a
silent bond, I tried to shake off the apprehension caused by the familiar glittery glaze in
Mustafa's eyes.
We remained in Marbella for two weeks and during that time my father made the
arrangements to cement my happiness by sending for Naseeba. Dai Ayesha travelled
from Pakistan with my baby and I felt nearly complete once more. Naseeba's three
young aunts were captivated by the tiny bundle and my father was a proud progenitor.
Mother and Mustafa got along well and I found, to my surprise, that she and I enjoyed
one another, too. The only void was the absence of Tanya, a topic that I dared not
discuss with Mustafa. I filled the emptiness by becoming obsessed with five-month old
Naseeba. I fussed with her constantly and found myself lying awake at night,
meticulously planning her breakfast.

My parents maintained both a home and an apartment in London. Happy with the
reconciliation, they offered to let us live in the apartment, and we accepted the
invitation immediately. Marble Arch was much more comfortable and stylish than our
first lodgings with Harry in Earls Court. We returned to London with Zarmina and
Adila. Minoo was to be accompanied by my parents.
Mustafa and I assumed a new life as fashionable exiles. We invited some old friends
from Pakistan for dinner. I wanted to borrow Mother's silver, so Zarmina and Adila
brought it over, and stayed to help us prepare. As I arranged the apartment, Mustafa
cooked, Zarmina fussed over the baby and Adila attacked the liquor. By the time
Zarmina and I noticed, our baby sister was floating in an alcoholic haze. She sashayed
about the living-room in an unsteady attempt to be provocative. Zarmina and I tried to
pull her into the bedroom, but pushed us away. I worried that the guests would arrive
and see her in this condition and I worried even more that my parents would hear
about this. I found Mustafa in the kitchen and said, 'You have to do something. Give her
hell and get her, to leave.'
Mustafa moved toward Adila, unsure of himself. He grasped her by the shoulders and
she struggled. But she struggled closer, rather than away. For a brief instant they
stopped, almost sharing an embrace. Then Adila relaxed and suddenly agreed to go
home. Zarmina and I knew that if our parents learned of this incident, they would
brand me as a bad influence and keep us apart, so we conspired to keep the secret.
Meanwhile, the Minoo situation deteriorated. My parents unable to emulate Mustafa's

heavy-handed style, attempted to purchase her compliance. They brought her an
expensive car, filled with luxurious accessories.
This is the wrong way to deal with her,' Mustafa said to me. 'They're giving in to her
under pressure. She's Winner.' He suggested that they ship Minoo back to Pakistan and
take away her passport.
Indeed, Minoo once more ran away from home. No-one knew of her whereabouts until
a week later. Mother called and informed us tearfully that Minoo was working in a
record store on Tottenham Court Road! Mother considered this to be a rather sleazy
area of don, and I suppose that it was although the depths of its degradation could not
approach Mother's dark fantasies.
In the midst of this latest crisis, we moved into my parents' home at Beech Hill, in order
to be close to the family. The house was set in two acres overlooking a golf course. It
was richly decorated with old Moroccan sofas, heavily carved pieces of furniture from
Damascus and chairs from King Farouk's palace collection. My mother's display of
Persian carpets and paintings made this huge house a perfect setting for her to glide

through like a queen. The family had a cook, two maids, a chauffeur, an accountant and
a butler to attend to every need.
Mustafa resented the opulence, yet he relished it. My family's style seemed to come
naturally, they unknowingly mocked his country origins just by being themselves.
Mustafa chose to behave with inverted snobbery. He wore boorishness and earthiness
like a T-shirt slogan.
Father played the perfect host, offering Davidoff cigars at the appropriate moment, but
he remained formal. Mother, on the other hand, was captured rather quickly by
Mustafa's personality. She was very interested in politics and listened with rapt
attention as he regaled her with vignettes. He analyzed Pakistan's fluid political
situation with great insight. Gradually, even Father warmed somewhat. Mustafa was,
after all, a member of their generation, a contemporary.
At first I found irony in this situation I had escaped from the domination of my mother
by climbing into the lap of a tyrant, and it was somewhat amusing to see the two
dictators magnifying one another's egos. But slowly I began to feel isolated Mustafa
became a part of the family from which I had tried to stand apart.
Mustafa watched the dynamics within my family with a keen and manipulative eye. He
correctly identified the Achilles' heel. Father - and especially Mother would do
anything, sacrifice anything, to save face. For example, the potential scandal regarding
Minoo was too much for my parents, they capitulated, rented a flat for her on the Isle of
Wight, furnished it and allowed her to enroll in photographers' school. Mother made
Minoo promise to come home nearly every weekend and on every holiday, but it was
clear that Minoo had won.
As January approached, Mustafa was afflicted with the common ailment of the exile
chronic optimism. He told me that General Zia's days were numbered. 'He won't last
more than six months,' Mustafa predicted 'You'll see.'
He acted upon this optimism, informing the generals in Pakistan that he would not
honor his agreement to return with documents incriminating Bhutto. For his troubles,
he was sentenced in absentia to fourteen years of rigorous imprisonment, and all his
assets were confiscated. Personal injury, was added to political insult when Mustafa's
mother was denied a passport. We had hoped to bring her to London to join us, but the
authorities in Pakistan obviously believed that they could use her as bait to lure Mustafa
back. He was very attached to his mother, and this action crushed him. He sat quietly in
his chair, with tears in his eyes, as he contemplated this latest twist.
Mustafa's malaise was only temporary. Soon he began a long-distance campaign to save
Bhutto, even as, at home, the trial of the former prime minister began.

Our fights were now centered around my family. Mustafa picked up on tiny, snippets of
dinner-table conversation and used them against me. In vulnerable moments, I had
made the mistake of selling him of the difficult childhood relationship I had had with
my mother, and he turned this information against me. He was on her side now, and
cast me in the role of an ungrateful, untrustworthy child. He methodically widened the
gulf between mother and daughter, isolating me even more completely on the island of
his tyrannical rule.
At other times he suddenly posed as my ally. He would say, 'I think I will discuss with
your mother you misgivings about your relationship. All these things you have told me
must come out. She must be made aware of the pain that has been caused to you. He
knew that I would panic. I lacked the strength to take on both Mustafa and my mother. I
pleaded with him not to follow through with his plan, and I submitted even more
willingly to his cruel whims in order to buy his silence.
Each morning Mustafa woke early and did his yoga. Then he sat in my parents'
bedroom, drinking coffee and discussing the latest news from Pakistan. Mother and
Father were - or at least pretended to be - unaware that this charming person had, the
night before, battered their daughter.
I camouflaged my bruises and buried my humiliation. I started taking Valium to calm

my nerves. My father wondered why, and objected, but my mother agreed that I
needed the tranquillizer to relieve my tension. I suspected that she knew the cause, but
she believed ruthlessly in keeping one's private life locked away. The most she would
do was speak in general terms. She advised me 'If a husband behaves in a strange or
unreasonable manner, you should treat him like a sick human being, like someone who
needs medical care and treatment. Deal with him like a psychiatrist.' I took this counsel
to heart, and it helped. My body suffered, but my mind was spared.
I wanted desperately to shed the uncomfortable and unattractive pounds that I had
retained after Naseeba's birth. Mustafa would not allow talk of a diet or other
weightloss strategies, so I secretly obtained a supply of diet pills. I lost most of the extra
weight, but I still felt matronly. Often I looked with envy at the women in England,
moving about, laughing, participating in life. Although we had travelled extensively
and were now living in this free society, in my mind I might as well have been
sequestered behind the veil in Mustafa's village of Kot Addu.
Mustafa felt increasingly isolated too. I was quite amazed to realize that I understood
his predicament and wanted to help him deal with it. My tired mind at times was able
to analyze and rationalize. I could empathize with his frustration. He missed having a
bevy of disciples. He missed being chief. He disliked being in a foreign country. He
missed the panoply of power.

I reached out to him and tried to build his morale. I learned to forgive him his temper
and abusive nature. I subconsciously submitted to the role of whipping boy and
allowed the man who had once run a province with an iron hand to rule me instead.
His hand never once trembled.
Fortunately, Naseeba was safely out of the way, almost always in the care of my sisters,
who became the proverbial fussy aunts. This, at least, meant that I had one less person
to protect from this abnormal man living in abnormal circumstances.
I was always acting, petrified that the truth of my marriage would be exposed. I tried
my utmost to avoid any clash with Mustafa. He realized my paranoia and exploited it
fully. He forbade me to talk to anyone about my secret torment, with threats of severe
consequences, but this was unnecessary since I felt as ill could trust no-one. It was a
schizophrenic existence. The humiliation of not being able to keep my husband happy
and of falling short of my mother's definition of the ideal wife was becoming more
frightening than the beatings. The physical abuse was not his crime - it simply affirmed
my own inadequacy.
Mustafa never allowed me to go out alone. Mother frequently asked me to accompany

her to lunch, or to a doctor's appointment, or merely to go shopping - and' I always had
to come up with a plausible excuse. I was forbidden even to ask Mustafa's permission I
was to handle it on my own. Mother saw my refusals a, selfishness. I longed to tell her
the real reasons, but forced myself into a tortured silence.
Despite all the problems I had with my mother, I felt an overpowering urge to become
her child again. Shea symbolized strength. I saw her as the only force could countervail
Mustafa's evil. Whenever he hurt me I cried out for bet, and prayed that she would
come and save me. I longed to describe to her in detail what was happening to me, but I
was sure she would react by taking his side, that she would find some way, to trivialize
my torment and reject me.
By a process of elimination, I attempted to learn how to mould my personality so that

Mustafa and I could live in harmony. I tried to emulate whatever attitudes I knew that
he had appreciated in his previous wives, but nothing seemed to alter, his savage
behavior. At times I even found myself perversely thankful for the beatings, because
they would be followed by his groveling remorse. To see this man, larger than life,
reduced to such a degrading position brought a twisted measure of glee.
When he surrendered to a tender moment he praised my fortitude: 'Do you know how
much you mean to me? I am incomplete without you. This has been a very frustrating
period in my life. It will pass. You'll see - I'll change and make it up to you I've been so
close to a nervous breakdown. It has only been your love and devotion that has kept me
sane.' His eyes would well with tears as he continued 'You came into my life at a most

difficult period. Everything around me has crumbled, but you've stood by me I wish
you had come into my life earlier so that I could keep you wrapped up in silks. I've put
you through hell I'm really sorry. Can you ever forgive me.' He cried at my feet. He
confessed that he had tried to destroy, me and was amazed at my tolerance and
resilience 'I never thought you could cope with my temper,' he admitted. 'I always
thought you were too delicate and, fragile. You proved me wrong. You're a strong
woman. You're the only woman who has the tolerance to cope with mc intelligently. I
will never, ever let you down. Promise me that you'll never think of abandoning me.' I
promised, washed ashore on his tears, proud of his high esteem for me, hoping that he
would tell Mother.
Sitting on my prayer mat, I regularly asked for deliverance. I did not ask God to resolve
my crisis in any specific way; I merely asked Him to help sort out my life, and to change
Mustafa for the better and to lessen the punishment for my mistakes.
Adila stood five feet, four inches tall and had the figure of a siren. She craved attention.
My other sisters kept their distance from Mustafa and, when they were together, were
very, correct in their behavior.' But Adila was younger and wilder; she seemed to sense
that she and her, brother-in-law, were soul mates. Mustafa indulged her spoiled whims
and laughed at her childish pranks.
Initially, it was quite touching to see Mustafa remove his dictatorial mask and play big
brother. We ascribed Adila's coquettishness to juvenile cockiness.
My parents left for a fifteen-day trip to the Middle East, and Adila went with them.
Mustafa remained irritable and restless during this period, and turned the smallest
issue into a terrible fight. With the house to ourselves, he knew that he could thrash me
with impunity. Once, he grew very upset as I talked to my, brother Asim on the phone
'Why did you speak to him for so long?' he growled. 'Is he your brother or your lover?'
I glanced up at him, amazed, and responded, 'He's my brother, Mustafa, really.'
'Are you answering me back?' He used this so-called impudence as an excuse to

pummel me with his fists.
On another occasion he kicked me down a staircase. When I landed at the bottom in a

mangled heap, he ran down the stairs and resumed his savage kicks and blows. I cried
out, 'This is my father's house and I do not think that you should dare to lift your hand
on me here.'
This brought a stunned silence. For the first time I had said what I felt, and I had scored
a key point: I was not his chattel, but had other ties that were stronger than; the ones
that bound me to him. This realization brought only a moment's respite. A feudal lord

understands the strength of blood ties, but he also understands the power of physical
violence. Mustafa beat me with increased venom, until my screams weakened to tired
whimpers and I was nearly unconscious.
Later, in order to avoid yet another beating, I apologized for what I had said. I knew
that my comment had shaken. Mustafa, and he now had to plan some way to crush the
tiny flicker of my remaining spirit.
There was a brief hiatus when my parents and Adila returned. Then Mother and Father
travelled to Luxemburg for two days, and left Adila at home with us. She nagged me to
allow her to skip a day of school. When I grew weary of her pestering I agreed, and she
made plans for a shopping and luncheon expedition. But on the evening prior to the
outing she said that she had changed her mind and wanted to go to school after all.
In the morning our driver Erik, perhaps confused by the change of plans, did not show
up to take her to school. Mustafa was going into the city anyway, so I asked him to drop
her off at school. As they drove away, I waved and turned my attention to Naseeba. I
thought - nothing more of this until the middle of the afternoon, when Adila called to
report, 'I bunked school today. I've gone to a friend's place.' She chattered on about only
missing a half day of classes and said that she would go to school for the rest of the
afternoon. 'Can you send Erik to pick me up later?' she asked.
It was all very confusing, but I let the incident pass. I looked forward to my parents'
return, so that they could resume their duties with her. Dealing with my youngest sister
was a twenty-four-hour-a-day job.
Adila changed her manner of dressing. Suddenly, all western outfits were discarded
and replaced with traditional eastern clothes, borrowed from our mother's extensive
wardrobe. She draped herself with a veil and even covered her head for effect. She
decided to grow her hair long like mine, and in fact began to resemble me. She ferreted
out the sensitive topics in our lives, and wandered brazenly into them. In an innocent
tone she would mention how much I had longed to marry Anees and how much he
loved me. Every night I suffered Mustafa's wrath.
My other sisters noted Adila's deliberate insensitivity and scolded her about it but she
carried on regardless Minoo complained to Mother that Adila was trying to cause
problems between Mustafa and me, but Mother dismissed the allegations Adila was her
favorite daughter, she was the only person who could do no wrong. Mother blamed the
rest of us for fostering sibling rivalry.
I deeply resented Adila's mischief-mongering. Her sole aim in life was apparently to
make Mustafa angry with me. I became increasingly irritated by his indulgence of her,
and told him so I felt that he gave her too much attention, and that she took advantage

of it. Mustafa reveled in the family intrigue. He and Adila shared private jokes and
often turned their sarcasm on to me. Mustafa said, 'See, Adila, how Tehmina is
behaving Why is she jealous of you?'
In the midst of this tension, and because of his prohibition against precautions, I learned
that I was pregnant once again.
Mustafa and I both knew that we had to get away from my family. We did not discuss
the matter, but I was very relieved when he arranged for us to move to the
Hampsteadhome of Jam Sadiq Ali. One of Mustafa's political colleagues. He was an
important feudal lord from Sindh who had been one of Bhutto's ministers, and now was
in exile like us. We had our own bedroom in this large house and our host family
treated me with affection.
Mustafa exhibited a restless attitude. Although I preferred not to, he frequently, insisted
that we visit my parents. One Sunday, during such a visit, Mustafa was doing his yoga
exercises on the patio. I walked in, followed by Dai Ayesha and Naseeba, and saw Adila
seated next to him, leering at his body, drinking in the sight of his muscles flexing and
relaxing. I snapped impulsively at Mustafa, 'If you had to exercise, you should have
done it at home. Why are you doing it here?'
He turned casually toward Dai Ayesha, who stood behind me, and said jokingly, 'Get
hold of her long hair and throw her out.' Adila giggled.
I could have died of shame, but I found it impossible to react in any sensible manner.
Mustafa had turned me into a vegetable. I glanced towards Naseeba, took her from Dai
Ayesha's arms, clung to her and, sobbing, ran out of the room. My baby was the only
person in this lonely world who could give me solace.
There was no way out. Mustafa had got me in a corner and I did not dare defy him. The
consequences of the slightest rebellion were too critical. At that moment, something
inside me snapped.
I handed Naseeba back to Dal Ayesha. Like a sleepwalker, I trudged into my father's
bathroom. For a moment, I stared at the medicine cabinet, then I opened it. I examined
several bottles. There were tablets from a clinic in Spain, some capsules for high
cholesterol, nine or ten Valium. I took them all and slipped them inside my, clothing.
My decision was final.
That evening, we left Naseeba and Dai with my parents. I waited until we returned to
Jam Sadiq's house. Mustafa was involved in a political meeting downstairs, so I went to
our bedroom, sat alone and pondered. I thought of Tanya back in Karachi with Anees I
thought of my beautiful baby Naseeba. I thought of the unborn child in my womb, four

months along. The images made me hesitate, but only for a moment. The, void in my
life was too frightening to endure I felt burdened to the point of extinction by these lives
that had come from my own. I opened the bottles and gulped all the contents down.
I stood in front of the mirror wondering why I was born in the first place. I remembered
Mother's words, every time she had been upset with me: 'Why did you not die when
you had meningitis?' Strange, I thought, that was when Mother was pregnant with
Adila. My youngest sister came to life at the moment that I struggled with death.
Perhaps I had cheated death. Perhaps I was meant to die then. Now Adila was living
and I was dying, once again. I had suggested the name Adila, which means 'justice'.
I saw fire engulf me in the mirror. Would death be worse than life? Suicide is a ticket to
hell I moved quickly away, feeling the numbness in my head. No, I decided, nothing
could be worse than life. I staggered into the bedroom and sat alone, staring at the palm
of my hand, examining the fate line. The line began to sway and shift. I reeled, and
slipped to the floor. I watched a wave billow over me, spraying me with peace.
They told me that I had been upstairs alone for about half an hour when Mustafa,
walked in unexpectedly and found me sprawled across the floor. He called out for Jam
Sadiq and the two men tried to revive me by splashing cold water on my face. They
called a doctor, who summoned an ambulance. Before long I was in the intensive-care
ward at Royal Free Hospital in Hanipstead. My stomach was pumped, but the toxins
had already entered my bloodstream Mustafa asked the doctor, 'Will she live?'
'Is she a fighter?' the doctor asked.
'Yes'
'That's our only hope then.'
From the hospital, Mustafa called my elder sister Rubina who was visiting from
Pakistan. 'Tehmina tried to kill herself,' he told her. 'God only knows why. She's mad.
You had better come and, er, better not tell your parents They'll panic.'
The night passed slowly. I was a fighter, but at the moment I was not interested. What
are the dreams that come in this twilight world between life and death? I do not
remember them in detail, but they were not sweet.
Slowly I began to improve I saw misty visions of Rubina and Mustafa, hovering over
me.
Two days passed before doctors agreed to discharge me, along with the news that my
pregnancy had been unaffected. The baby seemed more resilient than I wished; I

wanted an abortion. I still wanted to die Mustafa took me to my parents' home to
recuperate. I was still groggy and completely disoriented. Mother played the ostrich to
perfection, pretending not to know that my wretched life had driven me to suicide. My
father avoided the subject.
As I slowly surfaced I saw, looming in front of me, Mustafa's shouldering wrath. My

crime, to him, was not against my body, but against his honor. 'You embarrassed me,'
he snapped harshly. 'Do you realize that you were examined by male doctors. Male
doctors! You have humiliated me I shall not forgive you. You will pay for this stupid
act. You just wait and see.' I was petrified, and miserable to have survived.
Mother's house was filled with other guests, so she set up a sofa bed in the study. There
I returned to a coma-like sleep, with Mustafa at my side. Sometime during the middle of
the night, I felt the presence of someone else. My still-sedated mind noticed that
Mustafa rose from the bed and left the room, but I was too sleepy to pay attention.
Much later, I woke once more instinctively my hand reached out to feel for Mustafa, but
he was not there I recalled the earlier, dim scene, and wondered where he had gone I
pulled myself from bed and staggered toward the kitchen. Whoever was in there heard
me coming, and a shadow fled upstairs. Then Mustafa, half-dressed, came toward me
and asked, 'Why have you come out?' There was a distinct note of sheepishness in his
voice.
'I was looking for you,' I explained.
'Go back to sleep You shouldn't be walking around in this state.' I did as he suggested,
too tired to ask any further, questions.
In the morning, when I was more lucid, I asked Mustafa, 'What happened last night?
Someone came into the room. Who was it?'
'Oh, it was Adila,' he answered.
Adila?'
'Yes, She's involved with an Iranian boy and is having problems. She wanted some
advice. She came to discuss it with me.'
'Yes?' I asked, my confused tone searching for more information.
'You were sleeping. I didn't want to disturb you so I took her to the breakfast room.'

You should have spoken to her here. It's not right for you to talk to her, alone in the
middle of the night. Suppose my father had come down.'
Mustafa dismissed my comments, and stuck to his story that Adila needed to confide in
him - like an elder brother. He declared that his advice would keep her from getting
hurt. He was now playing the role of savior of the family honor.
My only strategy was to get through each day and each endless night. I was mortally
afraid of the depths to which I would now have to sink. My greatest fear was that
Mustafa would seek to punish me for my suicide attempt by somehow taking Naseeba
away from me. I devised strategies to keep her away from him and his temper.
Meanwhile, in March 1978, Bhutto was sentenced death. Mustafa intensified his political
efforts, joining forces with two of the former Prime Minister's sons, Mir Murtaza Bhutto
and Shah Nawaz Bhutto. Mir had been studying at Oxford, but Mustafa convinced him
to scrap his education in order to campaign for his father's release. We moved from Jam
Sadiq's house to a shabby claustrophobic flat in Hampstead, and Mustafa crowded it by
inviting the Bhutto boys to live with us. Condition were so cramped that I left Naseeba
and Dai Ayesh with my family. At times I was even thankful that Tanya was not with
me.
Immediately Mustafa began to educate the young met in the art of politics and sought
to raise them as symbols of resistance to the junta. Mir was a novice, but he learned fast.
Younger brother Shah Nawaz exhibited the idealistic, faraway gaze of the
revolutionary. They established a sort of headquarters of disgruntled Pakistanis in our
flat, and plotted Zia's overthrow. The flat was always full of their friends, who kept odd
hours and sprawled out wherever they could find room.
The two young men related to my background and sensed my predicament. I grew fond
of them. Shah Nawaz made a point of chatting to me as I moved from room to room,
picking up cups and plates, emptying ashtrays and gathering the laundry to send off to
my mother's house. I wondered how they viewed me; I was not a part of their intense
debates about the future of our country, or of their fanciful schemes to bring about
change.
Mustafa introduced Mir to the exiled Husna Sheikh, the woman Bhutto loved. This was
somewhat embarrassing for the boy, but he pushed aside his personal considerations
because Husna had valuable contacts who might save Bhutto's life.
I desperately needed to talk to another woman, to gain reassurance that I was not going
mad. I found Husna to be the first person in whom I could confide. 'Just leave,' she
advised me, when I told her about Mustafa's constant beatings. 'There's no reason why
you should take this'. Husna planted the seed, but it lay dormant.

Mustafa and Mir set off on a mission to persuade various world leaders to pressure the
generals to spare Bhutto's life. Mustafa was also certain that these powerful friends
would extend financial support to the exile movement. They received campaign funds
from Libya's Coonel Gaddafi and from Shaikh Zayed bin Sultan Al Nithyan, Sultan of
Abu Dhabi. Asad of Syria promised to keep pressure on the Zia regime.
Our drawing-room was converted into a firing range. Mir set up a target at one end of
the room and practiced his marksmanship with an air gun. I was not terribly impressed;
he seemed to be just a spirited youngster playing at terror. My concern was for the slugs
that peppered the carpet. For his part, Shah Nawaz looked more like a suave terrorist,
but his soft eyes gave him away. He did not seem to be able to force a steely-cold look
into them.
One day Mustafa informed us, in a conspiratorial tone, that Yasser Arafat, the leader of
the Palestine Liberation organization, had a plan to liberate Bhutto: Palestinian
commandos would attack the Rawalpindi gaol, create a diversion and snatch Bhutto
from his cell. An aircraft from a friendly country would be waiting at the airport to
whisk Bhutto to safety. Mustafa told Mir and Shah Nawaz that their father would soon
be with us to carry on the fight in exile.
Mustafa was livid when he came into our room. Apparently, a call disclosing details of
the plan had been put through to Benazir - even though it was known that the
telephones were being bugged by various intelligence agencies. Suddenly the
Rawalpindi gaol became a fortress, guarded by militant right-wing troops.
In the privacy of our bedroom Mustafa snapped, 'How could anybody do such a dumb
thing? They have ruined everything by their childishness.'
****
Although I continued silently to ache for the absent Tanya, a part of me was glad that
she was safe in Karachi with Anees. Increasingly, I had to protect Naseeba from her
father. He loved her only up to a point. He cuddled her and played with her, but the
moment she became distracted or failed to respond to him, be grew agitated. He could
not countenance her tears, so I trained her not to cry. As with Mustafa, I tried to
anticipate all her needs so that she would not complain. Like a sprinter consigned to a
marathon, I was exhausted by the end of each day.
One morning as Mustafa shaved, Naseeba was in the bathroom with him. She splashed
about in a bubble bath for a while, until the water was no longer a novelty and the
bubbles ceased to fascinate her. The moment I heard her whimper, I rushed in and said,
'I'd better take her. out. She's tired.'
'No,' Mustafa said calmly. 'Leave her there.'

'But she's tired.'
'You can't take her out. I have ordered her to stay there.'
'Ordered? But, Mustafa, she's only a year and a half.'
'So what? She'd better learn to obey from this age.'
I stood there, flustered, helpless and desperate to avert: a crisis. Naseeba's wails
increased, and Mustafa's anger rose, in proportion. I tried to divert my daughter's
attention by splashing her with water, but she only cried harder. He told me coolly,
'Leave her and go.' I was as frantic as he was calm. For a few moments there was a
stand-off. Mustafa continued to shave, Naseeba kept crying and I stood at the door,
frozen with fear.
Suddenly Mustafa turned towards 'Naseeba with menace in his eyes. She screamed,
looking at him with her big, frightened eyes. He grabbed her and pushed her head
under the water. I ran to them and begged him to let go, but he shoved me aside and
held her under, with an expression on his face that said he was determined to teach us a
lesson. My mind flashed through horrific alternatives. My baby was drowning! But if I
struggled with him, I would only increase his anger. I pleaded with him, but he would
not relent. An eternity passed before me. Then, when Naseeba's struggles finally
diminished, he released his grip.
I pulled my baby out of the water. She coughed and spluttered. Her, eyes bulged with
fear. I shot I sharp glance at Mustafa, but the look in his eyes was so evil that I could
only clutch Naseeba and run out.
Naseeba was afraid of water from that moment on. Bath-time was an ordeal, a
punishment. Water and screaming went together, and I made sure that I bathed her
when her father was absent.
I was afraid to let Mustafa take her out on his own. An innocent walk in the park might
turn into an excursion to hell.
I dreamed of, release, but reality, stood in front of me like a stone wall. Divorce was just
not possible. British and Pakistani law might be on my side, but in the feudal world, a
man retains control of his daughter, and I knew that Mustafa would use her as a
hostage to assure my loyalty. I was willing to forsake everything - except Naseeba. I
began to hope secretly that Mustafa would die, but I buried these thoughts quickly and
deeply, terrified that he would somehow discover them.

A prisoner ultimately settles into a monotonous routine. Anger recedes; senses dull. The
spirit is crushed.
It was increasingly apparent that money was pouring in from various sources to
support the cause. (Later on Kabul and Syria would also help them.) The Bhutto boys,
who a short time earlier were more or less normal young, men enjoying the casual
benefits of western society, were now transformed into well-financed revolutionaries.
Mustafa benefited, too. A courier arrived from Agha Hasan Abidi of the Bank of Credit
and Commerce International, delivering a briefcase containing £50,000. Mustafa asked
me to deposit the cash in my mother's safe.
The new-found status as politicians inspired Mir's confidence, and he very quickly
challenged the power and authority of his teacher. He was, after all, a Bhutto, and the
surname worked magic. It became unnecessary to share anything with Mustafa. Husna
fed this. She warned Mir that his father had never completely trusted Mustafa, and
advised him to strike out on his own. Both brothers moved out of our flat and into a
suite.
The young Bhuttos' revolution went jet-set. Tailored suits replaced blue jeans. The
selfconscious demeanor of the young student gave way to swagger. Women and other
accessories of the fast lane were now available to them. While their adventurous
lifestyle of subterfuge, intrigue and high risk had proved irresistibly romantic to other
young men of their age, now they were increasingly seen in the company of mink-clad
ladies. One of Mir's longstanding companions was the glamorous - and much older wife
of a Mediterranean politician. To me, the Bhutto boys seemed like mixtures of Che
Guevara and characters that had stepped out of a Harold Robbins novel.
Although the relationship was growing strained, Mustafa continued to work with the
boys. They decided that the People's Party needed to demonstrate to the world that it
stood by its imprisoned leader, and called for a rally in front of the Pakistan Embassy in
Lowndes Square. In Pakistan, this would have been an open invitation to slaughter; but
in the UK it could be civilized protest. The question was: Would the expatriate masses
turn out?
They came in spontaneous waves, from all over Europe, carrying home-made banners
and placards. The legend Save Bhutto was emblazoned on their T-shirts. They gathered
solemnly at Speakers' Corner and marched off to save their leader from the hangman's
noose. The serpentine procession snaked its way from Park Lane and assembled in front
of the Embassy. Mustafa, Mir and others gave fiery, speeches.
We could only hope that the international news coverage would pressure Zia into
sparing Bhutto's life.

We moved to a little cottage in Arkley Lane in Barnet, very close to my parents' home.
Compared with the flat it was an improvement yet it irked me to be the mistress of a
home that was decorated so distastefully. I tried to improve it, but the cheap
reproduction French furniture stuck out hideously, no matter what I did to hide it.
Nylon carpets made it all worse. I felt terribly disoriented in this new environment.
As I waited out my pregnancy, the political intrigue deepened. Bhutto's nephew, Tariq
Islam, visited his uncle in prison and related the event to us in England. He said that his
uncle weighed only six and a hailstone. His hands and feet were swollen. His chronic
gum ailment had been exacerbated by neglect. Stomach cramps left him in a permanent
state of agony.
Even so, Tariq said, his uncle was mentally alert and eager to discuss politics. He
wanted to know about developments both in Pakistan and abroad. He was pleased to
hear that his sons had become active in politics and were campaigning to save his life.
He asked about Mustafa, too, wanting to know if his protégé was a good orator. When
Tariq said yes, Bhutto declared with a wry smile, 'Not better than me.'
As the conversation continued, Bhutto grew more confused and depressed. He could
not understand why the people had not stormed the prison gates to free him. Where
was the spontaneous uprising that would sweep away the dictator?
Tariq requested that Bhutto give him a message to carry to the People's Party leaders
that would revitalize the party. 'Do they want me to spoon-feed them?' Bhutto replied.
'Don't they know what they have to do?'
****
All the Bhutto brothers' international campaign came to naught Zia made sure that
Bhutto died many times already dead when the body was hanged. During his time in
prison, he was constantly humiliated and insulted. The proud former prime minister
was forced to use a noxious, opentoilet in the presence of a guard. A brigadier was
placed in the opposite cell expressly to provoke him to a frenzy. The brigadier knew the
pressure points, he used the most foul language to debase Bhutto's mother, mocking
and taunting until the former prime minister would lose his composure.
On 3 April 1979 Benazir was taken to see her father and informed that it would be the
last visit. She was dismayed to find herself separated from him by iron bars and a large
table, but when she pleaded with the guards to allow her to embrace him, he
admonished, 'Don't ever beg them for anything.' She had brought him his favorite
perfume, Shalimar, and some books. He accepted the perfume but refused the books
with a wry smile, explaining, I don't think I'll have time to finish these.' She handed him

a razor and he said, 'Good I'll shave this beard off. I do not want to die like a bloody
mullah.'
Here, accounts merge fact and fiction. What actually happened may never be known. It
is said that the brigadier, Bhutto's tormentor, walked into the cell at about one o'clock in
the morning following Benazir's visit. He handed Bhutto sheets of paper and a pen, and
demanded his confession. Bhutto started to write. His mind must have been clogged
with memories - thetriumphs, the adulation of adoring crowds. Where had it all fled.
Here he was, terrifyingly alone, with a blank sheet of paper in front of him. He knew
that the proper words of compromise might save him. But, on a sudden impulse, he tore
up the paper and flung away his life.
The brigadier rose and kicked Bhutto in the stomach. Some say that Bhutto was beaten
unconscious, but that he regained his senses as he was carried off to the gallows - that
he staggered, fell, stood up and walked the final steps with dignity and defiance. Others
say that he was already dead when the body was hanged.
Whatever the truth, the outcome was the same. The People's Party, and Pakistan, had a
martyr.
I was in the last stages of pregnancy. Father was away on business in Japan and Minoo
was at home on holiday from school when Mustafa and I went to visit Adila was
dressed as if she were ready to go to a dinner party. She wore a crepe de Chine shirt and
trousers, draped with a stylish chiffon veil.Her face was fully made up. She paid special
attention to Mustafa, leaning forward, drinking in his every word.
Mother interrupted the conversation at one point and instructed, 'Adila, make some
coffee.'
My younger sister, pouted. 'I'm not feeling well,' she complained 'Zarmina should make
it'.
With a sigh, Zarmina went off to the kitchen Adila resumed her worshipful pose. She
expressed great interest in Mustafa's assessment of the current political situation in
Pakistan and leaned forward expectantly, awaiting more. She did not appear ill.
Suddenly, in a tone that allowed no argument, Minoo snapped, 'Adila, get up and leave
the room!'
Adila was shocked, but complied.

I was curious to know why Minoo objected so sharply to Adila's presence in the room
and, after we had returned to our own home, I called her and asked. Minoo was very
agitated. She told me that she had seen Mustafa pick up Adila from school and drive off
with her. She did not know where they went, but they were gone for three hours.
I felt my body, freeze.
Minoo explained, 'When you and Mustafa entered today, I kept looking at Adila I
wanted to see her reaction. She had are dressed up only after she was told you were
coming. Her whole being responded to him. The way she was sitting, the glances they
exchanged, were tell-tale. I could not tolerate it. I had to tell her to leave the room. There
is a limit to such blatant flirtation. I am surprised no-one else in this family noticed.'
I was certain that Mustafa had.
'I had it out with her after you left,' Minoo reported. 'I gave her hell. Mummy and
Zarmina were there, too. This sort of behavior is just not acceptable. Who does she think
she is?'
After I hung up the phone, I stood paralyzed for a few moments. Then I went to
Mustafa and confronted him. He stared straight into my eyes and denied the whole
story. 'It's pure nonsense,' he contended. I never picked her up from anywhere.'
I was not convinced, but I had no way of discovering the truth.
Mustafa was quick to implement the proper defence. He suggested that Minoo still
resented him, due to their first encounter. Once again he undercut my moorings: isolate
the enemy and then crush him. I did not know who or what to believe. Was Minoo
doing this because she harbored ill will for Mustafa? Was she upset because of
Mustafa's obvious preference for the baby of the family. Were all my sisters attempting
to win his affections, to become the favored sister-in-law?
The following morning I received a frantic phone call from Mother. Adila had run away
from home and no-one knew where she was. 'It's all Minoo's fault,' Mother snapped
Adila was accused of all sorts of terrible things. She is obviously very hurt. Minoo
implied that something was going on between Mustafa and Adi....'
Mother was characteristically more terrified by the prospect of a developing scandal

than by the reality of the matter. She was determined to keep this entire episode under
wraps, so she now turned to the villain for help. Mustafa was supposed to travel to
Liverpool that day for a political meeting, but he agreed to cancel his trip to help us
locate Adila. He left to search London, as I headed for Mother's house.

Throughout the morning Minoo phoned Adila's friends, trying to track our runaway
sister. Mother feared the worst, but she tried desperately to conceal her hysteria behind
a calm exterior. She paced about, gulping coffee.
Mustafa called during the afternoon to report no success. Mother broke down on the
phone and begged him not to give up the search. Mustafa offered reassurance, he was
coming over to discuss a plan. When he arrived, he disclosed that his plan was to tap
Mother's phone, as well as ours (As this sort of thing goes on in Pakistan all the time, we
accepted what he said). He was positive that Adila would attempt to contact someone
in the family and, when she did so, 'We'll be able to trace her,' he explained 'I've spoken
to the appropriate authorities. They've agreed to help us find her.'
Mustafa and I left for our own home, along with Dai Ayesha and Naseeba. On the way
Mustafa stopped to buy two bottles of wine. 'How could you think of wine at this time?'
I asked 'Everything is in such a mess. When will you find time to sip this wine?' He
mumbled a confused reply something about us having run out of stock. He dropped me
off at the house with instructions to sit by the phone, then went off to, continue the
search.
It was 10 p.m. when Adila called, sounding very hurt. She vowed, 'I'm never going back
to that house. They all hate me. They have accused me of having designs on Mustafa.
Mustafa is like my brother. Even you don't trust me. I'm not going home, ever. I'll call
later.' The telephone clicked dead. I immediately called my mother and reported the
conversation.
When Adila called back about an hour later, I insisted that 'I had to see her, and
reminded, her that Father would be furious if and when he found out about her latest
episode. She relented and said, 'Come and see me at the Hilton Hotel, in the lobby.'
Before I had a chance to leave, Mustafa called and I reported this latest development.
Why don't you come there and handle her,' I suggested. 'We have to get her to return.'
He agreed to meet me at the Hilton.
With Dal Ayesha and Naseeba in tow, I rushed over in a taxi. Dressed in a caftan that
doubled as a maternity gown, I walked into the hotel only a few moments before
Mustafa appeared. As Adila made a grand entrance into the lobby, I noticed that
Najeeb, who had spent a lot of time with us at the Hampstead flat and was a close
friend of Mir Bhutto, also happened to be there. He remained in the shadows.
We sat at a table, in the lobby and spoke in hushed tones. I tried to reason with Adila,
but when I saw that she remained obstinate. I tired of her shenanigans and told Mustafa
to pick her up and drag her to the car. 'If she were your daughter, you would have

killed her by now. You wouldn't sit around a table negotiating her return. Don't you
remember Minoo', I asked 'Just put her into the car. She doesn't have a choice.'
Adila was adamant that she would not go home 'I'm in love with an Iranian boy,' she
announced with a pout 'I'm going to stay with him. You can't stop me'
I stared daggers at her, waiting for Mustafa to assume the role of a protective and
domineering brother-in-law, as he had done with Minoo. But I was astonished to hear
him suggest, 'Listen, I think that we should send her to him with Dai Ayesha as a
chaperone.'
It was an incredible proposition, and completely out of character with Mustafa's feudal
standards. I was disgusted 'How can you even suggest such a thing' I asked 'Adila has
to go home. There's no other way'
Adila's manner grew more aggressive. We raised our voices, and I heightened the
emotion by pulling at Adila, trying to get her out of her chair to move her towards the
door. She struggled against me, and ripped my caftan at the neck.
At first Mustafa was a passive spectator to our wrestling match. But then, in an
apparent attempt to avoid a scene in this five-star hotel, he hammered out a
compromise. If Adila would not come with us, and if I would not leave her on her own,
we would all have to stay here together for the night until we could sort out our
disagreements. Najeeb suddenly emerged from the sidelines and stood next to Mustafa
at the front desk as he booked a room. I found this strange, but could not decipher why.
I shook my head as if to shake off the confusion, located a phone and informed our
mother of the plan. Adila stood by my side, making sure that I did not disclose where
we were.
That night, Adila and I shared a bed with Naseeba Mustafa and Dai Ayesha slept on the
floor.
Very early in the morning, mother and Minoo barged in. Mustafa jumped up in surprise
and, offered a quick excuse to leave on his delayed trip to Liverpool I thought he looked
very sheepish as he walked out of the door, but I turned my attention to the tense
family crisis. Mother angrily explained that she and Minoo had played sleuth all night,
calling the security officers at every hotel in London, complaining of an underage
runaway. They had finally discovered that this particular room had been booked the
previous morning by Najeeb, in the fictitious name of Samina Khan!
Pieces of the puzzle suddenly came together. Images flashed through my mind. Had
Mustafa and Adila spent the day here together? Was he with her when she called me?

Were they laughing at us? I shot an involuntary glance at the bed where I had slept all
night. Had they been there? On those same sheets? I 'felt sick.
Still, my vegetable brain refused to acknowledge what was now so clear Adila told us
that she had met up with the Bhutto brothers, who were friends of the Iranian boy. She
claimed that she had spent the entire day with them. Minoo had doubts, but both
Mother and I used Adila's explanation as sand in which to bury our heads. Each of us
maintained our personal charade. Adila insisted on coming home with me. When
Mother refused to let her, she snapped, 'Why can't I stay with Tehmina? If I can spend
nights with Rubina, I can spend nights with Tehmina. I'm not going home. I want to
stay with Tehmina. You will not let us get close to her. You hate her for some reason.'
Mother gave up arguing, due to mental exhaustion, but her permission was temporary.
She ordered Adila to leave my house and come home the very moment that Mustafa
returned from Liverpool.
I desperately wanted to talk to Adila that day, but as soon as we walked into my house
she gobbled several sleeping pills and went to sleep. She woke only when Mustafa
arrived I reminded her that she was under. Mother's order to leave now, but she was
freshly defiant.
Mustafa told me that Adila wanted to speak to him privately. 'I think I have to sort her
out,' he said. 'I have to put some sense in her head. So if you could leave us alone for a
while, we could talk.'
'I don't see why she can't talk in front of me,' I responded. 'She's my sister. What's she
afraid of?'
'She doesn't trust any of you. You'll tell your mother about her problems. She needs to
talk to someone she can trust.'
I gave in, as he knew that I would. I did not want to believe that I was being betrayed. I
was confused. For too long now, Mustafa had pulled all my strings, like a puppet
master, and now those strings were hopelessly, perhaps permanently, entangled.
That evening, Mustafa had to contend once more with my mother and Minoo. They
arrived unexpectedly and marched into the house. Mother, appearing broken but severe
and resolute was armed with the Koran. She commanded, 'Adila, get into the car!' Adila
began to object, but Mother silenced her with a sharp slap in the face. Then she turned
to Mustafa and said, 'I am carrying the Holy Book in my hand. In its name, get out of
our lives! You're a cunning and evil man. You're destructive. I warn you not to play
with our family's honor. I want you to send my daughter tome immediately I won't let
her remain in your house.'

'What do you know?' Mustafa retorted. He took Mother by the arm and guided her into
the living-room. He tried adopting a more reasonable tone. 'I have saved this family's
honor,' he claimed. 'But I had rather not talk about it.'
Minoo interrupted and rudely accused Mustafa of corrupting the morals of a minor.
'Don't Make up stories to cover up the truth,' she warned.
My response was that of a conditioned zombie, who could neither discern the whole
truth of the matter nor deal with it. I was a dutiful wife, only conscious that it was my
role to defend Mustafa. I ordered Minoo out of my house, because she was insulting my
husband.
Mother dragged Adila to her car and they drove off.
I needed to hear the truth from Mustafa and I reasoned with him to clear my doubts I
told him that if I was to defend him to my family, I needed to know the facts.
Mustafa read from a new script 'Minoo was right,' he said 'I did pick Adila up from
school that day. I didn't want to tell anyone what I was doing with her, so I denied the
story. Adila was pregnant. It was that Iranian boy. I had taken her to a clinic for an
abortions. I was protecting your family's honor. For this I am being painted as a
dishonorable man. It's a strange world when you're condemned for your kindness.
I wanted desperately to believe my husband, and so I did. Armed with this fresh
evidence of his innocence, I went to see my mother. She demanded proof - the receipt
for the abortion. Mustafa did not have it Mother wanted to know where the abortion
was performed Mustafa would not tell. At this point Mother decided that she would
have no more to do with Mustafa and me. This was not a workable relationship.
I discussed my mental anguish with my obstetrician. She was a Welsh woman who was
very sympathetic to my plight. Her face reacted with revulsion when I told her how
Mustafa beat me. He's very violent, I said 'I'm miserable with him.' I asked for
tranquilizers, and she wrote a prescription for Valium, assuring me that it would not
endanger my child.
My father had prepaid the childbirth costs prior to our current estrangement, so on 27
December 1979, when I went into labor, Mustafa drove me to a small, exclusive clinic in
the Hampstead area. His expression carried a sense of mild rebuke. He considered these
facilities to be excessive for mere childbirth. My obstetrician greeted me warmly, but
was cool to Mustafa. I missed my family intensely, once again cut off from them when I
needed them most.

Apart from the physical pangs of childbirth, I was racked with guilt. I was tortured by
the prospect that my baby might not be normal, owing to my suicide attempt.
Throughout my labor I prayed to God to forgive my selfishness and spare my baby
from punishment.
My heart pounded with fear as I strained for the first look at my new daughter Nisha.
Instantly my anxiety evaporated and was replaced by unconditional love. I removed the
locket from my neck - inscribed with the name of Allah - and placed it around hers to
protect her from the evil eye.
Two hours after my daughter's birth, Mustafa came into my private room and sat by my
bed. I could see that he was tense and angry. He was in the mood that I most feared, yet
I could not restrain myself from pouring out my own frustrations. I wondered even if
my, suspicions concerning him and Adila are not true, how could a man of Mustafa's
intellect allow this mess to take over our lives. One of the reasons I had married him
was to elevate myself in my mother's eyes, but all I had found was additional
humiliation and pain. Now, I realized, I had been allowed a safe moment to vent my
rage. He would not dare strike me here in such a public place, at such a time.
I complained 'Mustafa, you've messed up everything. Here I am in a hospital, all alone.

You have created havoc by your connivance and intrigue. You're like an old, petty
village woman who thrives on carrying tales and keeping families apart.' He listened to
this tirade with mounting fury. I saw the rage growing, but I could not stop. 'You have
cut me off from my family,' I accused 'I have four sisters I have a brother. Parents.
Where are they? Why aren't they with me today? Think about it who's responsible?
Think.'
Mustafa rose from his chair and slapped me hard, two hours after I had delivered his
child. With methodical movements, he lashed his hand across my face, back and forth.
Then he resorted to his favorite tactic, twisting my forearm until I thought the limb
would crack in two. I bit fiercely into my lip to avoid crying out.
He left me, bruised and battered in my hospital bed, and went to the airport to meet his
thirteen-year-old son Bilal, who was flying in from Pakistan to live with us.
My obstetrician found me alone in my room, weeping. Why should I be so devastated at

such a joyous moment? She knew, and she listened quietly as I sobbed out the details.
Then she advised softly, 'Nobody can help you unless you help yourself.'
I knew that she was right. Why did I not cry out as he beat me? Why did I not attract the
doctors and nurses and demand that someone call the police? What could they do?
What could the police do? They would admonish Mustafa, but sooner or later I would

be alone with him, in a worse predicament than before. My silence was not to protect
Mustafa; it was to protect myself.
My father did not call to see me or the baby, but he sent me a locket with a prayer
inscribed on it. I was touched by the gesture - which told me that he had access to me
through his prayers. I needed them.
My obstetrician helped me in the only way she could, by finding purported medical
reasons to keep me in the clinic for a few extra days. When finally it was time to leave,
Mustafa arrived with a present for me, a very expensive white Cashmere coat. Quite
obviously, this was supposed to be compensation.
With the execution of Bhutto in April 1979, a portion of the exiled community rallied
around his sons and distanced themselves from Mustafa. Adventurism was in the air.
The would-be terrorists had outgrown their air guns and, by 1981, were shopping for
the real thing. The revolutionary group known as Al-Zulfikar, aka the Pakistan
Liberation Army, was born. The Bhutto brothers and their supporters compiled hit lists,
planning to assassinate the key figures of the Zia regime, leaving a power vacuum that
they could fill. They moved to Afghanistan and set up a secret -training camp in Kabul.
The Americans were supporting Zia against the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. The
constitution had been violated by the man they supported. The young Bhutto boys'
father had been murdered by hanging, their mother and sister were confined. They had
no option but to take up armed struggle with the help of those few countries which
were prepared to guide them and provide shelter.
Mustafa was not privy to the plot, but he learned a few of the details, and he argued the
futility of attempting to dislodge the generals forcibly. He understood the impatience, of
the Bhutto boys, but he could not condone their plans. Pakistanis, are repelled by acts of
sabotage and assassination. Mustafa knew that Al-Zulfikar would attract not only hard-
core activists, but infiltrators from the world's intelligence services. He worried that Al-
Zulfikar would give Zia the pretext for a witch-hunt to eliminate any trace of People's
Party support. Terror was certain to be met with terror, and the innocent would suffer
torture, imprisonment and the gallows. In sum, he was convinced that this outlaw army
would tarnish the image of the entire party and would only slow down the peaceful
struggle for the restoration o democracy.
Mustafa favored a more prosaic style of politics. He travelled across the country and the
continent, addressing large public meetings, stirring sagging spirits, rebuilding the
party, always with me in tow. He became the tireless cheerleader, arguing for sensible
change. Old friends and colleagues dropped in constantly, and the subject was always
politics. I enjoyed their conversations, and slowly realized that, whatever the horror of

my private life, I could find reason for existence in working for the liberation and
betterment of my home-land.
On 18 February 1980, my twenty-seventh birthday, my father telephoned to extend the

family's forgiving hand. Three months of estrangement had passed. No-one in my
family had seen Nisha. Father asked what I wanted for my birthday and I answered, 'To
see you.'
He replied in a choked voice, 'Come tonight'
Mustafa happily agreed.
That evening, as we climbed the stairs to the upper section of the house, we
encountered Adila, coming down. Mustafa had no choice but to ignore her and follow
me up; to me, it signaled my ascent and her descent.
Stuttering a little at first, family life began again and, gradually became more coherent.
But it seemed that each step closer to my family took me further from my husband.
Mustafa's obsessions took perverse forms. Whenever he saw me laughing or joking with
my parents, his mood darkened, and I knew that the next moment we were alone he
would find a pretext for an argument that would lead to violence. A spiral of allegations
began as soon as we returned home at night and continued until daylight seeped
through the curtains. He picked up my own words and hurled them back at me until I
lost the thread of logic. He underscored intermittent points with his fists or his shoes
Inevitably, I apologized for whatever supposed outrages I had committed. 'Are you
really sorry?' he would goad.
'Yes.' 'Are you sincerely sorry?'
'Yes, yes.'
'Your tone is wrong. You don't sound as if you're sorry'.
This was as it had been during my childhood years, when I obeyed Mother, but did not
look obedient. I replied, 'Mustafa, I'm exhausted. Please believe me. I'm sorry.'
'But you don't really feel - that you did something wrong.'
'But I do. I do.'
'Two hours ago you were explaining your position. You were defending yourself.'

'I thought—'
'—Thought? Thought? You thought you could justify your actions. Do you still think?'
'No. You have, proved that I was wrong to think.'
Our relationship had become one long argument. These nocturnal verbal skirmishes
were almost the only way in which Mustafa communicated with me. He had a
repertoire of abuses so vile that they would make a whore blush. He could shred me to
ribbons with his tongue.
I bore the sole responsibility of camouflaging our relationship, from others. Mustafa
was extraordinarily clever. He had the facility to point all blame at me, and if others
were to learn of my humiliation, it would be turned around to reflect badly only on me.
In Mustafa's male-dominated society, he would always emerge smelling like roses.
Despite the bitterness that pervaded our lives, we continued to act the gracious host and
hostess as we entertained friends and political contacts. Media men, powerful
politicians and old acquaintances from abroad constantly, arrived on our doorstep. In
preparation for our dinners, Mustafa played the role of the Great Chef as Dai Ayesha
and I served as his menials. Mustafa conjured gastronomic fantasies; Dai chopped and
peeled; I cleaned up the mess. Mustafa had a fit if we altered his instructions in the
tiniest detail, or if we were too slow - or if I had failed to anticipate any item that he
might require. The proximity of huge, sharp-honed knives added a chilling dimension
to these cooking sessions. Dai Ayesha was as fearful as I. She was a servant; thus,
Mustafa did not have to justify his thrashings of her at all. No errors were allowed. The
simplest omission brought his hand to her face or his foot to her buttocks. To Mustafa
her name was simply: 'You bloody bitch!' There was no possibility of her altering her
lot. She spoke no English and had no money. If she dared to run away, Mustafa's family
would vent his wrath upon her aged mother and other relatives in Kot Addu. She was
in bondage.
Mustafa watched me constantly, and my every action became staged and stilted. He
enjoyed seeing me squirm. I was even supposed to please him when he was, not
around. He journeyed to America to conduct some vague financial and political
business and, quite oblivious of the time difference, called me very early every morning.
If my voice sounded groggy, he was upset. It was my duty to be awake, alert and
awaiting his call. I was supposed to miss him.
It was during one of these trips that Mustafa granted me permission to go shopping
with Zarmina and Adila at Brent Cross. I bought some magazines but warned my
sisters not to tell Mustafa about them; he thought that they were a waste of time and
money. We giggled like schoolgirls, sharing a 'wicked' secret. When Mustafa called the

following morning, he cross-examined me about the shopping trip. He wanted to know
in detail what I had bought, and I told him about everything except the magazines.
'What else did you buy?' he asked His voice carried a tone of one-upmanship.
'Nothing,' I lied.
'I asked you what else you bought. Answer me truth fully. What else, huh?'
'Nothing.'
'I know you bought something else. I know you did. The sinister tone scared me. 'I will
always find out,' he warned. 'You disobeyed me. You bought some magazines, didn't
you? Come on, tell me. Didn't you?'
I broke under the pressure of his cross-examination, and as he abused me over the
longdistance line, I thought: Adila!
Mustafa was exercising downstairs when the phone rang. He answered, just as I
happened to pick up be extension Adila was on the line. I heard my sister ask my
husband, 'Do you love me? Tell me. Do you love me?'

I heard my husband respond to my sister, 'More than you will ever know.'
I came downstairs numb, feeling dirty and used. But I could not bring myself to
confront Mustafa. What was the best strategy? I was unable to react to this latest horror.
Then the phone rang again, and I overheard Mustafa promising to arrange a passport
for someone.
Within moments there was a third call. Dai Ayesha picked up the phone and announced
that the caller was Choudhry Hanif, one of Mustafa's comrades'. As Mustafa took the
phone, I sneaked back upstairs. Steeling myself, I quietly picked up the extension and
heard Mustafa say to Adila, 'I'll get you a passport. Don't worry. I'll get it done, but it'll
take some time.
'Hurry up and do it,' Adila insisted. 'I can't stand being without you anymore. I want to
get out of here, now. I want to live a new life with you - only you.'
I felt as if I would vomit. I was still unable to do anything at the moment, but my mind
began to fashion a counterattack.
That afternoon, we visited my parents. I was burning with silent anger and pain, but if
Mustafa sensed this he did not show it.
I found a moment to draw my mother and Adila into my parents' bedroom, and I took
the offensive. I complained to Mother, 'Mustafa told me about Adila - how she's chasing
and harassing him He's fed up Adila's trying to wreck my marriage. My husband is
warding off her advances. This must stop now. It is her fault. She is my sister. He has
asked you to control your. daughter. This girl has surpassed all limits of decency.'
Adila exploded and, called my bluff. 'He could never say all this,' she declared. 'Tell him
to come here and say it to my face. I will say nothing in my defence without his
presence. He is involved in this. Let him confront me.'
Mother lectured Adila on morality and told her to stop her childish games. She warned
that if our father learned of this, he would kill her.'
I added, 'Adila, I have enough problems without you compounding them. Leave us
alone We are in a difficult and uncertain phase of our lives. We are uprooted, living in
exile. Why are you bent on making our lives into a hell? I cannot cope.'
'I have done nothing,' Adila responded. 'Why don't you call Mustafa in? We will soon
find out what is happening. You are lying, not him.'

Her confidence forced me to back off in disarray. I was trapped in a maze of strange
motives, trying to cover my humiliation by defending the major party to the crime. He
was on her side of the fence and I was screaming in isolation from my side, trying to
eyewash his role in this affair, to protect myself from the degradation of his not wanting
me. My ego could not accept Mustafa and my sister together. I wanted Adila to feel that
he had dumped her. And I wanted Mother to feel that the man whom I had chosen to
protect me from the complex legacy of my childhood was, indeed, honorable. But the
smirk on Adila's face tore me apart.
When we returned home, I waited until Dai Ayesha took my babies to their room, and
Mustafa's son Bilal had gone to his own room. Mustafa and I stood in the midst of the
large living-room. The few pieces of furniture - a sofa, an armchair, and a television set
sat about the edges, leaving an immense void at the core of the room. Here, I suppose, I
felt relatively safe. It seemed like space to man oeuvre. My anger over the primary issue
receded; instead, the one I had created at Mother's house became paramount. How
should I tell him? My heart thumped with fear. I knew that I had to choose my words
carefully, to stress the point the truth - that I had attempted to defend him, and thus
myself. I began by explaining that I had overheard his telephone conversations with
Adila. Then I told him how I had confronted Adila in front of my mother in such a way
that the blame would fall upon Adila, so that my parents would not lose respect for
him.
The wheels turned in his head and instantly I realized my mistake I had put Adila on
the spot. Cornered, she might find a reason to tell the truth! If Mustafa thought that I
had saved him, he would have been ecstatic. Instead, he was trapped. It was all
topsyturvy. Suddenly I became the, guilty party.
It happened in an instant Mustafa's eye fell upon his double-barreled shotgun, which
stood against the wall next to the TV set In one swift movement he reached out with his
right hand, grabbed the barrel and swung it at me. The wooden butt of the gun
slammed into my side I fell, but instinctively scrambled to my feet I screamed, 'You
have destroyed my life!'
He silenced me with another blow. I crumpled to the floor and drew my feet up against
my belly for protection. He struck me repeatedly with the heavy gun stock, aiming for
my back, my side, my legs, but he was in sufficient control to attempt to avoid striking
me on the head. His face was a blur, an object that I must fear and obey without
question. I tried to stifle my screams, lest Dai Ayesha and the children hear, but I could
not. I knew that, by now, they must be huddled nearby, frightened to death.
I began shouting for Bilal's help. Mustafa only stopped when he saw evidence of
obvious damage. Some of his blows were errant. My mouth showed blood. 'Ring up

your mother this instant!' he raged. 'Tell her you are mad. Tell her you made up
everything. Pick up the phone!'
'I - I can't do that,' I sobbed. 'She will never believe me. I can't change my story. She will
suspect.'
The force of his blow interrupted me. 'Stand up, you bitch!' he commanded. There was a
new, ominous, more methodical timbre to his voice. 'Stand up.'
I was barely able to rise, but I did as he ordered. 'Take off your clothes,' he shouted.
'Every stitch. Take them off.'
I trembled, clutching at the cloth of my baggy shirt, and when he saw that I could not
respond he grabbed one arm and twisted it behind my back until I shrieked in pain and
screamed that I would obey.
He backed off and sat in an armchair. He watched as I slowly began to remove my shirt.
Again I was aware of the emptiness of the room, but this time it looked unsafe. There
was no place to hide, nothing to which I could cling. I slipped out of my trousers. Clad
only in a bra and panties, I stared at him, pleading, begging, crying for him to allow me
to stop. But there was no reprieve. I felt blood drying on my swollen lips and nose. With
trembling fingers, I pulled off my underclothes.
He sat in the chair with his arms extended on either side, like a king on his throne. His
eyes ran up and down my naked body, invading. His expression was grim, his lips
tightly pursed. His eyes narrowed, searching, glinting, gloating.
Never before had I felt so totally humiliated, so utterly controlled. I could see on his face
the awareness of the importance of this moment. This episode would cripple my spirit -
perhaps beyond salvation. From this moment forward, it would be nearly impossible
for me to function as an individual. There was not one iota of self-esteem left. The
shame had burned it down to ashes. I was exposed as nothing.
'Please, Mustafa,' I cried, 'for the sake of the Prophet, let me wear my clothes.'
'Pick up the phone. Make the call first. Then we'll see.'
'How can I call without my clothes? Please, let me put them on first.'
He hurled profanity at me. He dragged my family through the gutter. Emptiness

engulfed my senses. I could not reach out to anything. I could barely stand. My knees
knocked against each other. My hands and arms were not sufficient to cover my

nakedness. I wanted to grasp something. I tried to kneel on the floor, but as I bent my
knees, he screamed. I rose immediately.
I stood there for many moments, begging and pleading, invoking the names of Allah
and the Prophet.
'I'll call,' I whispered., 'Let me wear this, please.' Finally, he reached to the floor, grasped
my crumpled, 'blood-stained shirt and threw it to me.
He nodded, lips still pursed, watching intently as I slipped into the shirt.
Burning with shame, I called my mother. But my mind and tongue would not
coordinate. I babbled. Instead of saying that what I had told her were lies, I fluffed my
rehearsed lines and said that it was all true - at the moment, I did not know the
difference.
Mustafa grabbed the phone from my hand, slammed it into its cradle and beat me with
renewed vigor. I cried out for forgiveness and begged, for another chance.
Once more I called. I was trembling and crying when I told my mother what Mustafa
wanted me to say. Then, he took the phone, with a look of triumph on his face.
'Tehmina isn't well at all,' he said with feigned compassion. 'She's going mad.' He
referred to the meningitis that had struck me down as a child, he knew that my mother
still attributed my rebellious nature to that episode, 'She's imagining things,' he
contended. 'She fantasizes. She hates Adila for some reason. Perhaps you will know
better, as her mother, what her complex about poor Adila is. I promise you, Adila has
never committed the crimes Tehmma says she has. I'm dumbfounded by her allegations
and suspicions. She has confessed the truth now. She makes up vicious stories about
everyone, to torture them, but mainly to torture herself. She then goes into a cocoon and
sobs and cries inconsolably. I have had to bear all this with great patience. What she did
today is an example of what I have to go through each day. She wants to be a tragedy
queen.'
That night, Mustafa begged me to forgive him for inflicting such humiliation upon me,
but attempted to shift the blame on to me. He insisted that my ears had imagined the
telephone conversations between him and Adila. 'These things happen to people in
love, you know,' he said 'They love with such intensity that they can hear things that
worry them - they auto-suggest and go mad. You are, in any case, not mentally strong
because of the meningitis. It is not really your fault, and I should have controlled my
temper.' He bestowed benign smile upon me, opened his arms and warmly
commanded, 'Come to me. Like a zombie, I came. He hugged me and cradled me in his
arms ,I clutched back at him and cried uncontrollably. I knew that he was lying, yet I
did not know what to do about it. My mind was dead.

For a long time after this night, no matter how many layers of clothes I wore, no matter
with whom I was, I felt naked.
A week passed before Mother called us and, in a furious tone, proclaimed that Mustafa
should be sent to an asylum.
I was surprised by the outburst. What had happened now I wondered. Then Adila came
on the line and I realized that Mustafa's apprehensions were justified. Adila had finally
confessed to Mother and now, in measured words, she admitted to me, 'I've been
sleeping with him for three years I'm telling you this not as a sister but as a friend.
Mustafa hates you, Tehmina. Everyone hates you Mother hates you, too. There must be
something wrong with you. I'd leave him before he leaves you. Have some respect for
yourself'. Adila was graphic in the details, disclosing that Mustafa's son and Dai Ayesha
were both in on the long-term deception. 'Bilal arranges the meetings,' she said. 'He is
our go-between. He books the room in West Lodge Park Hotel Dai Ayesha has known
all along. Ask her. He had sex with me at the apartment that day when he dropped me
at school, remember. There was no Iranian boy, it was always Mustafa I was with him
that day at the Hilton - all day. When he called you, I was there.'
What this fifteen-year-old sister of mine was telling me was that Mustafa had been
having an affair with her since she was thirteen years old!
Full of anger, I questioned Bilal and Dai Ayesha. 'You'll have to ask my father,' Bilal
replied softly. Dai nodded.
Their reluctance to speak was an eloquent confirmation. I felt my anger rise, but I stifled
it. These two were like me, totally subjugated to Mustafa's will. Like me, they had no
option. I counseled myself to redirect my anger.
Mustafa came home soon found me in the bedroom. My body shook with both fury and
fear. My voice quavered. But from some deep reservoir I found the courage to confront
him.
He denied everything attempting to be glib but I could tell that he was as shaken as I
put him to the test, asking him to call Adila in Spain and expose her cruel game of
deception. He refused, but luck was not with him this day. The telephone rang and who
should be on the other end of the line but Adila herself! Mustafa spoke to her, aware
that I was listening on the extension 'I love my wife and children', he proclaimed 'I love
you too, but like a sister. You mustn't behave like this. You're hurting a sister. You lot of
people with your behavior.'
After the call, he stood in front of me, placed his hand on the Koran and swore that the
'affair' had occurred only in Adila's obsessive mind. He Contended, 'She has some

severe, deep rooted problem with you Tehmina. She wants our marriage to break at any
cost you know her. She's mentally unwell, very unwell. How can you believe all this?
Can you not see that she has related and adjusted all the incident to the times that she
knows you were suspicious? Don't let them get you. Your mother eats out of her hand.
Don't become gullible like her. We must fight her attack on our home together.'
I did not believe a word of what he said, yet I was prepared to live with the lie because I
was relieved to hear him say something against Adila, and I was also unprepared to
face the prospect of life on my own. Escape was not an option. He would take the
children. He would take the money. He might even take my life.
I realized that our marriage was sustained not by the relationship but by complicated
external forces my ego, tear of failure in the eyes of my family and society, fear of losing
my children, fear of losing my status as a married woman. But the most important
ingredient was Adila. If my marriage broke she won and I lost.
I rang up Mother in Spain to where she had rushed off with Zarmina and Adila,
spiriting her youngest daughter away from the scene of the crime. With boldness born
of resolute despair, I told her that my husband was not to blame if my sister was a slut
with that statement, Mother and I once more severed our ties.
In Spain, my mother instructed Zarmina to pamper the errant child, serving her
breakfast in bed and otherwise catering to all her whims - as if Zarmina were her
personal maid. Mother bought the fifteen-year old's entire trousseau in Marbella, to
pacify and divert her mind, and justified it with the explanation that Adila has suffered
heartache and betrayal at a very young age. She was impressionable and he exploited
that.'
Zarmina brooded over the injustice of it all and cried silently for her own and my
predicaments.
We flew to Sharjah in the United Arab Emirates. Only when we were aloft did Mustafa
reveal that we would also be visiting India for a meeting with Prime Minister Indira
Gandhi's son Rajiv. According to Pakistani law, it was an act of treason - punishable by
death - to ally with India, but Mustafa did not believe for one moment that his action
were unpatriotic, he saw the Indians as a means to an end. Working with India against
Pakistan was not treason, he justified it as 'Bhuttoism.'
In Sharjah, the night before we were to fly on to Delhi, we spent the evening with a
People's Party politician who knew nothing of our secret mission Mustafa blundered

breaking security when he mentioned that we were going to Delhi the next day. The
Politician expressed a desire to go but said that he did not have a visa Mustafa
surprised me by boasting that he could 'fix it.'
When we arrived at the Delhi airport, intelligence officers whisked us through, but they
stopped our friend. A well-known woman journalist from India was also on the flight,
and the incident raised her eyebrows. She wanted to know how we could get in without
visas. What kind of Pakistani politician was Mustafa? How could the Indian
government allow this?
The unwanted attention was poorly received by our host. Learning of the airport
incident, Rajiv Gandhi refused to compromise himself by meeting Mustafa in a firm but
polite message, he explained the danger of drawing attention to our clandestine visit.
Nevertheless, the treasonous Contacts Continued in England. Unbeknown to me,

Mustafa managed to arrange a meeting with Prime Minister Indira Gandhi herself!
And it was during this time - that I became pregnant with my fourth child.
Mustafa was again travelling to India I was in the second trimester of my pregnancy
when I learned from a friend that my seventeen-year-old sister Zarmmi would marry
Riaz Quraishi, the son of Nawab Sadiq Hussain Quraishi. I was sad to receive such
important news through a third party. Mustafa's intrusion into our lives had caused
havoc, and Mother had dictated that my name should not be mentioned in her home.
I knew that Mustafa would be emotionally and politically opposed Riaz's father had
been Governor of the Punjab during the time when Mustafa served as Chief Minister,
and had been appointed by Bhutto to succeed Mustafa after the two fell out Sadiq
Quraishi had withdrawn from politics following Zia's take-over and now concentrated
upon the business world, he owned the Pepsi-Cola franchise in Pakistan. His was an
ultra-conservative family that sought to indulge its women.
For Zarmina, whose world was fashion, this arranged marriage was a perfect match,
despite the fact that she had met Riaz only once - for tea with the family, - before the
proposal was accepted. Subsequently they spoke briefly via long-distance telephone.
Riaz had visited London during the engagement period, but the couple was not allowed
to spend any time together without a chaperone. I was very happy for her and knew
that she felt her prayers had been answered Zarmina had been a happy child despite
the preferential treatment that our fair-skinned sisters had received from our mother. In
age she was sandwiched between the beautiful and spirited Minoo and the
manipulative Adila, and was openly known as the 'Cinderella' of our household. Her
current status as Adila's handmaid was torture for her. This marriage would free her.

The groom and his relatives travelled from Lahore to London for the elaborate event
Zarmina and I had been very close. I wanted desperately to be there, to sing, to dance
and Zarmina's happiness but of Course I was not invited.
During the week Preceding wedding I visualized Zarmina in her bridal clothes and
tried to picture all the exciting events that I knew she was experiencing. My reverie was
interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. When I picked up the receiver no-one
spoke. I listened closely and heard wedding songs in the background and the
unmistakable beat of the dholki, a silver spoon used as a drumstick to accentuate the
rhythm of the music. There was laughter in the background 'Who is it? Who's there?' I
asked, but my questions were answered with a cruel silence. Then the phone went
dead.
This became a diabolical game. Someone was playing with my mind, exploiting my
isolation. As the wedding week continued the calls accelerated. I recoiled every time the
phone rang but I could not keep myself from answering. Who hated me enough to do
this? Adila?
I sent a friend to the wedding as my secret envoy. I wanted my sister know that despite
my enforced absence, I loved her and to would always pray for her happiness so
smuggled in a note telling her this. When she returned from the wedding, my friend
told me that Zarmina wept over my note. My spy displayed Polaroid photos of Zarmina
in her stunning dress of silver silk. The tissue-like fabric was embroidered with silver
and turquoise. Diamond jewellery sparkled in the light of the camera flash. The pictures
made me sob inconsolably. My little sister was the Princess and I was the stay at home
Cinderella.
When Mustafa returned from his trip I told him about the cruel and mysterious phone
calls that I had received during, the week, but he sloughed them off, accusing me of
taking mental field trips into dark fantasy. He attempted to distract me with new
clothes he had purchased for me, and with news. He had met Indira Gandhi. He
dismissed this act of treason as easily as he discounted the crank phone calls. To him,
India was the traditional enemy of Zia's Pakistan, not of the new nation that he was
fashioning. During the hour-long, secret discussion at the Prime Minister's residence in
New Delhi, she was articulate and approachable. They spoke of Bhutto's execution and
the prospects for restoring democracy in Pakistan. The Prime Minister of India and the
exiled Lion of the Punjab tried to analyze the reasons for the continued hostility
between their two nations, and both concluded that the Pakistani army had a vested
interest in maintaining border tensions, it made them necessary.
Mustafa was smug. He had pulled off a daring political coup. He saw this as the first
step in bringing a dramatic change to the, people of Pakistan.

A large segment of our population shared Mustafa's belief that the Pakistani army has
been the root cause of our problems. Proponents of this theory argue that the military,
jealously guarding their power and budget, are always suspicious of democracy.
Indeed, historically the military, have played a visible, interventionist role in Pakistan's
politics Mustafa theorized that Bhutto's great mistake was that he attempted to coexist
with the military. And, in fact, it was the army who toppled him, and General Zia who
ordered his execution.
The People's Party was split on this issue. Right-wingers recognized the army, with all
its faults, as necessary protection from the perennial Indian threat. But Mustafa and
many others caught the anti-army virus and nurtured it. It was a confusing malady,
complete with a fever that caused Mustafa to believe that the Pakistani army had to be
crushed. Only then would the politicians have a free hand at restructuring the lop-sided
system. But how could this be done? Mustafa's supporters did not have an armed force
of their own, of course, so they decided to look to India for salvation.
Mustafa indoctrinated me into blind acceptance. He conditioned me to respond to any

mention of the Pakistani army with hate and revulsion. He lectured: The army gobbles
up Pakistan's scarce resources, diverting them from industry. It keeps the people poor.
It prevents the nourishment of democracy. He Wanted nothing less than to foment
another India—Pakistan war. He was convinced that once the Indian army had defeated
the Pakistanis in battle they would roll back across their borders and allow civilians to
get on with the business of running our country. He did not believe that India wanted
hegemony over Pakistan. That country too, needed to divert its precious resources to
industry, without the necessity of spending enormous sums to defend itself against our
menacing armed forces.
Indira Gandhi warned Mustafa. 'We will have to crush and humiliate your army. Only
then can our two countries live in harmony. Only then the rule of civil law can you hope
to restore.
As Mustafa related all of this to me, his gaze took on a statesmanlike quality. 'What I am
about to do will be misunderstood,' he acknowledged. 'The people of Pakistan are
illiterate. They are rigid and do not have foresight - but that is the difference between
the leader and the led. For them, the Indians are the Number One enemy. They don't
realize that the army, which siphons off our country's money, and deprives them of a
better future, is the real enemy. Mine is a long-term plan, for our future, for our
children. The elite will not understand. They will oppose the plan as too radical. They
know that we will not just stop at the army. They, too, will have to give up their
illgotten wealth. Reforms will be extensive. The destruction of the army is just the first
step'. His voice grew hushed. He added, 'This is a dangerous secret.'

Mustafa waited only a short time after his return from India before he dropped a more
personal bombshell in my lap. We were plagued with strange phone calls, from some
unidentified person who would talk only to Mustafa. I found the whole thing juvenile.
'You're an old man now,' I chided (he was actually forty-four). 'Grow up.'
It was then that he 'confessed' 'to me that the Indian film goddess, Zeenat Aman, was
madly in love with him and wanted to marry him. They had met during his trip to New
Delhi. Mustafa reported with barely concealed pride that she was pursuing him,
harassing him. He said that the spate of calls was from her, and protested that he was
growing tired of them. But his phone conversations - if, indeed, they were from the
mysterious Zeenat Aman - did not convey the message that he was trying to brush her
off. I walked into the room during one call and heard Mustafa growl, 'If that man looks
at you again, I'll shoot both of you.' He realized that I had overheard this and he quickly
hung up. His expression was sheepish.
'So that's a brush-off, is it?' I asked sarcastically. 'You sounded more like a jealous lover.'
He had an explanation for everything. 'I knew you were there; I heard you,' he claimed.
'I was teasing you. There was no-one on the phone.' Then he opened his arms wide and
grinned a Cheshire-cat smile. 'Come here,' he commanded gently.
It was only a couple of hours later when he once more complained that Zeenat Aman
was making his life miserable. 'She won't take no for an answer,' he said, 'She wants to
marry me. What shall I do?
What a question to ask a wife! My sarcasm returned, and I lectured: 'Mustafa, you must
be honor-bound to your word, either to her or to me. If you cannot think of me - and
our two children and your child resting in my womb - as important,, then I think you
should leave us. If you feel that your commitment to Zeenat Aman is more sacrosanct
than the one you made to me, go to her. But please be loyal to somebody I'd like to see
some sense of loyalty in you, for somebody anybody - even another Woman.'
'I could never leave you or your children, he vowed.
'I love them. I love You I'd die without you.'
The constant making and breaking had taken its toll on me. The crack in our marriage
could not be papered over with words.
Mustafa said that he had arranged to meet Zeenat Aman this very night, outside a pub.
It as to be their last meeting, he would make a clean break with her. He wanted me to
come along, as a witness to his good intentions and he asked his friend and 'comrade'
Sajjad to accompany us.

I felt as if I were losing my senses as Sajjad and I sat inside the pub while my, husband
went outside to meet his girlfriend. Unbeknown to me, whoever he was meeting had
arrived in a chauffeured car. I ordered a Bloody Mary and set about converting it into a
curry, I dosed it with Tabasco and Worcester sauce and gulped at it. Saud remarked on
my tolerance, and i a told him that I was not sure why I was still with Mustafa. My only
defence was the weak and very tired explanation, 'Since I married Mustafa I have been
clinically dead.'
Mustafa came back into the pub and announced that he and Zeenat had argued, and she
had left. He appeared quite shaken. He told us no more.
That night, at home in bed, he clung to me like a child frightened of the bogey. He was
tired and agitated. He spoke very emotionally: 'I'll always love you. I've been a terrible
husband. I couldn't have had a more tolerant wife. I don't know how or why you have
stuck it out with me I've given you nothing. All the reasons you married me for have
remained unfulfilled. I have made you suffer in exile. I forced you to endure my fears
and my problems. I have put all my burdens on you, and you have carried them with
dignity. Whatever frustrations I've had, I've taken them out on you. I don't know how I
could have survived without you. I know you will leave me. Take the house in
Islamabad. Go there with our children and please try to forgive me.'
His disturbed tone softened me I did not know what, but something - or someone - was
putting pressure on him. I lowered my gaze and felt the tears well in my eyes. I
fashioned a response, and lifted my face address him.
He was asleep! Clearly he had made peace with whatever demons were chasing him.
The man delivered his passionate speech and then drifted off, as if he had resolved the
problem. My anger returned with full force, and I was ready to lash out with my
tongue, to rouse him from his stupor, when the telephone did the job for me.
Mustafa bolted upright, grabbed the phone and spoke to the caller in Punjabi dialect. He
repeatedly assured whoever was on the other end of the line that he would sort out the
problem in the morning.
'Who was it' I asked.
'It was Zeenat Aman's mother,' he said. 'She told that I should marry her daughter
tomorrow, otherwise they will publish the news of our romance. If they do so, it would
be my political death.'
I snapped, 'In that case, I suppose you must marry her.'
'I suppose I'll have to,' he whispered.

We lay there for several moments, not speaking. Soon, the sound of his breathing told
me that he had gone back to sleep. I was stupefied and suspicious. I slipped out of bed
and headed for the downstairs telephone. I called a friend who followed the Bombay
film scene. 'Is Zeenat Aman in London?' I asked.
'No, she's in Bombay,' my friend replied 'I think she's doing a film there - several films,
in fact.'
'Tell me, does her mother speak Punjabi?'
'No Why do you warn to know?'
'I'll tell you one day.'
I returned to bed, confused. This whole story about Zeenat Aman was so much tripe!
But if Mutafa had not met Zeenat Aman outside the pub, whom did he meet? I prayed
desperately to God and, if He did not answer, He at least allowed me to drift off to
sleep.
I dreamed that Zeenat Aman walked into our house and vanished. Then images of
Adila and my grand-mother appeared. They stepped inside my home and suddenly, we
were enveloped in flames. I smelled smoke and burning flesh. I woke in a cold sweat.
Could it possibly be Adila again? I wondered. Was she back to haunt me? After all I had
given up, all I had been through, could Mustafa dare to involve himself with my sister
again?
Early the following morning, my grandmother arrived at our house. 'She had Journeyed
from Pakistan for Zarmina's wedding, but I was startled to see her here. My mother had
announced that anyone who had contact with us must sever all ties with her, and my
mother was too domineering for anyone in the family to challenge her, my grandmother
indeed. Suddenly I realized that it was she who had called the previous evening - she
spoke Punjabi. When Mustafa saw her, he left the room quickly. His manner was that of
a guilty person.
My grandmother, breathless and very agitated, sat on my bed in tears, she told me that
Adila had informed my mother that she wanted to marry Mustafa and had given him
an ultimatum to divorce me. Mustafa had vowed to marry Adila, but had stalled for
time, using my pregnancy as an excuse. He based the delay upon the Koran, which, he
said, forbade a man to divorce a pregnant wife and also prohibits marriage to two
sisters at the same time. The real reason, I was sure, was that the scandal would ruin his
political image. To confirm Adilas's story my grandmother had called Mustafa.

My grandmother could not bear to see me deal alone with this continual suffering, but
she was also angry with on for bringing such a sick man into the family. My mother had
sent her to me this morning with a message: Mustafa has ruined you, but your sister is
young, you must not allow her to fall under his evil spell. To spare Adila, you must
sacrifice the remaining years of your life by not allowing him a divorce. If you leave
Mustafa, your parents have said that you should never think of returning to them.
Her words emptied me. I could see the future, and it was blank. I would have to be the
martyr, the shield for the family who had abandoned me - for the sister who had
betrayed me. There seemed no choice.
Leaving my grandmother alone upstairs, I went to talk to Mustafa, surprised at my own

sense of calm. He fell at my feet and begged me to toss a scrap of forgiveness into his
bowl. 'I'll treat you like a queen,' he vowed 'I won't beat you any more I'll be your slave
I'll do your bidding - whatever pleases you. Please don't leave me.'
It was traumatic as always to see such a brutish monster reduced to a pitiful groveling
mess. I knew that this would be a short-lived transformation, yet I grasped at it.
Together, we went, back to my grandmother. He sat with his head bowed while she told
us that my mother had run out of patience, and she delivered an ultimatum. 'There is a
sword hanging over the neck of this family. It is time to drop it. Let the bloody deed be
done. We will throw Adila out of the house. You can take her in if you want to.' I knew
that would never, happen and that she was speaking for effect, to force this man to
withdraw.
Mustafa's reaction belied everything he had said to me a few moments ago. 'Fine,' he
declared. 'If that's your decision, fine I'll go and bring Adila into my house.' But he
promised my grandmother, 'As long as Tehmina is in my house, I'll not touch Adila.'
The message was devastatingly, clear; I knew that with the birth of my baby I would be
discarded. His only restraint, by his interpretation of the Koran, was to keep his hands
off Adila while I was still pregnant. The years of abuse, sacrifice, lies and manipulation
bubbled in my head like some sort of poisonous stew. I became hysterical, the shrieks
emanating from a place I could not even identify. My screams brought Sajjad running
upstairs and our neighbors to our front door. I was completely out of control, in a state
of total madness. Sajjad gave me two tranquillizer tablets, but they had no effect. In the
midst of my agony, my grandmother left, saying that she had to be with my mother.
She disclosed that my mother just had a cataract operation, and conjectured that she
had ruined her eyes by crying endlessly over this mess. My father she warned was in
hospital, being treated for chest pains. We were all victims by this one man.

I fell silent for some time after Grandmother left. I could feel myself falling into the
snake pit. I was deluged by images of my life of humiliation and helplessness. My
nerves were threadbare from years of marriage to this man. I collapsed on to the bed
and allowed myself to scream relentlessly. Even in the midst of my hysterical despair, I
wondered why it had taken me so long to reach this point.
In an incoherent state, I listened as Mustafa called Adila, 'Tehmjna has had a nervous
breakdown, he told her. 'Your mother is taking all this badly. Your father will probably
die. We should stop their sakes.' My screams grew more hysterical; I knew that he was
stalling for time. It was not over.
That night, we were supposed to attend an important dinner. Mustafa insisted that I go,
but even he could see that it was impossible. He went alone.
I lay in bed, trying desperately to get to sleep before Mustafa returned. The effect of the
drug had worn off. I felt, as always, trapped in the darkness. It had been dark in the
bedroom that night in Pakistan - so long ago when he first beat me severely. Night was
the time when I had to face him alone. Night was when he had no other distractions and
could concentrate his fury upon me. Darkness was accompanied by evil. I thought of
howl had met him and why I had married him. Every other reason faded as my mother
magnified. I thought she would treat me better because I was married to an important
man with a strong personality, someone who could hold his own. His treatment of me
and his preference for Adila had reduced me to a worm, one that was slithering in the
muck and filth of dishonor and degradation. Never again could he serve the purpose of
winning Mother's approval for me. My anger rose, even as hopelessness invaded my
entire being.
I heard the car pull up outside the house and I was disgusted that he was home. I heard
the front door open and close downstairs, and I shook with anger. As his footfalls on the
stairs grew louder, my breathing nearly stopped.
He entered the room. I feigned sleep. He undressed, climbed into bed and had the
audacity to touch me - paw me - suggestively.
I pushed him away roughly with both hands, the first time that I had ever dared to deny
him.
His fury was instant. He hit me on my face, cutting my lips, raising black-and-blue
blotches on my cheeks. He clutched at me and pulled me from the bed. He threw me to
the floor, kicking out at me even as I fell. My forehead crashed against the corner of the
bedside table and I screamed in horror as blood gushed into my eye.

Seeing this, Mustafa instantly sobered. The gash on my brow was large and deep. He
glanced about the darkened room, found a towel and tossed it to me. I pressed it against
my forehead, but blood continued to flow. I was sure that I would faint.
'We'd better go to the hospital,' he -said. 'You need-stitches.'
During the hurried drive, my mind was spinning. Why had he chosen this moment to
beat me? Throughout the anguish and turmoil of the day he had kept his cool. He had
bottled the rage. Why did it explode now? I realized that, on this occasion, he had
actually lashed out in self-defence. Today, thanks to my grandmother, the truth had
emerged into the cold, clinical light. Prior to this we had all known about his affair with
Adila, but chose to utilize our various strategies to maintain the facade. But now the
worst had happened Adila, Mother, Grandmother, Mustafa, and I had all openly
acknowledged the truth. As with my mother, truth, to Mustafa, was the unpardonable
sin. His weaknesses were now well defined. He was vulnerable as never before. He
could not control my family, but he had to control me. He had to crush the seedlings of
rebellion, especially so because the reasons for it were genuine and adequate.
At the hospital, I told the doctor that I had fallen down the stairs. On the drive home,
Mustafa played chameleon once more. He apologized, using the same threadbare
words. Even as he pledged his undying love and compared me favorably to Adila, I
thought: Who is he to choose? Why have I given this man the privilege of choosing
between me and my sister? Why are we queuing for him to make his decision?
In a measured One laced with menace I dictated, 'Mustafa, call Adila. Tell her in no
uncertain terms that you love me and the children. Tell her to get out of our lives. She
has messed up our lives. She must be told by you to get out. Now!'
He refused.
'In that case,' I replied, 'drop 'me off at my father's house.
He agreed, but he made it clear that I would have to leave the children with him. He
drove without speaking, unable, to keep the smirk off his face. He knew, better than I,
the priorities of my family. My own priorities were so simple - I just needed an excuse
to forgive and forget, but it could only happen if Adila became convinced that she had
lost him to me.
I walked into my family's home and encountered a maid, Adila's long-time ally, who
had helped arrange their clandestine meetings. No one else was at home. They had all
gone to the clinic to visit my father. I looked around sadly and realized this is not my
home, this is the home of the other woman I stood alone in the large house, broken and

desolate, my head throbbing, my heart aching for my children I can't come back here! I
thought. And I have nowhere else to go!
'I phoned Mustafa and asked him to pick me up. He smugly agreed. Then I Left my
parents' house and stood outside, crying loudly and uncontrollably, awaiting his arrival
at the gate. Other than the time Mustafa forced me to stand beaten and naked in the
living-room, this was the most humiliating moment of my life I wished that I had never
come here. Now my husband knew that I knew there was no place for me to go, no
place of refuge. When the car arrived, I opened the door and slid meekly back into the
inferno.
The Economist printed Mustafa's four-page article discussing Pakistan's relations with
India, wherein he expounded his thesis that military rule prevented progress and that
he would re-enter Pakistan on Indian tanks, if necessary. This was a surprise to those
who knew Mustafa as the Lion of the anti-Indian Punjab, and created a great deal of
controversy.
Ever since Zia had taken power, desperate People's Party leaders had maintained
contacts with Indian Political leaders and their intelligence arms Zia had totally allied
himself with the United States in their policy on Afghanistan. Afghanistan was a
Muslim country on Pakistan's volatile western borders and its invasion by the Soviet
Union was unacceptable. To stall Moscow's advance further south, Pakistan had
become a front-line state. This helped Zia in his efforts to attract all-out political support
of right-wing forces in Pakistan and to a great extent neutralize those who were
working against martial law and for the restoration of democratic order. The United
States and the west gave him their total support, and he was able to continue his
regime.
Being an ally of the Soviet Union, India was obviously against the United StatesPakistan
axis. Besides Afghan governments before and after the Soviet invasion had essentially
been pro-India, whereas the Mujhadeen fighting against Kabul and its patron were pro-
Pakistan and were operating from a country they considered their second home. Zia's
stance on Afghanistan and his covert assistance to Sikh separatists had earned him the
wrath of the Indians, the Bhutto brothers and their followers were far more palatable.
Heavy security measures were adopted lest word leak out and the People Party leaders
lose the bulk of their supports. However, the Punjab stood in their way. The Punjabi
would oppose any alliance with India. The Indians needed a strong leader in the Punjab
to plead their cause.
They chose Mustafa. He Was put into contact with a man named Joshi, a high-ranking
intelligence officer assigned to the Indian High Commission in London. They
communicated via code-names. Mustafa was 'Dilip' and Joshi was 'Asif Ali.' They met at

various locations, most Wimpy bars dotted around London. Over burgers and fries they
discussed the futures of their two countries.
I spent the next two months in a deep silence, which withdrew me from my
surroundings. I felt tired when I tried to make even a small conversation, a single
sentence exhausted me I lived only because of heavy sedation. Mustafa did not even
notice.
I had been seven months' pregnant when the Adila issue erupted - just as Sherry had
been when she walked into the prefabricated cabin to find me, her husband's other wife.
I had felt embarrassed and awkward at the disturbance I had caused her. Now I felt her
pain. The concepts of crime and punishment drove me to spending the nights crying
over the Holy Koran for forgiveness, but only after I had completed my duties as a
sexual object. When Mustafa slept I bathed and performed my ablutions, then drew
away from him to the only One who still received me Allah.
It was 5.30 a.m. on 23 January 1981 when I felt the beginning of labor, pains Mustafa
drove me to the National Health hospital, complaining that all this fuss about childbirth
was a western concept. He lectured, as he had before, about how the women in his
village delivered in the fields, and then went back to work immediately. My father had
paid my previous maternity expenses, but now he was out of my life and the
responsibility fell upon a reluctant Mustafa.
At the hospital I asked him to leave. 'This could take a long time,' I demurred I was
frightened, but I wanted to bear this child without Mustafa's shadow falling over us.
As I sat alone in the waiting room, the pains grew suddenly worse and I screamed in
panic. The doctor was not there and the nurses, unaware of my emotional state, scolded,
'Stop this nonsense, or we'll send you home' The pains of labor melted into the
accumulated agony of my absurd life and I broke down completely. A collage of angry
faces blurred in front of me as the hostile nurses chastised me for my hysteria. They
would not believe that the baby was coming so quickly, although I continued to scream
as the pain ripped through me. Finally, they rushed me into the delivery room. They
had no even contacted the doctor in time and had to deliver, the baby themselves.
My hysteria had grown so wild that the physical agony of childbirth unleashed all the
other pains of my life. It was clear to me, even during the height of labor, that I might
never have another chance to vent my feelings without drawing attention to the
dormant crisis of my heart and mind. Nobody comprehended my nervous collapse.
Instead, I felt anger and irritation from the people around me, as if they would have
suffocated me into silence if they could.

As I pushed this new life out of my body, I abandoned Mustafa, my family and all my
friends. I turned to God, the Holy Prophet, his daughter Fatima and especially her
husband, he Prophet's cousin, Hazrat Ali. I begged them to come and stand by me, to
protect me. A calm descended over me, as if they were at my side, as if they were my.
family. It was a miracle.
I flamed my first son Ali.
When the doctor finally arrived, she asked if I wanted her to inform my husband, but I
did not feel it necessary. Mustafa did not know until two hours later, when he called
after completing his yoga. He was thrilled that I had, finally, produced a son and heir.
An heir to what? I Wondered.
My brother Asim was the only person in our family who maintained contact with us.
Despite my mother's orders, he had established a forced civility with Mustafa, often
bringing him gifts of Dom Perignon champagne, and bearing expensive presents for my
daughters. Now he came to visit and was shocked to see me lying in an open ward at a
National Health hospital. I covered up for Mustafa and said that he could not afford
anything better, but he, in turn, said to Mustafa: 'I'm disgusted. If you can afford to go
on expensive expensive shoots and buy expensive wine, why couldn't you get your wife
a room?' Mustafa shrugged off Asim's disapproval as inconsequential.
There were benefits to my stay at the hospital. In the presence of other, everyday
people, I came alive again, I learned about their ordinary, everyday problems, which
they all shared with one another. I, on the other hand, shared nothing about my life,
amazed at the trivial troubles they took so seriously.
****
As much as I could, I avoided Mustafa. To me, he was now-Adila's husband. I endured

him, but when he slept I arose, bathed and went downstairs to the prayer mat. I read
the Koran and cried, soaking the sacred words with my tears. I cried out to God,
desperate for His help. Night after night I sat there, hoping that God would notice. I
tried to escape into religion, but even there my life would slip in with me and I would
become completely distraught in front of Allah - the only One who would hear me.
I grew increasingly detached from Mustafa, and drew my strength from my children.
My new son Ali gave me a sense of spiritual peace. The pain of childbirth had brought
me closer to God.
I began to analyze my life. What had happened to me? Why was I so afraid of
everything? Why did I not react like a normal human being to insult and humiliation? I

understood that my husband had crushed my spirit. He had complicated my already
strained relationships with my family. He had isolated me from my friends. He had led
me into a maze, and I did not know how to find my way out of it. He took away all my
supports and anchored me securely to his own island. All I could do was wander
through the labyrinth, too tired to talk or think.
His extremes made it difficult to focus on his true personality. Both of his selves - the
angry one and the contrite one - were very convincing. I was afraid of the former and
felt pity for the latter. One moment he punished me like a disobedient child; the next, I
was a mother-figure who was supposed to forgive his transgressions. I could not react
swiftly enough to his mercurial changes.
I had diagnosed his illness - he was a confused and insecure product of his background
- and I had to find a cure. My reformer's zeal - and my ego - would not let me accept
defeat by running away from the problem, no matter how daunting and intractable it
appeared became his psychiatrist.
Mustafa's behavior towards the children gave me glimmer of hope. His initial bouts of
insanity towards Naseeba had not recurred. He was still volatile and unpredictable but
be was often a considerate and loving parent. I clutched at is straw.
I knew that my own personality had to change. I had become submissive and weak just
like his previous wives I had, somehow, to learn to deal with him on a different level
God answered my desperate plea. The dust of inertia was blown away.
We were in the kitchen, I was at the stove, warming where with food for the children
Mustafa wanted us to go somewhere with him, but I did not want to take Ali out into
the cold Mustafa insisted and I resisted. He pulled me by the hair, swung me around
and employed his favorite threat: 'I'll break every bone in your body.'
I grabbed the pot from, the stove and threw it at him. He screamed in pain from the
burning brew. For a moment he was paralyzed. Then, as he raised his hand to strike
back, I pushed him in the chest and yelled, 'The next time you raise your hand to me I
will pick up a knife and kill your!' There was power and Conviction in my voice,
although my heart was beating madly. I had declared war.
Mustafa backed off.
I gave him some ointment for his burns. As he applied it he muttered dark threats, but
he appeared subdued. Was it that easy?
I pushed my advantage. 'Mustafa I've taken enough,' I said, 'There's no reason for me to
take any more. This is a voluntary relationship, a relationship of choice. I'm not your

sister or your mother I'm your wife. I'm not bound to you by ties of blood. We have a
contract to live together. I can tear it up whenever I feel like, it. Get that into your head.
Learn, to respect me and appreciate my living with you. I find no necessity at all to live
in this concentration camp. You correct your ways and make our lives worth living - or
I'm leaving.' The last words were said with mounting fear of dire consequences, but I
camouflaged that condition with an peruse that had become part of my nature.
He listened - intently, and then fought to regain lost round. He threatened, 'If you ever
mention leaving gain, I will not spare you. This is not an atmosphere that I can afford in
my home. I have growing daughters. Do you understand I shall fling acid on your face.
I'll maim you and take my children away from you. I can deprive you of your beauty
like—' he snapped his fingers in an arrogant fashion- '—this.'
He left the house, and I went about my work, praying under my breath for safety from a
monster's wrath. That night he sensed that I had once more weakened under the threat
of darkness. He was correct, but only partially s.o He began with a barrage of verbal
abuse. My mother and sisters - even my grandmother - were dragged through the
gutter. It was always an attack on the women. The men always degraded what they
considered the most sacred areas of their honor.
When he was finished, I said quietly: 'You sound terrible using such language. It doesn't
suit your status. It shows up your family background.'
He rose to strike me, but I reacted with disdain. 'Don't be foolish, Mustafa. Grow up.
You don't need to hit me. Talk to me like an adult. Sit down,' I ordered.
For a moment, he actually sat on the edge of the bed and glared at me with a puzzled
expression. But then his fury was unleashed and he lunged toward me.
I kicked him in the belly with both feet, sending him reeling from the bed. He attacked
once more and I scratched and shoved him as hard as I could. I clawed at his face and
pulled his hair. No woman had dared do this to Mustafa Khar, and I could tell that his
mind was devising new blueprints of terror.
He spun me around and pinned me from behind. His right forearm crushed against my
windpipe. His flesh was an inviting target, and I sank my teeth in deeply. He yelped in
pain and slugged me with his fist. His superior strength prevailed and he pummeled
me with intensified fury until I was nearly senseless, perhaps only a few blows from
death. Then, breathing heavily and still cursing, he slunk back.
He watched me stagger to bed. I refused to cry. I stared at him with sheer contempt, and
I could tell that he was, confused and even frightened by, my resistance.

I tortured him with indifference. I did not sulk. I demanded no apology. He tried to
offer one, but I brushed it aside with the admonition, 'Forget it, Mustafa. Sorry is a very
inadequate word. Events have overtaken it.' In the past, my tears, my arguments, in
pleadings had been like applause to his, great acts of misplaced masculinity. Now my
composure upset him; my silence, weakened him.

9
On 2 March 1981, hijackers took control of a PIA aircraft in Karachi and ordered it to fly
to Kabul, capital of Afghanistan. They demanded the release of forty of Zia's political
prisoners and, to prove their intentions, shot an army captain and dumped him on the
tarmac. Mir Bhutto did not have anything to do with the plot, but seized the
opportunity to claim that his Al-Zulfikar organization was behind the terrorist act.
The hijacking was an ISI plan created by Zia to malign and isolate Mir and Shah. The
international support that they were able to muster for their father had disturbed the
General, who understood Western aversion to terrorism. Mir was called by the Kabul
authorities because the hijackers demanded to see him. His role was to try to save the
passengers, but this was used against him. Mir went on the international terrorist lists
and was unwelcome at home. It was a cruel conspiracy against two young students.
Mustafa and I were in the car when we heard the news over the radio. I expressed my
delight that, at last, someone was taking action. 'It's a mistake,' Mustafa pronounced.
'There will be a witch-hunt now.'
He was right 'Zia caved in to the pressure and released the political prisoners. But once
the hijacked passengers were freed, Zia sent them to Mecca at government expense to
perform umra. He made sure that television crews were on hand to interview them
concerning their ordeal, to paint Al-Zulfikar and, by extension, the People's Party as a
collection of thugs. All over Pakistan, anyone even remotely connected with the tricolor
flag of the People's Party was in danger. Thousands were arrested, flogged and
tortured. Some very fine youngsters were sent to the gallows. Bhutto's widow and
daughter Benazir were placed tinder house arrest.
The lease expired on our Arkley Lane house and we rented a small, single-storey
cottage in Mill Hill. Mustafa liked it because, of the large garden at the back. For my
part, I was tired of living like a gypsy. I suspected that Mustafa would continue to move
us from place to place as long as we remained in exile. He was extremely restless. As he
waited for plans to develop, Mustafa needed some outlet other than Adila for his excess
energy and decided upon an old hobby - dogs. His craze took us all over the country,
and he spent as much as £300 on a single dog.
He was obsessed by his new pursuit. If a dog developed a crooked tail, he doubted its
pedigree and got rid of it If a dog failed to respond to training, Mustafa lost patience.
These were expensive show dogs, but Mustafa had no idea how to care for them.
He bought a Great Dane pup and installed it in an outdoor kennel. It was winter, so I
turned the heater on at night but Mustafa, seeking to save money, turned it off, causing
the poor animal to shiver. When the soft bones of the Great Dane pup affected the

'shape' of his legs, Mustafa gave the animal away to an humane society. Then he bought
a full-grown Rhodesian Ridgeback, and soon after that a champion bull terrier arrived.
He became bored with the Ridgeback and gave her away also. The bull terrier was the
next to go. Then came a succession of six Irish Wolfhounds. Mustafa could see himself
as the envy of Pakistan's hunting set Mumtaz Bhutto, Bhutto's cousin, had about sixty
bunting dogs, and Mustafa considered taking his dogs home in order to upstage
Mumtaz.
This hobby was his, but the rest of us were stuck with it. In particular, Dai Ayesha was
terribly upset whenever Mustafa commandeered her to help walk the dogs. She pouted
as Mustafa pulled on his Wellingtons and she tucked the cuffs of her baggy trousers
into gumboots. This was a woman who was revolted at the thought of touching an
unclean animal and in Pakistan, even as a lowly servant, would never stoop to such
work. Mustafa took charge of two Wolfhounds and strode off, looking like an
Englishman in India who, having forgotten his solar hat, had remained outside too long
in the August sun. Dai followed behind, with as many as three dogs tugging and
dragging her. She made sure that her. curses were too soft to reach Mustafa's ears.
I chose not to get in the way of his latest obsession; it was expensive and very
inconvenient, but it diverted his attention from me.
Much time passed in uncertainty. We rode a financial roller-coaster. Mustafa was a slick
salesman who managed to persuade various people to finance his fight for democracy,
but his expenses were high and he cared little about accounting for them Agha Hassan
Abida of the Bank of Credit and Commerce International made a regular monthly
payment of £2,000 through his trusted private secretary, Mr. Osmani, but never
disclosed the primary source of these personal funds.
We also received considerable financial support from a Pakistani named Seth Abid. We
knew that he was very close to one of Zia's Cabinet ministers and that his brother-inlaw
had turned state's evidence against Bhutto. But these negatives were outweighed by
Seth Abid's reputation as the man who had slipped nuclear secrets into Pakistan. He
was also well known for dealing in gold. In a country like Pakistan men such as Seth
Abid flourish. They are not viewed as criminals, for them, it is a form of trade where the
risks are high and the profits are higher. Despite his reputation, he moved in lofty social
circles, his wealth bought him acceptability and secured him from accountability.
Seth Abid offered us the use of his enormous, six bedroom house (all bedrooms with en
suite bathrooms in Brondesbury Park, so we moved once more. The house was richly
furnished, like a shaikh's fantasy gone wild. The space was a luxury that allowed
Mustafa and me to coexist without getting into each other's way. Here we threw lavish
parties for the glitterati and literati Pakistan.

Mustafa lost interest in the dogs and soon all of them were gone. He turned his
attention to canaries and finches. At first he housed them in beautiful brass cages, but as
the number of birds increased he stopped buying cages after the fifth. He converted the
dining room into an aviary, where his several hundred birds could fly about in relative
freedom. Their droppings were everywhere - on the carpet, the floor, the dining table
and it was my lot to clean up after them. It became almost a daily ritual to catch the
zooming birds, put them back, into their cages and then scour the dining room prior to
the evening's party. The next day they were flying again.
Eventually Mustafa grew bored with the birds too, and he decided simply to open the
doors and set them free. I told him that they were too defenseless and domesticated to
survive in the wild, but he insisted that they would be fine. He released them from
bondage and our patio was sprinkled with confused little yellow and orange birds
which had no idea where to go or what to do. I watched in horror as aggressive jays
swooped down and devoured them. It was a massacre.
Mustafa's initial contacts with junior officers of the Pakistani army were tentative. The
first meeting took place at the home of a mutual friend in London. The participants
were young men who were disgruntled with Zia and who believed that the military had
no business interfering in the politics of the country. They viewed Mustafa as the sort of
courageous politician who would usher in the necessary reforms, and the fact that he
was the Lion of the Punjab and had been a colleague of Bhutto was a bonus, since any
effective movement toward the restoration of civilian rule would need the cooperation
of the Punjabis. The 'boys', as we came to call them, believed as Mustafa did that Zia
and his corrupt cohorts had to be physically eliminated, that repeated periods of martial
law, in Pakistan were used to serve a few, generals who, made the army their
constituency to increase their power.
Mustafa was quite pleased with the results of the initial meeting, and more surreptitious
contacts followed. He had found a chink in the armor, of the military, the smell of
mutiny was in the air. A plot was hatched. The 'boys' would plant a bomb, tuned to go
off when Zia convened a meeting with the top brass. Simultaneously, groups of rebel
officers would take over the television and radio stations. With Zia's death, all the exiles
would return, and the will of the people would prevent yet another general from
seizing power. Although she knew nothing of the developing drama, the conspirators
planned to install Bhutto's daughter Benazir, the leader of the People's Party, as Prime
Minister, and Mustafa would be number two man in the new government. All those
involved in Zia's 1977 coup would be tried for treason. The slogan was whispered
quietly: 'Generals will hang from every pole.'
It was Mustafa's task to arrange for the purchase of arms and ammunition, as well as
their delivery. Over yet another rubbery burger, the Indian agent Joshi consented to
handle the purchasing details; delivery was trickier.

On 14 August 1983, the struggle to overthrow Zia began in earnest In Pakistan, a
coalition of opposition parties known as the Movement for the Restoration of
Democracy (MRD) defied the ban on political meetings When many of the
demonstrators were arrested, spontaneous uprisings occurred, particularly- in Bhutto's
home province of Sindh. Sindhis are stereotyped as docile and timid and the army was
caught by surprise. For days Pakistan's lifeline, the National Highway was clogged by
wave after wave of volatile demonstrators. The death toll mounted. Gaols were
overflowing.
India's Prime Minister Indira Gandhi issued a statement praising the courage of the
Sindhis and extending her moral support. As far as the Punjabis were concerned, this
was a great blunder. They withdrew from the struggle and the Sindh was isolated.
Mustafa was aware that the MRD movement could not survive without the
wholehearted participation of his home province, and he decided that action was
necessary to revitalize Punjabi support. He chose seven exiles who had been tried in
absentia by military courts, and sent them to Pakistan from London on 5 September. But
in his somewhat garbled official announcement he declared that, as a gesture of
defiance, nine valiant People's Party workers were on their way home to court arrest as
a contribution to the MRD movement. The fact that the actual number was seven, rather
than nine, took on aspects of black comedy.
The seven spent most of their flight spouting slogans in favor of democracy and its
figurehead, Mustafa Khar - much to the annoyance of other, disinterested passengers.
When the aircraft landed in Karachi, it was ordered to taxi to a position a great distance
from the terminal, where it was surrounded by commandos and armored cars. The
seven returning exiles disembarked into the hands of the police, who immediately
wanted to know where the other two were. Choudhry Hanif (a Member of Parliament
and a follower from the early days when Mustafa took on Bhutto) and Sajid tried to
convince the authorities that only seven men had arrived. But the head of the police
party was under instructions to bring back nine people from the plane. He arrested the
apolitical brother of one of the group, as well as an innocent boy who was returning
from a visit to his aunt in London and was, in fact, a Zia supporter. All nine trucked off
to the Ohjri prison camp. (The two innocent boys spent twenty-two months in gaol, a
longer term than any of the others.)
Choudhry Hanif later described for us his cell at the Ojhri prison camp as worse than
any conception of hell we may have in our mind. . . .'
Each of the seven felt betrayed by Mustafa and cured him for his callousness. Each had
a common prayer; they pleaded for death.

If he was to finance a complete revolution, Mustafa needed much more money than was
available through his early contacts, and his attention centered upon Ali Mehmood, an
expatriate Pakistani who had made a fortune on construction contracts in Abu Dhabi
and Kuwaiti oil. They discussed a political deal whereby Ali Mehmood might become
Finance Minister in the new government in return for bankrolling the rebellion.
This relationship precipitated another move as we joined Ali and his vivacious wife
Billo at 'Ayott Place', their, mansion in Welwyn Garden City. The intrigue deepened.
Benazir Bhutto arrived in London, having finally been freed from imprisonment by Zia.
An adoring crowd of exiled Pakistanis met her at the airport, with Mustafa at the
forefront. She was now the focal point of the struggle to restore democracy in Pakistan,
but her task was enormous. She was young and inexperienced; her father had been
hanged; she had spent three years under arrest. Everyone expected great things from
her, but no-one was willing to give her time to learn her political craft.
The joy of reunion was short-lived. Mustafa had reservations about Benazir's youth. He
still remembered her as a child whom he had called 'Pinkie'; she had called him 'uncle'.
For her part, Benazir felt more comfortable with a younger generation of politicians and
distanced herself from her father's contemporaries. Her young kitchen cabinet' told her
not to trust people like Mustafa, who were ambitious and had pretensions of leading
the party. They reminded her that Mustafa had left the country under suspicious
circumstances.
On a personal level, Benazir was wonderful. She tried to extend a hand of friendship to
me, but Mustafa would not allow me to respond I don't know how long my own
relationship with her will last, he explained. 'You are the sort of person who will
become her friend. You will complicate matters between us. Your petty friendships and
my politics cannot mix'
One day I happened to be alone in Ali and Billo's fabulous Kensington apartment where
they had their work base when a young man of about twenty-five came to call, he was
looking for Mustafa. I told him that Mustafa would not be back for some time but he
insisted on waiting I disliked him instantly. He was insolent and coarse, and behaved
unlike anyone else dared - as though he was here as a favor to Mustafa. When Mustafa
returned home, he talked privately to the young man for about an hour. Then he came
into my room and asked me for £200. I handed him the money, but I was surprised - it
was not Mustafa's nature to hand over such sums idly to distressed or friendless party
workers - and I questioned him. 'The poor kid has come all the way from my home
district to see me,' Mustafa explained. 'I want to help him.'
Ten days later I received a frantic phone call from the same young man; he said that
British authorities had arrested him at the airport for attempting to smuggle heroin into

the country 'in his socks.' I jotted down this disturbing message and gave it to Mustafa
as soon as he came home. He was furious at me for speaking to the man and worried
that I might have said something stupid to implicate him. 'You should have just said
that you did not know who he was,' Mustafa shouted. 'You talk too much.'
I thought that you would have wanted to help.' I said, confused. Only two weeks
earlier. Mustafa had shown compassion for the boy. 'How was I to guess that you
wouldn't want to know him any longer - especially when he is in trouble? Maybe you
can help?'
Mustafa grew pensive, then picked up the phone. He spoke to a police officer and asked
what the problem was. They allowed him to talk to the boy and he asked him angrily,
'Why did you do this silly thing? Look at the mess you've made.' He slammed the
phone down and began to pace the room.
Illegal heroin, is plentiful in Pakistan. Fields of poppies row in abundance in, the
northern region; smuggling occurs in even the highest circles. I found myself
wondering how much heroin £200 would buy in Pakistan. I felt, very uncomfortable
with the whole business.
When the case went to court, it made headlines. Mustafa was called to testify. He swore
under oath that he knew that the boy was from Muzaffargarh, but maintained that this
was the extent of his knowledge concerning the case. The young man testified that he
and some of his friends in Pakistan had been falsely implicated in an act of sabotage an
attempt to derail a train. He said that Pakistani authorities promised to release his
friends if he would carry heroin to London and plant it inside Mustafa Khar's house I
was carrying the heroin under duress,' he claimed 'The martial law regime wanted me
to plant it in Mr. Khar's house to implicate him in a smuggling rap.' To me, the story
sounded contrived and rehearsed; in fact, it was just the sort of fantasy that Mustafa
might conjure up to wriggle out of a tight spot. But it made good copy, and it was
widely reported both in Britain and Pakistan. Mustafa's reputation rose - he was now
deemed important enough to be the target of an international scam. It proved his
nuisance value as a critic of Zia's regime.
The young man was sentenced to five years in prison. From his cell he plagued us with
letters, begging Mustafa to contact his family in Pakistan, to send them money, to
intercede for his release. Mustafa threw the letters into the dustbin without even
reading them.
Meanwhile, planning for the coup escalated. Joshi arranged for the necessary arms to be
stored in an Indian Village near the Pakistani border. Mustafa now sought someone
who could smuggle them across. Indian border guards would not present a problem,

thanks to Joshi, but the rebels needed a trustworthy person who was familiar enough
with the terrain so that he could slip past the Pakistani checkpoints.
A rupee note was torn in half. The Indian contact was given one half; in order to take
delivery of the arms, the smuggler had to produce the matching half. To me, it all
seemed like a scene from a cheap thriller.
Mustafa settled upon Seth Abid for this critical role and instructed me to telephone him.
I did not think of disobeying, of course, but I was consciously perturbed. Seth Abid, as I
have said, was very close to one of Zia's Cabinet ministers. He, had first come into the
limelight in the mid Sixties as an important member of an international network of
smugglers. In Pakistan he is a big name in the underworld. He is also known to have
assisted in the development of Pakistan's 'modest' nuclear programme. I was abetting
treason. If Seth Abid's telephone was monitored - and this seemed a very likely
possibility - it would be my voice on the tape played at intelligence briefings. Mustafa
was hiding behind my skirts!
When Seth Abid picked up the phone, I introduced myself. He responded with a polite
salutation. I got straight to the point: 'My husband wants you to come to London. We
have important work, for you. We need Your assistance for something I cannot speak to
you about on the telephone.'
The man stammered a response. 'I. . . I don't think I can. . . can . . talk to him,' he said. 'I
don't think I . . . should. I'm living in Pakistan. Please think of my family. Please
understand.' He paused then he suggested, 'Listen . . . er . . . call me back . . . on the
same number in half an hour.'
I told Mustafa that Seth Abid was too nervous to help that I was convinced that his
phone was tapped. Nevertheless, he ordered me to call back as instructed.
During the second conversation, Seth Abid was very composed and spoke freely. He
drew me out, and made repeat my statements clearly. 'Mustafa wants you, to come and
see him,' I said.
'Oh, Mustafa wants me to come and see him?'
'It's very urgent.'
'It's very urgent? Is it some to do with politics? Does he want to discuss some plans with
me? OK, I'll let you know when I can come.' I could almost hear the tape reels. whirring.

After the call, I conveyed my new apprehensions to Alii, Billo and Mustafa. 'The man is
taping the call,' I said; 'He cannot be trusted. His attitude has changed in half an hour.
Why did he become so relaxed? I can smell a rat, even at this distance.'
Mustafa stared at me irritably and put my reaction down to an attack of feminine

nerves. 'Stop hallucinating,' he warned 'Don't interfere in matters you don't
understand.' The moment we were alone he abused me for making the Mehmoods
nervous. 'If they back out, everything will go to the dogs. My hard work will have been
for naught because of your "thinking".' The final word was laced with sarcasm.
Suddenly we came into a great sum of money; I never found out how much it was, nor
where it came from. We started looking for a house to buy, and Mustafa was quite
willing to defer to my judgment on this point. His only condition was that it be
somewhere in the country; he hated London's polluted atmosphere and congestion. We
found a beautiful home in Haslernere, West Sussex, on eleven acres, at the very
headwaters of the river Whey. The home boasted a bit of history. Apparently Britain's
first rhododendrons were planted in these gardens. Dai Ayesha was captivated by the
beauty of the location. Upon laying eyes on it, she remarked, 'This is just like Kot Addu.'
Mustafa and I laughed, for these lush, rolling hills were nothing like the dry wastelands
of his home village. I realized, then, how homesick Dai was.
Mustafa had owned property before, and he always made sure that it was solely in his
name. He told me quite blatantly that he did so because he was never sure how long his
marriage was going to last. But this time, he insisted that our new house be titled as
joint property, explaining to me, 'I want you to know that I will never leave you. You
are the only woman I can think of as a wife. I want you to feel completely secure.'
Was the nightmare turning into a dream? I owned a home: at last a measure of security!
I had a flair for interior design. I had all the windows moved so that, from every room,
we had a view of the undulating lawns, the quiet pond and the bubbling stream; the
sensation was that of sitting out in the landscaped garden. I decorated the entire house
in different textures of pale beige - with the garden as the only color. I bought old
carved pieces to set off the contemporary furniture.
We had to build an ugly chicken coop, and I had this constructed behind the
camouflage of a large tree In the morning, the children walked up the hill to gather
freerange eggs.
Canada geese lived on our pond and provided comic relief Every day about 10 a.m.
they made their way up the hill, where they sat in the sun for precisely one hour. In the
evening they marched in single file and sat on our front lawn until 6 o'clock - I could set

my watch by them - when they waddled up to our front door and honked until we
responded with food.
We entertained often, hosting barbecues for as many as one hundred guests. Thank
God, we had another servant now. Farid, related to Dai Ayesha, was our cook. And
chauffeur. We put up marquees outside and huge coal pits where the food was cooked.
Mustafa had a reputation as a great chef and people came in droves to simple his
delicacies.
On these occasions Mustafa brought home as many as fifty live roasting chickens and
slaughtered them one by one. Reciting the Kalima to render the bird kosher, he cut a
neck artery and flung the victim away from him. The chicken jumped about in agony
and, quivered horribly before it died. The children and I pleaded with Mustafa not to let
the birds suffer, but he laughed and said that the last mortal tremor of the chicken was
an indication of the soul leaving its body. When he was finished, the patio resembled a
slaughterhouse. We raced against the clock to clean up the mess while he cut and
cooked before the guests arrived. By then, we were all exhausted.
Sometimes he would bring home a goat and slaughter it himself. The children and I
suffered its pain as we heard it bleat in fear for what seemed an age before silence
confirmed that the deed was done.
Mustafa relaxed slightly in this idyllic setting, but he still lost his temper frequently. He
was unable to control his tongue, but he tried to stop short of hitting me. Instead, he
increasingly turned his fists upon poor Dai Ayesba. She was his serf; it was her lot to be
pummeled. I felt sorry for her, because I knew that she was a surrogate. On one
occasion I heard her praying to Jesus, begging Him to loosth the bonds of her servitude
or, at the very least, arrange for her return to Pakistan. I asked incredulously, 'Dai, have
you become a Christian?'
'No,' she replied, 'but I am willing to try anything.'
Mustafa loved the open countryside, for it reminded him of the wilds of Pakistan. He
rose at 5 a.m. daily and began his two-hour regimen of yoga exercises on the veranda.
Gradually be would move to a spot in the gardens or, at the top of the hill. Even when it
was snowing he found a covered area, somewhere outs to exercise.
We were never allowed to keep the central heating on at night, and the bedroom
windows remained open even when the outside temperature was below freezing. I kept
myself warm with a hot water bottle and a goose-do coverlet.
In matters of physical health, I have never known more self-disciplined person than

Mustafa. He bathe in freezing tap water because he believed that it was excellent for
blood circulation and for thwarting the ageing process. His diet was devoid of any
sugar, starch or unnecessary calories. He consumed much yogurt and skimmed milk.
Wild honey, manufactured by the 'small' bee was flown from the Frontier Province in
Pakistan. Brown husks of wheat were ground in his presence at a mill in Haslemere.
There were no biscuits no carbonated drinks.
Mustafa bought two dogs, an English springer spaniel and a Labrador retriever, whom
we called Bruno. He would not allow the dogs inside the house because they were
'unclean', so they took up residence in our garage. I worried about them in the middle
of the night, and often walked out to cover them with an old rug. Eventually I had a
kennel built for them. I always felt as if they had been sold off to bad foster parents and
were unused to the harsh nature of their new lives.
Whenever she was assigned the distasteful task of caring for the dogs, Dai Ayesha
lightened her load by carrying on extended conversations with the animals. I overheard
her one day imploring, 'Bruno, I am looking after you. You pray to God that He will get
me out of here, get me home to Pakistan. God will listen to you, because you are
bezuban' Literally, the word means 'without a tongue', figuratively, it designates those
most helpless forms of life (like animals and children) to who Allah must surely
respond I was saddened By this time in her life, Dai had spent nearly eighteen years of
Mustafa's service, as nanny to Bilal, Amna and my own three children. She cleaned the
house, washed the dishes and cared for the children. She was beaten for a slightest error
and abused for the most minor of mistakes. After years of violence, abuse and fear, her
beautiful skin had lost its glow. Although she remained slim due to overwork, she was
fatigued and her eyes filled with tears at the slightest mention or remembrance of her
country. Dai's mind had died long before mine and, even as I was trying to recover, I
could sence that she was giving up.
We realized that we had misnamed the dog when Bruno gave birth to a single puppy. I
called him Blot, because that was what he appeared to be on the landscape. I tried to
keep him in a basket in the entrance hall, but Mustafa turned him out. Blot wandered
freely about the estate. Inevitably, he strayed on to the road, was brushed by a car and
came home limping. Mustafa wanted to put him to sleep, but the children and I begged
permission to take him to a vet for surgery. Mustafa wanted perfection; he was not
interested in a damaged dog, so he neglected Blot, until we decided that we must give
him away.
Mustafa looked bemused whenever he saw me worry over any animal. He admitted to
me that it had never occurred to him to show compassion for pets; to him, a dog was a
purely functional creature who was required to respond to his master's commands with
complete loyalty. That sounded familiar.

He told me of an incident from his past. He was a young man, on a partridge shoot,
when his retriever defied him. Instead of bringing the prey back to the feet of his
master, the dog took off with the dead bird hanging limply in his jaws. Shaking with
fury, Mustafa sent his henchmen after the dog with the instructions, 'Find him and
bring him to the village.' They captured the dog after a long chase. He was panting
heavily, and his eyes showed fear of pending terror. As the men dragged poor beast
toward Mustafa, the dog splayed but his desperately trying to resist. Mustafa directed
his men to tie the dog's legs together, then, he ordered them to beat the dog with
bamboo staffs. The animal's howls tore the silence around Kot Addu. His body writhed
in agony. Still, the men bent to their task, breaking countless staffs across the poor dog's
back. They stopped only after the dog's eyes clouded over, and he fainted. At that point
Mustafa said, he felt instantly sorry for the beast. He ordered his men to take the dog
away, and walked off overcome by guilt.
The story shocked me I could not believe that Mustafa's irrational violence could be
directed so blindly toward a helpless animal who could offer no defence or excuse - or
apology But to Mustafa the issue was clear: if a dog begins to stir from the dust,
rebellion is in the air. He had to crush it immediately.
I suffered repeated nightmares about the dog, and I finally spoke to Mustafa about
them. I said, 'You know, I think that all your difficulties are due to what you did to that
dog. I dreamed last night that the dog had curse you. Imagine — you may carry a dog's
curse What could be more terrible?'
Surprisingly, my speculation worried him greatly. He Confessed to me 'When I sit on

my prayer mat I think of that dog. I lift up my palms and pray to God to grant me
respite. I end up begging for a dog's forgiveness'.
Initially, Mustafa had been willing to give Benazir Bhutto, who was now twenty-nine, a
chance to take over leadership of the exile community. He was quite prepared to play
the role of senior statesman. But, each time he returned from a Central Committee
meeting he seemed more disillusioned. He reminisced about the old days, when Bhutto
ran forceful meetings that addressed issues squarely and resulted in firm plans of
action. Benazir's meetings, he said, were uninspired, and resulted in only a generalized
call for 'strengthened agitation against Zia.
Finally he decided to take her on. The crucial issue was the party's stance regarding
AlZulfikar. Mustafa's contention was that the radical, terrorist wing was a liability. He
wanted the party to dissociate itself from Mir's group. He warned that the Bhutto boys
were indulging in romantic adventurism that merely strengthened Zia's hand.
Benazir's reaction was that of a sister rather than co-chairman of the party. She declared
that 'she would not have her brothers discussed in such a derogatory manner.'

Mustafa retaliated: 'You have to discuss this issue. It has serious bearing on our party.
We must announce that we have nothing to do with terrorism.'
Benazir burst into tears and fled from the room.
Others persuaded Mustafa to go after her, to console her. He found her crying alone in a
bedroom. She said, You people keep pushing me into a corner. I don't know who to
trust and who not to trust. I don't know how to deal with all of this.'
'This is politics,' Mustafa explained calmly. 'You must understand. You'll come across a
lot of people who won't agree with you. You can't throw a tantrum every time. You
must pull yourself up and be stronger.'
Seth Abid arrived in London and received a warm welcome from Mustafa and his
fellow plotters. He listened to the details of the planned coup and agreed to play his
designated part. He gave his word that, on the specified date, he would deliver the arms
to an empty house in Lahore. Upon Mustafa's instructions, I gave him the smuggler's
half of the torn rupee note.
As D-Day approached, I was drawn completely into the conspiracy, unaware of how
thoroughly I was being implicated. I was in touch with the 'boys' via telephone, and
became quite adept at speaking in cryptic tones. At night I tossed and turned from the
suspense, but Mustafa slept soundly, dreaming of his great victory.
Much of Mustafa's day was spent in conferences, clarifying detail plugging holes. The
planners decided that it was imperative to entice at least one senior military official into
the plot. There were a nub known sympathizers among the top brass, and decision was
made to try to cultivate them. The choice narrowed to a Bhutto admirer. A careful
contact made and according to Mustafa, the general was 'in.' The Indians were elated
that they had been able to penetrate the Pakistani army at the higher echelons and
Mustafa prophesied, 'I think the cake is about to bake.'
The Conspiracy was so high-powered and serious that there was an atmosphere of
excitement. Ali and Billo, anxious to play some role in their country's politics, found an
opportunity to become part of a revolution against martial law. Our adrenalin level
remained high throughout the planning period, and the state of excitement intensified
in 'Ayott Place' as the final, finishing touches were completed.
I, at least, had some dormant apprehension based on my dealings with Mustafa, but Ali
and Billo were completely mesmerized. For them, Mustafa was undefeatable. His
discipline and shrewdness added to perseverance and practical action swept them off
their feet into the maelstrom of his mad, reckless idea.

Then, at last, Seth Abid informed us that the 'parcels ' Were in place.
The 'boys' were told to drive to the mall in Lahore - opposite the IntercontinentalHotel,
where a man would give them a slip of paper bearing the address of the safe house
where Seth Abid had stashed the weapons. At 7.30 p.m. on 2 January 1987 they were to
claim the armaments that would restore democracy to Pakistan. Then they were to call
us.
On the appointment night, the conspirators gathered in Ali's London apartment to

monitor developments via long-distance. By Pakistan Standard Time, it was past 9 p.m.
when the perspiration broke out on Mustafa's brow. He began to pace the expensive
rugs. The silence of phone mocked us. I made a fresh pot of coffee as I prayed, fighting
against the images that forced themselves into my mind.
By 10 30 - three hours after the scheduled time of the pick-up - Mustafa instructed me to
call the home of Major Aftab - one of the 'boys'. His wife answered and reported in a
cold and unnatural voice, 'He's not here don't ring us up.'
I fumbled through my book for the numbers of the others. What had happened? I
wondered. I prayed: Please God, help them.
I dialed several numbers before I received another answer. This was the wife of
Squadron Leader Tahir. She was sobbing. In a voice full of anguish, she whispered
across the continents, 'The house is full of army personnel. They're taking my father-
inlaw and my brother-in-law away. They're taking my brothers, too. They've ransacked
the house. I don't know what to do.'
As I lowered the phone, all I saw in front of me were the sullen and solemn faces of
would-be heroes. Each of them dropped his eyes, refusing to meet one another's gaze.
I dialed Major Bokhari's home. His wife said, 'I can't speak now. There are too many
people around.' The phone clicked dead.
I could feel the terror in the hearts of the 'boys' as well as the innocent family members. I
was angered that we had exposed them to such dangers. What had gone wrong? Who
was at fault? Something told me that Seth Abid had betrayed us, and I felt that Mustafa
was to blame for ignoring my intuition.
Suddenly the phone rang, causing every one of us to jump. I grabbed for it, and heard
the voice of Seth Abid on the other end. He was actually crying. 'I've just been watching
TV,' he said. 'On the nine o'clock news they've announced that a raid was conducted, on
a Crates of smuggled gold have been found. What should I do now? They'll implicate
me'

'Gold?' I asked incredulously. 'What gold? Where are the arms?'
They don't want to disclose that an arms cache has been found. They don't want the
people of Pakistan to know that there was an attempted coup from within the army.
They don't want the public to know that the military was involved in an abortive
attempt to smuggle in arms. Do you understand? The gold story is a smokescreen'. I
don't know how all this happened. What will happen to my family? Should I cross the
border to India? Can Mustafa arrange for my asylum?'
I felt sick I knew that the man was lying.
We learned the details later. The 'boys' had driven in jeeps to the house, where they
found two rooms full of crates, containing the promised arms. As they loaded the
materiel into the Jeeps, one of them said, 'It serves the damn generals right. We'll put this
country back on its rails.'
They prepared to drive away. Keys turned in the ignitions. The jeeps were jammed into
gear but as they hurtled forward, the 'boys' suddenly found themselves surrounded.
The ambushers opened fire. The returned fire, but all were wounded and captured.
They were sent to top-security prisons, implicated not only for their roles in the
attempted coup, but accused of acts of treason by negotiating an arms deal with
Pakistan's arch enemy India. Their wives were held incommunicado. Their male
relatives were arrested and tortured. The 'boys'. themselves were denied an open trial
and threatened with a firing squad. Behind the glitter of gold was a story of broken
homes and broken men.
Publicly the government held to its story that it had broken a gold-smuggling scheme,
but in a move of supreme irony compensation was arranged for Seht Abid's act of
'patriotism' in tipping them off to the plot. Since the 1960s, a huge quantity of gold that
he had smuggled into the country had been held by customs officials. This was now
returned to him as a result of a 'legal technicality.'
At the prison camp in Ojhri, the 'boys' underwent constant torture. They were made to
strip naked and lie on their stomachs. Then a steel roller was crushed against their
thighs until the skin broke open. They were hung upside down and beaten.
The seven Punjabis whom Mustafa had sent off to prison four months earlier also came
under the cross-fire subjected to increased torture and intimidation. Choudhry Hanif
was moved to the Inter Service Intelligence prison, into a dingy cell without ventilation.
A single naked bulb remained lit twenty-four hours a day. He slept on a lice-infested
mattress, with a foul-smelling sheet as a cover. His toilet was a tin cup. He was not

allowed to bathe or shave. He endured continuous grilling sessions and was made to
listen to my voice on tape. He told me later: 'They say that a day spent here is equal to a
year spent at the dreaded Lahore Fort dungeons or the top-security prison in Attock. A
year there is equated with twenty years in an ordinary prison.' He also reported: 'Every
conversation you had with the "boys", their wives and Seth Abid was recorded. They
had access to all the information down to the torn rupee note.'
Mustafa showed little concern for the fate of the 'boys', or the seven former exiles whom
he had once lauded as patriots. He discarded them as he had the dogs and the canaries.
What gnawed at him was that he had failed. Had he succeeded, he would have been
hailed as a champion of democracy in Pakistan, but failure pinned the medal of treason
to his chest. He was afraid for his life, but he was even more concerned that he would
be ostracized by his allies. He was now a high-risk expatriate and extremely worried
about the reaction of the Indian government.
He met up with Joshi, and returned flustered and disturbed.
But one could not keep Mustafa Khar down for long. He soon visited India again, for a
private audience with Indira Gandhi, and he returned with renewed fire in his eyes.
'She said I was a great patriot,' he beamed. The failed plot had, of course, greatly
increased tension between Zia's Pakistan and the Indian government, and Mustafa had
worried that India would back off. But he was pleased that Indira Gandhi had
reaffirmed her belief in the necessity of destroying Pakistan's army. Mustafa prophesied
'A war is necessary to crush the people's enemy once and for all.' He said that it would
be the miracle that we were praying for.
Very Privately, I disagreed. I remembered Indira Gandhi as the woman who had hailed
the defeat of the Pakistani army in 1971 a 'the end of a thousand years of slavery',
implying that Muslims had enslaved the People of India. At the moment she was in
danger in her own country for ordering an attack on the Golden Temple of the Sikhs,
which had resulted in the death of their leader. Sikh separatists had vowed revenge,
and there were rumors that some of them were being trained in Pakistani camps. I
feared Indira's secularism and I saw her as an opportunist; she would use hatred of
Zia's Pakistan to unite her countrymen.
To me, it all sounded like, another example of the Indira Doctrine, which postulated
that India was the policeman of South Asia, with some sort of portfolio to interfere in
the domestic affairs of its neighbors.
War clouds suddenly appeared over the sub-continent. Everyone spoke about the
impending conflagration.

On 31 October 1984, Mustafa was out jogging; I was watching the morning news on
television when i heard the report that Indira Gandhi had been gunned down by her
own guards. When Mustafa returned to the house and I broke the news, he slumped on
to the sofa. He cradled his head in his hands and moaned 'Oh, God!'

10
Once a month Mustafa colored his hair, glossing over his natural grey with black dye.
One evening he was in the bathroom performing this ritual as we prepared for the
arrival of dinner guests. I argued with him about is unnecessary vanity. It seemed cheap
to me. 'You don't need to do this,' I reasoned. 'Grey hair looks distinguished on a man of
your position.'
'I will only stop coloring my hair if you agree not to color yours,' he retorted smugly. I
could not accept this trade-off. Living with Mustafa, I knew, that I would be
silverhaired by the time I was thirty. 'And besides,' he added, 'it is sunat.' This was the
term denoting that whatever the Prophet did, you should follow. Mustafa reminded me
that the Prophet had dictated that old age should be combated in every way; it helps
you to be more energetic. 'The Prophet says you should look as young as possible for as
long as possible,' he lectured.
I thought: Here is another example of Mustafa's convenient use of Islam. But his reliance
upon Islamic law and custom was highly selective. So I shrugged it off and asked him at
least not to dry his head with my white towels. I tossed a colored towel toward him. He
looked at me with disdain, pointedly picked up a white towel and ran it through his
hair.
'Mustafa, you're doing this deliberately,' I accused.
'You're looking for a fight,' he warned. 'We're expecting guests. 'Don't upset me.'
I was too angry to heed the clear warning. I snapped, 'Don't use my white—'
He picked up a jug that happened to be within reach and flung it at me, hitting me on
the shoulder. I ran from the bathroom slammed the door and locked him inside.
Mustafa banged on the door and screamed, 'I'll kill you!'
I Ignored him and went downstairs to answer doorbell and greet our guests. When they
asked where Mustafa was, I muttered a vague excuse, I could hardly tell them that the
Lion of the Punjab was locked inside the bathroom!
I allowed twenty minutes to pass before I returned upstairs. Through the bathroom
door I said, 'If you can only understand once and for all that I am not here to take your
nonsense, I'll let you out.'

'All right let me out,' he said. His tone was quiet an controlled. I released him, and as he
scurried out growled with simmering fury, 'Let these people leave I'll teach you a
lesson.'
That evening we presented the image of an exceptionally happy couple. Our guests did
not know that as Mustafa carved the roast, he was contemplating murder.
The moment that our friends left, Mustafa headed upstairs ordered me to follow. I had
no intention of going willingly to my punishment, so I slipped into a room and locked
the door behind me.
Ten minutes passed before he came looking for me. 'Tehmina, Open the door now,' he
ordered 'Your attitude is becoming unacceptable. I shall fix you.'
'I am not mad,' I replied 'I know there's a sick, insane animal outside. Do you really
expect me to come out and hand myself over?'
Back and forth, through the protective cover of the door. We exchanged views on
women's rights. He tried to provoke me, but my answers remained calm and reasonable
as I took the opportunity to argue my points. After a time, Mustafa succumbed to the
absurdity of the situation an burst out laughing. His temper had evaporated.
A barely perceptible change was taking place: Mustafa was adjusting to me. He began
to converse with me almost if I were an equal. He lectured me on politics, and was
pleased to rediscover that I was not only truly fascinated with the subject, but quite
willing to accept his opinions.
He gave me an increasing measure of freedom. Often, on his way to a meeting, he

dropped me off at Harrods, and allowed me to roam the department store until his
return. I took special interest in browsing the book department and brought back
material that I felt Mustafa should read. I knew his interests, and I wanted him to
absorb as much knowledge as possible during this period of exile - which we both,
despite the turmoil, began to regard as a time of meditation and preparation. He read a
hundred pages a day, religiously. He learned the delicate, painful task of self-criticism.
With a broader horizon, he probed into the causes of Pakistan's prevailing political
crisis.
The key to my emotional survival was that I was able to detach my personal life from
my political one. Among our friends and allies, Mustafa always knew that I would
defend his political causes, but now he realized that I truly believed in them. I learned
to argue the issues with the same conviction and vigor as my husband. Our friends
noted my transformation from a subdued housewife to a spirited conversationalist.

Even so, I often began my sentences with the phrase 'Mustafa said'; I was his political
shadow.
Nevertheless, his compulsions still overpowered him on occasion. Once, as he waited

for me in the car, I was delayed because of a telephone call from his travel agent. By the
time I arrived at the car, he exploded, furious to be kept waiting by a 'wife'. 'Calm
down,' I lectured. 'It's not the end of the world.' He backhanded me across the face,
raising an instant black eye. Our errand was called off.
As usual, we had guests due that evening, and Mustafa instructed me to wear dark
glasses in an attempt to hide the bruise. I found this embarrassing. When someone
asked why I was wearing glasses, I simply avoided an answer. Mustafa was nervous,
knowing that he could no longer predict my behavior, and his anxiety was well
founded. At diner I coolly removed my dark glasses, exposing my husband's fury.
Someone asked what happened and I replied stoically, Mustafa hit me.
Wine glasses were placed quietly on the table. Throats cleared. Bottoms shifted
uncomfortably on our dining room chairs. Mustafa offered defenses: I was unreasonable
and insolent. I was no cooperative during these difficult times. But his words did not
wash.
Later, in our bedroom my insolence was punished with yet another sham slap. He
called me exhibitionist, a woman without shame.
I agreed that I was not ashamed and pointed out, 'It's, you who've been humiliated
tonight not me. You're angry because I caused you shame. Next time, before you do
something you'll be ashamed of later, make sure that you can cope with the humiliation.
I'm not going to protect you anymore. If my face is bruised and battered, I shan't hide it.
I want people to see, me as I am. I don't want to be a hypocrite.'
He listened to my words in silence. His pursed lips seemed to say, 'Time will tell'.
Mother surprised me with a telephone call. She wanted to see me urgently I had mixed
feelings about her sudden reappearance in my life after several years, but Mustafa
agreed that I should go to see her. Later that day, as I waited the door of my parents
home, I stepped back for a moment to visualize how the house must have looked at
Zarmina's marriage. My eyes filled with tears. I did not feel a part of my family any
more.
Adila greeted me at the door with an embrace. With her own tears running down her
cheeks, she told me that she was the reason that our mother had asked me to visit. Adila
said that her long-guilty conscience had produced chronic insomnia. She was now
receiving marriage proposals, but she could not accept any one of them until I forgave

her. 'God will never forgive me, till you do,' she, wailed. 'I know that I can never be
happily married because of the pain I caused you. Fate will extract its revenge from me.
Please forgive me - I beg you.' When she began to blame Mustafa for her immorality, I
cut her short.
'Never speak ill of my husband in front of me,' I commanded. 'If you have something to
say about your own behavior, I shall listen and forgive. Leave him out of it.' With a
start, I realized that I was hearing Mother's voice coming from my own mouth, she
always defended I other like this. However, in both cases it had more to do with ego
than with respect for the man.
By the end of the visit I had truly forgiven Adila. It was a luxury that I could afford,
now that I felt more in control of my own marriage.
I was mentally exhausted by the time I returned home. I related my conversation with
Adila to Mustafa and saw happiness appear on his face. I told myself with satisfaction:
The Adila chapter is closed for ever.
My parents now wanted the children and me to visit as often as possible, but they
declared that they did not want Mustafa's shadow to fall upon their doorstep. Mustafa
had to drive me to their home and return at an appointed hour, to wait outside in the
car. I could expect to find him in a grouchy mood, but we both knew that the family
snub was highly deserved.
The tension built slowly. The carefully constructed detente between Mustafa and me
fragile at best degenerated into a cold war. I dreaded the resumption of hostilities and
so, for the sake of harmony, began to evade visits to my parents. My priorities were
clear. I had to keep my marriage together for the sake of my children and myself. I had
invested too much pain and compromise in this relationship to let it go now.
Mustafa and I went to Wellington Hospital, to visit Shireen Jatoi, the daughter of
Mustafa's closest friend and political ally. She was in the early stages of labor Shireen's
mother embraced me and told Mustafa, think that for the first time you've found
yourself a really good wife. I hope you will appreciate her.'
Grasping my hand, Mustafa declared in a tone of extreme sincerity, 'I could not think of
living without her. You can't imagine what she means to me or how good she has been
for me.'
Mustafa left me at the hospital. That afternoon Shireen asked for something from my
home, so I called to speak to a servant I tried several times but the line was busy, and I
gave up in frustration.

Shireen went into the final stages of labor at about 6 p.m. By then, Mustafa was back
with us in Shireen's hospital room, where many of her friends and relatives had
gathered. Mother had left on a trip to America and assigned me the task of checking on
Adila. My younger sister was due home from boarding school and, within a few days,
was to join Mother in Boston. I called my parents' home to assure myself that Adila had
arrived safely. She answered the phone herself, and immediately disclosed, 'Tehmina,
your husband has been on the phone to me all afternoon.' My heart skipped I shot a
freezing glance across the room at Mustafa, as Adila continued, 'He's been begging to
see me. He keeps. telling me that I'll never meet another man like him. He insists that
nobody can make me forget him, that I should not think of marrying any of my suitors
they would be inadequate.'
Mustala could not hear these words, but he could see the pain in my face. His own
complexion grew deep red. Guilt was inscribed on his features.
Adila maintained that she was no longer interested in Mustafa and I believed her. She
had many eligible young men pursuing her. Her voice held a cutting edge when she
said, 'I told him that Tehmina always maintains that you love her. He said that you're
very foolish. "If I say she has beautiful eyes, she thinks I love her." He pleaded with me
to see him. He said that he would drive down and park outside our gate. He just
wanted a glimpse of me. He's obsessed with me. He kept telling me that he would die
without me. I knew you wouldn't believe me, so I have witnesses. My friend Claudia is
here. She heard our conversation on the extension. So did our cook Rehman. Ask them.'
I put the phone down and realized that I had gone into shock. I had reconstructed
myself for him to demolish once more.
As if to mock my pain, the waiting room erupted with jubilation at the news that
Shireen had given birth to a son.
I burst into tears.
Shireen's mother hugged me and asked what was wrong. I could not allow my misery
to dilute this family's moment of joy, so I did my best to suppress hysteria. I mumbled
tearful excuses and made an exit.
Mustafa followed me out, like a whipped puppy. We drove home in total silence.
At home, in our bedroom, he donned his most innocent tone and asked, 'What
happened? Please tell me. What's wrong? Tehmina, I beg you.' He began to babble, and
as his words rushed out, he unwittingly confirmed my sister's report. 'Is it Adila?' he
asked. 'My God' that mad girl. Has she said something? Don't believe her - she just
makes these things up to upset and torture you. She hates you. She's trying to ruin our

marriage. She's not in love with me; she wants to punish you. She wants our marriage to
break to fulfill her own perverse desires, to win. Please don't believe her. She did say
something, didn't she? What did she say? Tell me.'
I remained silent, and told Mustafa I wanted to be alone. He left the room but insisted
that I leave a door open. I wanted oblivion I turned out the light crouched in a corner of
the room. I wanted to crawl into my mother's womb. Contorting my body into the foetal
position, I wept.
By morning I was calm, and this made Mustafa more nervous. I told him, simply and
with finality, that I was leaving.
'Where will you go, Tehmina' he taunted To father's? Your father won't throw a bone to
you'
My mind raced I suddenly realized that I had to this with great caution. I was going to
leave I had to. But if Mustafa truly believed that I had decided to divorce him, he would
lock me up or take my children away - or both. Outwardly I relented, lulling his fears
with silence.
He apologized for what he had said about my father. He tried to embrace me, but my
revulsion show through.
'Tehmina, you are a complete woman,' he said. 'You are exceptional. You have
endurance that would outstrip the patience of women from my, village. You have
tolerated so much. You have coped with so much dignity. You have suffered in silence
You have protected my reputation. You have been a wonderful mother. I have broken
this home so often, and you have always reconstructed it. How, can you even imagine
that I would give you up for that little slut?'
With feigned sincerity I told him that I was forgiving him for the last time. 'Don't
disturb my life again,' I warned. 'I managed to cope the last time. You took me on a
conducted tour of hell. This time I do not have the energy or the will to walk down the
corridors of your deceit.'
Mustafa believed my words. He swore on the Koran that he would never betray me
again. He left for business in London, fully reassured.
The moment he was gone, I called for a cab and began to pack my bags. Dai Ayesha
dissolved into hysterics, truly fearing for her life. I called my brother Asim and
informed him of my intention to leave Mustafa. He was very understanding and
booked a hotel suite for me.

When the cab arrived, I walked out of the house with my three children and my bags. I
did not look back.
Asim had a table prepared in my hotel suite, laid out with caviar and champagne to
celebrate my release. You've made a good decision,' he proclaimed. I want this to be the
first day of the rest of your life. You must now be happy. Forget that man!' He turned to
my children and announced, 'From today, I am your father.'
He gave me £2,000 in cash 'I'm arranging for you to go to Spain,' he said. 'You need a
holiday.'
After we celebrated, Asim left us alone. The children and I fell into a peaceful sleep.
When I awoke, I realized that in my haste to leave I had forgotten our passports.
Quickly I called the house and spoke with Dai Ayesha about the passports. Then I asked
where Mustafa was. She said that he was doing his yoga. It upset me to realize that he,
was not even bothered enough to break-his routine.
Mustafa came on the line, and I informed him that I had left for good.
He replied calmly, 'Good. I hope you make a good life for yourself.'
I was confused by his reaction. Had it been that simple to leave him?
The children and I spent a week in London. For the first time in seven years, I visited a
hairdresser. I shopped for the children and for myself. I was ecstatic to be among
normal people.
I called a lawyer and asked him to draw up diverse papers. In the course of this task, he
found it necessary to phone Mustafa to discuss the case. He reported back to me that
Mustafa had stonewalled, arguing that we could work out our differences without him.
I warned the lawyer that I dared not see Mustafa; he would do his best to persuade me
to return, and I did not yet feel strong enough to rebut him. I was afraid of my
programmed reaction to his practiced routine of guilt and reformation. I told the lawyer
to inform Mustafa that he could only make contact with me through counsel.
Asim arranged for me and the children to fly to my parents' villa in Marbella, Spain,
and I a recruited friend's nanny to accompany me. Asim gave me more cash, some of
his own and some forwarded from Father.
In Marbella, I tried to let my past sink away into the deep-blue Spanish sea. I visited a
health resort daily lazed about and forced memories out of mind. I bough clothes and
shoes - too many - for me and the children. The days passed over me like a balmy wind.

I heard that Mustafa was shattered. In keeping with the image of a jilted lover, he grew
a beard. He cut a sorry figure, traipsing back and forth among the homes of our many
friends, weeping and wailing, trying to convince them to persuade me to return. He
drank heavily. He spoke to strangers on the street about the wife whom he loved, who
had deserted him. He met Asim and fell at his feet, begging my brother to mediate. He
called my mother - for the first time since the Adila episode had burst into the open and
pleaded for forgiveness.
He won crucial sympathy votes. Friends phoned to convince me that he had changed.
My family members urged that I give the marriage another try, for the sake of the
children. Even my mother switched sides. I was amazed to hear her injudiciously weigh
the pros and cons, I knew why she was unused to Mustafa in the role of the pitiful child.
I knew how convincing the false act was, but no-one else did. Everyone saw a strong
man dissolve into tears at the mention of my name. They saw him humble and
repentant. They saw him grovel, and believed-that-he had actually changed.
The exuberance of my liberation began to dissipate. I did not want to live the rest of my
life as a two-time divorcee, and I wanted my children to be raised in a stable home, if
that was possible. Darker fears beset me, too. At the moment, Mustafa was trying to win
me back with petulance and remorse, but I worried what turn his personality might
take if these tactics failed. Long ago I had buried my physical fears, but when I stared at
the innocent faces of my sleeping children, I sometimes shuddered.
Asim brought a practical solution to the impasse. He had my lawyer draw up an

agreement that gave me the right to a divorce - and to custody of the children - should I
ever again decide to leave 'Mr. Khar,' the lawyer advised Mustafa, 'I think you should
read before you sign on the dotted line.'
'I don't need to read it,' Mustafa responded. 'If this paper brings Tehmina back to me,
it's worth signing. I don't need to know the price.' He scrawled his signature quickly.
The children and I returned to Britain. When Mustafa picked me up at my parents'

home, Mother proclaimed officiously, 'I want him to realize that you're leaving from
your parents' house. He must never forget this. You have a home to come back to.'
Mustafa treated me like a queen. He did not speak to me in a normal tone; he bleated
like a lamb. We spent the night at Haslemere and then embarked upon a second
honeymoon in Palm Beach, Florida.
In the past, Mustafa was always an irritable shopping companion, but in Palm Beach he
followed me around like a baby chick. When he tired, he squatted at the store entrance,
with packages strewn about him. He joked with sympathetic customers who took him
to be a model husband. 'What a dear,' they said Mustafa smiled back at them.

We ate dinners on a candle-lit terrace; the sound of the rolling surf attempted to erode
my apprehensions. But I was wary, still deeply hurt I had difficulty responding to
Mustafa I shuddered when he touched me, and I did not allow him to progress beyond
holding my hand. When he gave the slightest indication of a romantic overture, I
panicked. With a start, I realize that whatever traces of love had remained in my heart
were now irrevocably gone. I began to understand that the core of marriage is not
necessarily fidelity, it is trust and respect. Mustafa had long ago destroyed my trust in
him and, now, I no longer respected him. In fact, I pitied him.
Our one remaining link beyond the children was politics. We talked about returning to
Pakistan I wanted to fight for the things we both believed in, to change what was wrong
and fashion a new society. I fantasized about our house in Lahore and, in my mind,
planned how I would redecorate it. This was metaphorical, the house was my country
and its interior design my politics.
We flew to Boston to visit my sister Minoo and he husband. Much had happened
during my years of family exile. At the coed school on the Isle of Wight the worst had
happened, as far as my parents were concerned. Minoo had fallen in love with Philip
Holt, the best photography student in the school. The fact that he was a Catholic of
French and English descent was a stumbling block. Our parents were furious but,
realizing that they had no choice, demanded that he adopt Islam and change his name
to Ali Habib. They were married in a mosque. Now they had moved to Boston to
continue their photography studies. Minoo was happily surprised to see that I was calm
and that Mustafa's temper had vanished.
When we finally returned to London, my grandmother came from Pakistan to visit us

She could not believe how well adjusted we had become. The peace in our beautiful
country house filled her with gratitude to Allah. She proclaimed that her prayers had
been answered.
No, I was not in love. Yes' felt secure and even content.
Mustafa was desperate to seal our new bond by producing another child, but I was
convinced that my pregnancies were cursed. I shuddered at the memory of how I had
caused pain to a pregnant woman - Mustafa's former wife Sherry. I believed in crime
and punishment. Was it mere coincidence that my pregnancies coincided. With the
worst times of our marriage? Or did God visit me with the most severe trials whenever
the seed nestled In my womb?
Mustafa pleaded, arguing that a child born to us now - in this phase of our relationship -
had to be special. He craved a chance to make up for past traumas. His persistence paid
off, and soon I was pregnant once more.

The very moment that I told Mustafa that my tests were positive, I sensed a change. The
charade was over. Where could I go with a child in my womb and three in my arms? He
had me where he wanted me - at his mercy once again. Western women refer to this
state of dependency as 'barefoot and pregnant.'
What explanation could I offer for my stupidity. All the friends who had been privy to
his condition during our separation and had defended my decision, insisting that he
had lost me by his own nature, were dropped. Even Ali and Billo were completely cut
from our, lives.
The irrational fights resumed Mustafa demanded that I hand over the agreement that he
had signed, guaranteeing me the tight to divorce and custody of the children - on
demand. I refused to relinquish this passport to freedom Asim had the papers, and I
could not ask him for them.
Mustafa gloated at my fears of pregnancy and began to reinforce them. 'Your

pregnancies are cursed,' he proclaimed 'You were right all along. This is another
example of the potency of that curse. You have to suffer for your sins.'
Meanwhile, the saga of Adila's love life took many strange turns. During their visit to
America, she and Mother were invited to dinner at the home of a Washing on heiress
whose family knew our father through a series of business relationships. Mother was so
impressed with the opulent home and its collections of fine art and antiques that she
nearly forgot that the family was Jewish and was, in fact, generous in its financial
support to Israel. That evening, the heiress's young son fell madly in love with Adila.
Mother and Adila fell in love with the family fortune.
The love-struck boy followed. Mother and Adila back to Boston. Minoo was astounded
that Mother allowed him to visit The boy pressed his case, proposed marriage and
agreed to the extraordinary, key point he would adopt Islam.
Before long, Mother and Adila were en route to Pakistan, on a solemn mission to
persuade Father to bless Adila's marriage to a Jew, Mother was confident. She had
always been able to twist Father to her will.
But Father had been on his own in Karachi for some time, tending to business. Away
from Mother's watchful eye, he had reacquainted himself with his old army drinking
buddies, who now occupied positions of power in Zia's government. He was in a more
confident and aggressive mood these days.
Mother, as diplomatically as possible, proposed Adila's marriage into a foreign family.

In an instant years of pent-up frustration exploded. My father, who had always yielded

to his strong-willed wife, declared vigorously that if the marriage took place be would
divorce Mother.
Trying to soften him, Mother explained that the boy had agreed to accept Islam.
Father screamed, 'There is only one solution. He should take the name Yasser Arafat.
Then I will agree. The whole world will have to know that be supports the PLO.'
Mother retreated to fight another day. She and Adila returned to England. They
reported the distressing news to the boy's family in Washington, whereupon the heiress
and her son caught the next Concorde flight to London.
Mother brought the entire clan into the fray. She called all of us, detailed, the story and,
sought our support. Telephone calls flew about to various corners of the earth. Asim,
who was away on business, heard the news and threatened Adila: 'I will kill you!' He
had married into a Saudi family, and, there was no way that he could sell them a Jewish
in-law.
I hoped to keep any news of Adila's love life away from Mustafa but he realized that an
international telephone marathon was under way and discerned the details. He reacted
to the Jewish issue as negatively as Father and Asim, but I wondered whether he simply
wanted to prevent Adila from marrying anyone. At any rate, he told me to spend the
night at Mother's house, to convince her and Adila to avoid this great 'scandal.'
The intrigue ran very deep. In fact I suspected that the youngsters were ready to run off
to the Regent's Park Mosque, marry and present the entire clan with a fait accompli. That
evening, I confided my suspicions to my sister Rubina in Karachi.
Later that night Rubina called Mother and broke dramatic news: Father had suffered a
heart attack! He was in an intensive care, ward. Mother and Adila must catch the next
flight to Karachi. As Mustafa's exiled wife I, of course, could not go.
We all suspected (quite correctly) that this was a phony episode, but Mother and Adila
could not call the bluff. They booked a flight the next day, leaving about-noon. Then
Mother called the heiress and her son at their hotel, briefed them on this latest news,
and asked them to come over at 10 o'clock in the morning.
Mother recruited me for the dirty work. She told me that she was too distraught to meet
with the young Romeo and his mother; I would have to talk to them Mother, detailed:
'You must tell them the whole situation, so that they will understand. If Adila marries
this boy, she will lose all the support, of the family. If the marriage does not work,
nobody in Pakistan will ever marry her. She is burning all her bridges.' Mother was at

her dramatic best when she reached the bottom line. She instructed me 'Tell them they
must put at least one million dollars into Adila's account for her security.'
'I can't say that' I replied I was always uncomfortable discussing money in general, but
this was astounding I thought ruefully. Adila isn't worth that much.
I went downstairs. The Americans waited in the study. They knew that Father's 'heart
attack' necessitated the instant settlement of the matter. I delivered Mother's speech as
best I could, but stopped short of mentioning a dollar amount.
'Adila will have all the security she needs,' the woman explained 'My son has a job. He
has just rented a two-bedroom apartment in New York. Adila will own his car and
everything else he has.' She was beginning to run out of patience when she added, 'She
will own his clothes, his socks - everything.'
The blood rushed to my cheeks as I asked, 'And what does he own'
'He has about thirty thousand dollars in the bank.'
I explained, 'But my mother wants him to put up security for Adila, separately, in her
own account.'
The American woman sought to make me understand. 'There is no other security,' she
said 'He will inherit from his grandfather, but all of that money is in trust. It's not for
him to give away to anyone. He doesn't have anything to give away.'
I struggled to keep an expression of glee off my face. I knew, what reaction this
information would produce upstairs. I excused myself and went to tell Mother and
Adila. They sat amongst a pile of packed suitcases and vanity bags, waiting in
anticipation. With a dramatic air I announced, 'He only has thirty thousand dollars, and
he's not prepared to give that. But she'll own his clothes - and his socks!'
Mother's mouth gaped and she slapped an open palm hard against her bosom. 'What!'
she cried. 'He has no money?'
In an instant Mother and Adila realized that they were dreadfully late for their plane.
Servants were called and, amid much shouting, the car was loaded. My mother and
sister muttered hurried excuses to the two Americans.
'My husband is very ill' Mother wailed.
'I have to be with my father,' Adila explained.

As they headed off for the airport, Mother fiddled with her prayer beads, imploring
God to save her husband's life.
Indeed, Father's recovery seemed miraculous. In Karachi, he and Mother wasted little
time in arranging a fine marriage for Adila. The boy was Rais Matloob, the son of a very
respected landowner from Bahawalpur. His father, Rais Ghazi, had been hailed as the
builder of the most beautiful and elaborate mosque in the area. In fact, once
construction began the man had dreamt that, the day he stopped building, he would
die, accordingly, he kept workmen busy for twenty-five years, adding every possible
extra touch. Shortly after Rais Ghazi stopped construction, he did indeed die, which
added greatly to the family's legend.
The marriage offered good prospects for Adila - he was a fine, charming young man but
the symbolism was obvious Adila had shifted her affections instantaneously from a Jew
to the son of a mosque builder.
'I wish you a marriage that I wanted,' I said to Adila in London as I helped her pack 'I
wish you no pain in your marriage I wish for you all that I could not get out of life.'
Mother and Father were very happy.
I broke the news to Mustafa myself, watching carefully for his reaction. I knew that he
had to approve, at least nominally. The ultra-conservative family was rich and revered,
and hailed from the same region as Mustafa, the Saraiki Belt, which stretches across the
south of the Punjab. Mustafa digested the news and then declared with a distinct smirk
on his face, 'It is a good match'
Over time, Benazir's peevishness toward Mustafa had increased. She barricaded herself
behind a burgeoning bureaucracy, and critical decisions were increasingly delayed by
red tape. Her advise fad her constant tales of Mustafa's impudence and ambition. By
now, after two years of haggling over the future course of the People's Party, Mustafa
was required to make an appointment to see her, and he sometimes had to wait for
weeks.
Mustafa bristled. He believed that Benazir needed his experience to weather her first
stormy years in politics. But she obviously felt that her head had grown large enough
for the crown. Mustafa felt his power base slipping away, and he knew that other party
workers sensed it. The Zia government was finally moving toward at least the
appearance of democracy. In December 1985 martial law was lifted, and a party-less
election wits announced. Mustafa natural political strength was eroded by upstarts
including three of his own brothers, who stood for seats in the new National Assembly.

Benazir planned for an eventual return to Pakistan, and Mustafa was shocked to learn
that she was not considering him for the post of Party President in the Punjab. 'Too
many people will disagree with this choice,' she explained coolly.
'I don't see how anybody can disagree,' Mustafa argued 'I am the only choice. It is not
something that you are doing out of the goodness of your heart. It is accepted that I am
the leader of the Punjab.'
Other irritations followed. To the outside observer they were, perhaps, minor points of
contention within the unfathomable world of Pakistani politics, but to Mustafa they
were air and water. In frustration, he decided to resign from the Party, but he did not
plan to give up without a fight. Along with his old political friend, Ghulam Mustafa
Jatoi, he decided to form a new party, with a manifesto that claimed a return to the pure
first principles of the People's Party. Their public goal was to attract the working-class
elements among Bhutto's followers. Mustafa's private goal was to emerge as the logical
successor to the Bhutto legacy.
Consciously trying to atone for his sins of the past eight years, Mustafa arranged for me
to deliver our child in London's Luxurious Portland Hospital. A large portrait of
Princess Anne graced the lobby wall. This was where she delivered her children. Here,
our son Hamza was born.
The delivery was not difficult, but Mustafa proved to be. He was scheduled to travel
abroad in two days, to what he described as 'a warm country', and needed summer
clothes. Thus, one day after the birth of my son I had to drag myself out on to the streets
to shop for my husband.
The 'warm country' was India. Through Joshi, Mustafa had arranged a clandestine
meeting with the new Prime Minister, Rajiv Gandhi. Mustafa spent six days in India
and was treated with all the protocol of a visiting chief of state. He was lodged in a rest
house to prevent the press from detecting his visit. He was taken on a big-game safari.
Most importantly he held long discussions with the Prime Minister. He returned to
London with the report that Rajiv was ready to adhere to his mother's plan to come to
the aid of Pakistan. 'We were unable to decide how we were going to implement it,'
Mustafa said. But the policy remains unchanged.'
I reacted to this news with a surprising, to me, amount of disinterest, for I was suddenly
overcome by an obsession of my own. I had dreamed that a great miracle had occurred:
I was happy and was celebrating! In my dream, someone asked me how this miracle
had taken place and a voice replied that it was due to the fact that I had visited the
shrine of the great saint of Ajmer in India. I pestered Mustafa to talk to Joshi, to arrange
for me to make the pilgrimage.

They met at yet another Wimpy Bar. Seated at a nearby table, I tried to appear
inconspicuous - because I looked European - as Joshi arrived and greeted Mustafa. They
spoke for some time, I knew that they were talking mainly about politics, but I hoped
that Mustafa raised the issue of my trip. Finally they stood up, paid their bill and
walked past my table Joshi stopped, smiled at Mustafa and told him not to forget his
wife Mustafa grinneti sheepishly and formally introduced me.
As the three of us walked out together Mustafa told Joshi of my desire for the
pilgrimage and the Indian replied that he would see what could be done. I could hear
the voice of the saint calling me.
Two days later, as I prepared to catch an Air India flight, Mustafa instructed me not to
pack any make-up - not so much as a lipstick - and he searched my luggage to make
sure that I had complied. I was travelling alone for the first time, and he did not want
me to attract any male attention. His paranoia irritated me. This is silly, I thought I
could buy make-up in India. How would he even know? My thoughts stopped short
when I realized that he had probably arranged that too, through Indian intelligence.
Two men met me at the New Delhi airport, whisked me through customs and
immigration - I did not have a visa - and drove me to the Taj Hotel, where they had
reserved a beautiful suite for me. Ten minutes after I had settled in, a middle aged
woman came to the door and introduced herself as Mrs. Singh. In a businesslike
mariner, she checked my itinerary. I realized that her job was not only to look after me,
but to monitor my activities.
My two shadows reappeared and informed me in officious tones that, in one half-hour,
the Director General of the Agency would have tea with me. I asked Mrs. Singh who the
Director General was. She said that he was her boss, and a very important man, but she
did not provide a name.
I carried a message for him from Mustafa: I was to report that the political situation in
Pakistan was static - which was to say that Zia was still firmly in power. I was to preach
Mustafa's message that Zia's policy of aiding and abetting the Afghan rebels would
have disastrous consequences for the entire region. A withdrawal of Russian troops
from Afghanistan would strengthen American influence and damage our common
interests. Mustafa wanted once again to urge the Director General to convey to the
relevant quarters that a move against Zia was now imperative. My instruction were to
listen carefully to the Director. General and report his words verbatim.
Over tea, the Director General said that he agreed with Mustafa's assessment and
understood the situation. He assured me that he would convey the message to the
relevant people and that he would, himself, contact Mustafa within the next two weeks.
He indicated that he would be visiting London soon.

I also forwarded Mustafa's request for another meeting with Rajiv Gandhi. The Director.
General said that he would arrange the meeting and inform Mustafa through regular,
channels: Joshi.
Before he left, the Director General offered me advice concerning my visit. 'Try not to
move about too much,' he cautioned. 'Somebody you know might recognize you. It
could result in an embarrassment.'
The following morning I flew to Ajmer. My two shadows were at my side as I entered
the shrine. Their Hindu presence disturbed my Islamic prayers. I wanted to be alone I
wanted to pray that God would restore sanity to my life. Here, of all places, my privacy
should have been sacrosanct, but the shadows refused to fade
Gradually the peace of the sanctuary took effect. All around me I heard the hum of
others at prayer. Reality receded.
I asked God to curb Mustafa's bouts of violence and insanity. 'I want a normal home
with peace and harmony,' I prayed I asked that God would give Mustafa respect and
end his exile. I prayed for further reconciliation with my parents.
I looked around and saw faded and torn women with naked children, women with pain
exuding from their very beings. But like me there was a hope in their eyes that
transcended their hopeless lives. I wept for us all.
My two companions shuffled their feet, destroying my tranquility. They seemed restless
- two Hindus, forced to stand in front of the mortal remains of the great Sufi saint who
had done more to spread Islam in India than any general brandishing a bloody sword.
I turned and walked away with my head bowed I felt revitalized.
In New Delhi, Mrs. Singh and I lunched together, then went shopping I bought a
painting and a rug. When I asked Mrs. Singh if she wanted anything from London, her
eyes lit up. She would love a leather handbag, she said. But then her face clouded with
fear and she explained that she was not allowed to give me her address. When I asked if
there was an address in London where I could send the bag, she hesitated.
'Why this cloak-and-dagger stuff?' I asked. 'Why can't we be friends?'
'It's impossible,' she replied. 'Please never repeat this conversation I'm not allowed to
make friends with contacts. I'll lose my job.'
Finally, after furtive glances to the left, the right and behind, she slipped an address to
me. The lure of the leather handbag was too great.

****
Mustafa was pleased with my report from the Director General, but my prayers went
unanswered. Two weeks after my return from India, he once more hounded me for the
legal papers that granted me the rights of divorce and child custody on demand. I
chided, 'Mustafa, you should not have signed those papers if you did not agree. You
were irresponsible. Now live up to the consequences. I cannot ask Asim for the papers;
he will lose respect for you.'
He slapped me sharply, then went to the phone. He called my lawyer and said, 'My
wife has agreed to revoke the agreement. Could you send us a draft specifying that the
agreement stands revoked. She will sign it.' The lawyer said that the papers would be in
the morning's mail.
I collapsed in fear. That agreement was my only protection, my last defence against this
man's insanity. I knew that I had to do something, or I would be crushed under the
weight of his re-established authority.
Mustafa was out the next morning. I waited anxiously, for the mail to arrive and, when
it did, I grabbed the envelope from the lawyer's office and, with the four children,
headed for my parents' home.
Mother listened to Mustafa's tears on the telephone and once more attempted to
persuade me to return to him, but I told her that I could never believe his promises
again.
I wanted a divorce. I was resolute. My children were made Wards of Court; Mustafa
was granted the right to take the three older children out every Sunday morning and
ordered to return them by evening.
Soon after, I awoke one morning with a compulsion to cut my hair, to get rid of this
talisman of Mustafa's desire. My hairdresser tried to dissuade me, wailing that my
incredibly long hair was the key to beauty, but I was firm. I had not cut my hair since
the age of fourteen and now, as the scissors snipped away, I felt as if Mustafa's evil
spirit was exorcised from my life.
Mustafa Soon heard, and understood its significance. He knew that I had finally
decided not to return to him, ever again. Otherwise I would not have done away with
what he loved most about me. Without my hair, he a weak Samson.

11
It was high summer, the day before the celebration of Eid. Mustafa had made plans to
take the three older children, Naseeba, Nisha and Ali, to an amusement park in
Liverpool - he liked driving fast, so Liverpool seemed no great distance to him. When
he arrived at my mother's house to pick them up, he handed out Eidi, the traditional
monetary gift that marks the end of Ramadan, to them and to my mother's servants. He
gave me my Eidi of £500. I was touched by the gesture, and felt sad about how things,
had turned out. As he piled the children into the car, he was a forlorn figure, fighting a
lonely battle in exile.
The day passed quietly as I cared for, my baby son Hamza. The older children were due
home at 6:30 p.m., but Mustafa did not bring them back on time. By 7-30 my panic
attack was in full swing. I phoned one of Mustafa's friends, who told me that he had
taken the children to the countryside. The friend provided only sketchy details, and I
sensed that something was wrong. But I did not know what.
A half-hour later the phone rang and I lunged for it. It was Mustafa. He reported that
the car had broken down on the motorway and that he had walked a mile to a phone
booth to call me so that I would not worry.
'Where are the children?' I asked.
'I've just come off the motorway. I left them in a roadside inn They're fine - a bit tired
and sleepy. They're having their dinner just now.' He added that his brother Arbi was
with them.
I interrogated him: 'You said you had walked a mile, walked a mile from where?'
'From the car, Tehmina'
'But why? Isn't there a telephone at the inn?'
'No, he said. 'There's no telephone there.'
'I find that hard to believe. This is England, not some godforsaken part of Pakistan.'
He stuck to his story.
'Can I speak to one of the children?' I asked.

'No. They're too tired. I'd have to walk back and carry them all this way. It's too much of
a bother. Relax. They're fine. Listen, I'll go back now and see what I can do. I'll call you
in an hour or so.' The phone went dead.
I paced. What is he up to? I Wondered Is he playing games? Could he be telling the

truth?
At 9.30 the ringing phone again jangled my nerves. Mustafa was very composed as he
reported, 'The children are fast asleep. I've just walked back to tell you not to worry. It
was too much to carry them all this distance.' I found this completely out of character
and doubted that he would have put himself through another mile-long hike simply to
reassure me.
I asked suspiciously, 'Where exactly are you, Mustafa? I'll send a car for you.'
He muttered something about being on the M15, but he was vague, and he told me not
to bother about a car. He would get his own car repaired and be home soon. His smug,
controlled tone bothered me. Once more the clicking sound of the disconnecting phone
line left me hollow.
I called a friend, and asked if the M15 went towards the amusement park in Liverpool.
No, she said, there was no motorway of that number near Liverpool.
Mustafa was lying, I thought. Then I realized that it did not matter whether or not I had
caught him in a lie. He had the children! I was assaulted by wave after wave of
terrifying thoughts. What was he going to do with them? Where would he take them? I
forced myself to sit and breathe deeply. Think, Tehmina, I commanded myself. Think.
It was after 11:30 when Mustafa called once more and this time I asked my mother to
speak to him; I did not trust my temper. Mother hinted diplomatically at my fears, but
he coolly dismissed them as evidence of paranoia. He explained the nature of the car
breakdown in convincing detail and assured Mother that the children were all right. He
embellished his story: 'I'd asked the servant at my apartment to cook saalun [curry] for
us,' he said. The lamb curry was one of Naseeba's favorite foods. 'I've called him up and
told him to wait. I had every intention to get back home by dinnertime. It is not my fault
that the car broke down.'
As soon as Mustafa rang off, I called his apartment. Someone picked up the phone, but
would not speak. I tried repeatedly with the; same result. Finally, his servant answered.
'Farid, I asked, 'have you cooked saalun today?'
'No, Begum Sahib,' 'he replied innocently.' I was not ordered to.'

I put down the receiver and thought: Why is Mustafa lying about this? Where is he?
Where are my children?
I phoned my father's lawyer, Mr. Garret, awakening him. When I told him what was
happening, he decided to alert the police. My father was in Pakistan on business and I
called to inform him about the situation. We decided that strong threats were necessary
to ferret out the truth.
It was 2 a.m. when I phoned Mustafa's apartment and once more spoke to the servant.
He sounded very frightened. I chose my words carefully, to make sure that he would
relay the correct message to Mustafa. I warned, 'Farid, I'm sending the police over. They
will hang you upside down and thrash you till you tell them what's going on. Tell your
Sahib when he calls to call me in five minutes or I'm going to send the police to every
home where I suspect my children might be. Do you understand?'
The phone was barely in its cradle when it rang again. It was Mustafa, and he said that
by coincidence he had called the apartment and spoken to Farid, who had delivered my
ultimatum. The response had come so quickly that I doubted that this was true. Was he,
hiding in his own flat? I Wondered. No, Mustafa claimed that he was still at the inn,
waiting, and admonished me to curb my wild imagination and get some sleep.
The rest of the night passed with the aid of endless cups of coffee. My mother and my
sisters Minoo and Rubina were with me. We spent the hours talking and thinking. At
5:00 a.m. we decided to contact the London station manager of Pakistan International
Airlines - we could pull rank since my father had served PIA as chairman - to see
whether my children might have been placed on a flight to Islamabad or Karachi. The
manager had the records checked immediately and reported three children bearing
different names had board plane yesterday at Heathrow, heading to Paris and then on
to Islamabad. They were accompanied by a man a woman, and I froze when I heard
their names: the man was Ghulam Arbi Khar - Mustafa's brother! - and the woman was
their nanny, Dai Ayesha! I knew that Dai must be an unwilling and terrified
coconspirator.
I realized that Mustafa must have secured false passports for the children. Then he had
played for time delaying until he could get the children out country. He had kidnapped
Wards of Court. In a desperate gamble to get the back he had violated the laws of
England the country that had granted him political asylum for the past nine years.
In desperation I called my father in Pakistan and asked him to check with immigration
authorities, to see if he could intercept the children. But it was too late. The flight had
arrived, the passengers had disembarked and cleared immigration. Naseeba, Nisha and
Ali were gone.

'I have taken my children,' Mustafa announced to my mother on the phone at 6 a.m. He
was crying, but his voice was tinged with evil: 'I have sent them to Pakistan. There is no
way that they can be brought back. The only way out is for Tehmina to return to me. I
did this because I knew that she would never come back to me. This was the only way
to get her back. I knew that she would not be able to live without her children. Does this
not prove how much I love her?'
Then he spoke to me, and I found his words chilling: 'Please forgive me for taking the
children away from you. I just can't let you leave me. Come back to me.' Once more he
wept, but every sob heightened my anger. I did not want to believe his anguish. This
man had abducted my children. He was holding them hostage. And the ransom was
me!
I had two choices: return to Mustafa or learn to live with only memories of Naseeba,
Nisha and Ali. Both options were unthinkable.
Mustafa was aware of the consequences. He had demonstrated once again that he was
above the law, that he held legal niceties in contempt. Nevertheless, he knew that he
was in a serious bind. He faced a jail sentence in England for kidnapping Wards of
Court, yet he could not return home to Pakistan where he faced fourteen years in prison
- or even the gallows. His options were as stark as mine. Mustafa the hunter became
Mustafa the hunted. He went underground, flying first to Paris, then moving about the
continent, dependent upon the People's Party network for his security.
Five days passed, during which I employed every strategy that I could devise. Mustafa
Jatoi was in England at the time and I spoke to him on the telephone, hoping that he
would funnel my message. I wanted Mustafa to know that he was no longer dealing
with the old, passive Tehmina. He was locking horns with someone who had served a
long apprenticeship under a masterful manipulator. I said to Jatoi: 'He has blackmailed
me in the most cruel manner. Tell him that as he was a student of Mr. Bhutto, I was a
student of Bhutto's vile product. He is Mr. Mustafa Khar, but I am Mrs. Mustafa Khar. I
shall fight him in his own spirit by his standards.'
Jatoi listened to me carefully, and I believed that he truly felt my pain. He was a feudal
lord himself, but always impressed me as being cut from a more luxurious cloth than
Mustafa Khar. He seemed to revere the concepts of truth and honor. On a professional
level this episode occurred at a difficult time for him. He was currently travelling back
and forth between London and Pakistan, where he had just announced the formation of
the new National People's Party - Mustafa was his second-in-command. Jatoi found this
scandal very embarrassing and counterproductive.
British tabloids picked up the story and I had to endure the sight of my children's faces
peering out at me from news-stand displays. We also became daily front-page news in

the Pakistani press. I worried constantly about the welfare of my three lost souls. They
knew only their lives in England; now they were in a strange environment without their
parents. Where were they? I thought that it was probably too risky for Mustafa to
deposit them in Lahore or Karachi, and conclude that he had probably sent them to his
primitive village of Kot Addu, where his extended family could rely upon the trappings
of the feudal system to protect them from consequences. In Kot Addu, the Khars were
the law.
What about their schooling? I worried. What about their diet? What was all this doing
to their young hearts?
Minoo was at my side constantly. She had moved back to London from Boston. Her
own marriage, became strained, as during this crisis she reserved her priorities for me.
My mother, who many times in the past had attempted to persuade me to return to
Mustafa, was at last convinced of his evil nature. She supported me totally in my battle,
and was determined to destroy Mustafa politically. But her reasons were somewhat
jaded. She was not as upset with the heinous crime as by the fact that Mustafa had taken
the children from her trust yet again. This was a personal affront. He had betrayed her I
yet again. This was not how a gentleman was to behave, and it was not to be forgiven.
I provided Interpol with a list of telephone numbers for all the People's Party workers in
Europe. Raids were made on homes in Paris, Brussels, Frankfurt and Geneva. To his
embarrassment, police officers moved Mustafa Jatoi from the midst, of a party at his
Kensington residence and interrogated him in an adjacent room.
Through it all, Mustafa escaped detection.
My father contacted the highest authorities in Pakistan, and even went to see Zia
personally. But no-one could or would help. Two of the children were girls and the
male mentality could not deprive a feudal lord of the sight to control his daughters.
What's more, Mustafa once more hid behind the bulwark of Islam. He proclaimed to the
media that he believed his daughters should grow up in the Islamic tradition, rather
than in western society, and this pandered to the vast number of Pakistanis who view
the West as the citadel of vice and moral decay. The multitudes might be impoverished
and illiterate, but invoke the name of Islam - no matter how erroneously - and they will
rally. Mustafa's self-righteous stance made the issue very touchy. Zia worried that any
move against Mustafa would further portray the man as an innocent victim and that
any action he took might be viewed as harassment against a long-time political
opponent; worst of all, of course, was the possibility that the masses might interpret it
as anti-Islamic. Zia and other Pakistani officials took the public position that this was
simply a domestic dispute.

While standing in a phone booth somewhere in Europe, Mustafa told me in composed
tones that the solution to my dilemma was very simple. All I had to do was return to
him and we would resume life as a complete family.
I was consumed by the sensation of total hatred towards this man as a husband, but
now more so as a father. He had not even taken into account the trauma that our three
little children were experiencing as he bargained and haggled for my return. Their
disturbance meant nothing to him in comparison to his own whims. I spat out the
words I had told Jatoi earlier. 'If you are Mr. Khar, I am Mrs. Khar. If you l earned from
Bhutto, I have learned from you. If you blackmail me, I'll blackmail you I will face up to
the situation and fight you just as you are fighting me I will not let you get away with
it!'
The headlines blazed 'Khar vs Khar' as I swore out an arrest warrant for Mustafa Khar,
formally charging him with the kidnapping. Since Nisha and Ali, born exile, were
British citizens, I contacted the British Embassy in Pakistan asked them to help locate
the children and return them to the UK. Interpol was prepared to extradite them.
I was discussing strategy with Minoo when I felt suddenly weak and dizzy. For a
moment I blacked out. Very concerned Minoo asked, have you eaten today? You've got
to keep up your strength.' I pondered her question and realized that I had not had any,
food that day. In fact, I had eaten nothing since the children were taken. For five days,
food had simply not entered my thoughts. Minoo tried to feed me a bland lunch, but I
vomited it out. Panic took hold of Mother. She had me admitted to Wellington Hospital,
where they immediately began to feed me intravenously. I remained there for one full
week until I was strong enough to begin eating again.
Meanwhile, Mustafa continued to shuttle about the continent trying to stay one step
ahead of Interpol. He contacted anyone who he thought might influence me to return to
him.
Using his underground connections, Mustafa acquired a passport belonging to someone

from the Pakistan Embassy in Belgium. While attempting to leave Brussels, he was
detained by an immigration official who noticed that the passport photograph had been
altered. He was thrown into jail with an assortment of drug addicts and other dregs of
society. He spent two days there before his contacts obtained his release, and he was
deported to Geneva before Interpol could catch up with him. Once more he had
escaped the net.
I was still in the hospital when I heard the news of his arrest and temporary detention in
Brussels, and I surprised myself by weeping for him. In my weakened state I grew very
pensive and thought he has become a common criminal in order to win me back. He
had even thrown politics to the wind. I could not fathom the man. He was wholly to

blame for the mess of our marriage. He had induced me to walk out on him, now he
was trying to force me back. This man who could have gone back to his own country
and assumed the dignified role of a political prisoner now endured a common jail with
petty prisoners, because of me. The only thing one could expect of Mustafa Khar was
the unexpected.
Mustafa varied his strategy between threats and supplications. During one phone call
he told me in a serious and sinister tone, 'Tehmina, I'm not giving you up I'll charter a
flight and land in England. You'll be picked up and I'll carry you back to the tribal area
where there is no law. You will live there with the children. You will cook and I shall
hunt and fetch wood for the fire. I'm serious, Tehmina I'll do it. Believe me.
The moment he hung up, trembling with fear I called the police inspector and reported
this fresh threat to kidnap me. I knew that Mustafa was capable of anything.
Six interminable weeks passed We heard occasional rumors of Mustafa's whereabouts,

but no hard evidence surfaced. I knew nothing of the fate of my three children.
My father goaded me into the distasteful task of writing a personal letter to General Zia,
requesting his help. I found it repulsive to appeal to the man who was for me and many
others, a bitter enemy. I swallowed my pride and made a rather formal appeal but there
was no response.
It is it strategy used by negotiators to wear down hijackers and other terrorists: buy
enough time, and the target will eventually succumb. Slowly my nerve depleted. Anger
melted into helplessness and despair. I did not know how long I could endure the
uncertainty. Seven-month-old Hamza was, at the same time, source of supreme joy and
utter anguish. I saw all of my children in him and I thought I have five children. Why is
it that only one of them is with me?
My mind constantly displayed images of the children accusing me of being selfish. How
could life ever stabilize without them? How could I abandon them to an alien
environment and begin a new existence? I knew that my guilt would never allow me to
live normally.
Mustafa must, have sensed that he was winning the war of attrition, and called once
again. He was a masterful negotiator. Taking his time, he coolly placed my options on
the table, chipping away at my spirit. Would I be able to give up the children forever?
Would I be happy living alone in England, with no word about the Children? Was all of
this fair to them?
Everything he said sounded false. I searched his words for innuendo and replayed the
sentences in my head, trying to discover the hidden traps. What, indeed was fair? As I

weakened, he tried to re-establish his credibility. He told me that he was planning to
return to Pakistan and asked me not to mention this fact to my mother. 'Your mother is
jealous of you,' he contended. She cannot bear to see you get all the attention in Pakistan
as my wife. She knows I have changed. She hates the desperation with which I want
you back. She knows that I actually want to make up for all that I have done to you. She
does not want this marriage to survive. She is not interested in the children's welfare.
They are insignificant. All that matters to her is her bruised ego. She is more upset about
the fact that I took the children from under her nose, from her bloody house' No man
would risk everything and fight to get his wife back like this, don't you see?'
This was partly true I knew it. And I knew that as my own resistance level fell, Mother
had taken over the fight. Her tone was more strident and bitter than mine, she would
not rest until she demolished the myth of Mustafa's vulnerability. This had a negative
effect on me. I wanted to win my children; she merely wanted Mustafa to lose. Several
times she said to me, 'Lose his children if you have to, but fight to the bitter end.' I could
not accept that.
For me, winning became irrelevant. Nothing else mattered but the children. My mother
could not understand this. She became angry and accused me of using her and the rest
of the family. 'You want to back out after putting us in the forefront of this mess?' she
shouted. We were at loggerheads. To her it was a matter of ego and pride. To me there
could be no victory if it came without my children.
My father's response was cool and pragmatic. He advised, 'Turn your heart into stone
and forget that you ever had any children. One day they will come back to you. Lead
your, own life. Restart it If you cannot do that, then there is only one other, option. Go
back.'
They were parents themselves! Had they not experienced the same phenomenon as I
that, with each birth, a parent's capacity to love immediately and mysteriously expands
to encompass more. With sadness I realized. No, they had not experienced that feeling.
****
One of my friends called With unexpected and wonderful news. My first husband
Anees had been transferred to a job in America. He was moving there with his second
wife, their three sons and our daughter Tanya. They had stopped in London on their
way. Tanya was here! Now!
I rang up Anees's mother immediately and she granted her permission for Tanya to visit
me. In fact, Anees said that she could now come to live with me permanently since I had
left Mustafa.

Tanya came to see me at my parents' house on 29 July 1986, which happened to be
Naseebas ninth birth day. She clung to me and we both wept. I stepped back to get a
good look at this young thirteen-year old. I hadn't seen her for nine years.
We went shopping. I bought her everything I could afford, as if this might make up for
years of abandonment. As the day progressed, however, our laughter turned inexorably
sour. I grew preoccupied and she grew sullen. She must have realized what I was
thinking my life was a tornado and it would destroy her if she stepped into its path. It
was better for her to stay with Anees, with a civilized father who loved her, at least until
I resolved another crisis.
After we returned to my Parents, house, I tried to explain 'I don't know what is going to
happen to me,' I said 'I might have to go to Pakistan soon to find the other children.
Mustafa might kill me the process. I cannot involve you. It is better if you go to America
with your father. He can provide security.'
Tanya clung to me and wailed, just as she had nine years earlier. She Cried, 'I hate my
stepmother!' Tanya had never felt her stepmother liked her, perhaps because her father
loved her too much.
What was I doing? I Wondered. One of my lost children had suddenly walked back into
my life, and I was sending her away? How could I do this? Was I and as heartless as my
own mother? My mind spun through the ramifications but each time it came to the
same conclusion. I would never - ever - settle for anything less than all five of my
children. That most definitely included Tanya, but we both had to sacrifice in the short
term. I simply could not bring her back into my life at this moment.
It was futile to attempt to quell her tears, but I tried. I stared deep into her eyes and
vowed, 'Tanya, I promise to take you back the moment that.! can offer you a normal life
I shall bring you back to me as soon as things settle. I promise.' Once more she clung to
me. Once more I pushed her away.
Later that evening, as I licked my fresh wounds from this encounter, the telephone rang
'Hello, Mummy,' Naseeba said hesitantly. I nearly collapsed, Mustafa had granted
permission for her to call me on her birthday.
'How are you?' I stammered.
'It's very hot here, Mummy.'
'Where are you, baby?'

'I can't tell you. I'm not supposed to say. We had to come a long way to call you. It is
very, very hot.' I heard her cry.
'Do you have any books to read?' I asked.
'No.'
'Did you get any birthday presents.'
'Yes. I got a garland made out of rupee notes. It's horrible. I hate it Mummy, it's so dirty
and hot here. There are too many flies buzzing around. I hate them.'
I broke down completely. For many minutes, I could do nothing but sob into the phone.
Naseeba asked, 'Mummy, when will we see you?'
'Soon, Naseeba.' It was all I could think of to say.
'Mummy, why can't we come back? We want to come back to you. We want to come
home. Please, please, call us back.'
'Soon,' I promised. To my ears, the pledge sounded vague and hollow.
Naseeba asked, 'How long do we have to stay here?' Then the connection went dead
The following day, Mustafa called me from Geneva and I told him in a calm, measured
tone that I would return to him. He overwhelmed me with thanks. His strategy had
worked. Through his tears he proclaimed that this was God's will. He promised to be
the ideal husband. He would make amends for his past behavior.
Against the advice of my lawyers and the wishes of mother, I dropped all charges
against Mustafa. The arrest warrant was withdrawn.
Mustafa Jatoi played the role of special envoy. He flew from Pakistan to England to
escort me from my parents' home to Mustafa's apartment in Holland Park. He promised
me that the next time that Mustafa behaved badly, he would give up their personal and
political friendship. I accepted his guarantee.
Mustafa, now free to return, rushed back to London. I waited for him in a daze. My
mind had given up functioning, as if from severe mental fatigue. When he arrived at the
apartment, I felt my skin crawl. I quickly averted my gaze. His demeanor was relaxed
but the air held menace.

He maintained that he was a changed man. In tears he vowed to live up to my
expectations. I did not cry. I did not feel.
Over the next week, Mustafa grappled with a difficult decision. It was time to keep his
part of the bargain - to reunite me with the children. Would we call Naseeba, Nisha and
Ali back to England? Or would we take Hamza and join them in Pakistan? I followed
his thought process as he calculated the risks. He was still, according to General Zia's
government, guilty of various charges all boiling down to treason. He could be
sentenced to execution, and he still faced a sentence of fourteen years of rigorous
imprisonment - at a minimum.
Yet there were compelling reasons for Mustafa to end his exile. In Pakistan, Jatoi's new
NPP was stirring interest. New faces were fast filling the vacuum created by the absence
of Mustafa and his exiled 'comrades'. Remote control was not good enough; Mustafa
had to be present to remain relevant. He had to fight the political battle on his own turf.
Mustafa would publicly maintain that his decision was patriotic and political, but this
was not the case. My icy attitude unnerved him. He could see that I was no longer in
love with him, and had lost respect for him. He was unsure of my intentions. If he
brought the children back to England, I could easily leave him again and reinstitute
criminal charges.
With the skill of a general, he executed a flanking movement and found my vulnerable
point. He stopped being the repentant husband and evolved into the evangelical
politician. He spoke with prophetic fervor about the future. Together, we would turn
our shared dreams into reality. In truth, this theme now held far more interest for me
than prospects for our personal relationship. He fed my idealism. I wanted to do
something worthwhile with my life and, if politics was the answer, I was inextricably
linked to him. Mustafa the husband no longer mattered to me. But the Lion of the
Punjab could still command my respect and loyalty. He realized that Pakistan, not
England, was the environment where I would be forced to view him as a statesman.
He made sure that I was aware of the risks because he wanted me to share the burden of
responsibility. His, eyes were intense when he said, 'Tehmina, I've been told by
everybody not to return. My life will be in danger. I'm going to leave it to you. I want
you to decide for both of us. I want you to decide whether you will be able to stand by
me through all the trials I will have to endure. Will you be able to fight for me. And if
anything happens to me, do you swear to take up my cause? If I am assassinated like
Bhutto, would you remain loyal and faithful to me? Can you swear to dedicate your life
to my cause and never remarry? Tell me. Do you think it is right for me to return? I
cannot justify my exile any more. Martial law has been lifted. My people want and
expect me to be amongst them.'

His Words penetrated that secret area of my mind where my ideals were stored, where
my hopes lay and where memories of my children were. I fell suddenly in love with a
noble idea - the return of the exiled leader. My original love for Mustafa was replaced
by led faith in his mission. We had resolved our differences out of court, now we would
take his case to the court of the people.
I promised that I would stand by him. I would fight for his cause. I would not leave him
as long as I believed in his politics and respected his ideals. I wanted him show me that
his courage was genuine. I told him that it was time for him to face the dictator.
I discussed a serious embarrassment with him. In print, during our very public custody
battle, I had called him names like 'Rasputin.' How was I to face the Pakistani press that
had made a soap opera of our matrimonial wrangles? How was I to explain my
copulation to a man who had kidnapped my children?
'I should be embarrassed not you,' he said with a smile. 'You left me I forced you back.
You smile You don't have to explain your position. You've done the right thing. The
people are like sheep. They will be led by anyone who seems to know the way.
I began to understand that a Politician must become used to having mud flung at him.
He must shrug it off and get on with his business. Politicians breathe the oxygen of
publicity; bad press is better than no press. Indeed, Mustafa reminded me that the
incident had enabled him to draw a portrait of himself as a conservative man who was
worried about the effect of western culture on his children's morals.
He advised me not to look back. Despite the prison sentence hanging over his head in
Pakistan, he proclaimed that the future belonged to us.
****
I dressed with care, selecting an Yves St Laurent shirt emblazoned with tigers, as if it
symbolized my allegiance to the Lion. A Louis Ferraud cape was draped over my
boulders to add a touch of decorum and elegance.
Standing before the mirror, I noticed how much I had changed from the young girl who
had fallen in love with this controversial, much older man. The fact, that I had used all
my strength to live with him and then to leave him seemed to have sapped me, and yet
there was a flickering light in my eyes. A long and turbulent exile was over and I was
embarking upon a journey that somehow seemed to be taking me into the area where I
could still function with Mustafa. There was a wisdom behind the sadness that glazed
my eyes. I had learned to live in crisis and was trained to cope with uncertainty. The
pain of life had dulled with the excitement of returning to my motherland and to my
children. This was the first moment when I realized the resilience of my spirit and its

inextinguishable nature. In amazement, I shook my head at my image. I had always
wondered about Mustafa, analyzed and assessed him. But today the major neglected
question surfaced: What was I all about?
Mustafa walked into our bedroom, sidestepping the luggage that occupied my
attention. On an impulse, I asked, 'What would have happened if I did not come back to
you?'
He disclosed the repercussions: When word of our separation reached Joshi, he had
complained to Mustafa. 'How could you trust your wife, sir, when you did not have a
stable marriage? The Indian government cannot afford to be implicated in an armed
conspiracy to topple a foreign government. It must never be known that the Indian
government extended material support to an opposition party to help it overthrow a
government. A scandal of this nature would be disastrous.' I became a potential threat
by leaving. I might talk irresponsibly. I was the weak link. Clearly, I knew far too much
about the intrigue between Mustafa and the Indian government to be allowed to roam
London untethered.
To save his political - and perhaps physical - life, Mustafa had to swallow his pride. He
had vowed that he would get me back, at any cost. Was it not, after all, for his love for
me?
Mustafa looked me straight in the eye and answered my unasked question, 'I would
have had to eliminate you.'
Part Three LIONESS
12
During the extended flight, Mustafa insisted that I write an oath on the Koran
promising to stay by him, even if were imprisoned for fourteen years. I complied.
Apart from all the other considerations, Mustafa was excited over the prospect of a
reunion with his mother. Through nine years of exile she had pined for him. Mustafa
could plan on arrest and imprisonment, but he hoped desperately that he would be
allowed to visit his ailing mother at least one final time.
As the plane began its approach to Karachi, I remembered how two of the most
important men in my life had become prisoners. My father faced humiliation, and he
had emerged from jail broken and shamed. But my politician husband would become a
hero. Mustafa viewed his impending prison term as a source of pride. It was evidence of
his bravery and loyalty to Bhutto and democracy.

Our arrival was anticlimactic. If Mustafa was surprised that no cheering throngs met us,
he did not show it. We were led without ceremony to in office at the airport and told to
wait. Soon, word of Mustafa's arrival spread, and the curious gathered to catch a
glimpse.
We were served lunch and Mustafa ate quietly, with a look of defiant submission on his
face; he had acquired the halo of martyrdom.
I was informed that Khaliqa, Jatoi, Mustafa Jatoi's wife and one of my few close friends
during my marriage, was waiting outside in a car. Mustafa asked me to go out and
inform her of the developments. A guard attempted to prevent me from leaving
through the outside door, but I brushed aside, shouting, 'You have no business stopping
me. Show me my arrest warrant.' He moved away to let me pass, and I realized that, as
Mustafa Khar's wife, I could get away with sheer intimidation.
By the tune I returned from speaking with Khaliqa, I found our bags opened and the
contents strewn across the counter. The police took away Mustafa's clothes books. Then
they took away Mustafa.
From Karachi, I flew with Hamza to Lahore, where I was met by Mustafa Jatoi and
several members of the newly-formed National People's Party. I was a fresh symbol, a
relying point. Tehmina Khar would make good press copy.
I was pleased to see the faces of the seven sacrificial lambs Mustafa had sent before him,
years earlier. Choudhry Hanif, Sajjad and the others had only recently been released
from prison. They were happy, of course for their own freedom, but worried that
Mustafa was now in the dictator's custody. They looked at me as Mustafa's
representative but I could tell that they wondered about my continuing endurance.
The press surrounded me. I expected them to enquire about our notorious domestic
battle, but they must have sensed my reticence and were kind enough to ignore that
aspect of my life. A reporter asked, 'Will You fight for your husband?'
'Yes,' I replied without hesitation.
Asia in general and the subcontinent in particular have produced valiant women who
have taken up the unfinished struggle of their men folk. In most cases, their entry into
politics began because of adversity and violence. Indira Gandhi, Cory Aquino, Benazir
Bhutto and others stepped into the shoes of their fathers or husbands.
Only when Mustafa was imprisoned did I emerge.
I was a political animal now.

****
My children awaited me at my grandmother's house. Through the haze of tears, I saw

that they looked well, but confused, and I realized immediately that whatever
compromises had been forced upon me were insignificant.
'Did you think Mummy would never come back to you?' I cried.
'No,' Naseeba said staunchly. 'We knew that you would come to us. We just knew'
In long conversations with my children, I learned the details of their ordeal. After
Mustafa had picked them up from my mother's house, in London, he had driven
straight to the airport. He bought their cooperation by telling them that he was taking
them to Disneyland. He explained that if I had known about the trip, I might refuse
permission. At the airport, Mustafa took a very big risk, flying with the children, his
brother and Dai Ayesha to Paris. Over the years, he had been careful to avoid PIA
flights, believing that if the authorities learned he was on board they would arrest him
on the spot, or even divert the flight to Pakistan. During the brief journey across the
channel, Mustafa kept telling the children how much fun it was going to be to shake
hands with Mickey Mouse.
In Paris, Mustafa told the children that he had to leave them in order to attend to some
work. Dai and their uncle would travel with them the rest of the way and he would join
them later in America - in Disneyland! It was a cruel deception, and perhaps the
children discerned it at this early stage of the plan, for they cried out their fears of
abandonment. Nevertheless, Mustafa got off the PIA plane and returned on the next
flight to London. That night it was from his Holland Park flat that he had made his
numerous calls to me, stalling for time.
Next morning he informed Mustafa Jatoi about his actions. Jatoi was thunderstruck,
particularly so due to the unfortunate timing. Their new party, still in its infancy was
thrown into disarray. But Mustafa had set his priorities and left Jatoi to make the
necessary excuses.
My children landed in Islamabad on a hot July day. The temperature was well above
100 degrees. The dry smoldering wind slapped them in the face. They very surprised
because they had not expected America to be so hot, or for that matter so apparently
underdeveloped. The first thing that Ali noticed was the number of poor Pakistanis in
dirty, shabby clothes had somehow got to America.
The children we met at the airport by another uncle, Ghulam Murtaza Khar, the
philanderer whom Mustafa had banished from Pakistan years ago for his affair with
Safia. They had recently made amends Murtaza was a Member of Parliament now. He

whisked the children through immigration procedures without the formality of having
their passports stamped. Mustafa did not want to leave a trail of evidence.
Next came the hot, uncomfortable six-hour drive to Mustafa home village of Kot Addu.
It was a terrible time for the children. Naseeba the eldest, discerned the all of this was
happening became I had left their father. She tried to put on a brave front, so as not to
frighten her brother and sister, but as the car sped further into the back country of
Pakistan, all three children felt increasingly alone and afraid.
They were hidden in the village, ensconced in a house with Mustafa's eldest son, Abdur
Rehman. Little Ali was allowed to play outdoors, but Naseeba and Nisha could only
watch from over the wall that surrounded the house, Naseeba was not quite nine years
old and Nisha was only six, but their youth did not matter girls had to remain indoors.
They had to sit inside with the other females all of whom seemed reconciled to the fate
that life dictated for women in a remote Pakistani village.
Ali's lot was not much beer. The poor village boys he played with were dirty. Stubborn
flies and mosquitoes attacked him. The unpaved alleys in Kot Addu were generally
muddy and the open gutters flowed with waste. There were no parks or playgrounds.
Ali and the other boys whiled away their time in narrow lanes where many dogs sat
about flicking away insects with their busy tails.
Mustafa's brother and co-conspirator Ghulani. Arbi Khar soon drew back from the
episode. He suffered from a bad conscience, and regretted his gullibility in acceding to
Mustafa's plans. He heard that I was hospitalized in London and felt very bad about
that. More importantly, he also realized that Mustafa did not have the children's best
interests at heart; his motives were selfish.
Yet another brother, Ghulam Ghazi Khar, also a Member of Parliament, tried his best to
help the children adjust. He was not on speaking terms with Mustafa, but he warmed to
his nieces and nephew. He entertained all of them in his home frequently. He took little
Ali on shoots; he bought him a pony and taught him how to ride. Ghulam Rabbani
Khar, a member of the Provincial Parliament, showered the children with gifts and
affection.
Television took over. The girls were entertained by a steady supply of Indian video
films and were befriended by cousins, who were about the same age.
Once Mustafa learned that my father had contacted General Zia, and that we guessed
that the children were in his village, he acted swiftly. The children were driven to
Lahore airport. They were secretly excited, aware that there was considerable press
coverage concerning them, and hopeful that someone would recognize them.
Nevertheless, they had to maintain a low profile on their uncle's instruction. Whenever

the car stopped at a traffic light, they were told to squeeze down in the seats and keep
out of sight. The children's faces were well known, due to the extensive media coverage
their kidnapping had caused. They were flown from Lahore to Karachi under assumed
names. During the trip one of the attendants innocently asked Naseeba her name. She
almost blurted out the truth but was stopped, by the warning expression on Abdur
Rehman's face.
From Karachi, the children were driven to Jatoi village in Nawabshah, where they were
the guests of Jatoi's son Masroor and his American wife Sarah. Sarah was a more
conventional type of woman, as far as the children were concerned, and they liked her.
They said that 'Jatoi house' was much cleaner than the others they had seen in Pakistan,
and that Sarah even took them out boating - the girls as well as Ali.
This information was painful and disconcerting. All along I had been convinced that
Jatoi was on my side - or was at least neutral. I was thankful that children are so
resilient and have short memories. However, I shuddered at the thought of what would
have become of them in the long term. I knew that they were very disturbed and
unhappy during this period, but they were able to look back upon the events with a
sense of humor. Like me, they were able to see the funny side of things.
The day after my arrival in Lahore, the National People's Party held its initial
convention with great fanfare. Jatoi was Chairman. Mustafa was the only political
leader of note who was now in prison, and his absence made him—and by extension me
- a great celebrity. I sat next to Jatoi on the dais and cautioned myself to
compartmentalize political and personal feelings. When the time came, I rose to present
my maiden political speech, as Mustafa's voice I was extremely nervous but managed to
speak with conviction.
'Mustafa Khar is back!' I proclaimed. 'Unfortunately he has been denied direct access to
you. His incarceration will strengthen you. He had the courage to return to Pakistan,
although he knew that the generals would never allow him to play his destined role a
role for the uplift of the downtrodden people of this country.
'He is not made of the stuff that compromises or breaks. He is here to fight. He will fight
against martial law and its injustices. We repudiate and reject the verdicts of summary
military courts and tribunals. The generals cannot break our will or stifle our voices.
Mustafa Khar has returned to be with the unfortunate victims of martial law. His
presence amongst them puts him into the category of the oppressed worker. He feels
proud to stand with the common man. He is a symbol that the people of Pakistan do not
accept illegitimate rule.

'Mustafa Khar has directed all his comrades to unite behind the leadership of Mr. Jatoi.
Your presence here is an indication of your consistent belief in Mustafa's leadership.
With your support we will soon have him in our presence, physically.'
Already I was beginning to understand how and why the pursuit of power consumes
men.
I had been in Pakistan for fifteen days before the authorities permitted me to visit
Mustafa. He had been flown from Karachi to Faisalabad, where he was lodged in the
central gaol. In a cavalcade of cars, accompanied by several workers and political aides,
I made the three-hour trip from Lahore to meet my husband in the Superintendent's
Office.
Although my life was now more uncertain and abnormal because of Mustafa's
incarceration, it was different. I was without him for the first time since our, marriage.
Driving to prison through the crowded, undisciplined traffic that included horse-driven
'tongas', the old passenger carriages and noisy rickshaws, I looked at our people,
resilient in the summer heat, used to hardships at every level of life. On bicycles or
walking, some barefoot, some huddled on donkey carts, they presented an alarming
contrast to smart Pajero Jeeps and trendy, air-conditioned cars, mine included. I
preferred this mess to England's organized bliss.
Mustafa strode into the Superintendent's Office with no sign of pathos on his face. I was
taken aback. Perhaps I expected to see a 'prisoner' instead of a 'leader' but I should have
known better. Mustafa never filled the bill of expectancy. Pakistan was his turf. He was
a true leader here; he knew how to intimate the authorities. In all our years in exile, I
had never seen him so confident and so much in control.
I was allowed to visit every other week, and so we began a series of regular meetings. I
was to be the conduit of information between and the new party. In Lahore the days
were long. I listened carefully to the and counter-arguments of party workers then fed
them their 'daily bread' from Mustafa's point of view. The evenings were filled with
press interviews. It was imperative that we keep Mustafa's name alive and in the
limelight. Gradually people began to realize that I had opinions of my own, which I was
no longer afraid to express. They respected my analyses. I tried to pay special attention
to my children before they went to sleep. Late at night, I collapsed into bed.
Activist campaigned fiercely for positions of power within the new organization. Many
of them hoped that I would press their cases with Mustafa. It was a difficult time for the
bosses. They would like to have accommodated all of the enthusiasts, but they knew
that they would have to bruise some egos and inflate others. It was inevitable that they
would create a reserve force of the disgruntled.

I reported that Jatoi was handing out key positions to his own people and alienating
Mustafa's 'men' from the mainstream. That was perhaps inevitable. But Mustafa was not
threatened. He felt that Jatoi was too much of a gentle to play politics effectively at this
gut-level. He could visualize the mess that Jatoi's accommodating nature would create.
The new party would not reach deep into the masses; its manifesto and its store of
pamphlets would end up amongst the many unread coffee-table books that were
already neatly stacked in 'Jatoi house'. Mustafa was confident that he could relax in the
relative comfort of his prison cell and wait for the call of desperation. By the time he
emerged from prison, he would stand as the only person capable of organizing the
party.
Mustafa was named President of the Punjab section of the party, although the day-
today duties were unsigned to a surrogate. From his prison vantage point, he adopted a
strategy of disinterested neutrality. He cultivated an air of resignation. Many observers
felt that the Lion of the Punjab had lost his bite, not realizing that he had adopted one of
Bhutto's tried and tested tactics: set the fuse, but stand clear of the explosion; then walk
through the smoke and pick up the pieces.
Our personal relationship was still tenuous. Mustafa knew that he had not won me over
completely, and our brief visits did not give him sufficient time to brainwash me. He
resented my freedom and was jealous of the time I spent away from him, although it
was entirely dedicated to his work. He feared my vengeance if he became unreasonable,
and realized his own inability to retaliate. I could see his mind working overtime, trying
to find some way to spend more time with me. He could not suffer imprisonment alone.
I felt a measure of sympathy for him. His future was uncertain. He did not know how
long he would have to languish in prison. He knew that Zia could order his execution
almost as a whim. I did not want to do anything to aggravate his torment.
Months passed and I became weary of living out of suitcases at Arbi and Syma's house.
I persuaded Mustafa to let me rent a house in Lahore, so that I could settle down with
the children and enroll them in proper English schools. Fortunately, they did not seem
to be suffering any ill-effects from their abduction - other than a plague of scalp lice,
which only succumbed to a prolonged campaign of pest repellents and disinfectants.
It was at this time that one of our political workers brought a twenty-six-year old
woman to work for me. Shugufta came from a very decent and good family that had no
source of income. She was underfed and very tired-looking. I took her into my service
and put her in charge of little Hamza who, because of my long absences, became very
attached to her.
Mustafa's brother who had been looking after his land provided us with some money.
Our new residence was a spacious, five-bedroom house. I had air-conditioning and
wall-to-wall carpeting installed and ordered beautiful furnishings. As I hung up wall

paintings, I realize that I was in my element. One morning, shortly after we had settled
in. I received a phone call from a journalist who told me that Mustafa had suffered a
heart attack. Why had no-one notified me? Seized with panic, I called the Home
Secretary and received special permission to visit my husband. Then I rushed to
Faisalabad.
Mustafa was in a special ward of the local hospital, guarded like a fortress. His admirers
stood vigil. Many NPP workers, men and women, sat around, solemnly reciting verses
from the Koran and turning prayer beads.
I found Mustafa sitting on the edge of his bed, grinning broadly. 'This is Pakistan,' he
explained. 'Anything is possible. I arranged this with the gaol doctor's connivance.' The
British based gaol manual allowed a hospitalized prisoner daily visits from his family,
and henceforth, Mustafa decreed, I would come to see him every day?
At most, he was suffering from heartburn, and he was very content with his new
routine. He began his day with yoga, balancing himself, upside down, with his legs
crossed, looking at the world from a different perspective. My own world was upside
down, too. Each morning I had to endure the three-hour drive from Lahore to
Faisalabad, lunch with my husband and ride back home in the afternoon. In the
evening, I would have to meet, the press to discuss the intricacies of the political
situation as well as to issue the latest bulletin on the state of my husband's health. There
was only a little time left for my children before I stumbled off to bed.
Even when I contracted severe flu Mustafa insisted that I make the daily visit. He was
almost always unreasonable and insensitive, but I had no energy with which to fight.
This routine continued for twenty days.
I received a message that Mustafa's mother was very ill. I flew to Multan and was
driven to Kot Addu, where I found her laid out in her room She was unconscious. Her
grandchildren sat around the bed reciting from the Koran. No doctor was present and
there, were no plans to take her to a hospital. Everyone was waiting for her to die.
I insisted that we get her some medical attention, but Mustafa's brother Ghazi said, 'It's
useless. She's dying. She is my mother - I shall decide.
'Your opinion is not important,' I snapped. 'I'm here as Mustafa's representative. He's
the eldest son and I shall decide in his absence. I insist that we call a doctor and have
her moved to a hospital. We cannot allow her to die without maximum effort to save
her life.
Ghazi was furious, and shamed in the presence of his brothers, but my resolute tone
carried the moment. A doctor was summoned and soon Mustafa's mother was receiving

oxygen. Her blood pressure lowered slightly. She remained unconscious, but we were
able to move her to Nishtar Medical Hospital in Multan.
Mustafa was transferred there immediately. Because of his 'heart condition', one
complete hospital ward was converted into a sub-gaol, and he and his entire family
used the facilities for their vigil. Party workers sent in great feasts. I argued briefly, with
Mustafa over these details. Why should we be allowed such privileges? 'What about the
genuine patients?' I asked. 'Where will they go?' For once Mustafa had no glib answer.
He acknowledged that this relative opulence was out character with his humanistic
political philosophies but he was willing to compromise his principles at the moment
because of his preoccupation with his mother's condition.
He sat next to her comatose body for hours, talking, trying to cajole her back to the
world. He assured her that he was home for good, and that he would never leave her
side again. Each time Mustafa mentioned his name and said that he was with her, the
old lady responded with a moan; sometimes a tear rolled down her cheek. There was
desperation in his voice as he pleaded with her to open her eyes and gaze, just once,
upon the son for whom she had so long pined.
This was a government hospital, the largest in Multan, yet I was appalled by the
conditions. The physical plant was a mess and the sanitary conditions were obviously
poor. Serious cases of post-operative infection were common. The electrical generation
system was unreliable prone to fail during the critical, moments of surgery.
Feeling a need to do something constructive rather than sit around gossiping. I decided
to visit the children's ward. I was appalled to find three or four children on each bed,
varying in age from baby to toddler. Some were suffering from leukemia, others severe
diarrhea or tuberculosis. There was no effort to separate those with contagious diseases
from those with chronic illnesses or injuries. Unkempt mothers sat cross on the same
beds, attempting to tend to their children, but there were no supplies - none at all.
A woman sat on a bed holding her daughter on her lap. The girl appeared to be about
three years old. The child's stomach was severely distended, and I asked a nurse what
was wrong with her.
'Liver cancer,' she replied.
'What's being done for her?' I asked.
The nurse explained that it was the parents' responsibility to purchase the needed
medications and supplies from an outside source. The girl's father was a laborer earning
only thirty rupees (about 70p) a day. He would lose a day's wages if he took time off to
search for medicine.

I pulled 500 rupees (about £11) from my purse and handed it to the woman, instructing,
'When your husband returns, give this to him and tell him to go and buy the medicine.'
She looked at me warily, but accepted the money with gratitude.
When I returned the next day the girl and her mother were gone. I feared the worst, and
asked the nurse what had happened to them.
'They've taken her home,' she replied. 'They have five other children to feed with your
money.'
I shook my head in frustration and left the ward, determined to do what I could to
change this appalling situation. I marched to Mustafa's comparatively luxurious 'suite'
and buttonholed him and his brothers. I wanted donations of 10,000 rupees (about £225)
from each of them to buy medicine for the children. This was regarded as a ridiculous
waste of money, but in any event it was pocket change to these feudal lords.
That evening, beaming with the pride of accomplishment, I encountered the children's
doctor and told him that I had raised 60,000 rupees (about £1,400)for medical supplies.
He advised me not to hand it over. 'If the drugs and supplies are here,' he warned, 'they
will just be stolen by the nurses and interns and wind upon black market.'
I was horrified and shot back, 'Why can't you supervise and administer them?'
He shrugged his shoulders and in a resigned voice said, 'It's just not possible.'
I refused to accept this reality and acted on my own. Soon I had 60,000 rupees' worth of
life-saving medical supplies delivered to the children's ward. I pointed to the crates and
admonished the nurses, 'At least see that these are not stolen.'
I never wanted to learn the fate of those supplies. I knew where they had gone but, like
so many others before me, I turned my back and walked away from the hopelessness.
My mother-in-law remained in a coma and died without seeing her beloved eldest son.
Mustafa was granted permission to attend the funeral. As he walked out of the hospital
gaol, people ran to him from all directions. He was gracious to them, but eased his way
through the crowd to the car. He, took his place behind the steering wheel like a child
who has found a long-lost favorite toy. The chance to drive was a delicious whiff of
freedom, even if jeeps full of policemen followed.
He told his brother Ghazi to sit in the back and asked me to sit in front. It was a
progressive gesture, a break from tradition, a signal to others that I was now his equal.
The women of the Khar family have always known their lesser, place; Mustafa told the

world that my place was beside him. Ghazi sat in the back seat with a glum expression
on his face, obviously wondering how and why his brother had become so
emancipated.
Swirling clouds of dust greeted us as we neared the, funeral site at Kot Addu. It was
twilight and the cows, coming home from pasture, stirred up the soil. Behind the screen
of dust was an ocean of faces - as many at 60,000 - looking lost and desolate, like the
souls that will gather on the Day of Judgment. The moment they recognized the Lion of
the Punjab, returning home after eleven years, they cried out his name in ecstasy. They
had gathered, ostensibly, to bury his mother, but their hope for the future lay with her
son. Mustafa's presence signaled that deliverance was at hand. Torn, tattered and
barefoot, the people lunged forward to catch a glimpse of their leader. They wept. They
beat their breasts. Their moans soared to the sky.
The soil parted to receive Mustafa's mother. Then the crowds closed in to receive
Mustafa.
He delivered his first public speech since returning from exile. 'I have yearned to be
back amongst you,' he cried out to his people. 'Fate has played a strange game with me'.
'It has been my prayer to Allah' that I be given a chance to do something for you. I find
myself here to mourn my mother's death. You have, come to share my grief; I can give
you nothing. I am still a prisoner of the dictator. I cannot serve you yet'. . . 'Today, I
make a pledge before my mother's grave. I shall return. I shall fight to return to you my
people and together we shall overturn this corrupt and corpulent system. We shall
build a system closer to your hearts' desire. Without you I am nothing. Mustafa Khar is
your creation, born from your soil. . . I pray, Allah that he might grant me one chance to
return your love and restore your faith in our beloved country.'
Pandemonium prevailed. People ran amok, sobbing and screaming for a chance to get
close to Mustafa, even to touch him. Many were trampled. Mustafa stood quietly,
resolutely acknowledging the outpouring of love.
During the return, drive I could sense that, despite the loss of his mother, be was greatly
relaxed. He knew now with certainty that his support had not crumbled during his
absence. The people still saw, him as a charismatic figure who could make their dreams
come true. Now, he could be content to return to jail and wait for his moment.
Mustafa received permission to stay on in Multan for treatment of his non-existent heart
problem, and he wanted me to move the children here. This made no sense to me. They
had settled in a new house and good schools in Lahore. I pointed out that the schools in
Multan were inferior. 'You are in gaol,' I pleaded. 'You have to learn to live in gaol, as a
politician - with dignity. Why can't you stop clinging to me? We have to put the

children's lives in order. If you are in prison for fourteen years, are they also supposed
to lead unsettled lives?'
'I knew it. I knew it!' Mustafa ranted I knew you would do this. You promised to stand
by me. You promised! And now you are doing this.'
As usual, Mustafa's arguments wore me out. His troubled condition as a prisoner

blackmailed me. We sadly dismantled our house in Lahore and returned Multan to set
up our life anew. The temperature was so high that heat burnt into our bones; even the
air conditioners were ineffective in this cauldron. Our hosts, Sajid's brother and sisterin-
law, were very gracious but I was sure that they were uncomfortable with four children,
Shugufta and myself. We seemed to have invaded their small, three bedroom house;
they had three sons of their own. My Children were bemused and very confused when
their new teachers asked them about the pronunciation and definitions of English
words.
My hostess and I had little time together, due to the demands Mustafa put on me. Life
either about him as husband or as political leader. The stress made me for ever tired,
and I was given constant vitamin B injections to help keep my nerves calm.
Six months later I discovered a small lump on my breast . Doctors advised me to have a
biopsy.
'Have it done here, in this hospital ' Mustafa declared.
I refused point blank. 'I'm going to Karachi,' I said defiantly. 'To the best hospital in the
country. I may have cancer. I can't risk being operated on here. Don't do this to me. Isn't
my life important to you? Do you want me to die?'
Mustafa lapsed into melodrama. 'At least I'll be with you,' he said. 'I'll hold your hand'
I wasn't interested in having my hand held. I wanted the best doctor I could find.
Again Mustafa's wishes and despite the complaints he lodged with his brothers about
my stubbornness selfishness and disobedience. I left for 'Jatoi house' in Karachi. My
mother was in the city at the time, and I knew that she was aware of my pending
operation, but she did not bother to call and ask about me Rubina and Adila ignored
me, too. Only Zarmina and Minoo called regularly.
Fortunately, the Jatois replaced my family. Khaliqa Jatoi waited outside the operating
theater at the Aga Khan Hospital during my surgery. She and her husband were at my
side as I recuperated. Thankfully the cyst was benign, though the operation was very,

painful. The stitches were still fresh when a party worker called from Multan to report,
'I have a message from Khar Sahib to please come back immediately.'
This was incredibly insensitive I responded, 'Tell Khar Sahib that my stitches have not
been removed yet. I can't come.'
Mustafa had anticipated this. In a respectful, rather apologetic tone, the man said, 'Khar
Sahib says that this is his order. The stitches can be removed in Multan.'
Jatoi was furious, and he nodded in agreement when I said, 'Tell Mr. Khar, I won't take
unreasonable orders from him. He should not give me orders that he knows I shall not
obey.' I slammed the phone down in anger.
The cyst may have been benign, but Mustafa was malignant.
When I was ready, I flew back to Multan. Even before I went to see Mustafa, I could
sense the aura of apprehension among the party workers who had congregated to meet
me at the airport; word of our domestic confrontation had spread.
The moment I walked into Mustafa's hospital room, he began to scream in fury.
Aroused by my indifference, he grabbed me by the shoulders and shoved me against
the door. 'It's too late now,' he grumble. 'Just go away.'
I looked straight into his eyes for a moment, then turned and walked out.
For two days I left him alone, and he panicked. He inundated me with telephone
messages, apologizing, until I relented and once again began my daily visits.
I felt we could no longer, impose upon our hosts, and I asked Mustafa to find an
alternative. He suggested that I talk to the owners of the Shezan Hotel, to arrange a
discount rate. They were cooperative and my four children, Shugufta and I moved into
a two-room suite.
Each day, after school, the children lunched with their father and then went off for
private tutoring. I left Mustafa's room at 6 p.m., making up medical bulletins to hand
out to. the press concerning his phantom heart condition.
Six more exhausting months passed. I was depleted and suffering from mental fatigue.
Severe abdominal pain plagued me. An examination revealed problems in my uterus.

Doctors believed that it was due to excessive child-bearing, aggravated by my constant
marching up and down the four stairwells of Nishtar Medical Hospital at the beck and
call of my husband. Once more I needed surgery. Once more Mustafa dictated, 'Have

the operation here.' Once morel refused, but this time I compromised. If Karachi was
too far away, I was willing to go to Shaikh Zayed Hospital in Lahore. The children were
excited about the possibility of returning to Lahore for their school holidays.
Mustafa declared that he would never allow me to go to a male gynecologist.
I told him that I never intended to; I assured him that I would find a woman doctor. He
still refused to let me go, but I was resolute.
When I went with the children to say goodbye to their sulking father, be set strict
requirements to combat my obstinate attitude. He made me write on the Koran my
promise that I would return in exactly fifteen days. I did so, 'but I amended the oath to
say that I would return in fifteen days if nothing happened.'
'What's this?' he asked when he read my statement 'Mustafa, I can't make an oath on the
Koran that may not be kept. Anything can happen. I can't be so precise.' 'What can
happen?'
'Well, I could die, for instance'
'So what?' he growled 'Even if you die, your body should come to me fifteen days from
now. If you're sick, come on a stretcher - I don't care.'
I stared at the man, freshly incredulous at his nerve and insensitivity.
He changed tactics swiftly. 'Ok, you can go,' he said 'I shall keep Nisha and Ali with
me.' Renewed shock crossed my face. He smiled slyly and explained, 'They'll be
miserable here so make sure you return on time.'
'Be reasonable, Mustafa,' I said, asking the impossible. 'The children want to go to
Lahore. They've been looking forward to the trip. It's not necessary to separate them
like this.'
'No. They'll stay here with me.'
'What will they do cooped up here? Don't do this. It's cruel Nisha and Ali will be
insecure and frightened. They'll feel helpless. They'll know that Naseeba and Hamza are
having great time in Lahore. Don't punish them because I've fallen ill.'
I said no! They'll stay in the hospital with me. You should come back on time.'
Consumed by his own insecurity, he once more held my children hostage. I felt sad and
sorry for this man who could not allow me to be happy with him. I pandered to his

every whim, and he responded with extreme and increasing insensitivity. He seemed
hell-bent on pushing me away from him. Perhaps he thought that his ploy would cause
me to agree to have my surgery here in Multan, but I was now made of stronger stuff
than he realized I left for Lahore with Naseeba and Hamza.
****
Mustafa called a meeting of his brothers, and sons to discuss my growing stubbornness,
my headstrong nature and rebellious attitudes. He complained, 'When she wants to do
something she can take any conceivable risk - at the cost of her life even. She puts the
consequences aside for later handling. 'His brothers suggested curbing me quickly
before I 'turned' completely.
As the stretcher rolled towards the operating theatre I felt alone and abandoned by the
man for whom I had severed my family ties. Against my mother's orders, m
grandmother and Zarmina stood by me. In return for their kindness they were
ostracized.
I remained in the hospital for a week, then moved to my grandmother's house to

recuperate. I watched as she cried on her prayer mat to deliver me from the constant
troubles. I had endured since childhood. She fed me and loved me as if she might make
up for the absence of all other relationships in my life.
The day that I was scheduled to return to Multan, the morning newspaper reported that
Mustafa had been picked up in the middle of the night and transferred to Rawalpindi.
This development was truly ominous. It was there that Bhutto had been hanged.
Immediately the authorities returned Nisha and Ali to me in Lahore.
I called a press conference to condemn Mustafa's transfer. Having learned well the
lessons of political rhetoric, I noted that my husband was a heart patient and
complained that the long drive to Rawalpindi was dangerous for him. In fact, we
discovered that the transfer was to the Adyala Jail, just outside Islamabad.
The following day, 2 August 1987, was Mustafa's birthday and the children and 17
accompanied by other members of Mustafa's family - flew to Islamabad and met
Mustafa in the Superintendent's Office. In my handbag, in an attempt to placate him, I
had a photograph of myself as a birthday present, but Mustafa did not want it. He was
furious with me, for whatever real and imagined reasons. He always managed to be the
centre of attention. I had neither the energy nor the ability to calm him down, and was
glad that we were in a public place.
Mustafa asked the Superintendent to allow us to accompany him to his room.

Permission was granted and we all moved into his cell. Mustafa told his relatives and

our children that he wanted to talk to me privately and asked them to wait outside. A
bamboo blind on the outside of the barred door offered scant privacy.
He wanted to make love. The stitches were still tender. I pleaded that I was not well,
and would need another six weeks to heal, but he did not care. To ward off his
advances, I reminded him that his family, our children - and the police - were just
outside. I could hear the family chatting behind the bamboo screen. I have to go out and
face them afterwards,' I said. 'I can't.' He would not listen. 'Mustafa,' I whispered firmly,
'I swear on God, I swear on the Prophet, if you dare touch me now, I will never come
back and see you. I will leave you. I will get a divorce!'
He forced himself upon me. The pain was worse than I had feared, and the humiliation
was even more excruciating. Yet I suffered silently.
When I was finally able to push him from me, I growled, 'You are sick - so sick! You
bastard!'
Instantly he tried to make it up. He stammered, 'Forgive me—'
'—It's impossible to be your wife.'
'Don't leave me here,' Mustafa pleaded. 'For God's 'sake. What will happen to me? You'll
go away and I'll be locked up here. I'll have so many worries. You're the only person I
love, who loves me. You're the only hope I have. If you leave me I'll have
nothing else.'
I glowered at him.
'Give me your photograph, Tehmina,' he said, 'there could be no nicer birthday

present.'
I took the photograph of myself out of my handbag. With deliberate movements, I tore
it and scattered the pieces.

13
I was at my grandmother's house in Lahore, carefully composing a registered letter to

Mustafa asking for a divorce. The doorbell disrupted my thoughts and I went to answer
it. A lovely young lady stood outside, smiling at me.
'Tanya!' I shrieked.
We clasped one another and sobbed. My grandmother, Naseeba, Nisha, Ali and Hamza
all heard our cries of joy and came to join in the celebration. The excitement of the
reunion filled Grandmother's home. My eldest daughter was back! Why? I wondered.
For how long? I had many questions, but waited for an appropriate time.
Later, Tanya and I discussed our futures. Mine, as usual, was completely unsettled, but
she knew what she wanted. 'I hate living in America,' she said 'I hate living with my
stepmother.' She had come to Pakistan on holiday but she wanted to stay and live with
me.
I was thrilled and apprehensive at the same time. I told her, about the letter that I was
writing the very moment that she arrived. 'I've no idea what's going to happen,' I
admitted. 'But stay—' Her face beamed '—at least for a while.' Her face fell. Tanya, I just
don't know,' I explained. 'We'll have to see.'
Two days later, the superintendent of the gaol, while censoring Mustafa's mail, came
upon my registered letter, and our troubles became public knowledge. News of the
pending divorce hit the front pages of the papers, shocking everyone. Many condemned
me as callous and inconsistent. My poor, ailing husband was suffering behind bars, and
I was walking out on him. The more vicious rumor-mongers said that I wanted my
freedom so that I could be with other men. A few days before I had been the crusading
wife. Now I was the woman everybody loved to hate.
With each passing day the pressure grew worse. Tanya was accustomed to a quiet
existence with no hint of public scrutiny. Here, life was a series of telephone calls from
insistent reporters and visits from political operatives, playing their assorted power
games. Tanya craved normality. I had none to give.
Each moment that we spent together was more poignant than the previous. We both
knew the outcome, but I was the one who had to drop the bomb: 'Tanya, you're in good
school in New Jersey. Your father loves you and can give you security. I can give you
nothing - yet. I don't know what Mustafa will do to me. You must return to your father.'
Once more she clutched at me and once more, I was forced to push her away. I
wondered: How many times must we play this scene? Until we get it right?

Amid all this turmoil, Mustafa's younger brother Rehmani died of a heart attack. He
was only thirty years old and remembered him with affection; he had lived with us for a
time, and he was always respectful and courteous toward me. When his body arrived
from London, I flew from Lahore to Islamabad to pay my respects Mustafa's brother
Ghazi and his son Abdur Rehman, received me graciously.
Mustafa was allowed to attend the funeral in Kot Addu, and I heard that he wept like a
child. I wondered if the tears had been for his brother or, for me. It was the first time
since I had married him that I was not at his side during a time of ordeal.
Nusrat Jamil - better known as Nuscie - is a journalist working for the English-language
daily The Nation. She phoned, introduced herself and asked for an interview; she
wanted to write a human interest story about the travails of a politician's estranged
wife. I agreed to talk to her. Nuscie changed my life.
I found her to be beautiful, intelligent and articulate. She interviewed me at my home

and then invited me to her house for dinner that evening. I went because I was now
suing for divorce and felt suddenly no longer bound to Mustafa's dictates. The
environment there was different from any other. I had encountered in Pakistan I
categorized Nuscie's manner of housekeeping as 'stylishly relaxed.' She Obviously cared
more about substance than style. Her husband, known simply as J. J. was there, along
with Yousaf Salahuddin, the grandson of the Pakistani poet, Allama Iqbal. I found J.J. to
be a very liberated male, the most understanding I had ever met. We shared a
fascination for Freudian and Jungian analysis. He believed in the talking cure, and he
helped me make a tentative beginning at unraveling some of the mysteries in my mind.
Nuscie knew that mine was a conditioned life, that I had lived with a much older man
rooted in a feudal mentality. My values were conventional, and yet she saw in me
potential that instigated rebellion. She knew that I was underexposed to the modem
world, she decided that my initiation should be complete, but slow. She showed me that
there was life after divorce. 'Social acceptability is insufficient reason to maintain a
marriage that has rotted away,' she said I was intrigued by this glimpse of another
philosophical approach to life. These were people of my own age, but thought as I could
not dare to think.
After dinner we drove to a roadside café to have kulfi, home-made ice-cream. My

companions had relaxed me. Somewhat, but I still felt nervous and inhibited, like a
truant from school. My new friends were in no hurry, and we lingered in the car outside
the café past midnight. The late hour frightened and excited me at the same time. I felt
deliciously naughty, alone with strange men, unchaperoned by Dai Ayesha, breaking
Mustafa's curfew. It was almost as if he was present, scowling over my shoulder. He
would find out about my night on the town, he always found out. But did it matter?
Yes, it did. Freedom was still not a simple issue.

My lawyer went to see Mustafa. The prisoner played the role of the jilted husband,
professed his undying love for me and begged my lawyer to convince me to return. The
bottom line was that he adamantly refused to grant me a divorce. I had no choice but to
apply for Khula (literally, to 'disown' or 'repudiate') Khula is a right of divorce granted to
a woman by Islamic law as long as she agrees to rescind part or all of her property
claims. Mustafa could not force me to continue the marriage, but he could leave me
destitute.
I did not even think about money. Throughout my thirty-four years, money, had simply
been there. It had always been the man's consideration first my father, then Anees, then
Mustafa. All I knew at the moment was that there was sufficient money in our joint
bank account to cover expenses for several months. What happened after that, who
could foretell?
There was nothing left for me in Lahore. The publicity had ended my usefulness to the
parry and Mustafa had anaesthetized my passion for politics. My old friends had
disappeared, and I realized the unpleasant truth that they were all Mustafa's allies and
cronies - our social contacts were enmeshed in the net of politics. My father purchased a
flat for me in Karachi and I settled in with the children and my maid, Shagufta. At first I
was very bored. My life as the wife of on exiled political leader had overqualified me for
a humdrum existence, for normality.
But before long Nuscie and J. J. arrived in Karachi and invited me to the village of Bhit
Shah, in the interior of Sindh, to join them in commemorating the urs of the great Sufi
saint, Shah Abdul Latif Bhitai. (The urs is a celebration of a saint's death, and thus his
reunion with God). This was a religious holiday with political overtones. Since General
Zia's assumption of power, and particularly so since Bhutto's execution, the urs at Bhit
Shah had become a rallying point for the people of Sindh. Here, under a canopy of
mysticism, beneath a waxing moon, militant Sindhis gathered and, through their music
and dance, patterned a protest. The saint had been a master poet, whose subtle writings
offered protection and release from an oppressive, order.
In the interior regions of Sindh, respectable women cover their faces with a chader,
leaving only the eyes and brow visible. For this occasion Nuscie and I used ajruk, a
traditional Sindhi cloth dyed with vegetable pigments.
It was carnival time in Bhit Shah. Sullen yet proud faces peered through the windows of
our car. The village was abuzz with activity, and the festival was unlike anything I had
ever seen. All norms were abandoned, all standards put on hold. We strolled amid
crowds in the Makeshift bazaar, sidled our way past fortune-tellers and dismissed the
spiels of the bhang (opium) sellers. I had heard of opium, of course, but had never seen
it. It was against political law and perhaps against Islamic law, but the latter was an

arguable point. Many of the mystical faqirs contend that opium enhances their religious
ecstasy.
We peeked into sleazy cafes where eunuchs, clad in golden, skin-tight body suits,
danced lewdly and made seedy assignations. One of them strutted like Michael Jackson
as he screamed out an Urdu version of a rock-and-roll tune. These half-male, halffemale
performers comprise one of the most enigmatic classes of our society. No-one seems to
know where they come from. They are visible to the public only on special occasions.
One seldom sees a very young eunuch or an extremely old one. It is said that they live
in segregated colonies where social intrigue runs deep, and where they conduct their
passionate love affairs in their own mysterious manner. The hypocrisy of our male
dominated society was thrown into broad relief by the specter of men who adopted the
feminine role. I craned my neck to view the grotesque, wicked scene. I thought: This is a
dream that Fellini might have had.
We took in a circus, complete with a big top and a few flea-infested, bored elephants
and lions. The trapeze artists were eunuchs who wore frilly bloomers over their
leotards. We indulged ourselves with music, and watched the gyrations of the whirling
dervish Soong dancers in their saffron-hued robes.
That night we stayed at a rest house in Bhit Shah with a few, other of Nuscie and J.J.'s
friends. I was surprised and somewhat shocked when I realized that six of its - male and
female - would 'crash' in one room. I could not believe that I was to sleep in the same
quarters as three other men, none, of whom was my husband. But my, companions
were nonchalant about the arrangement, and I scolded myself for being such a prude.
Very early the next morning we visited the shrine of Shah Abdul Latif, one of the most
beautiful in the East. Supplicants, exhausted from, the previous night's revelry, lounged
in the courtyard; their famished eyes were a thousand begging bowls. Faqirs sang an
eerie chant in harmony, pleading for dawn to break upon the nation. One of them, his
hair braided into dreadlocks, danced in an intoxicated frenzy.
Standing before the great saint's grave, I wondered: What should I pray for? My mind
spun like the Soong dancers. I was overcome by a sudden sense of guilt. How could I
pray for myself while my husband languished in prison? Through the veil of, my chader,
I uttered silent prayers for Mustafa's release.
After two days in Bhit Shah, when the full moon began to wane, ending the festival, we
drove back to Karachi. I sat in the back seat of the car, between J.J. and another man.
Throughout the ride, however, I was very self-conscious lest I inadvertently touch either
of the men. Everyone was amused at this.

Nuscie and J.J. invited me back to Lahore for a round of parties celebrating the 1984
World Cup cricket tournament. I was again excited and apprehensive at the prospect of
partying without a husband. The children and I left for Lahore to stay with my
grandmother. I was determined to enjoy myself. In Nuscie's crowd I met confident
young girls who twirled on the dance floor in tight jeans and miniskirts, openly
cavorting with men who were not their husbands! It shocked me that they exposed their
legs - this was Pakistan, not London - and it shocked me further that no-one else was
shocked. This was the generation that had grown up in Zia 's time. Their idols were not
Che, Mao or Sukarno, but Madonna, Iacocca and Trump. Poverty meant a flat without
air-conditioning. The deprived drove Suzukis. The effects of the Afghan war and the
drug explosion had filtered in. The poppy fields on the borders of Afghanistan and
Pakistan had become more productive, the traffic quite legalized, and refugees
unlimited. It was as if many centuries had been traversed in an instant. Modern women
had moved so far ahead that their sisters in 'the hinterlands had been reduced to
fictional characters.
I understood, then, that I had been caught in a time warp and was still mentally
trapped. For the first time in my life, I began to believe that I was strange, that the world
held other, perfectly normal souls who were unwilling to suffer in silence and would
react to injustice. My views on life and marriage were outdated and restrictive. I
realized that Mustafa and my family had drawn me into their world and shut all the
windows.
I enjoyed my role as a detached spectator, but I remained on the sidelines. The music
was so loud that it drowned out conversation, and I was not about to indulge in
intimate whispering games. My idea of a party remained a sit-down dinner where
everyone gets to know everybody else. Still, I enjoyed the glamour.
I went to my first cricket match and savored the game vicariously, through Nuscie and
J.J. When they stood up and cheered, so did I. When they were silent and tense, I
plastered a glum expression on my face. There were frenzied and delighted screams at
the end: Pakistan had beaten the mighty West Indians and was now favored to win the
entire tournament.
At the height of cricket fever, I walked into Yousuf Salahuddin's haveli (a traditionalstyle
home in the 'old walled city' of Lahore) and found a few men sprawled in the central
courtyard. None of them rose to greet us. How strange, I thought. In my world, a
gentleman always rose when a lady entered. Yousuf, reclined on a marble divan and
surveyed, with a hint, of royal disdain, the host - of miniskirted women who flitted
about, displaying punk hairstyles. Outside, the walls were plastered with posters
calling for the restoration of democracy. Inside, Yousuf was a replica of a Mogul dynast,
the epicure personified.

I was introduced to one of the bodies on the floor, Imran Khan, the great cricket idol.
Trying my hand at some cricket talk, I blurted out, 'I saw how you batted the West
Indians out.' His small, narrowed eyes glanced at me with irritation, and I realized that I
had probably not phrased the statement correctly. I also met a man named Mubashar,
who told me to call him by his nickname Moby. 'Moby,' I asked, 'are you a cricketer,
too?' How was I to know if he might not also be superstar material? I met the dashing
Omer Farooq and his wife Minna. Omer was known by various nicknames, such as
'Goldi' (for 'Goldfinger'). Due to his financial acumen, it was said that everything he
touched turned to gold. Others referred to him as 'Mario Falichi', which seemed to be a
reference to his ambience as a sort of Mafia-style tycoon, which he consciously
embellished with well-cut designer suits.
Over time I got to know all of these people better, and I liked them I found Imran to be a
highly principled man, combining his sense of honor with a fiercely competitive nature
that served our country well. Moby was the strong, silent type, who had an ability to
communicate through silence Goldi was reliable. Yousuf was full of fun and games. It
was a major achievement for me to create new relationships not - imposed upon me by
Mustafa. These people saw me as myself, not as the extension of a politician.
I realized that although the details of their stories varied from mine, each of these
people was a survivor. Everyone in this group had been through points of adversity
and struggle, and emerged stronger. The critical element of the healing process was that
they had analyzed their lives and corrected deficiencies. These were concepts that
infused me with hope about my own existence.
But who was the person I wanted to be?
I was driving my grandmother out of her mind. Sometimes I asked her to pray for
Mustafa's release from prison; sometimes I asked her to pray for my release from him.
She frequently threw up her hands and screamed in exasperation, 'Should we love him
or should we hate him? Make up your mind. Even the Almighty is confused with what
you want. You give Him no time to answer your prayer. When. He begins to answer,
the request has changed again.' On her prayer mat, she cried out to Allah, begging him
to settle my restless spirit.
It was true. I was horribly confused. A new life beckoned to me, but the old ways still
had me in their grip. What was I to do? What did I want to do? I did not know.
A change of scenery was in order, and I decided to take my children back to our London
flat, to give me time to patch my shattered personality. When I had to postpone the trip
in order to settle some paperwork my lawyer advised that if I delayed too long Mustafa
might hear of my plans and obtain a stay order, preventing my children from leaving
the country. The better strategy was to send my three older children on first, and then

join them later. Hamza, the youngest, would stay, with Shugufta at my grandmother's
house.
I called my sister Minoo in London and asked if she would meet the children at the
airport and care for them for the few days until I arrived. Minoo agreed immediately,
eager to help and excited about the prospect of seeing my children. We both knew that
our mother would be furious to learn that Minoo was doing anything to help me. There
had been no contact with Mother since my last reunion with Mustafa.
Naseeba, Nisha and Ali were already on the plane, en route to the UK, when Minoo
called back with a frantic message. Our mother had learned of the plan and had ordered
Minoo to have nothing to do with it. It was Mother's contention that this tune I had
kidnapped the children, and she was determined to punish me. Once more, my children
were pawns.
What was I to do? Who would meet the children at the airport? I still had many friends
in London, but I did not want to involve them in my domestic dispute, most of them
would be very reticent to side against Mustafa anyway. On an impulse, I phoned Minoo
and suggested that she call the PIA manager and ask him to meet the plane and send
the children to her home by taxi. 'They will show up at your doorstep,' I explained in a
conspiratorial tone 'You call Mummy and tell her that the kids are there and you can
hardly, turn them away.'
When my children left the plane at 10:30 p.m. and their aunt was not there to meet
them, they were frightened. Fortunately the PIA manager took charge. He put them into
a taxi and handed the driver a scrap of paper with Minoo's address scrawled upon it.
The driver got lost. He scolded my petrified children for not knowing where they were
going. Naseeba feared that he would simply leave them off, somewhere in the
unfamiliar streets. All three children sobbed in terror.
Finally, the driver found the house. Minoo took in the three, waifs and offered comfort.
Then she called our mother to report the 'unexpected' arrival. Mother exploded with
rage and ordered Minoo to put the children on the next flight back to Karachi, but
Minoo's husband Ali declared that he would not be a party to such crass and callous
behavior.
Mother called back early the next morning and declared that, if Minoo and Ali would
not cooperate, she would send the children back to Pakistan immediately. Frantic,
Minoo called me with a report. Mother had threatened to disown her unless she
complied. The children had to be removed.
Nuscie came to the rescue. She called her sister Chinni in London and asked her to care
for the children until I could arrive. Poor, bewildered Chinni could not fathom my

family's irrational behavior. She had children of her own to care for, but she graciously
granted temporary sanctuary to mine. By long distance I arranged for a wonderful
woman from the Pakistan Embassy to care for them during the day, while Chinni
attended her, college classes. The children felt unwelcome and were traumatized by
having to stay with strangers. They were aware of Chinni's discomfort over their
presence.
Within a few days I flew to London on a six-month visa, with Hamza howling for
Shugufta because we had to leave her behind, and set up house at our Holland Park
apartment. I found a boarding school for the older children in Kent. It was a Lebanese
institution run along Islamic lines. This provided ammunition against Mustafa's old
charge that the children were being exposed to a degenerate western lifestyle.
Mustafa's soul stalked me. His brother Arbi called me to report that Mustafa was
broken and distraught, crying ceaselessly for me and the children. 'He'll die in gaol,'
Arbi prophesied. 'He doesn't eat or sleep. He's obsessed with you.'
The message from Mustafa's son Abdur Rehman was more sinister: 'He's planning to
make any compromise necessary to obtain freedom. He'll come to England and take the
children again.' I was petrified that he might send someone to London with instructions
to murder me.
I was a fugitive. How far and how long could I run?
The mirror reflected hollow, lifeless eyes, with traces of anger and defiance. These were
eyes that had forgotten how to dream; eyes that pursued me through my London flat,
taunting me for my lack of endurance, mocking me for turning my back on an
unfinished task; eyes that glowered at me and accused: You had become a part of the
struggle for the people of Pakistan, determined to help them rise from indigence and
squalor. Like everyone, you have betrayed them.
I suffered sleepless nights, bedeviled by the image of Mustafa languishing in prison.

Leaving him did not bother me, but the timing did. I had kicked him when he was
crippled.
Mustafa Khar had ceased to be my husband, but he remained my political leader. I still
wanted to transform our dreams into reality, but I was ill-equipped to return to my
country and make a political stand on my own. For that, I needed the platform that
Mustafa provided. I pictured him alone, broken and deprived of hope. It was his own
nature that had led him to this forlorn state, his own nature that had pushed me away.
Yet I could not escape the truism that he needed me. I did not want to go down in
history as a woman who had aborted a dream.

I could not shake the message of Faiz Ahmad Faiz's humanistic masterpiece of poetry:
Do not ask me for the same intensity

with which I loved you once. . .
I turn, I turn again and again to the pain.
You are still beautiful, so beautiful but
- the pain.
Had I bartered the happiness of the masses for my own peace of mind? I was secure in
my British cocoon - but - the pain.
I thought of the children in that horrible ward at Nishtar Medical Hospital in Multan. I
tried to convince myself that I had done my part by raising money and delivering
medicine, but I knew that I, like everybody else, had walked away from a hopeless
situation.
I began to paint again, and my paintings showed me the way. Almost trance-like, my
hand recreated my, experiences among the wretched of the earth. I painted urchins,
with ribs struggling to break out from the confines of taut skin, whose past, present and
future lay In overflowing garbage heaps. I painted the expressions of mothers whose
breasts had gone dry. I painted old men and women sitting in an alley, their heads
bowed In exhaustion. I painted in blacks, beiges and browns.
Another Faiz poem crept into my canvas:
I bequeath my life to the lanes and alleys of my land,

where the ritual of silence stalks.
Where no one holds his head up high.
And Fear takes nightly walks.
I painted women with their hair loosened, as though in mourning. Ordinary people
with limited wants penetrated my mind and appeared on my canvas.
Images of gaol flooded my brain. I had seen women in prison who had been raped by
the staff. Some were later taken away by frightened gaolers who forced them to abort
their pregnancies in order to eliminate proof of the crime. Others bore the bastardized
offspring of 'justice'. I painted them, mothers and children together behind bars, fearful
of release into a hostile and uncertain world.
Each brush stroke brought me closer to a decision to return. The words I had written on
the Koran haunted me: 'I will stand by Mustafa through his incarceration be it for life.'
After only a month in London, I began to pack.

14
We landed at Islamabad airport Mustafa was in court under police custody that day
when I sent the children to see him. Press photographers gathered around to record the
tearful reunion of the Lion and his cubs.
I visited him the following day and noticed that he had lost a visible amount of weight.
We were tentative with one another until finally he broke the ice. 'Let's give our
marriage another chance,' he implored 'I'll try and understand you. You must try and
understand me. Let's forget what happened.'
Mustafa told me that he had been miserable while I was away, spending his days on his
prayer mat, weeping and wailing so loudly that the guards were overcome by his grief.
They, like I, had been devastated to see this powerful man bent and broken with grief.
Pictorial images of the Prophet and his companions are forbidden in Islam. The ban was
ordained to prevent idolatry. But for the Shias (a Muslim sect), especially in Iran, it is
customary to keep a painting of the Prophet's cousin Hazrat Ali, who is revered by all
the sects Mustafa had such a painting in his cell. Hazrat Ali is the great intercessor, the
symbol of strength and protection, to whom Muslims respond in adversity with passion
and fervor. Mustafa told me that whenever he was overcome by feelings of
helplessness, he turned to this portrait of Hazrat Ali and begged for his intervention. 'If
it hadn't been for my faith I would have broken', Mustafa contended. 'His very name
exudes a great power that has sustained me.'
He admitted that his introspection had been painful but necessary. He now realized that
he had done terrible things to me, and was chastised by the memories of his violence.
Often, he said, my tormented face visited his dreams.
He spoke of the Adila episode, and was convinced that the Devil had entered him. He
knew that he had imprisoned me in loneliness, and now, he believed, God had
punished him with imprisonment while I was free. He had thought that he had lost me
forever, and all he had was this room and God. He now realized what it must have been
like for me at the time of Ali's birth when I was isolated and alone. He had been very
distressed by the fact that I was young and attractive and could easily meet another
man and begin a new life. He had heard rumors about my days of freedom and was
insanely jealous. 'At last I understand your pain,' he said, 'by the experience of my own.'
He promised to change.
For the first time I sincerely believed him. But could I risk acting upon that belief? It was
impossible to know. Yet I had made up my mind when I bought the airline tickets back
to Pakistan. I did not care what anyone else thought. When the press asked me to justify
my inconstant behavior, I remembered what Mustafa had taught me about the art of

confidence - the people are sheep; they will follow if they feel you know the way and I
responded, 'It was my decision to leave and my decision to return. I shall continue to
campaign for the release of my husband with the same zeal.'
We had an emotional reunion with Shugufta and Dai Ayesha. Shugufta was now a
trendy young lady. She had begun to dress like me and her confidence was soaring.
Mustafa often said I was like the Empress Noorjahan, who was renowned for
improving the fashion sense of her maids. Dai Ayesha was a little chagrined by
Shugufta's closeness to me, but I understood that.
****
During each visit Mustafa regaled me with stories of prison life. 'There's a black market
operating here,' he disclosed. 'You can get anything for a price. The gaol establishment
is like the mafia. The superintendent is the don. I'm aware of all that goes on here, and I
am going to pull it out from its roots.' Other prisoners were of course treated very
differently from important ones like Mustafa. But he viewed the other prisoners as his
family; he was the paternalistic feudal lord, taking up their causes with conviction. The
eyes of the other prisoners haunted my dreams. I could see that they looked to Mustafa
as the repository of their hope.
Mustafa disclosed, 'The superintendent takes protection money from all the prisoners.
The amounts are paid out weekly. Any prisoner who will not or cannot pay this
extortion tax is punished. They're either beaten mercilessly or placed in fetters. Many
prisoners are deprived of their meals because of their inability to pay. Entire families
have had to pay the price and are groaning under the burden of debt.' He knew all the
methods of torture, and some of them were too terrible to describe.
Mustafa's eyes took on a faraway look as he complained, 'Tehmina, the superintendent

is a bloody parasite. He lives off human suffering. He thrives on pain. He collects fifty
thousand to eighty thousand rupees a month from the wretched of the earth. A part of
this money is distributed like booty amongst his subordinates. This isn't a prison where
you reform. It's a slave camp where criminals are being created by injustice. This is the
reason I'm in politics. I'll not rest till this inhuman system is razed to the ground.'
My own anger mounted as I witnessed some of the atrocities myself. I saw women
prisoners - many whose babies were incarcerated with them - abused and assaulted. I
saw the pleading eyes of innocents who were convicted upon false testimony. If there
was hell on earth, this was it.
Mustafa appreciated my empathy and he joked, 'Let me come to power and I'll make
you the minister of gaols.'

'I'll hold you to that,' I replied, somewhat seriously.
One day we were interrupted by a wrenching shriek. I said to Mustafa 'It sounds as if
someone's soul is being ripped from his body.' I plugged my ears with my fingers in an
attempt to drown out the horrible wails, aware that we could offer no help.
Mustafa's eyes burned with anger. He waited for a time, then bolted from his seat. He
marched to the padlocked door of his cell, banged loudly upon it and commanded
'Kholo!' (Open!). A frighten guard promptly opened the door and saluted. Mustafa
brushed him aside like an insect and strode toward the sound of the screams. I raced
after him, trying to keep up. The guard followed at a distance, afraid of the
consequences.
We came to a large outdoor compound, where many prisoners were sitting on their
haunches, forming a large circle, receiving a brutal lesson in deterrence. One of their
fellow inmates was in the centre, spread-eagled on the ground. Several police were
kicking him and beating him with staves. He was bleeding profusely and was only
semi-conscious, but continued to emit terrifying shrieks. I winced in sympathetic pain
two guards grabbed the prisoner's legs and stretched them apart as far as possible. The
man shrieked once more. His pupils disappeared into the upper eyelids. Then there was
a terrible, deathly silence.
Mustafa shot like a lightning bolt toward the deputy superintendent with fire in his
eyes. He grabbed the prison official by his collar and slapped him sharply, several
times. The deputy was stunned, but dared not react. Mustafa Khar may have been a
prisoner, but he was not a man to be taken lightly. In a voice like thunder Mustafa
roared, 'If I ever hear a scream again, I will beat you to a pulp!' Then he released his
collar-hold and pushed the man so that he fell back upon his buttocks with his legs in
the air. Mustafa turned and strode back his cell. If the other prisoners had dared, they
could have applauded, but they confined themselves to signaling silent admiration with
their eyes.
Soon the deputy superintendent arrived at Mustafa's cell accompanied by three

policemen. He murmured quietly, 'Sir, you should not have slapped me in front of those
prisoners. I have lost their respect. We have to control them, you know that.'
You don't deserve their respect,' Mustafa retorted, in a powerful and dismissive tone of
authority. 'You cannot rule through fear and violence. I shall have you dismissed from
your job. You will not be spared, you bastard. Leave us! I won't waste time talking to
you, I shall deal with you when the time comes.'
The hapless deputy superintendent mumbled an apology under his breath and walked
away, shattered.

I was very proud of my husband I asked, 'How did you decide to do what you just did?
You are their prisoner, but you turned the tables on them.'
He told me a story, gleaned from his early readings under Bhutto's tutelage. 'Napoleon
Bonaparte once kicked open his prison door and announced to his stunned captors that
he was Napoleon! This was enough. His reputation preceded him. Remember, politics is
based on conviction. What I did was right. I had the upper hand in moral terms. If my
confidence had wavered even for a second, the deputy would have retaliated. We can
learn a lot from the confidence trickster. He plays on his victim's gullibility by keeping a
straight face and coming across as sincere and genuine. We cannot afford to display any
chinks in our armor.'
Mustafa's act of defiance soon became prison folklore. The superintendent's hatred for
him grew, but was made impotent by the strength of Mustafa's burgeoning popularity.
The authorities knew that, with a single word, like oil on a shouldering fire, the Lion of
the Punjab could detonate a riot.
My political education began in earnest. Mustafa realized that it was the lure of politics
that had brought me back, and he gave succor to the idealist in me. He encouraged me
to ask questions and I sensed that, at times, I forced him to formulate answers to issues
he had never addressed. He was on his best behavior. He understood that - hopefully
we were grooming one another for a spectacular re-entry into Pakistani politics, and he
knew that it was important for a leader to be exemplary. He taught me his craft,
explained strategy and indoctrinated me. It was a meticulous cloning process. He
coached me for the role of playing him on the stage of the outside world. His release
would be assured by a combination of his brains and my total commitment to the cause.
He detailed for me his vision, built through years of quiet contemplation I had absorbed
bits and pieces of it over the years, but now he weaved it into a coherent mosaic. His
starting point was the people. The aspirations and expectations of the common man had
been bartered away by self-seeking. politicians. He spoke of exploitation, of the unholy
axis that had been forged between the civil and military bureaucracy and the feudal and
urban lords. It was the power of the people, he proclaimed, that was the soft underbelly
of the current crop of politicians.
Mustafa emphasized the need for organizational work at grass-roots level. He looked
forward to a political system where power flowed upward. He advocated a return to
the early principles of Islam. He argued about Marxism, pointed out its defects and
admired its universal appeal. He reconvened me of the need to cut the size of the
military establishment. 'We have to direct our scarce resources away from this monster,'
he preached. 'Our people need food, shelter, clothing, medical facilities, potable water
and education. The army has gobbled up our national wealth. It is a waste of

manpower. If I come to power I will use the army for the construction of roads and
bridges. It is also a constant threat to constitutional rule.'
He was a fervent advocate of fraternal ties with the Soviet Union. He repudiated Zia's
stance which opposed the Russian invasion of Afghanistan and was opposed to the
resettlement of Afghani refugees in Pakistan. 'Zia is sacrificing our future for short-term
gains,' he contended. 'He doesn't understand the terrible spillover of this unnecessary
involvement. The Russians will never forget our role. Gun culture and the drug trade
are natural spin-offs of this conflict. The generals are myopic. They have been dazzled
by the dollar diplomacy of the Americans. The Americans are unreliable allies. They'll
use us only until they've accomplished their own designs.'
In fact Zia had made drug-trafficking legitimate. While Afghanistan was the major
grower, the poppies were processed in Pakistan. It was said that labs had been set up by
US Mafia connections - no border, free movement, no control, quick money. Allegedly,
the Inter Services Intelligence (ISI) had a hand; even the war was financed through the
sale of opium and heroin. When aid dwindled, the Mujahadeen used drugs as a source
for funds.
The Soviet Union apart, Mustafa was convinced that Pakistan had to distance itself from
the power blocs. The country had to become more insular, at least for a period, in order
to foster a sense of independence. 'Look at China, look at India,' he said. 'They are
developing their own indigenous technologies. They don't go around with a begging
bowl in their hands. They have great national pride. We have taken the easy way out.
Everything is imported - even our ideas.'
He was the natural heir to the politics of his mentor. Bhutto had left behind an uneven
legacy. Be had been a populist with the right slogans to galvanize the people, but he had
lacked the time to implement the necessary reforms. Mustafa believed that the
opportunity, was now in his hands.
I felt that, finally, the man I always wanted to see emerge had done so. Here, was a
selfless-politician who was inviting me into his mind and showing e the truth. To me, at
that time there was a messianic quality about him that his prisoner status only served to
enhance.
In a very subtle way, Mustafa prepared me for public life in a country where
appearance, especially that of a woman, matters. He used his sharp sense of humor,
without malice, to tease me about my appearance, and to guide me toward altering it in
the most effective ways.
On a number of occasions he complimented me by saying that I looked like a model

who had just stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine. That was great, but he

laughed, pointing out that my appearance was a bit incongruous for my role as the wife
of a noted political prisoner. Once, to his amazement, I added copper, gold and
ashcolored highlights to my brown hair. He was so astonished that, he burst out
laughing, and suggested that I go back to the 'long brown tresses that had imprisoned'
him fifteen years earlier. He was further shocked when I had my hair permed and
appeared with long corkscrew curls. 'What's this? Have you grown springs on your
head?' he asked.
One day I entered his prison cell immediately after attending a political meeting in
Gujrat. I was buoyant; the meeting had been a great success. I was wearing traditional,
black baggy trousers, a black-and-white knit shirt with red collar and cuffs, and a long
red cashmere cape draped over my shoulders, my hair freely cascading down my back.
Mustafa took one look at me and said, 'You know what you look like today? You look
like Margaret Thatcher in a chader. Where was your meeting? In Birmingham or
Southall, or was it in Gujrat?' I grinned, sheepishly acknowledging that I should have
dressed more appropriately for the occasion.
Another time he, shook his head when he saw me coming into the prison yard without
a dupatta (veil). 'I had to see this day,' he moaned. 'My wife walking into a prison, with
all these men around, uncovered by a dupatta.'
'I forgot it,' I said with a shrug.
'Is it something you forget?' he asked sharply, but with a view towards education and
not malice. 'You've forgotten a very basic thing. It represents your sharam [shame] and
your haya [feminine modesty].'
I cringed Mustafa had made a basic point freedom does not mean license.
Colors had always fascinated me; then one day something snapped inside me and I
decided that, from now on, I would wear only simple white cotton. When I told Mustafa
of this decision he was not shocked. In fact, he seemed to have expected it. This is what
he wanted so that I did not look attractive to the male society in which I now moved.
But he knew that he could not force it upon me. For my part, I felt as if a great burden
had been lifted. My white cotton would not be a mere symbolic gesture; it was the
culmination of a long and painful process of self-discovery. My overindulgence in
clothes and the need to look beautiful was a legacy from a childhood spent as my
mother's wardrobe mistress. I used them in my adulthood to maximum, advantage. I
had enticed and entrapped Mustafa with my appearance and been caught in my own
trap. I had tried to keep him with the help of clothes and Adila had tried to snatch him
away with hers. I had used clothes to make a public impression - the glamorous wife of
a political prisoner had emerged to replace the conventional drab, covered image. The
need to impress with either my belongings or my appearance dissipated. I had come to

rely upon my personality and beliefs - the priorities' stood converted. Now I realized
the contradiction: the indulgences of vanity separated me from the people I sought to
represent.
Throughout his long sojourn in prison Mustafa wrote me politically instructive letters,
which were always hand-delivered. He taught me not to betray my true feelings during
negotiations. 'Keep an expressionless face,' he advised. 'Keep your opponent guessing
about your reactions.' He told me to be polite but firm, to enquire but not inform. He
cautioned me about the pitfalls of stirring up unnecessary controversies and tutored me
on the art of fielding tricky questions at press conferences.
His letters were embellished with romance as he explained his unreasonable attitude of
possessiveness and insecurity by saying, 'All the great legends of love end in tragedy. . .
their love was intense, not practical and balanced. You cannot find balance in love,
which is why you have to be prepared to carry its burden if you want love.' He reached
out to the woman in me. He told me how much he needed me and how, proud he was
of me. 'Without you I cannot achieve anything,' he declared. 'I feel that I can achieve
anything when you are at my side. I can take the greatest of risks. I would gladly die
today, if I knew that you would remain committed to me.'
From time to time, I suggested that Mustafa clarify his philosophies on paper, so that
we could publish pamphlets and distribute them. I predicted that this would set the
imaginations of the deprived on fire. But Mustafa said, 'Our people are illiterate. They
have no interest in pamphlets. They want a leader who can articulate their demands,
who can feel their needs. You have to go out amongst them and speak to them in a
language they understand. If I write down everything I want to do, the people in power
will eliminate me. They will be the first to sit up and take notice. Why should I serve
notice? I will attack them in the field, not in column inches.'
When he explained it like this, I had to agree. He was pro-Russian, anti-military,

antifeudal, anti-industrialist and anti-bureaucratic corruption. The forces in power
would never accept such a socialist reform platform. The blueprint had to remain in
Mustafa's mind. Only when he was free, when he was in command of the masses, could
he reveal even glimpses to the public. Until then, he had to lull the reactionary forces.
We often spoke of the future, and of how the prison experience had forced us to reorient
our priorities. The future was not what it used to be. Power was no longer a goal in
itself. In fact the acquisition of power, under our current political strategy, would force
us to lower our social standing. We vowed to live simply, fear God and serve the
people. 'We shall live in our present small house,' Mustafa decided. 'We have to set an
example. We have to become role models for the people.' And I believed him.

One day my reflection in a mirror caught me by surprise. I thought: Who is this woman
in white? Can it really be me? Mustafa had molded me into a serious person with a
sense of mission. I had packed away my designer clothes and mothballed my vanity. I
was ashamed of my collection of shoes, which seemed to rival that of Imelda Marcos.
My beautiful matching handbags remained empty and unused. I wore only silver
jewellery, like the poorest of Pakistani women.
My metamorphosis was complete. Mustafa knew, that I was attractive, but he had no
choice, other than to let me fight his battle in this male-dominated society. He became
secure in his trust, only when he was convinced that he had created a political being
whose loyalty and mission were beyond reproach. He knew that as long as I was
convinced of the righteousness of his cause, I would never stray. I had to believe him to
love him.
And I believed him.
I had four children to raise, and they were still too young to comprehend why their
father, was imprisoned. They did not know how to cope with the taunts of their
classmates. I explained as best I could, the distinction between a common criminal and a
political prisoner, and tried to paint a word picture of their father as pure goodness
combating evil darkness. My daughters, being older, were able to understand this better
than my sons, but they still found it very difficult to convince their friends, who came
from apolitical bourgeois and feudal backgrounds, that their father was in prison
simply because of his opposition to martial law. Seven-year-old Ali got into a few
scraps, trying to prove that his father was not a murderer. Little Hamza was hopelessly
confused. He was only eight months old when his father went to gaol. He only knew
Mustafa as a 'big man' who, for some inexplicable reason, could not come home. Every
time we left the prison after a visit, Hamza asked, 'Why can't we take him home?'
They needed a father to identify with, and to love. I built him up in their minds by
recounting anecdotes, and underplayed my present strange role as his protector. I
explained that I was merely carrying his fight forward and that when he came out of
prison he would protect all of us. They learned to admire their father for his courage
against the dictator, even Hamza developed pride in his father's incarceration. He came
to view Adyala Jail as his father's palace and Mustafa as the great prince who lived
there under police protection.
I was obsessed with getting him out. Here was a man whose experiences had sculpted
him for this moment in history. He had a decisive and critical role to play, I thought. A
mind such as this should not be left to rot in gaol.
I was also desperate for a normal life. We had spent our entire marriage either being
hounded by the abnormality of exile or the constraints of prison. We had never lived

without the strain of opposition politics. I thought that without the pressures Mustafa
might have behaved very differently I ascribed much of his abnormal behavior to
abnormal circumstances.
Since Nuscie had been a friend I had made when I was separated from him, Mustafa
refused permission for me to see her, J.J. and my other new friends. 'When I come out
you can see them again,' he declared. 'Until then, I cannot permit it. The subject is
closed.' Any mention of Nuscie aggravated the situation. And he kept me so busy with
political work that I had little time to socialize anyway.
At public meetings, I heard Mustafa's voice emerge from my mouth, and I saw the
crowds respond to me as they had done to him. Through me, Mustafa had scaled the
prison walls.
I had to proceed with great care. Powerful forces were arrayed against him. If they
perceived him as a threat, they could, and would, liquidate him.
Our old friend Taj-ul-Mulk offered me the annexe of is mansion in Lahore to use as an
office. It was at a dance there that Mustafa had proposed to me. Punjabi workers from
the National People's Party flocked to see me. As Mustafa had predicted, they had
grown disillusioned with the leadership of Jatoi and his henchmen and sought a new
focal point. Sajid, who had worked with both Bhutto and Mustafa since 1967, moved
from Multan to offer guidance and to help me carry out Mustafa's strategies; he became
my chief aide. Others, who had been student leaders in the early days of our marriage
and who had now matured, joined our cadre.
I persuaded our group that the time had come to mount a sustained media campaign.
We contacted financial backers who provided funds for posters and print
advertisements demanding Mustafa's release. I found that, just like Mustafa, I could
draw the party workers to me, orchestrate their actions and keep their morale high.
Rival party leaders resented my growing popularity and spread rumors. They warned
workers that Mustafa did not trust me; they criticized me for leaving him and accused
me of actually conspiring with the military to keep my husband in gaol. 'She wants him
dead,' they charged. 'She wants to take over.' Some of the workers were quite shaken by
these nasty attacks, but when Mustafa heard about the smear campaign against me he
issued a strong statement to the press: 'My Wife represents me. Everything she says and
does is what want her to say and do.'
God gave Mustafa one more glimpse of His reservoir of power. His brother Ghazi died
suddenly. Zia granted permission for Mustafa to attend the funeral and, because time
was tight, loaned him the use of the air chief's official plane. The aircraft, with Mustafa
on board, flew to Lahore to pick me up. Then we took off for the funeral in Multan.

During the trip I could tell that Mustafa was very shaken by the fact that death was now
raiding his own generation. He confided to me, 'I have prayed very hard to God for a
chance to visit the holy shrine in Taunsa Sharif. I wonder when my call will come.' He
knew that, as a prisoner, there was no way for him to make the pilgrimage. But when
we arrived at Multan, we were surprised to learn that the funeral procession had
already left and we were instructed to drive to the city where Ghazi had desired burial
Taunsa Shariff Mustafa immediately prostrated himself and thanked God for this
miracle.
Although my head was covered, my face was not. It was unheard of for a woman to
enter the holy city of Taunsa Sharif without covering herself completely, but Mustafa
abandoned tradition. The only concession he made was to ask me to wait for him in the
car.
A huge crowd of mourners was electrified when they heard the sound of sirens,
announcing the approach of our official convoy. They surged forward and almost
crushed our car. Mustafa managed to extricate himself and disappeared into the mob. I
caught brief glimpses of the funeral bier amidst wave after wave of the distraught
crowd. There was a strange juxtaposition of elation and grief; another Khar was being
buried, but their leader was among them!
I thought: The Sufis have it right. They believe that the death of a saint must be
celebrated, because it is the moment that his soul achieves union with the Eternal Being.
Death and reunion seemed to go together with the Khars.
As we drove towards the aeroplane that would carry him back to prison, I could sense
that Mustafa felt more strongly than ever that supernatural forces were on his side. His
personal sense of manifest destiny was reinforced.
15
Over time, Mustafa's situation in Adyala Jail became even more comfortable. He was
their most important prisoner, and - who knew? - in time to come he might be of use to
the generals. And so he was allotted seven rooms. His main cell was air-conditioned
against the infernal summer heat. Another room, held a refrigerator and a deep-freeze.
He was allowed to have a television set and had unlimited access to reading material.
He was eclectic in his reading habits and could skip easily from an account of Mao's
Long March to Caliph Omer's reforms. He told me that he was quite willing to accept
some of Hitler's contentions, declaring, 'Any programme that elevates suffering but
pursues ultimate progress is acceptable.'

In the mornings, he practiced yoga on the veranda alongside his almost constant
companion, a tame talking partridge. He had a small compound of land at his disposal,
which he converted into a chicken, farm. A few of the other prisoners were assigned to
keep his house in order and tend his flock. Mustafa supervised the work and then
relaxed by cooking his own meals. He was great chef, capable of conjuring gastronomic
delights but here he was content with a simple diet of lentils and vegetables.
Gaol rules did not allow him private visits, but whenever I went to see him he
dismissed the guard with wave of his hand.
I found all of this somewhat confusing. Part of me felt that a true political leader should
suffer, in order to cleanse himself, but I was able to dismiss these thoughts as hangovers
from the catechism lessons I had endured ii convent school. I had to remind myself, that
Mustafa as a political prisoner, not a criminal. The authorities had to be aware that
today's political prisoner is tomorrow's leader. Mustafa's time was likely to come, and
his gaolers had to protect themselves against future retaliation. He brooked no
insolence. His manner was at of a monarch who was only temporarily deposed.
Everyone remembered his past. Nobody could ignore his future. His present paled into
insignificance.
Among the inmates were four Palestinian freedom fighters who had hijacked a Pan
American World Airways Boeing 747 in Karachi in September 1986. Although Mustafa
disagreed with their actions, he was obsessed with their cause Yasser. Arafat was a
member of the pantheon of leaders who inspired Mustafa. The head of this group of
prisoners, a boy named Ali, sent a message of distress to Mustafa. Being imprisoned in a
foreign land was in itself a tragedy. The Palestinians could not speak our language and
they had to suffer the unfamiliar prison food, which was short on nutrition and long on
spice Mustafa empathized and began to send them food from his own kitchen.
After Mustafa told me about the Palestinians, I wrote them a letter telling them that I,
too, believed in their cause. I ended with a prayer 'I hope my children can be as brave as
you, and fight at the risk of their lives for their Motherland.'
Jatoi and others constantly pressed Zia to release Mustafa, but nothing came of their
efforts.
At Mustafa's direction, I had meetings with leaders across the spectrum of Pakistani
politics and asked them to lobby for the release of all political prisoners. Mustafa was
the only, leader, but hundreds of party workers still languished in prisons, and they
needed a voice. We held seminars in Lahore and Islamabad on this issue. They were
well attended and received good press coverage, but nothing seemed to move the ruling
elite. We concluded that we needed to do something more dramatic.

Mustafa and I came to a momentous decision. A part of my heart wished that he would
carry the fight to the gallows, as Bhutto did. But another part recognized the uselessness
of another martyr and acknowledged the need for Machiavellian strategy - to serve the
people practically, by first obtaining release. We rationalized the matter and agreed that
we would have to compromise some of our earlier extreme principles and attempt to
woo the military leaders. Mustafa, who had once sought to overthrow the military
regime with violence no sought a secret alliance.
Early in 1988 I was granted an appointment with General Akhtar Abdur Rehman
Chairman of the joint Chiefs of Staff. He was Zia's right-hand man and had been the ISI
chief during our coup attempt; he was also in charge of the Afghan Mujahadeen war
strategy which was run entirely by the ISI. Mustafa coached me carefully - No-one was
to know, of our attempt to negotiate with the military junta; such knowledge would
drive away legions of Mustafa's supporters.
The meeting was held under stringent security procedures. I was told to be in the lobby
of the Holiday Inn in Islamabad at a certain hour on a certain date wearing dark glasses
I would be met there by Brigadier Khursheed who would take me to see General
Rehman.
We spoke for ninety minutes at the general's office. It was a difficult session. My
aversion to the generals and their martial law was deeply ingrained. I did not like the
idea of negotiating with Zia or any of his representatives. I hated begging for Mustafa's
release, and I did not have much to offer in exchange. I tried to sell the idea that
Mustafa realized that the army was indispensable to the political process, he had
concluded that the Turkish form of government when the Politicians and the military
share power was feasible for our country.
General Rehman interrupted. He pointed out that Bhutto had made a similar agreement
with his generals, and then reneged. How could I guarantee that Mustafa would not do
the same?
'Mustafa is not Mr. Bhutto,' I said. I reminded him that Mustafa had openly opposed
many of Bhutto's ideas, and I promised that Mustafa would honor any and every
commitment he made. Then I launched into swell-prepared speech. Mustafa had told
me to play upon the army's fears about the intentions of the current leaders of Bhutto's
People's Party. I predicted to the general that, in any future election, the People's Party,
led by Benazir Bhutto, would prevail, bringing about an emotional resurrection of the
Bhutto myth. The people - most especially the Sindhis and Punjabis - were waiting for
an opportunity to take on the forces that supported Zia. At this point in time, I argued,
the army would need a buffer, a man who was accepted by the People's Party workers,
a man who could persuade them not to vent their wrath against the military. They
needed a leader with roots in the Punjab, who understood the realities of power politics

and behind whom a huge percentage of the People's Party workers would rally. Only
one person had the capacity to do this, I proclaimed: Mustafa Khar.
The fact that the general asked me to return for another meeting was proof that I had
struck a chord. But I came away from the first meeting with no positive or negative
impression. I realized the general's training as an intelligence man disallowed even a
slight revelation if his real feelings. He remained expressionless.
Several additional meetings ensued. I discussed these with Mustafa and returned to the
general with fresh comments and proposals. Each time, the general spoke more. Each
time, I found him more caring and sensitive, at least concerning my situation. My hopes
grew.
In May1988, the Ojhri ammunition dump in Islamabad, the semi-secret staging front for
supplying clandestine weapons to the Afghan rebels, was blown up. Missiles flew off in
all directions, leaving hundreds of innocent civilians dead and injured. The city was
paralyzed with grief and horror.
As it happened, Mustafa's son Abdur Rehman was to be married the next day, and
Mustafa had been granted, a twenty-four-hour parole to attend. Along with the children
and Nuscie, I greeted him at Lahore airport and joined him in a secure caravan of cars,
heading toward I the bride's home with sirens blaring.
The bride was dressed in traditional red, the fairy lights flickered and the guests had
already started to arrive when Mustafa surprised everyone with the declaration that,
because of the tragedy at the Ojhri Camp, the wedding had to be postponed. He said
that it would be wrong to rejoice at a time when so much pain had encompassed the
nation. We were in a quandary, everything was upset.
The bride's family reacted with shock. The bride, coy and bejeweled, listened solemnly
as Mustafa tried to explain that she was marrying into a special family. 'I am a
politician,' he said 'I have responsibilities to my people. They will question me about
this wedding if it is held on such an unpropitious day.' The media praised Mustafa's
noble gesture, and placed him in sharp contrast with the dictator who now made a huge
blunder. Fearing an inquiry into what qualified as a sabotage attack on the Ojhri
ammunition dump, Zia dismissed his hand-picked Prime Minister, Mohammad Khan
Junejo, as well as the lower house of Parliament, and installed a caretaker government.
In my fifth meeting with General Rehman in August, I sipped tea as I presented

Mustafa's assessment of these developments to both the general and his wife. The
problem was not solved, Mustafa predicted. Zia had only created a vacuum. The
caretaker government would prove ineffective and the People's Party would move into

the gap. Mustafa suggested that he be permitted to play his role as a free man to thwart
the People's Party. He needed time to curtail Benazir Bhutto's rise to power.
The general promised to discuss the matter with General Zia.
I was proud of myself and the success of my secret negotiations. I was certain that Zia
and his advisers were now ready to accept this reasoning.
A week later, on 17 August, a C-130 military transport plane mysteriously exploded in

the air over Bahawalpur. General Zia, who had presided over the nation's destiny for
eleven years, was on board. My first reaction was extreme, happiness. The dictator was
dead! Then I remembered that there were other people on that aircraft whom I had
known. One of them was my new friend General Rehman, who had seemed so close to
engineering Mustafa's release. The other was Brigadier Khursheed, who had frequently
transported me to and from the meetings.
But I had to banish all thoughts of the human tragedy. Zia's sudden death changed the
entire equation of politics in Pakistan. The Chairman of the Senate, and Zia's close ally,
Ghulam Ishaq Khan, was sworn in as President. 'We must not do anything at this stage
to provoke the army,' Mustafa advised 'The best course is to wait and see.'
We decided to draw maximum attention to our predictament via peaceful protest. Our
brave party workers launched a hunger strike in front of the Senate, while it was in
session. The authorities arrested the first batch immediately, on charges of attempted
suicide.
We tried to march to the Senate, carrying placards denouncing martial law and calling
for the release of political prisoners, but police swooped in and arrested the marchers.
Two senators invited me inside the Senate building and introduced me to several of
their colleagues; I caused quite a stir when I walked in to urge someone to raise the
issue of political prisoners. I said to one senator, 'If your wife was here and Mustafa
Khar was in you place, he would have definitely responded to the issue.'
Our hunger strikes continued. We created enormous media interest but the government
continued with business as usual, unabashed and unmoved. Seeking an even more
dramatic venue, we chose the Faisal Mosque in Islamabad. We felt that a government
that paid constant lip service to Islam might shy away from arresting hunger strikers
within the holy premises of the mosque And if they did, the press would vilify them.
Either way, we would win our point.
The hunger strikers were seated in prayer when the Police gathered. I confronted the
authorities and proclaimed that they could not arrest the workers while they were

praying. The Police hesitated, and waited for the prayers to cease. But the prayers
droned on without end. Crowds gathered wondering which side would crack. The
workers never faltered but the police did. They finally moved in and dragged the
praying men off to jail as they shouted slogans against the govern and in support of
political prisoners. We, and the press, made sure that the entire nation heard about the
desecration of the mosque by the functionaries of a so-called Islamic government.
Further strikes followed all at very public locations in Islamabad: again at the Senate, at
the President's house, at other mosques - even at shopping centers. The capital city was
suddenly the scene of peaceful protest, with me centre stage.
By this time I had decided that the leader's own family had to make sacrifices. So far, it
had always been the poor workers who offered themselves for arrest. I persuaded
Mustafa's two sons Abdur Rehman and Bilal, to participate in one of the hunger strikes.
They were arrested outside the Senate.
We were moving, creating agitation. The press reported favorably upon our peaceful
attempts to force change, and the repressive tactics of the police. More and more, we
could tell that the crowds were on our side, cheering the strikers and jeering at the
authorities. But still Mustafa and thousands of other political prisoners languished in
jail.
How could we break the impasse?
I suggested to Mustafa that I would go on a hunger strike myself. I was aware, of

course, that the momentous decision could lead to my death because I could not
withdraw from it, but I was confident that my action would arouse such national and
international media interest that the government would realize that it could not let me
die - and would release the political prisoners. I knew that the press would treat me
kindly. My role as a wife struggling for her husband's freedom played well in the
newspapers, and reporters were increasingly eager to know what would be up to next. I
had made the acquaintance of a new breed of well-educated journalists who were
committed to the cause of justice in Pakistan. Although in this modern world they used
word processors, someone had coined an appropriate term for them: 'typewriter
guerrillas'. I knew that they would be on my side.
In addition, both Mustafa and I knew that my father would be galvanized into action to
save me. He had many influential friends in the army and in the Senate, and he would
surely bring immense pressure to bear on them.
We made the arrangements. A team of doctors would be ready to attend to me when I

was arrested. Mustafa included Dr. Sultan, a physician attached to the Adyala Jail, so
that he could remain fully informed of my condition. Dr Sultan briefed me: 'Within

twenty-four hours you will feel the strain. As time progresses it is possible that the key
organs in your body could be damaged - your kidneys, for instance. If it goes on too
long, your brain could be damaged and you could go into a coma.' He added, 'But we
won't let you die. You'll receive intravenous fluids and we'll give you milk!'
I was very frightened, yet determined to go ahead. But there was a sudden anti-climax.
Fortunately for me, the president announced the release of some political prisoners.
Mustafa was not included, but the process had begun. We put my hunger strike on
hold.
I talked to every politician and general whom I could corner. The words of one of them
conveyed the prevailing feeling: 'Mustafa is a traitor! I cannot help a traitor to my
country.'
The sense of chaos heightened when elections were announced. Without notice, our old
friend Mustafa Jatoi joined the IJI - the alliance of parties that had been bred by Zia and
currently held power - and presented Mustafa with the same option. If he took it, the
doors of his prison cell would open instantly. Mustafa was desperate to emerge and
play his role in the elections, and he contemplated striking a deal.
A host of callers descended upon me, trying to convince me to persuade my husband to

cast his lot with what was, at the moment, Pakistan's political establishment. One
warned me that Mustafa would never be released from prison if he did not join. 'He'll
rot there forever,' he predicted. 'You, don't want that, do you?'
I had evolved. After all those years of marriage, I was no longer Mustafa's programmed
robot; I was a thinking person capable of independent actions. I rejected all the
arguments that I heard in favor of Mustafa joining the IJI, and told him why. If joined,
he would be repudiating everything he stood for. These were the parties that had
stayed in power by bowing to Zia; they were the unnatural political growths that had
fed on Bhutto's blood. To ally with the IJI would be to negate his fight against martial
law and his long struggle for democracy. His years in exile would count for nothing.
Beyond that, the move would be humiliating because the IJI was headed by Nawaz
Sharif, a man whom Mustafa had long portrayed to the public as a political pygmy. I
told my husband that I would lose every scrap of respect for him if he sold out now. I
contended, 'It's better to be respected in gaol for ever than to be free and humiliated.'
Mustafa weighed his options. He could be out of prison within twenty-four hours, or he
could retain his honor and his wife He decided to reject Jatoi's pragmatic offer and
complimented me for my counsel: 'It's your strength that allowed me to take this
decision. I'm glad I took it. Short cuts to power are dishonorable.'

I made a press announcement on behalf of Mustafa, rejecting Jatoi's stand and breaking
away from him to form 'Khar Group, NPP'. I declared, using Nelson Mandela's words,
'Prisoners Cannot Negotiate. Mustafa is not a free man.'
We decided that Mustafa would run for parliament from his prison cell. Under
Pakistan's electoral system you can stand for as many National and Provincial seats as
you wish. However, at a given date after the election you have to withdraw from all
except one: you can either be a member of the National Assembly or the Provincial
Assembly. On the other seats you forfeit, you can nominate your own candidate, and
after the election a by-election is held in those constituencies. Mustafa would file
nomination papers for two National Assembly seats and three Provincial Assembly
seats and decide, during the heat of battle, where to concentrate his efforts. The most
notable confrontation was predicted to be in Lahore, where he would challenge Nawaz
Sharif, the sitting Chief Minister of the Punjab. With the announcement, Mustafa was
once more cast in the role of the brave, courageous Lion of the Punjab, roaring from
behind bars.
But it was not to be easy Mustafa's own brothers had found they could cash in on his
absence, and decided to run against him in his home constituency of Muzaffargarh, and
they lined up support from powerful government groups. I filed the papers necessary to
launch Mustafa's five campaigns, but I knew that we faced tough odds.
I set out on the campaign trail as Mustafa's surrogate. In Muzaffargarh I faced the task
of speaking to a confused crowd of people. Mustafa had sent a woman to speak for
him? Why had he not sent a brother or a son? Mustafa had foreseen this difficulty, and
had armed me with the proper argument. I waved my arm and noted, 'The Sardars
('chiefs') of all these areas hide their wives from the poor, oppressed people of their
villages. They place them behind the chader so that you, who come from their soil,
cannot set your eyes on their "honor". But in the cities they let their women remove their
veils and mingle with aliens. Mustafa has asked me to, inform you that he is not from
that breed of men.'
The, crowd applauded loudly and, raised slogans for Mustafa.
I continued: 'He has, by my presence in front of you, given proof that you are the people
who can behold his woman, because for you I am a daughter, a mother or a sister. You
are his family. He will not hide his woman from you. He is breaking false and
hypocritical tradition today - for you!'
This argument won a multitude. The crowd roared its approval and prayed for
Mustafa's release— and his success in the election.

His brothers rallied strongly against me, saying I was a disgrace to their father's honor.
Some said. I wished to send Mustafa to the gallows.
In Lahore I held numerous meetings with party workers. They were unanimously
happy with Mustafa's decision, but we knew that it left him with the backing of any
major political force. We discussed the possibility of other alliances. Should we rejoin
hands with the People's Party? Should we contact, the dismissed Prime Minister Junejo
to seek a coalition?
Mustafa asked me to speak to Benazir Bhutto. I contacted one of her, aides and enquired
about the possibility of Benazir and her People's Party offering support to Mustafa. The
aide came back with the enigmatic message 'I think we should wait for Mr. Khar's
release.'
This statement made me realize that Benazir did not expect Mustafa to be released and
that she did not want to support a man to whom the army was opposed. Perhaps she
wanted her old 'uncle' to remain in prison and conveniently out of the way?
Running the election by proxy was too much responsibility for me. Mustafa said that
the only way for me to gather enough, support in his absence in the key district of
Lahore was the time-honored tradition of door-to-door canvassing. People would feel
touched by his wife's personal request for support. But I found this embarrassing.
Unlike the emotional, illiterate crowds of Muzaffargarh, the electorate in Lahore did not
know me well enough, they received me with confusion. I sensed that, as, far as they
were concerned, I was not a suitable proxy for my husband, especially against the chief
minister in, his home constituency. We desperately needed to have Mustafa out of gaol,
so that he could have the impact needed for such a victory.
I contacted Inter Services Intelligence, seeking a meeting with its chief, General Hameed
Gul, but his second-in-command, Brigadier Imtiaz, said that he would see me instead.
Our meeting at the ISI head office turned into a five-hour marathon. It was a
sophisticated interrogation. The brigadier had a comprehensive dossier on Mustafa and
his ill-fated Indian connection. In the face of this evidence, he viewed my husband as a
traitor. I tried to paint a picture of Mustafa as a different kind of patriot, but the
brigadier was not convinced. When I told him of my meetings with General Rehman he
was very surprised. The ISI knew nothing about them!
We met on several occasions before I was finally granted an audience with General
Hameed Gul, and flew to Islamabad to see him. I knew that this was our last, best hope.
It was a difficult meeting. The general listened carefully to my arguments, but I could
not gauge his response. Finally, in desperation, I pleaded with him to meet Mustafa face
to face. I was confident that Mustafa, by employing his gift of the gab, could talk his

way out of prison. I was surprised and ecstatic when General Gul agreed. I also realized
that this was evidence that our country was in a state of flux, it was very unusual for a
man so highly placed to visit a prisoner.
No-one was to know - not even Mustafa I was driven to Adyala Jail by the brigadier at
midnight. In the Superintendent's Office I met General Gul. Then a very surprised
Mustafa was brought in to meet us.
To my dismay, Mustafa came across as sheepish and phony. It was if he realized that
the man sitting opposite him knew the secrets of his heart. The general was charismatic,
articulate and forthright, Mustafa was mediocre. My husband, my leader, shriveled
before my eyes.
Come on, Mustafa, I thought. You must say the right things. You must say the things
that will make them release you. It's your only chance. Your last chance.
But as the meeting ended the general's aide made it apparent that they had already
made their decision. He nodded towards me, smiled, and said to Mustafa, 'You couldn't
have found a better ambassador.'
With deep intensity Mustafa said, 'Without Tehmina I could never have made it!' After
he composed himself he added, directly to me, 'If ever I write my autobiography I shall
say that you were my wisest political adviser.'
The following day, the courts decreed Mustafa's release, after more than two years
confinement.
Joy and sorrow came hand in hand. It was at this very time that I received a disturbing
call from my sisters and Rubina: Father was in love with another woman! Mother was
distraught. The other woman was Sabiha Hasan. She had worked with my father when
he was governor of the State Bank. My sisters wanted to call a family conference to try
to salvage our parents' marriage. Mother was ready for me to return to the family fold,
to help her through this terrible time.
I was bewildered by this strange combination of happiness and grief that had come
together at the same moment. My life was like a kaleidoscope in the hands of a fidgety
child.

16
The 6:30 a.m. flight from Lahore to Islamabad was the one I had taken every Sunday for
more than a year. But today, 4 November 1988, was different. I was charged with
elation as I walked confidently with my four children toward the airport gate. The
annoyances of having our papers checked and submitting to body searches were
brushed aside by a sense of achievement.
The airport staff greeted us with smiles. Once we boarded, the, flight crew sought us out
to offer its congratulations. As I fastened my seat belt, settled in and perused a
newspaper, a passenger leaned towards me and said, 'Your husband must be very
proud of you.' I smiled graciously, aware that our struggle had only just begun.
During the flight I stared out of the window, into the distance. A stray speck of cloud,
anchored in nothingness, seemed to blush as the sun's first rays sprayed it. I could feel
my excitement mounting. Two epochs of my marriage were over. First, exile, which
brought with it betrayal and violence; I had felt trapped in the eye of a storm, struggling
constantly to survive. Then Mustafa's imprisonment, which for me held frustration,
loneliness and fatigue, but also brought practical political training and maturity, an
independence that had been thrust upon me by necessity.
Now Mustafa and I were entering a new period, one of freedom and trust. We had
survived adversity and were, for the first time, confronted with normality.
Islamabad Airport was awash with jubilation. Faces that I had seen through the years,
wearing determined expressions, were now wreathed in smiles. People moved toward
me, then stopped at a respectful distance. I wanted to thank them for their support and
hug them, but they were all men and we were conditioned by Islam, stifled by tradition;
a woman does not demonstrate affection towards a man who is not her father, brother
or husband. I tried to appreciate them with words, but these were inadequate.
Soon we were in a car, leading motorized cavalcade along familiar roads. A festive
atmosphere prevailed. Drivers honked their horns; pedestrians shouted encouraging
slogans. We passed the site of the Rawalpindi Central Jail, where Bhutto was hanged.
General Zia, before his recent death, had ordered it demolished since it now served as a
shrine to the memory of a martyr.
We passed the Army Headquarters, and the sight of the tank outside the gates made me
smile. In the past this tank, the symbol of military rule in Pakistan, had intimidated me.
Today it seemed powerless. The power of the people had prevailed over the dictate of
the gun.

The convoy turned on to Adyala Road. Thousands of spectators lined the way,
impeding our progress. Our car crawled down the long ribbon that led towards the
gaol. Faces peered in through the windows of the car, flattening their noses against the
glassy. Some people flashed the 'V' for victory sign. Others thumped on the hood of the
car, expressing exuberance. These were the masses, about whom Mustafa and I had so
frequently spoken. It was their destiny that we had to help shape. Not so long ago these
people were an abstraction to me, the topics of endless drawing-room discussions.
Today they were real; they mattered. They did not depend on us; we depended on
them. The downtrodden people of Pakistan, trampled for centuries, had begun to rise,
just as the clouds of dust rose about our car.
I did not dare roll down a window. Repeatedly I raised my hand to my forehead in
traditional salutation, and the crowds waved back.
Adyala jail appeared fragile and no longer impregnable before the swarm of humanity
that converged upon it. The towering walls which had always filled my heart with
foreboding were not frightening today.
Mustafa's friends and colleagues from all over Pakistan were here in a show of loyalty
against the remnants of the Zia regime. Many of them had suffered imprisonment on far
harsher terms then Mustafa. In their darkest hours this had been the moment for which
they dreamed.
The frenzy of the crowd increased as the moment neared. Groups of young men danced
the bhangra and the luddie Punjab's most popular dances. The resounding drumbeat
intensified.
Then suddenly, there he was, emerging from prison Mustafa Khar, champion of the
underdog courageous Lion of the Punjab political Messiah.
Even at this unique moment my mind wandered. I worried about my father and
mother. My marriage was ready to resume; theirs was breaking apart. I worried also for
the inmates of the prison, who were losing their resident protector. Life is not fair, I
lectured myself, and forced my attention back upon Mustafa who would return to them
one day with reform. I had often questioned why although so many political leaders
were incarcerated and had true insight into the inhuman conditions, of ordinary
inmates, none had taken up their issues - not ever, when they gained power. Mustafa
had promised not to forget the plight of those condemned to imprisonment.
A pathway was cleared through the crowd for me and the children to leave the car and
join him at his side as he waved, acknowledging the general adulation. Our children
finally were able to understand my lectures their father was not a criminal, today, he
was a hero. He personified hope. He was the men who stood against a morally

bankrupt society, where injustice, corruption exploitation of the weak end abject
poverty had become the norm. He had suffered for his people. He had spent years
watching exiled sunsets. He had been incarcerated, but he had not bowed down.
As we slowly made our way towards a jeep, wrinkled old men elbowed their way to the
edge of the crowd to kiss his hand, touch his face and weep. Words were unnecessary.
We stood in the jeep, our torsos emerging through the open sunroof. The vehicle inched
forward, nudging aside the ecstatic crowd. From all sides people reached out to touch
Mustafa. From every rooftop and every window faces peered out for a glimpse. Rose
petals fluttered down, drenching us in their aroma.
Mustafa turned to me, clearly overwhelmed, and said, 'Tehmina, you know I would
never have been here if it wasn't for you.'
We stopped at the National People's Party headquarters in Rawalpindi where Mustafa

spoke to the people on the crowded road. In an emotion-filled voice he outlined the
programmes that he had discussed with me so often during these past two years. His
voice broke frequently, sending his listeners into empathetic spasms of fresh tears.
As Mustafa spoke, I found myself busy signing autograph. Young boys passed scraps of
paper, notebooks - even rupee notes - to me for my signature. I realized that I had
acquired my very own army of groupies. They had a collective crush on me! I tried to
tell them to stop chattering and listen to Mustafa's speech but they were not interested.
We headed for Islamabad, and finally arrived at the residence of Siddique Butt, one of
Mustafa's political colleagues which had served as my headquarters during the past
tumultuous months. This evening the house was illuminated with a myriad of fairy
lights. Another crowd awaited us here along with another contingent from the press
corps. Mustafa spoke once more and fed the hungry crowd inspired words, knowing
that he would make the front pages of all tomorrow's newspapers.
That night, we fell into bed exhausted but euphoric.
Early the following morning, we headed out again. Our destination was Lahore,
normally a five-hour, drive, but we were to make several stops along the way. The
children would not hear of travelling separately by air - even little Hamza rebelled. I
gave in to their insistence. After all, they were well trained, unlike others of their class,
for rough and extraordinary situations.
The sleepy little town of Gujar Khan was shut down for business, its streets converted
into a stage for Mustafa. They knew him well here, and adored him, but their love was
not blind. This was a politically astute crowd, and it was willing to support Mustafa

only if he made his peace with the People's Party. By now it was clear, that Benazir
Bhutto's party was emerging as the real power in Pakistan. The people of Gujar Khan
wanted Mustafa in the National Assembly, but not as a dissenting voice from a minor
party, and not as an opponent of Bhutto's popular daughter. Banners waved at us,
voicing support for the People's Party, Benazir Bhutto and the Lion of the Punjab. Men
jumped on to the running-board of our jeep and pleaded with Mustafa to rejoin Benazir.
In Jhelum we encountered a similar sentiment. Mustafa moved his listeners with

inspired words, but they put their message across just as well. It was clear that the
people wanted Mustafa back in the Bhutto fold.
By the time our cavalcade crawled into Gujranwala it was already dark, but our
welcome was sparkling. We were three and a half hours behind schedule, but the
people had waited eleven years for this moment. Mustafa had to wade through the sea
of frenzied supporters who pushed and jostled Just for the privilege of touching him.
When, finally, he was able to emerge on to the speaker's platform, the crowd exploded
into a joyous cheer. As Mustafa regaled the audience with yet another speech, I signed
more autographs. By now, I had grown f accustomed to this new phenomenon.
Very late that night, after the long day on the road, we entered Lahore, the city that
Mustafa once ruled. It was the city that rallied behind him when he took on Bhutto. We
were exhausted. My white clothes were stained red from the abundance of rose petals
that had been dropped upon us throughout the day. The grime of the road had mingled
with the perspiration on our faces. When we arrived, Mustafa wept like a child.
We mounted a truck. Loudspeakers blared. Cheerleaders led a chant to welcome him.

Banners were all over the place and I blushed when I saw one that proclaimed:
LIONESS - CONGRATULATIONS
YOU HAVE SUCCEEDED IN FREEING THE LION
We halted at the shrine of Data Gunjh Buksh, the Sufi saint who was also a mystic poet
and who, the people believe, protects the city of Lahore. Revered by all faiths for his
humanism, his shrine stands majestically near the old bed of the River Ravi, near the
entrance to Lahore. A rally was held here, and all around us the now-familiar demand
echoed: 'Rejoin the People's Party. End the tension that is dividing the hearts and minds
of the people.' Loyalists' had erected a huge portrait of Mustafa to excite the crowd, and
others had placed one of Benazir, equally as large, alongside. The symbolism was clear.
Press photographers insisted that Mustafa hold up Benazir's portrait, and he did so, to
resounding cheers. I sensed his. unease; the crowd was forcing him to accept as his
leader a little girl who still called him 'uncle'.

He spoke in a conciliatory tone: 'I will do whatever I can for the people, for the workers
who have kept me politically alive. The People's Party is my party. The workers of this
party are my brothers I have nothing against the party or the workers. I have differences
with the party leadership. These differences can be over-come.
We had another pilgrimage to make that night, to the sanctuary of my grandmother's

home. She was not feeling well, but her eyes lit when she saw us. She had spent much
of her life praying for my happiness, throughout the past two years she had spent
countless hours in her home, prostrate weeping begging Allah to free Mustafa from
prison so that I could live a normal life. At last we were home. Mustafa was free in his
own country. Nothing else mattered.
Only twelve days remained until the election there was no time to waste. Early the
following morning Mustafa and I visited the constituency where he was to take on
Chief Minister Nawaz Sharif in electoral combat. I was daunted by the enormity of the
task ahead of us. This was the area that I had tried to canvass door-to-door, with little
success. Now the people whom I had not been able to mobilize responded
overwhelmingly to Mustafa.
The news of his arrival spread like warm butter. The people gathered and Mustafa was
in his element. He chatted easily, as if there had not been an eleven-year break in his
relationship with these voters. With no hint of arrogance or distance he achieved an
easy camaraderie. He did not have to ask the people for their votes; they offered them
along with their hugs. His handshake confirmed the agreement.
Here Mustafa made what came to be a famous statement: that he was a servant of
Bhutto. Mustafa knew that this district was full of diehard supporters of the Peoples
Party, and the danger was that he and the People's Party candidate would split the vote,
allowing the mutual enemy, Nawaz Sharif, to win the seat. Mustafa hoped that his
rhetoric would dissuade the People's Party candidate but when under Benazir directive
that gentleman refused to withdraw Mustafa did so instead. He told me that he was
merely postponing his inevitable confrontation with Sharif.
Mustafa still had other races to consider, and we left for Multan, en route to
Muzaffargarh. We would concentrate on campaigning in the outlying southern districts
of the Punjab..
In Multan, with me at his side, Mustafa predicted to the press, 'I will change the
direction of politics in this country . . . I intend to liberate the Punjab - with the support
of the people - from a man who has bought it with corruption money from the generals.'
We arrived at Muzaffargarh in darkness. Thousands of silhouettes danced, clapped and

cheered, illuminated by the flickering flames of lanterns and torches. The people had

emerged from their hovels to show us, beneath their tattered clothes, their rich hearts. I
knew at once that these were the faces of despair that had stared from my paintings. I
had bequeathed my life to these men, women and children; this was the crowd that
Justified my return to Pakistan, to Mustafa.
He was truly home. He greeted many faces in the crowd with familiar names. I was
moved to see how many women broke convention to greet him. The men folk did not
mind; Mustafa was everyone's father, brother, son. Their acquiescence was their return
gesture to the message I had brought earlier.
We set up election headquarters in the home of Mustafa's late brother Ghazi, but
Mustafa was so confident of victory here that he did not campaign in the traditional
sense. Wherever he went throughout the area, people ran from all directions to meet
him. He disdained formal speeches and concentrated on quiet conversations with the
simple, honest folk. He made a point of visiting even the most remote reaches of his
constituency.
Three of the candidates here were Mustafa's own brothers. Murtaza was the direct
enemy, but Rabbani and Arbi were also rivals. Mustafa sent me into the field to
campaign against all three. The rural crowds responded to me with the same fervor and
excitement as they did to Mustafa. I was his Lioness, and therefore an object of great
reverence.
My theme was betrayal. I vilified The Muslim League as Zia's creation, and told the
crowds that Mustafa's brothers had betrayed their blood ties. In 1985 they had joined
the enemy camp. They had compromised with their brother's captives. I reported to my
eager audiences that Mustafa's brothers had not even bothered to make regular visits to
him in prison. It was left to me, a woman, to emerge from my home and fight my
husband's battles. I declared that a vote for the Muslim League would be an
endorsement of the regime that had kept Mustafa away from his people for eleven
years.
Election day was devoid of suspense. I remained up to watch the results on television,
but Mustafa fell asleep. He was sure that he would win by a large majority, and he did,
qualifying for all the seats he fought for in the National and Provincial Assemblies.
Even Murtaza's own-servants voted for Mustafa.
However, despite Mustafa's tremendous victory as an independent, most of the Punjab

supported the Muslim League, assuring that the Chief Minister's post in Lahore would
continue to be held by Nawaz Sharif who had filled the vacuum during Mustafa's
absence, and whom the People's Party candidate had failed to dislodge. But the People's

Party swept to victory in the North West Frontier Province and in the Sindh even
Mustafa Jatoi lost his seat. This meant that the federal government in Islamabad would
be headed by a new Prime Minister, the daughter of the martyred hero of Pakistan.
The elections made Benazir Bhutto the most powerful person in Pakistan. For many, it
was as if Zulfikar Ali Bhutto had been resurrected.
****
I had not been in contact with my parents since my return to Pakistan. I was still
smarting from the manner in which Mother had treated my defenseless children in
London. But now I tried to put a lifetime of pain behind me. Mother was experiencing
her own, very deep agony: another woman. This was the ultimate loss of face for a
woman who lived on appearances. I could not forget Mother's callousness toward me in
the past, but I was able to find forgiveness somewhere in my heart. I felt drawn to her.
Before the National Assembly convened, we decided to visit my family in Karachi.
Rubina met us at the airport. Adila and her husband Matloob were also there with their
two children, Leena and Mohanad. I had not seen my youngest sister since her
marriage.
We arrived at my mother's home and found her grief-stricken. Her poise and
commanding demeanor had crumbled. She broke the news that our father had married
the other woman.
The words came as a great shock. Despite the problems that had plagued our family,
our parents' marriage had always seemed to be built upon a sturdy - foundation. Now
we realized that they had simply concealed the warts from their children, just as they
had concealed ours from the world.
It was always a great mystery to me how successfully Mother's personality had

controlled Father's. He was naturally affectionate, yet he seemed forced to keep strict
control on his emotions, with Mother and with us. Like us, he also had to live by her
rules: no late, unexplained evenings, and no drinking - ever. His relatives were simple
people, and we all adored them, except for Mother who found them uncouth. They
were allowed only short, formal visits to our home. All through their marriage Father
had spoiled Mother. She had never wanted for anything; in fact, she overspent his
hardearned money and never seemed to give anything in return
It had been difficult to watch this powerful government official submit to constant
nagging. Sometimes, at night, I would hear my parents argue behind doled doors; she
always sounded aggressive and he always sounded apologetic. Mother even extended
her domination to his office staff, if the refrigerator or the air-conditioner at home broke

down, Mother was on the phone to the office, demanding that someone come to fix the
appliance immediately. The office staff, like us, appeared to be petrified by her.
Once I saw Father's valet, Amir Khan, bring him a Pepsi. He gulped it down quickly
and asked for another. He went off to the dressing-room for few moments and I could
not contain my curiosity. He returned suddenly to catch me touching my tongue to the
contents. I was surprised to realize that the Pepsi bottle was filled with an alcoholic
drink. His tone took a conspiratorial edge as he said, 'I can trust you. You won't tell
Mother.' That was true, but the realization filled me with sadness that such a strong and
powerful man had to hide a drink in his own home.
I was sure that one day he would break under the strain, and now, apparently, he had.
When had a chance to speak to my father, he set out his reasons for me. He complained
that my mother had cramped his personality. He said that life with her had been a
continuous, masquerade for him. With a sardonic smile he proclaimed that his new
wife, Sabiha Hasan, accepted him for who he was. 'I don't have to be the Great Man that
your mother made me,' he said. 'I wasn't a great man.'
I understood the simplicity, of his words and concluded that he was going through a
late-life crisis. However, I felt that it was irresponsible of him, now that he had raised
his own family and had eighteen grandchildren, suddenly to take a second wife.
I weighed the evidence and Instinctively sided with in mother; I could empathize with a
wronged woman despite the fact that this latest development seemed like a
manifestation of divine justice. Mother was somewhat luckier than I, since the other
woman did not cause her to lose her entire family. Yet she still had to experience the
shattered ego and fear of public humiliation, just as I had. The temptation was great to
flaunt the experience in my mother's face, but I realized that I wanted to support her, to
demonstrate the difference between right and wrong.
Father was unmoved by my sentiments. 'You want me to spend the last few years of my
life living a lie for the sake of an image,' he said. 'My life has at last become important to
me - not what you all think about me. I have reacted only once in sixty years, you
know.'
The only positive feature of this very depressing visit to Karachi was Adila. I found in
her the little sister. I had always wanted. She showered affection on me and fussed over
me. She told me that she wanted to be as close to me as Zarmina and Minoo were. She
frowned over my new image and could not understand why. I had put all my 'lovely'
clothes away and wore only white cotton and silver jewellery. She insisted that I make
up my face and paint my nails red. Her attitude toward Mustafa was one of sisterly
affection; she subtly maintained a proper distance from him.

It was refreshing to realize that my family now viewed me as Tehmina Khar, the
woman who had fought a relentless and ultimately successful battle to free her
husband. I had developed a presence that they found impressive. They had to notice the
change in Mustafa too. In front of them all, he lavished appreciation, respect and love
on me.
We returned to Lahore, leaving my family to sort through its new mess. After his first
meeting with Chief Minister Nawaz Sharif, Mustafa offered his opinion of the man: 'He
was very nervous of my presence. He offered me the earth. They want me to support
the IJI. They're afraid I'll join the People's Party. But what can they offer me? The only
post I would be interested in is his own. They know. that.'
In fact, Mustafa was now leaning towards the IJI; He had no confidence in the 'chit of a
girl' who had become Prime Minister on the strength of her surname.' He laughed at
Benazir's first televised speech and predicted 'She's never going to make it. She hasn't
managed to rouse any emotion for the dead prime minister. What an opportunity she
has lost!'
I tried to wean him away from what I saw as opportunism. My suggestion was that he
distance himself from both parties. I advised him to address the pertinent issues of the
times, to pinpoint the defects in the political structure and to attack the follies of both
party lines. It was apparent that the two major parties were on a collision course and
Mustafa, elected as an independent, was perfectly positioned to play a positive role. All
he had to do was speak the truth and present his own solutions for changing the
unworkable and corrupt system that still remained as our legacy of British rule. I knew
that this stance would catapult him to renewed popularity and, even more importantly,
provide him with unassailable credibility.
To my dismay, I came to realize that Mustafa was not interested in being the conscience
of the nation: all he wanted was power, and he wanted it now.
After the general election Mustafa had to vacate one of the two National assembly seats
that he had won, and he decided to offer Mustafa Jatoi as the by-election candidate for
his seat from Kot Addu I was shocked, because Jatoi was an IJI candidate and we had
just won elections by condemning the alliance. This would be an uphill struggle. Jatoi
was a Sindhi —a rank outsider in the Punjab. Mustafa would have to work hard to
motivate people to vote for his alien friend.
The Jatoi candidacy was an obvious pressure tactic - in connivance with the IJI bosses
aimed at unsettling the People's Party government. I sensed that it was also Mustafa's
riposte to the party leadership for not accepting his extended hand of friendship. He
was sending a signal: I am capable of having a Sindhi elected from the Punjab; I am
sending him into Parliament as a viable alternative to you, Ms B-h u-t-t-o.

It was not all that long before I began to sense Mustafa's resentment towards me and my
fresh image. Whenever a reporter asked him about me and my future in politics, an
uncomfortable look crossed his face and he found some way to parry the question. I
was no threat to him - quite content to return to the shadows - but he seemed to view
our political lives in a competitive sense. This became most apparent following one
press conference when a foreign journalist jokingly commented, 'Your wife is very
articulate. She gives even a better press conference than you do, Mr. Khar.' If looks
could expel, that reporter would have been on the first plane out of Pakistan.
In his dealings with the press, Mustafa consistently ignored the role that I had played in
bringing him to freedom. He wanted me to fade from the nation's memory. I was not
the only one who noticed; several party workers and journalists commented on the fact
that any mention of me or my achievements irritated him.
I decided to give Mustafa the space he needed, and began to absent myself from
political appearances. I saw weaknesses developing in his styles. He had begun to
compromise quite blatantly. He knew that I was against that. An increasing number of
opportunists - faces absent for the past thirteen years - appeared around him. His
brothers, who had first dissociated themselves and then fought viciously against him,
and whom he had compared to the evil brothers of Joseph in many press statements,
were suddenly allies once more.
He pushed away many of the dedicated workers who had supported me in my

campaign to release him. Sajid, Choudry Hanif and many of the others veterans of our
long struggle exchanged sad, meaningful glances with me. We all began to distance
ourselves from the man foe whom we had waited so long.
17
The Jatoi campaign began amid great fanfare. For the political neophyte, this was fine
spectator sport. Jatoi was cast in the role of the powerful opposition leader. to Prime
Minister Benazir Bhutto and Mustafa was emerging the kingmaker. Among those who
wanted to witness the fireworks first-hand were my sister Adila and her husband
Matloob, whose brother was related to the Jatoi by marriage.
Despite our recent reconciliation, this development put me in an uncomfortable spot.

Too many people whispered about Adila's past involvement with Mustafa - even
though it was a taboo subject. I did not want her in my life on a day-to-day basis again,
and I spoke-to Zarmina by phone about this, suggesting that it would help if she and
her husband Riaz also came. Zarmina said that Riaz was opposed to her participation
because there would be too many men around, and I suggested that she try to dissuade
Adila with the same argument.

But Adila was adamant. In fact, she insisted that Zarmina and Riaz came along as well.
She said that we three sisters would find much to talk about as the men were out
campaigning. Beyond that, she wanted to spend time catching up. She wanted to tell me
all about Matloob and his family and learn more about my own incredible experiences.
Unwilling to let her notice my hesitation to accept her extended hand of friendship, I
nervously gave in to the pressure.
She arrived at midday, with her hair freshly styled, wearing chiffon. She sported the
current craze - colored contact lenses. I was taken aback by her appearance, but tried
not to show it.
Matloob quickly involved himself in the campaign, and life assumed a routine. The men
set out in the morning to gamer votes. Throughout the day, various women from
Mustafa's large family joined us for endless discussions of marriages; children and
domestic crises. One evening we dissolved into giggles as we playfully debated the
wisdom of slipping: each of our husbands a Valium, so that they would leave us alone
to talk all night.
Late every afternoon Adila retired to her room. Then, just before the men returned for
dinner, she emerged transformed - her face painted, her hair done, her colored contact
lenses in place. She, was dressed for an evening out, even though our dinners were very
simple at-home occasions. Throughout the evening she pandered to Mustafa, who was
full of political crones and full of himself.
I told Adila that she did not have to go to such, effort for our dinners. 'It's good to dress
for dinner,' she responded; 'You should do the same. Mustafa must see you looking
beautiful. You've started looking too matronly.' Gradually I began to make a conscious
effort to look better. It was taxing. I was unused to it - this was a phase of my life that I
thought, was over - but I 'did not want Adila to upstage me.
In a casual conversation I told Adila about the new friends I had made and added that
Mustafa was irritated at their mention. 'He hates them,' I admitted. That evening I was
in an adjacent room when Mustafa enquired about our day's discussions. Adila
'innocently' repeated our conversation. Later, Mustafa growled at me, and I felt a
familiar chill run up my spine. The old days were returning I could sense it.
Mustafa noticed my fear and his initial response was calming. 'I think she's trying to
make trouble between us,' he admitted candidly. 'She wants us to' 'fight. Let's not.' But,
as the days passed, my suspicion deepened. I noticed every, little move that Adila made
in the direction of my husband's heart. Then I noticed him making small sallies toward
hers. Politics and adversity seemed to have built a strong foundation for our
relationship, but that was crumbling. My disillusionment with both his attitude towards
principles and myself had caused me to draw away from active participation in his

ambitions. Adila again attacked the only other area of marriage left: our personal
relationship.
Mustafa began to mock my plain white clothes. I could not escape the feeling that he
was succumbing by the minute to Adila's unsubtle seduction. The signs were fleeting
but discernible. Others noticed them as well.
It was mornings that began to bother me most. Adila appeared in our bedroom quite
early every day. She sat on the bed chatting with me, apparently oblivious to Mustafa's
presence as he did his yoga. I was encompassed by an eerie sense of déjà vu. I tried very
hard to forget the past, but it seemed to he slowly encroaching upon the present. I was
irritable, depressed and confused. Increasingly I sought out the calming effects of
Valium.
On a few occasions we accompanied the men on their political campaigns. I watched

Mustafa on a platform in Kot Addu, flanked by Zia's protégé Nawaz Sharif and IJI
candidate Jatoi. Amidst these publicly proclaimed political enemies, Mustafa was
promising an improved future for the downtrodden masses. He declared that, in order
for the voters to keep his respect and honor. 'Mr. Jatoi must not get fewer votes than
you gave me'. The words sounded hollow to m, but the crowd still responded with
cheers.
Mustafa constantly badgered me to address groups of women, but I removed myself

from the political scene. Once again I sought refuge in painting. A familiar-looking
woman began to appear on my canvases. Under Subconscious strokes of my brush, she
moved away from the centre of the scene and cloaked herself in shadows. With a start, I
realized that I had composed a self-portrait.
On election day, against my wish, Mustafa insisted on driving us around to visit the
polling stations Matloob was at his side in the front seat, Adila and I sat in the back.
At the polling stations I saw a different Mustafa. He was displaying his power and
charisma for Adila's benefit, but he tried too hard, like some struggling understudy who
is anxious to cram everything into one performance. Nevertheless it worked. Adila's
eyes lit up as mine went dim. She was captured by the glamour and excitement; I had
just struggled free from its power. I could also feel Adila's contempt for the boring,
powerless Matloob.
The drive home seemed to take forever. I wanted to curl up and hide from the present
world that was sucking me into the past. As soon as we arrived home and had a
moment alone together, Mustafa asked angrily, What's wrong with you? You're always
in a foul mood. You're always grumbling and complaining. You're never happy.'

That's not the point,' I retaliated. 'I didn't like the way you behaved. I'm not a fool I can
tell I'm unhappy and I have sound reason to be.'
He eyed me suspiciously for a moment and then stomped out of the room.
Dinnertime was approaching; and I went to my room to make myself more or less
presentable. But instead of standing in front of the mirror, as I knew that Adila must be
doing at, this very moment, I fell upon the bed and began to cry.
Moments passed - I did not know how long - before Adila entered quietly. I glanced up
to see that she was wearing a fresh, bright satin outfit. The contact lenses were like
masks over the guilt in her eyes. We had no chance to speak before Mustafa entered to
inform me angrily that guests had arrived. I growled at him, told him to tell them to
wait and demanded that he and Adila leave my bedroom. Mustafa retorted with
hostility: I had no business to tell anyone to get out of our room.
'Why not?' Adila asked sarcastically. 'It's her bedroom—' she paused for dramatic effect,
then added, '—isn't it?'
Both of them stared at me, their, grins visible under the camouflage of straight faces,
mocking my anguish. After all the pain over all the years, this was the moment that
shattered me.
Somehow, I collected myself and managed to make polite dinner conversation with our
guests, even as a storm brewed in my heart. The clouds were dark and ominous. Those
around me remained oblivious to my mental state.
At dinner I was suddenly aware of Mustafa's voice 'Tehmina, really, you look like a nun
in those white clothes.' Did his use of the word 'nun' have sexual connotations? Was he
saying to Adila: As far as Tehmina is concerned, I'm celibate?
After our guests left, Adila remained behind to witness our brewing fight Mustafa
declared in a somewhat stilted tone, 'Tehmina, I can't live with you anymore. You're
ruining my life with your sulking. I'm miserable with you.' This was not vintage
Mustafa I realized that he was saying these words for Adila, not for me, transmitting the
message that he was ready and willing to resume their affair. His words hung in the air
as he left the room.
The drums began to beat and cheering rang in the air Jatoi had won the election by
60,000 votes. This was the exact victory margin that Mustafa had achieved, and it was a
powerful vindication of the hold that the Lion had on his people.

After a brief, very strange moment of celebration, Mustafa sought me out once more,
making sure that Adala was not around. Suddenly he was groveling. 'I'll never
misbehave,' he cried. 'This was your moment. Without you none of this would have
been possible. I'm nothing without your support Mr. Jatoi would not have triumphed.
It's your victory I owe everything to you. Forgive me. I was upset. Maybe it was Adila's
presence. Perhaps the sinister past had re-entered our lives. It reminded us both of the
horror. Let's get rid of this woman - she's evil Let's restart our lives'
He sent for Adila. When she arrived, he sat at my feet and begged for forgiveness.
Turning to Adila he said, 'I owe everything to Tehmina. Nothing can make me forget
that.'
What was I do to? Which Mustafa should I believe?
My decision was instantaneous. I had spent many, many years with this man, endured
his abuse and his follies. I had borne four of his children. I had labored tirelessly to
extricate him from prison because, if I did not believe in the man, I most fervently
believed in his message. His commitment to that message was growing hazier by the
hour, but mine was still resolute. Could I cast it all aside? Could I risk the futures of my
children?
This last question brought shudders. If I left Mustafa now - after everything - what was
to become of the children? I had seen what he was capable of doing in opposition to
English law, and here we were in Pakistan, where popular sentiment holds that a man
owns his children. All around me were signs of his power. I grasped at the last straw of
hope. I would try my best to believe the petulant Mustafa, because I could not leave.
Celebrating victory, we all left Kot Addu for Multan the following day Mustafa and I
were guests at the house of Sajid's brother and his wife Shahida, where the children and
I had lived for many months. That evening despite the fact that her baby was ill and we
had all seen enough of each other, Adila insisted on joining us again. I was sitting on a
sofa in our bedroom and Mustafa was lying on the bed, when Adila marched in,
dressed in a green satin outfit that matched the emeralds that hung about her neck and
dangled from her ears. Mustafa complimented her profusely. 'You're a woman now,' he
pronounced.
Adila informed me that my sister-in-law-wanted to see me outside.
I asked Adila to call her into the bedroom.
Adila said that she had done so, but the lady, insisted that she needed to talk to me
alone.

I did not want to leave Adila and Mustafa together in the bedroom, yet I did not want to
make my fear obvious. I walked out, found Shahida and sent her in quickly, as an
unofficial chaperone. But it was too late. In the short span of time that Adila and
Mustafa were alone, something had happened. Shahida's entry was met with an abrupt
silence.
Later that evening, I happened to misplace something. Mustafa reacted as in the past,
raising his voice with that old dictatorial authority. I cringed as he heaped profanities
upon me, but kept my silence - at least for the moment.
Once Adila was gone I lost my temper, but Mustafa declared that he did not want to
hear any more of my 'nonsensical complaints'. He screamed, 'I'm under a lot of
pressure, Tehmina. I've serious work to do and can't be distracted by a hysterical
woman.' He switched off the bedside lamp and turned over to sleep.
I was heartbroken and greatly confused. Locking myself into the bathroom, I cried until
I reached saturation point. What was happening? I did not know how to handle this
chameleon of a man. I thought that had changed. I thought that we had changed. Now,
suddenly, the old Mustafa was back, and I was not prepared.
A cold war ensued. On the aeroplane back to Lahore the next day, Mustafa was once
more the miserable husband. 'You're mistrusting me again,' he complained. 'I can't live
like this. I want a peaceful life with my wife.'
'How can you have a peaceful life when you create unnecessary trauma?' I asked. 'You
know I'm unhappy. I can't trust you. You don't let me. Your actions are all suspect.'
'You can trust me,' he said sweetly, grasping my hand. 'Do you know what Adila said to
me when you left the room last night? I gaped at him, unsure that I really wanted to
know. 'She said that I should not eat anything you gave me,' he continued. 'She said that
you intended to poison me.'
I was flabbergasted. As Mustafa expanded upon the story, I realized that Adila had
distorted our innocent conversation during the campaign when all the women - Adila
included - had joked about slipping- Valium to our husbands. Adila's wily charms were
at work again, and Mustafa was weakening. After all that we had been through,
Mustafa was still giving her room to maneuver. It disgusted me.
Back in Lahore, I withdrew more and more into the shadows of my painting, especially
when he decided to fire Shugufta because he had no hold over her, as he did over poor
Dai Ayesha. I sent her to work for my mother in Karachi. We were all heartbroken,
especially little Hamza; but at least I knew that Shugufta was going to a home where
she would live amongst civilized people with great style.

My mother's heartbreak, continued. Minoo was in London, but my other three sisters
and I decided to visit Sabiha Hasan, the new woman in our father's life, to see if we
could settle anything. Zarmina and I flew to Karachi and were met by Rubina. As we
waited for Adila to arrive at Rubina's house, we discussed what had transpired during
the election campaign in Kot Addu. We were all disgusted by Adila's behavior, but, in
retrospect, not greatly surprised.
We waited long, enough for our youngest sister. We tried calling her at home, but the
line remained busy.
On an impulse, I tried to reach Mustafa at home in Lahore. That line was busy, too.
Two and two made four.
One and one added up to a sordid couple.
Still, we had to conduct the business of the day. Adila arrived and as we drove to see
the other, woman', I thought: How ironic that I'm going in the company of the 'other,
woman' in my life to plead Mother's case. Nobody - certainly not Mother - had ever
pleaded mine.
During our meeting with Sabiha Hasan, Rubina, Zarmina and I tried to convey,
diplomatically, that she was about to break the home, that our mother had worked so
long and hard to maintain. But Adila was rude, trying to provoke Sabiha into taking a
hard line.
On the ride, back to Rubina's home, we all shouted at Adila. Her convoluted plan was
becoming ever more clear to us: If Father walked out on Mother, Adila would have an
excuse to resume her affair with Mustafa and break my marriage. She would explain it
as revenge. She would say that she owed nothing to our father and was justified in
creating havoc in the family, that he had abandoned. Why should she care for family
'honor if he didn't? We knew that Mother would take Adila's side. She would never
mistrust Adila's motives. Adila was the only daughter whom Mother could depend
upon as an ally against our straying father. Father, would be the target, and I would be
caught in the crossfire.
It was all so strange. Our family, full of intrigue and deception, backbiting and
backstabbing, was a microcosm of Pakistani society. The rule was simple. Do whatever
you want to do, just blanket it.
Under the surface, everything was colliding and falling apart.

Presidential elections were held. The two candidates were Ghulam Ishaq Khan and
Nawabzada Nasrullah Khan. The former was the acting president and a reactionary
bureaucrat with long ties to the Zia forces. The latter was a genuine progressive who
believed in democratic ideals and had been extremely supportive during Mustafa's
incarceration. When Mustafa returned from voting, he assured me that he had cast his
ballot for the Nawabzada.
The phone rang. The caller was Ghulam Ishaq Khan, thanking Mustafa for his vote.
Mustafa had lied to me, but the more important point was that he had compromised
principle once again. The incident further eroded my belief in his political vision.
We left Pakistan to travel to Saudi Arabia in the company of the Jatoi and Khar clans - a
horde of brothers and wives. The mission was to visit Mecca and perform umra in
gratitude for Jatoi's success in the Kot Addu election.
But I had my own prayers I cried to Allah about my continuing problems with Mustafa.
I pleaded that I did not have the strength to cope with further betrayal and abuse, and
begged for mercy.
Following the pilgrimage, Mustafa and I flew to London to settle a thorny business
affair Mr. Garret, the lawyer who had represented me against Mustafa during the
kidnapping episode, was suing us for his fee. My parents were supposed to have paid
him, but had reneged when Mustafa and I were reconciled. Garret had billed us for
£50,000 and had threatened to foreclose on our British properties - the city flat and the
country home - if he was not paid.
I watched as Mustafa sat across the desk from the attorney, haggling as if the man were
a bazaar trader. 'I'm paying you for nothing,' Mustafa said at first. 'Can't you see the
irony? Your client is sitting here with me. You could not get me extradited or arrested,
nor could you get her children back to her. She had to return to me.'
Garret held firm and reminded Mustafa that the law was in his favor. If we did not pay,
he could sell our properties out from under us Mustafa demanded a discount,
considering Garret's 'failure' to win the case They settled on a sum of £25,000.
Although the money came out of my pocket as well as Mustafa's, I found supreme
enjoyment in the reality that Mustafa had to pay something for all the trouble he had
caused. At last he was held accountable in some manner. Inwardly I laughed that he
had to pay for the warrant for his own arrest!
As he wrote the cheque, I thought: how reassuring to know that I am worth £25,000 to
this man.

Upon our return to Pakistan we learned that my grandmother was dying of lung cancer.
She had perhaps two months to live, and everyone gathered at my maternal Uncle
Asad's house in Lahore, where the matriarch of the family awaked the end of her days.
Adila had no sense of occasion. Even as our grandmother's life ebbed away, Adila
primped and preened, making sure that all her accessories matched. Her presence
bothered me but, for a time, I could find no specific objection.
One day, Mustafa was scheduled to collect me from Uncle Asad's house at 5 p.m., but
he called to say that he had been delayed by important political business. It was only
then that I noticed Adila had left an hour before in Grandmother's car. Zarmina and I
questioned the driver, who had returned without her. He said that Adila had been
dropped off at a bookshop, and that she had asked him not to wait; she would return on
her own. This was very odd. Even those of us who lived in the city of Lahore would
never move around without transport. Zarmina's eyes met mine.
I disappeared into the bathroom and gulped down two tablets of the tranquillizer
Lexotinal. Adila returned at about 7.30 p.m. and Mustafa arrived shortly, after that I
could not face them.
My father told me that I looked doped. My sick grandmother sensed my disturbed state
- she was the only one who could decipher my carefully concealed emotions - and asked
me what had happened. Pray for me,' I asked. 'I need your prayers. I don't know what's
happening.'
Suddenly my grandmother looked greyer and more frail than ever before. She knew.
She felt it in the air - Adila was back!
I sensed that Mustafa was waiting for my grandmother to die. He would then
systematically attack and destroy person I had become over the years. Mustafa Khar
simply could not live with an adult woman who was capable of taking charge of her
own life. He would reduce me once again to a neurotic, frightened girl. Adila was the
perfect young and attractive instrument who could make me retreat into my old
position. I had to be undone.
Grandmother slipped closer and closer to death. My marriage drew closer and closer to
an end.
Grandmother was moved to the hospital. I sat in her room, trying to let her know how
dearly I loved her, watching her struggle against her pain. When I called home, I
somehow got a crossed line. I could hear Mustafa's voice, talking to someone, but I
could not hear who, it was. 'Somebody is on the phone,' Mustafa said to this person. 'I'll
call you back again.' I immediately sent 'Zarmina and Riaz to their house, where my

mother and Adila were staying. They sneaked upstairs and picked up the extension. I
continued to sit with Grand-mother, rubbing her back, praying that my suspicions were
not correct.
When Zarmina returned, she sat by me and said that the caller was not Adila. But she
quickly looked away, and her face paled. Speaking in whispers behind our
grandmother's back, I pleaded with her to tell me the truth. 'It's true,' Zarmina at last
confirmed, clutching at her stomach. 'It was her. They were making plans to meet this
very evening, even as our grandmother is dying.' Then Zarmina rushed into, the
bathroom to vomit.
But their plans were disrupted. Sensing that her time had come, Grandmother
summoned the family and, in the presence of everyone, declared, 'Whoever causes
Tehmina pain, it is my prayer, to God that He punish them with ulcers that will grow
on their hearts. They will suffer like they cannot even imagine.' She glanced up at the
ceiling - beyond the ceiling - and cried out, 'I 'am leaving Tehinina with you,' oh Allah.
Don't let me down. She has nobody left to protect her.' Even I have been called away
and I come to You willingly, but my soul begs an assurance that Tehmina will be
protected by You.'
She beckoned for Mustafa to come close, took his hand and spoke bluntly: 'Tehmina has
been very unhappy with you, but she has struggled and stood by you throughout your
days of ordeal. Today, I'm asking you for a favor. Please be good to her. Be a good
husband. She must never, be unhappy again This is my last request to you. It is my last
request to anybody on this earth.' Her voice grew weaker as she struggled with her final
few words: 'If you walk alone without Tehmma, each step you take thinking it shall
bring you honor shall dishonor you. You shall look for fame and power and respect, but
you shall get nothing but shame. If she is with you, God will make you reign supreme
This is my prayer for you.'
Mustafa whispered in response, 'Don't worry. I shall look after Tehmina. I promise.'
Grandmother lapsed into a coma. We took turns sitting with her, one at a time,
throughout the bleak night. Each one of us had something special to say to regardless of
her state of consciousness. When it was my turn, I wept and told her softly, 'This time
you won't be there. This time I won't have your prayers. This time I won't be able to
come to your home. Where shall' I' go? Where?' Her expressionless face held no answer.
Grandmother was leaving me alone to face the most painful situation I could imagine I
knew that I would get no emotional sustenance from my parents; they would be more
concerned with maintaining whatever social image they had left. I doubted whether
Grandmother heard me, but I continued, 'You are going away from me, just when it is
starting again. I am so alone. Why must you go? Why?' I cried hysterically.

Suddenly, huge tears rolled from my grandmother's eyes. I forgot my own pain and
realized that, in her last moments, I had caused her more grief. My words had
penetrated her comatose mind.
I tried to pacify her. 'Don't worry,' I whispered. 'Please don't cry. I'll cope. I promise. I'm
strong. You know I'm strong.'
Slowly I pulled myself away from the only family I had known.
After me, it was Adila's turn to say her goodbye. But my youngest sister was in the
room, alone, with Grand-mother, for only a few moments before she came rushing out,
screaming, 'Something has happened to her. She is moving her head about. She's
struggling. It's horrible. Come and see.'
I knew what had happened. Even in a coma, Grandmother could not abide Adila's
presence.
Soon after that, she died. I' was, an orphan in my parents' lifetime.
I reverted to my old self, without realizing where I was heading. I spent my days
picking up the telephone extension, sniffing his shirts for her perfume, checking for
signs of lipstick. Once more I returned to the prayer mate.
I hated him, but I tried to keep him. Was it my heart breaking or my ego shattering?
Amid the intense pain I could not differentiate.
One day Adila and I happened to be with the rest of the family, and I watched her
squirm. I suspected that she had arranged a meeting with Mustafa. She paced the floor,
and tried one excuse after another to leave. Finally, pleading that she was supposed to
meet a friend - some 'Sara' who was coming in from Karachi - she rushed off.
I spoke to Tasneem, Adila's sister-in-law. Adila was staying at her home. 'She hasn't
mentioned any friend arriving from Karachi,' Tasneem said. 'In fact, there is only one
"Sara" whom she mentions often and she's abroad.' To my surprise and relief I realized
that I had an ally. Tasneem said that she knew what was going on. 'Your husband picks
her up here and drops her off,' she reported. 'I can't tell my brother. He won't believe
me.'
Mustafa arrived home after 10.30 p.m., soaking wet with perspiration. Shocking pink
lipstick smudged his shirt. He said that he had been at a public meeting where 'it was so
hot, even my shoes are drenched'. With that explanation he fell asleep.

I lay awake at his side for some time, wondering what to do. Then I slipped downstairs,
called Tasneem and asked her what time Adila had returned. 'At about ten-thirty,'
Tasneem acknowledged. 'She was soaked wet. She ran up to avoid me, in case I
suspected something. But I saw him drop her off in a beige Pajero.' Our car!
I returned to bed numbed.
Mustafa woke at 3 a.m. and took a bath. Then he spread out his prayer mat and began
to say his prayers.
He did not realize that I was awake - still - and my voice jolted him when I taunted, 'I
thought you were making an idiot out of me, but you're not. You're trying to fool God.'
He ignored me and continued his prayers, but I raged on: 'You're facing Him after you
have gone against everything that He commands you to adhere to. You've done
something today that He has expressly forbidden and you've begged forgiveness for.
You've betrayed Him again. What are you saying to Him now, Mustafa? That you're
sorry again? Do you really think you can fool Him? Do you? Huh? If you 'think you can
fool Him, I must be nothing. I don't even want to fight with you anymore. He needs to
take on this fight. It is His insult much more than mine—'
'—Stop this nonsense!' Mustafa commanded, breaking his prayers. 'You're going mad.
There's nothing that I've done. You've become mental. You're imagining things.'
Tears assailed me, and I reached out instinctively for the picture of my patron saint,
Hazrat Ali, and clutched it. This was the same protector who had sustained Mustafa
throughout his incarceration. Although Mustafa had conveniently forgotten about him
from the moment of his release, he knew that my faith was not a passing fancy.
Mustafa strode toward me and snatched the picture from my hands. 'This!' he growled,
glaring scornfully at the saint's image. 'Is this going to save you?' He tore the picture
into shreds and stormed out of the room.
I cried out to God for forgiveness as I gathered together the bits of consecrated paper.
From then on I was chasing Mustafa all the time. Nuscie and I talked on the phone
when he was out, planning how to catch them red-handed. Because I was not free to go
out and unable to drive myself, Nuscie became a detective. She was shattered by my
weakening condition; instead of breaking away from the marriage, I was consumed
and, embroiled in its toxic mess, trying desperately to put together the shards of glass;
the effort left me cut and bleeding. No advice was relevant, no other option acceptable. I
could do nothing until I had proof.

Any other husband, knowing that I was supremely suspicious, would have grown
cautious. But not Mustafa. He left the house At 7 p.m. the following evening, telling me
that he would be back at 9 p.m. As soon as he was gone, I phoned Tasneem and
confirmed my suspicions that Adila was scheduled to be out from 7 p.m. to 9 p.m. I
rang again. This time she reported that Mustafa had picked up my sister.
I could not locate Nuscie. Quickly I recruited a cousin for moral support. We drove
towards Tasneem's house and parked at a corner, where we could keep the site in view
It was 8.45 P.M. when a beige Pajero pulled up in front of the house. Mustafa was at the
wheel. Adila jumped out of the passenger's seat - my seat - and rushed into the house I
spotted Tasneem at the window, peeking out from the edge of a curtain.
My cousin and I sped home, arriving before Mustafa. That evening I did not have the
strength to confront him. I did not want to hear his denial and I did not need to hear
confirmation.
We flew to my mother's ancestral village the following day for my grandmother's

chelam (the ritual ending of the forty-day mourning, period). I decided to tell my mother
everything. Mother was very disturbed and later talked to Adila, without revealing the
source of her information. Adila admitted that she had been out with Mustafa three
times, but she contended that 'nothing bad happened' and Mother believed her.
'What does she mean nothing happened?' I raged, when. Mother reported back to me.
'How 'could you accept it? How could you sit there and listen to her justifying her date
with her sister's husband. How can you be so normal and so passive? You know she's
had affair with him. You know it's started again. And yet you believe her, in spite of the
evidence I gave you? I'm astonished. She has transgressed again and she has the gall to
say she hasn't done anything? Would you believe Sahiba if she went on a date with
your husband? Mother had different standards for herself. That had always been clear.
There was no end to my tears. Everyone noticed, but they thought that I was crying for
my grandmother.
In Mother's presence I finally confronted Adila I told her that I knew everything. Then I
declared, 'I want you both to know that you have successfully broken up a home that I
have tried desperately to keep, despite your efforts. You have broken, up not only my
home, but the home of my four children, and I warn you both that this time you've
taken on the wrong woman. Perhaps you're under the misconception that I'm still the
worm you knew in London, the one you nearly crushed. There's a great difference
between "Tina" and "Tehmina Khar", and I shall fight your injustice - even if I have to
die.

Unshaken, Adila tossed her long hair casually and asked, 'Do you know what I've done
for you. You wouldn't call me a sister, you'd call me an angel if only you knew. I am
responsible for saving your marriage.' She declared that Mustafa was pursuing her and
wanted to marry her, but contended that she was unwilling to break up my home.
Could it be true? My contention was that she should never have allowed him to
approach her. Why was she negotiating if there was nothing to negotiate.'
I tried to warn Mustafa Of God's wrath. 'He's testing 'you, can't you see?' I asked. 'He's
checking whether your appeal for mercy against this sin was genuine in prison. Tauba is
a contract with God for the future. You cannot treat it so lightly' I pleaded with him not
to hit his own feet with a hammer. 'You'll destroy yourself, the wife you fought to
regain, the children you profess to love - even politics will suffer. I'm known publicly
for my role in your life. The people will not spare you.'
Nothing had effect. His eyes and ears were shut. He would sometimes comfort me for
my 'growing insanity' and sometimes brush me aside for 'hysterical insecurity'. He said
that I was suffering from middle-age crisis. It happens to women who cannot accept
growing old, he said smugly.
Mustafa regressed to his youth. He went back to T-shirt and blue jeans, safari suits and
crocodile shoes.
I looked into a mirror and told myself sadly that perhaps I had to change too. I must
look like her. I must dress like her. I must change my whole personality to resemble
hers. It's the only way. Maybe my marriage would work then. Look at you in your
white clothes and your high ideals. You are not his kind of woman Adila is. And yet he
says he loves you. He says so all the time.
The mirror stared back.
In my mind I heard Mustafa's sinister voice 'No other woman can be like you. But I
want you to be like a sixteen-year-old. I want romance again.'
I recoiled. I can't do that, I thought. I'm not sixteen. I'm a mother of five I'm thirty-six
years old. How can I have romantic notions with a man who's having an affair with my
own sister? How?
I reached out to God. I visited shrines. I prayed any and every way I. knew: 'Please stop
my home from breaking up. Please stop my children from ruin.' I wept and begged.
Only silence answered.

I must not crack up, I lectured myself. I must not. I had to go away for a while. To look
at things from a distance.
I could have accepted another woman. I would have handled her and emerged stronger.
But not my own sister. Not Adila.
I knew that I had to leave Mustafa, but I did not know how or when I needed proof.
Despite knowing everything, my family clung to Mustafa and Adila's version and
insisted I was imagining things. They insisted I was cure and was insecure and was
losing my sanity. I was a vegetable again.
One night Mustafa wanted to make love, and I knew from his attitude that he would
not accept a refusal. I had to let it happen. I controlled my hatred by alienating myselelf
from the moment. I stared over his shoulder and begged God to punish him. This is
incest, God. You have forbidden a man to have a relationship with two sisters at the
same time. It is in Your Koran. If You have made this rule, then You will never allow
this to happen to me again. Never allow this man to touch me again. Never let him have
the audacity to disobey You. I cannot do anything, but You can stop it.
A miracle occurred. From that night on, Mustafa stopped touching me. Each night he
climbed into bed, put his head down on to the pillow and, fell asleep. It was divine
intervention.
18
June 24, 1989; Mustafa prepared for the hunt. He was wearing the same attire as the day
I had fallen in love with him khaki trousers tucked into Wellingtons, a camouflage
jacket with a bullet bag hanging at his side, and a Mao cap on his head I watched him as
he selected a gun from his large collection. I sat silently as he turned toward me with a
smile to say goodbye I kept watching his back as he moved toward the door and strode
out of my life, - much as he had come into it.
I held a long and painful discussion with my children, explaining the situation to them
as best I could. There had already been too much drama in their young lives and I could
not bear to put them through another kidnapping;' I wanted them to be able to live as
normally as possible under these terrible circumstances. They, cried tears of desolation
when I told them of my decision, and I knew that it would take them much time to
understand. I also knew that I would never be satisfied until they, as well as I, escaped
from the prison that was Mustafa. But I had to go first.
I delivered my children to the care of Mustafa's sister-in-law. Then Zarmina picked me

up, and I left Mustafa Khar's house for the fourth and final time. There had been too
many false starts towards freedom. This time my decision was irrevocable.

Once more my life was reduced to newspaper headlines. Once more everyone branded
me as inconsistent. The press was inquisitive, but failed to ferret out Adila's role in the
saga of one of the nation's most famous political marriages.
To my dismay, I discovered that Mustafa had anticipated my action and had withdrawn
all the money from our joint bank account. I had never had to face poverty, it
humiliated me when suddenly I was forced to rely on the charity of relatives. My Aunt
Samar and Uncle Akhtar took me into their home and tried to give me the kind of
support that my grandmother would have provided.
At first I was able to build a small amount of resilience against my weak position, but
my mother's reaction mobilized the entire family to attempt to force me to change my
stand. One by one my supporters be to move away, and I found myself falling deeper
into a hell of betrayal, injustice, poverty and anguish. My desolation became so
frightening that I reached a point of numbness. There was no present and no future only
the past, which invaded and enveloped my whole being.
Now Mustafa refused to let me see the children. After fifteen days he took them to
Karachi to discuss the situation with my parents Adila was also there, and the fact that
my parents did not send her away during his visit shocked me further. My children
wandered about the house bewildered. I was furious to learn that they played
innocently with their Aunt Adila, even as I was refused contact with them Mustafa tried
to persuade my father to intervene in our dispute, to convince me to return. He claimed
that I had concocted the Adila story. He said that the only reason I wanted a divorce
was that I had become used to freedom and was influenced by the new friends I had
made during his incarceration. Despite her own knowledge of the details, Mother sided
with Mustafa - and Adila. She wanted to evade the issue of divorce at any cost, because
there were too many fingers pointing at the reason for it. The scandal loomed overhead
and, to divert it, my life was a very small price to pay - perhaps no price at all.
But my father knew better, and told Mustafa to contemplate giving me a divorce so that
the matter would die. silently.
Naseeba called on her twelfth birthday. She cried, into the phone, begging me to be with
her when she cut her cake. Since Mustafa was away. I decided to attend the party. A
number of Mustafa's brothers and friends were there, with their wives and children
Naseeba was thrilled, and as she gripped my hand firmly as we cut the cake together, I
realized that her little hand was not letting go. In her innocence, she was looking for
strength from that which was so weak.
Mustafa arrived unexpectedly - at least to me. We greeted one another in a civilized

manner. He approached and asked quietly, 'Can you come upstairs? I need to talk to
you.' There were many guests in the house, and I did not wish to create a scene at

Naseeba's party. Reasoning that Mustafa would not dare misbehave with so many
people around, I agreed I followed him upstairs and walked into what had been our
bedroom. When, behind me, I heard him quickly turn and bolt the door, I knew I was
trapped.
'You can't leave now,' he confirmed, in atone full of menace 'You're going to live with
me for two months, in which time I'm going to make sure you stay with me forever.
Your mother has said that you should be with me. I'm taking you back to the village
tomorrow.'
Panic engulfed me. In the past, he had abducted my children. Now it was to be me.
When would this madness stop? I tried to hide my fear and face down this bully.
'Mustafa!' I commanded, 'you open that door now, or else I'll scream the house down.
Why do you forget that you are dealing with a very different kind of woman?'
Scream, I don't care,' he said. 'Bring the country down if you like.'
The shriek began low in my throat and emerged in a loud high-pitched call for help.
He was on me instantly. Grabbing my wrists, he pushed me into the bathroom,

slammed the door and locked me inside.
I continued to scream, hoping that my cries would penetrate someone's conscience - the
servants, our neighbors, his friends and family.
Mustafa's daughter-in-law Marikha rushed upstairs, followed by others. I heard her

yell, 'Daddy, you can't do this!'
'Get out of the room!' Mustafa raged 'Nobody should interfere in my private affairs
'Marikha scampered away.
I waited a few moments, trying to compose myself. This was a serious threat. He could
and would spirit me off to the tribal areas adjoining the remote village of Kot Addu,
where I would live as his prisoner until - who knew when? Forever, perhaps. Nobody
would be interested in rescuing me, save Nuscie, Zarmina and Minoo - and what could
they do? There were numerous women who lived just such lives of imprisonment and
despair. In that environment he could easily coerce me into rescinding the divorce. I
spoke through the locked door, trying to be 'firm but reasonable. 'Mustafa, you cannot
do this to me,' I shouted 'My lawyer will have you arrested.'
'I can And l will. Your parents are behind me.'
'Let me speak to them. Let them tell me that.'

'No.'
My aunt and uncle were growing concerned because I had not come home from
Naseeba's party. Uncle Akhtar called. 'Tehmina isn't coming back,' Mustafa told him.
'She's decided to stay here.'
Uncle Akhtar smelled a decomposing rat. Just then, my sister Minoo happened to call
him from London and he told her of this latest event. Minoo swung into action. She
phoned the Chief Minister's house in an attempt to get the government to intervene.
Then she contacted the press. Soon word of my 'imprisonment' reached my lawyer,
Asma Jehangir. She wanted to delay action until the following morning, when she could
have warrants served against Mustafa charging illegal confinement and attempted
abduction.
I had no idea what was going on in the world outside Mustafa's house. All I knew was
that, even now, his son Bilal was making arrangements for our departure to Kot Addu.
Mustafa opened the bathroom door. I was sullen, wary and scared, but pretended not to
be. He picked up a bottle of Valium 10, extracted two tablets and offered them to me. I
tried to resist, but he utilized the same method he had employed with his dogs. He
overpowered me, pushed the pills into my mouth and forced water down my throat,
holding my nostrils until I was compelled to swallow.
Adrenalin warred with Valium and emerged victorious. After some minutes, I felt more
hyper than ever. But Mustafa had great faith in the pills and, when he believed that I
had calmed somewhat, he allowed me to call my mother. Tell her you have consented
to stay,' he ordered.
I nodded.
When I heard Mother's voice on the other end of the phone, I raged, 'If you force me to
stay with this man, I'll commit suicide. What sort of mother are you? I'll tell the whole
world that you drove me to death.'
She said. 'I don't know what you're talking about. What is he saying to you.,'
Mustafa snatched the phone and spoke into it, 'I need your cooperation. She will be fine
when I take her away.'
After the call, I sat him down and tried stern reasoning. 'Listen carefully,' I said. 'Don't
use tactics on me that have been tried in the past. I am aware of their, zero value. Try
your games on somebody who hasn't played them.'

He shook his head at me and muttered, 'What have become, Tehmina?'
I returned a confident smile and chided, 'I have become you, Mustafa.'
Someone banged on the door. Mustafa opened it and the room filled with brothers and
sisters-in-law. They tried to convince Mustafa to let me go. 'Don't interfere in my
marriage,' he ordered.
'What marriage?' I shouted. 'Your marriage, according to the Koran, was over years ago
when you slept with my sister. I have been living with you in sin. The contract stood
null and void, long ago.'
Mustafa was called to the phone and dismayed to find a reporter on the other end,
asking difficult questions. None of us knew how the word was spreading.
I was desperate to get out Nothing in this house that I had decorated with such loving
care interested me. All my possessions, collected over the years from various remote
areas of my country, now seemed distant from me. Every single thing in this house had
held some meaning, yet nothing was meaningful enough for me to want to stay - but
then, had not Mustafa held meaning? With him had gone my love for the surroundings.
that I shared with him I forgot the ordeal that I had already begun to face as a divorcee
the saying that it is easier to wash the dishes in your husband's home than in the world
outside was turning truer by the minute, yet paled into insignificance now. Nothing
was left of the marriage. Nothing was left of the man.
While Mustafa was out of the room, I scrawled Aunty Samar's telephone number on to
a scrap of paper and smuggled it to Amna, Mustafa's fifteen-year-old daughter by his
earlier wife, Sherry. 'Please go somewhere and call this number,' I begged. 'Ask them to
come here and save me.'
Amna was unused to espionage. She stumbled toward the door, petrified by the
intrigue, looking extremely guilty. Mustafa encountered her in the doorway and was
immediately suspicious. 'What are you hiding?' he demanded. His eyes pierced hers. He
pulled her hand forward and to the note from her clutched palm, glanced at it and
screamed at his daughter. Sobbing, she looked back at me, as if to say, 'At least I tried.'
My father called and Mustafa handed the receiver to me. Father said that there had been
a terrible misunderstanding. Mustafa had told them that, given an opportunity, he
could convince me to resume the marriage. They were supporting him only as far as
that. I screamed into the phone that Mustafa was forcing me to stay against my will.
Father asked for Mustafa and spoke firmly to him, saying, 'Let her go Now.'
Mustafa's response shocked me. He agreed.

As I walked out, he remained in the room with his family, dialing a telephone number. I
was halfway down the stairs when I realized that in my haste to leave, I had forgotten
my bag inside the room. As I returned and opened the door, I stopped Mustafa was
talking to my mother. 'She has some severe problem with you,' he said. 'She feels
insecure because I respect you so much. You and Adila have become her monsters. It
has nothing to do with me.'
I interrupted this conversation by striding into the room. I picked up my handbag,

turned to Mustafa and, making sure that my voice was loud enough to be heard over
the phone line, said, 'You are a very dangerous and sick man. And, my poor mother,
you have made such a fool of her.'
My father arrived to end the marriage before it exploded in Adila's face. Mustafa
demanded custody of the children and ownership of all of our properties - the country
house in England and our London flat, which were jointly titled, and the house in
Lahore, which was in the names of my daughters. My father accepted these provisions
with the cavalier pronouncement: 'Leave her penniless. She doesn't need anything from
you, I can support her.' Another condition, mutually important to the men in my life,
was that I make a press statement citing incompatibility, as the reason for our divorce;
we both also signed a statement declaring that neither of us would speak to the press
further on this subject. The final point of our contract was that I would be allowed to see
my children daily.
The next morning Mustafa arrived to sign the divorce papers. He disgusted me by
calling all our children into the room. With tears streaming, down his cheeks, he said
very intensely, 'I want you, my children, to bear witness that I don't want your mother
to leave. I want her to be my wife. I love her. But she wants to leave me.
I thought with a smile on my face. What a great actor you are, Mustafa.
He signed the papers and handed them to me as the children cried and pleaded with me
not to break up our, home.
My face remained expressionless, my eyes dry, as I signed.
A great burden lifted from my shoulders. I was no longer. Tehinina Khar.
I stared at Mustafa and said, 'You've stripped me of everything. But from today, you can
never say that Tehmina is your wife. You lost me in the bargain.'
In fact,, the divorce would not be final for three months, Islamic law provides for this
period, called Idat, so that the parties involved have time to consider their decision
carefully and retreat if possible.

Mustafa used the three months to wage a systematic campaign to pressure me to return.
He called me, crying for forgiveness 'I can't live without you,' he proclaimed, I was mad
to lose you. I've not forgotten your support, your. patience. Don't punish me so
severely. Give me one last: chance.'
'No!' I shouted. 'I am not your kind of woman anymore. I am not a victim any more. It
will never work, not for, one day.'
Soon after that, he arrived at Aunt-Samar's house with a family delegation of brothers
and sisters-in-law to plead with me to return for the sake of the children. I stared into
his eyes and dared him to tell his family the true reason that I had left him. He remained
silent, of course, so I detailed the story.
'It's your imagination,' he interrupted.
I stood up, pointed toward the door and told him to leave. My fury unleashed, I said,
'Return only when you have the guts to admit every single detail of your relationship
with my sister. Otherwise, don't cross my path. I'll stamp on you like you cannot even
imagine!'
I strode upstairs, leaving Mustafa and his clan gaping in shock.
The press printed a lurid account of Mustafa's relationship with Adila. They attributed
the story to me but I denied being the source, and I told a painful lie for Adila's sake. I
said that I loved my sister and that this was just malicious gossip. I had no intention of
ruining her marriage.
Mother was beset on all sides, and frantic to preserve her family's reputation. She asked
me to meet Adila's husband Matloob and his family and convince them that I was so
desperate to leave Mustafa that I had concocted the Adila story as an excuse. Mother
warned me that if I did not do this, she and my father would not support me financially.
I refused to lie any further for the sake of 'my poor baby sister'.
I was homeless, destitute and scared. Even as I tried to rise from my crawling position,
Mustafa maneuvered himself into further prominence and power. Benazir's hold on the
government was tenuous. Her Achilles' heel was the Punjab, controlled by Nawaz
Sharif and the Muslim League. Mustafa was the only man who commanded enough
support in the Punjab to spearhead a viable 'get Nawaz' campaign. Now the
opportunity was at hand. A seat in the Provincial Assembly had become vacant and
byelection was announced. The People's Party desperately wanted their candidate to
win it, and they wooed Mustafa. They wanted him to rejoin after all these years,
manage the campaign and send a message to Nawaz that Bhutto's legacy was alive and
well in the Punjab.

Mustafa had the audacity to call me from Islamabad and ask me to pray for him. He
was about to announce his decision to rejoin the People's Party. 'You should be with me
at this time,' he said. This is your success more than mine.' I did pray, with sincerity,
and without deception, that God would show him the right path.
The public announcement that Mustafa was rejoining his old party was received with
jubilation Party workers felt the strength of the Lion in their blood. Mustafa was now
the second most powerful leader in the party, next to Benazir herself. He had
successfully moved to a position from where he could reach towards the very top.
Jatoi, now seated in the National Assembly thanks to Mustafa's support, had been
appointed leader of the opposition. The IJI attempted a 'no confidence' vote against
Benazir which, if successful, would install Jatoi as the constitutionally elected Prime
Minister. But Mustafa discarded his old political ally and played a significant role in the
failure of the 'no confidence' vote, thus straightaway demonstrating his effectiveness
and loyalty to Benazir.
Uncle Asad goaded me to return, saying, 'You have lived with him through all his
difficult times. It is now your, turn to reap the fruit. You must not be stupid. For Your
children's sake, go back to him. The worst is over.'
But just as I had found it impossible to leave a fallen, struggling man, I now found it
impossible to return, to a free man on the rise. There seemed no justification any more
for going back to a marriage that had lost everything. I clung to my beliefs, while
everyone around me tried to snatch them away.
Uncle Asad was under severe pressure. He was hoping, through Mustafa's influence, to
be given a People's Party ticket for the coming by-election, and was embarrassed that
anyone on his side of the family supported me over Mustafa. When all else failed, he
ordered his sister, my Aunt Samar, to get me out of her house. 'Let her go to her father's
relatives,' he said 'Just get her out at once.' But Uncle Akhtar refused to turn me out. 'I
shall book you a room in a hotel,' Uncle Asad offered. 'I don't want my family to have
anything to do with you at this point.'
'I don't need you to do me any favors,' I snapped. 'You represent the mentality that
cripples women. You've just given me the reason that condemns women into bad
marriages. Your attitude stinks of dishonor.' And then, with the determination that was
by now taking over, I added, 'You've won this round, but let me tell you that I shall win
the final round.'
I decided not to embarrass my hosts. For a few weeks I shifted to the home of another.
Uncle. During this time, Mustafa came to see me for an earnest discussion. With only
God, his conscience and me as witnesses, he admitted the truth about Adila at last. He

told me that the Devil had taken hold of him, that he was carried away by his lust. He
cried and asked for my forgiveness. 'It was God's test for the genuineness of my
relenting in prison.'
I have forgiven you,' I said.
'Come back to me then,' he said instantly.
I realized how easy it had always been for him to erase the mess he had created. It was a
pattern apologize, be forgiven and begin again with a clean slate. But his crimes were
heaped in my heart and there was no room for more. 'I will never return,' I vowed. 'No
matter what.'
His next line of attack was against my character. He visited my family and friends and
proclaimed that I left him because I wanted to be a 'free' woman. He repeated the
canard that I had made up the Adila story as a pretext to walk out on him. Coming, as it
did, after his private confession to me, this regression snatched away the final few
scraps of respect I might have still held for the man.
But I was sinking swiftly and deeply into the confusion that my family and Mustafa had
created. Until one day they all ceased to be relevant, and I found an inner strength to
fight for myself. It was clear that nobody else would.
On Ashura (the tenth day of the tragedy of Karballa, when the Prophet's grandson Imam
Husain and his family were brutally slain by the tyrant caliph Yazid. I called my mother
aid said, 'I want to inform you that I have left this battle to God. Islam does not give the
sole responsibility of love and duty to the children of parents who do severe injustice to
them. Islam fights injustice. If you are right, you will come out clean. If not, I shall rise
from the grave that you have dug for me. I curse all those people who have wronged
me and I shall pray to God to avenge me, as. He did Yazid against Imam Husain.' I told
my parents that I did not want to know them any longer.
I phoned Mustafa and declared, 'The commitment given to you by my father stands
revoked. I do not know Mr. Durrani any more I have disowned my family. Any
transactions that you may have had with them concerning me are, null and void.'
A cousin lent me his empty flat for a month as he travelled, so I moved again, feeling
much like a vagabond. There was no telephone and no transport.
Shugufta had witnessed the intrigues and injustices against me at my mothers and
Adila's hands; it was at this tune that she took a train, leaving behind all her belongings,
to return to me and Hamza. The doorbell rang and Hamza and I went to open it. We
stood in stunned silence for a moment before we hugged each other and cried. Hamza

found new vitality and I realized how, sometimes, your own let you down, while even a
poor servant takes a stand and rejects comfort for justice.
Zarmina's father-in-law, Uncle Sadiq, was shocked to hear of my financial situation and
sent me 10,000 rupees (about £225). I sat on my prayer mat, crying and offering thanks
for his compassion like a beggar.
I was told that Matloob was abusing me for creating problems for his innocent wife,
who was apparently throwing tantrums because of the scandal. My entire family
distanced itself from what they termed as 'too explosive and expensive a relationship'.
My mother was furious with me and the rest of my family had to obey her emotion
automatically.
I was stressed out but could not afford to rest yet. It was still the thick of battle, one that
had been raging for many years - perhaps all of my life.
Two months of this waiting period since my divorce had passed when, through Uncle
Sadiq, I ordered Mustafa to vacate my house in Lahore. Mustafa knew that his position
was now weak, that I could successfully contest the deal my father had arranged, so he
attempted to bargain. He said that he would give me the house in Lahore only in return
for our properties in England. But I had learned much from Mustafa over the years and
I played his game; I signed a power of attorney agreeing to hand over the British
properties to Mustafa, but since there was not enough time to have it attested to by the
British Embassy, and since it would not stand up in an English court without that, he
asked Uncle Sadiq to stand as guarantor for my commitment. 'She has let her father's
commitment down,' he said suspiciously. 'She will never honor yours.'
I explained, 'I will not put Zarmina in an embarrassing position - you know that. If I
were not certain of honoring my commitment I would never have involved Zarmina's
in-laws.'
If I were to renege again, Uncle Sadiq promised Mustafa his total support. 'This time I'm
involved,' he said. 'I won't allow her to embarrass me.' Zarmina and Riaz also confirmed
Uncle Sadiq's careful guarantee, until finally Mustafa was convinced and he agreed.
Mustafa moved into our Large old house on the canal in Lahore and I had my home
back.
When I walked through the door I realized how much I loved the Bohemian, ethnic
decor. I felt the security of a roof over my head again. Hamza, Zarmina, Shugufta and I
looked about with ecstatic expressions on our faces.

But although Mustafa was no longer visible in this home, his presence was still strong. I
missed Dai Ayesha and my other children.
The Idat (the three-month waiting period before divorce) was over. The divorce, was
final.
Living with their father, my children became increasingly unhappy. Mustafa tried to
make them resent me for breaking up their home and for maligning him, and, by
extension, them. He placed impossible restrictions upon our time together. When the
children were visiting me in my home, a guard stood outside the gate, preventing any
visitor from entering. One of Mustafa's maids was delegated to remain with us at all
times to report our conversations.
The children showed visible signs of strain and it broke my heart to see them still
trapped in the prison from which I had fled. Mustafa kept me shackled by way of the
children. I felt the desperate need to cut off this continuous control. But how? I could
not yet fathom the answer.
There was also very little money, and that was needed for food. Shugufta worked for
many months without any salary; in fact, when we were in need, she borrowed money
from her working relatives.
Through various friends I tried to convince Mustafa that the children needed their
mother and that we must try to provide a more normal environment for them. I pointed
out that some of his children from other marriages were maladjusted 'Please give them
a chance for a better life,' I pleaded. But Mustafa remained steadfast. He had just given
up authority over me, but - would not give up his authority over them.
Spurred on by his wife's suspicious behavior, Matloob rapped his own telephone line
and taped hours of explicit and incriminating conversations between Mustafa and Adila
Matloob then drove around Karachi in tears, listening to the tapes on his car
cassetteplayer. He waited for our mother to return from London and, as he and Adila
drove her home from the airport, to their utter, shock be played the tapes once more.
Finally, armed with the evidence of adultery, he came to Lahore and played the tapes
for me and several other relatives. Here, at last, was proof of my sanity.
Matloob was a feudal lord himself, and custom dictated that he commit some
horrendous crime of passion in order to restore his honor. Instead, he took a progressive
stand, filing the first ever court case in Pakistan wherein one influential feudal lord
formally accused another of adultery. Such an affair was an everyday occurrence in our
society - everyone knew that - but no-one ever brought it into the open. Adila was
dispatched by our parents to their London home to ride out the storm of publicity and
to avoid arrest!

Unfortunately, the timing was poor. Mustafa's supporters claimed that the criminal
charge was a cheap and dirty ploy to malign the Lion of the Punjab in the midst of his
'get Nawaz' campaign. They, openly wondered how large a bribe Matloob had received
from Mustafa's political opponents. Mustafa issued a statement declaring, 'Now I will
fight my opponent like a wounded lion. I a more dangerous than before. My judge
would have cast a poor man into prison for a crime of this nature, but Mustafa was
granted bail, a circumstance that, in Pakistan, is considered an acquittal. Mustafa, the
hero, was carried from the courtroom on the shoulders of slogan-shouting People's
Party leaders and workers.
****
The People's Party won the by-election and Mustafa was accorded complete credit for
the Victory. His next step was to resign his National Assembly seat and fight for a
vacated Provincial seat, so that he could enter the Punjab Assembly and 'get Nawaz.' He
was aiming to become Chief Minister under a People's Party government.
On the other hand, I was a social and political outcast. People whom I formerly
respected turned their backs on me. I shuddered at the realization of the position that a
woman fails into after divorce - especially if her ex-husband is an important person.
Increasingly I understood why women dare not break away. Increasingly I experienced
a humiliating lack of confidence and self-esteem. But, although I cried often in bed at
night, I held on during the day with a determined strength.
At the height of his political life, when he was practically and almost unanimously
acclaimed as the only alternative to the strongly entrenched Chief Minister, Mustafa
suddenly, announced his seventh marriage, to a twenty-two-year-old divorcée whom
he had known for only a month. Taking the public relations offensive, he had the
audacity to compare his many marriages with those of the Prophet.
I shook my head in disbelief when he said to me, 'She loves me more than you did.' His
superficiality stung me, for I had loved him in spite of what he was. She did not even,
know him.
I assessed his political philandenngs: he had abandoned Bhutto, escaped into exile,
reneged on his deal with the generals, flirted with Indian intelligence, plotted the defeat
of his own country's armed forces - then, later, compromised with them - sulked at
Benazir's prominence, and committed a plethora of additional political back stabbings.
He covered everything with empty rhetoric and charisma. What passed as intelligence
and insight was nothing but guile and cunning. If he had remained in exile or prison
without compromising his principles, perhaps I would still be with him. But I had seen
his all-too-eager short cuts to power. His ideals were merely bait for the gullible.

I began, to realize that the Mustafa Khar I had championed existed only in my
perception. I had made him, into the man that fitted my own ideals. He never existed in
any real form.
Mustafa asked me to come over for lunch, to discuss how his new marriage would
affect our children. As I passed through the gates of his expensive house, situated on a
large plot in an exclusive area of Lahore, I thought of all our dreams for this residence.
After we went into exile the military confiscated it and it had fallen into disrepair. I had
it restored upon Mustafa's release. Now I remembered the promise we had made to one
another to continue living in our small home. He had broken that vow, too, as he had so
many others.
Mustafa was free and powerful. He had sixteen servants. He had regained his wealth
and his political position was stronger than ever. I had lost everything - even the
children. I walked through the corridors of my former, home and realized how
completely he had stripped me. This was the difference between man and woman.
He was on the telephone when I arrived, talking to Benazir's husband Asif Zardari. He
was cracking a joke, laughing. When he finished his conversation he ordered lunch For
a time we settled into, political small talk.
I asked, 'Mustafa, do you realize that you have taken away everything from me thirteen
years, my family, my children, my youth and everything I believed in? I have to start
anew.' He listened carefully as I continued, 'I don't know, what to do. Maybe working
somewhere, get involved in social welfare. I don't want to waste what I've learned and
felt.'
He stretched, took a deep breath, breathed out and addressed me coolly and
contemptuously 'Tehmina, you are nothing any more. Once you were Begum Tehmina
Mustafa Khar. Now you are just Tehmina Durrani. When you ring up people you have
to introduce yourself as my ex-wife. You have no identity of your own. Nobody knows
you. People meet you because you have something interesting to say about me. You
will exhaust your stock of stones very soon, then you'll have nothing to say. After that,
you'll lose all your so-called friends. They'll be bored with you. Women won't let you
come to their homes because you're a threat to their marriage. Even if you think that
you can work politically, you'll be made to wait outside offices for hours, because
you've removed your name from mine.'
I gulped back tears, pretending to be unaffected. The poet Ghahb's verse flitted through
my mind:
Your taunts chip away at my identity.

No-one speaks of me with such audacity.

That evening at home alone, Mustafa's words stung me. I rethought my life, trying to
define my reality. I was no longer Mrs. Mustafa Khar. I had been discarded and spat out
like sugar-cane chaff. He had done everything he could to destroy me and he had very
nearly succeeded. A few more doses of Mustafa and my spirit would have died for ever.
Many people had suggested that I keep his surname, as it was the name by which I was
known. I was repelled by that, and in any case I did not want to lean on a pillar that had
fallen upon me instead of supporting m. But if I was not Mrs. Mustafa Khar, who was I?
The Tehmina Durrani of my childhood was an alien to me, a confused little girl whom I
had outgrown. I could not relate to her. Was there a new Tehmina Durrani inside me,
older and sadder, but also wiser?
Sitting alone with my scattered thoughts, I conjectured that fate had placed me on this
torturous path for a purpose. Our closed society considered it obscene for a woman to
reveal her intimate secrets, but would not silence be a greater crime? Silence condones
injustice, breeds subservience and fosters a malignant hypocrisy. Mustafa Khar and
other feudal lords thrive and multiply on silence. Muslim women must learn to raise
their voices against injustice. For me, conventional politics was no longer the answer. In
Pakistan, the system is merely used to hoodwink further those who are already
exploited. I realized that I could do no greater service for my country and our people
than to expose the camouflage.
I was determined not to waste thirteen years of my life.
I decided to cast a stone at hypocrisy.
I decided to write-this book and break the traditional silence.

Epilogue
Having failed to hold Mustafa accountable under law Matloob, in true feudal fashion,
reverted back to the life he knew. He flew to London, made up with Adila and denied
the existence of the incriminating tapes. My parents forgave him. They and Adila
pointed to Matloob's return as proof of her innocence.
Mother finally mustered the courage to confide to her children that our father was
plagued by a constitutional reaction to alcohol. She said that this was why she had been
forced to monitor his behavior in such a domineering manner. She had to become hard
and ruthless in order to save him from self-destruction. If this was true, we could
understand the sacrifice she had made for family honor, but it was made at too high a
cost. By the time she lost my father to another woman, she was sixty years old and it
was far too late for her to correct the havoc.
My father now maintains two homes in Karachi and attempts to spend equal time with
each of his wives.
The People's Party was disgusted with Mustafa's decision to get married rather than 'get
Nawaz'. His political star fell, and for a time he disappeared from public view.
Benazir Bhutto's elected government was dissolved on 8 August 1990 by Zia's protégé,
President Ghulam Ishaq Khan. Mustafa Jatoi was sworn in as the caretaker Prime
Minister of Pakistan. I watched television coverage, saddened by the death of
democracy at the hands of a civilian coup. As the camera panned to take in the faces of
the new Cabinet members, it paused ominously on one face. I froze Mustafa Khar was
sworn in as federal Minister for Water and Power. This time he had stabbed the People's
Party in the back and somersaulted back to Jatoi and the IJI.
He phoned me later and chided, 'Tehmina, you didn't congratulate me.'
I replied, 'Mustafa, if this is all you wanted, why did you not compromise with General
Zia in the first place;' Nine years in exile and two in prison were too high a price to pay
for a silly little ministry in a caretaker government. You lost your most important asset
the People's Party worker. You lost your support and your credibility. It's time to offer
you condolences. You just died a political death.'
The process of disintegration had begun Mustafa committed one political blunder after
another. New elections returned him to Parliament, but the results made Nawaz Sharif
Prime Minister instead of Jatoi. Within the year, both Mustafa Jatoi and Mustafa Khar
were again seen amidst cheering crowds as they teamed with Benazir, leading the long
march to Islamabad in a successful attempt to topple the government and 'get Nawaz.'

Of the Bhutto boys, during his lifetime General Zia pursued his designs to ensure that
these two had no political future in Pakistan, and to damage their reputations on the
international scene. His propaganda campaign against them involved numerous slurs
against Shah Nawaz before his mysterious death in 1985. Mir was to face even more
charges after democratic order was established. Currently (1994). he is imprisoned
facing charges of treason, having been tried by special courts that his sister once called
Kangaroo courts. The irony is that Mir still has to clear his name while his sister has
risen to the office of Prime Minister by struggling against the same dictator.
****
Finally, after Mustafa's new son was born, I decided to take another bold step I called a
press conference and proclaimed that Mustafa was an irresponsible father, incapable of
bringing up four children without their mother. I stated that I had tried to negotiate the
return of my children privately, but my attempts to handle the matter quietly had only
served to allow Mustafa to implement the laws of his jungle. Now I was confronting
him head on, and was prepared to fight, under public scrutiny, for custody of the
children. In fact I declared, I now had custody.
I secured the children in the house, locked the gates, called Mustafa and said, 'If you
disturb us again I shall fight you with my life. By now you must know that I stand by
the commitment to my beliefs at all and any cost.' He listened in silence as I warned,
'There will be a great imbalance in our strengths if we fight, because I am prepared to
die and you are desperate to live.'
Mustafa backed away from the battlefield. We did not hear from him for six months.
Then he telephoned and quietly accepted visitation rights. The children resumed cordial
relations with their father. Mustafa now has two young sons, still cared for by poor Dai
Ayesha, who is not permitted to visit us.
I refused to honor my commitment to Uncle Sadiq, who understood the difficulties I

was facing in bringing up the children with no child support and no income. Mustafa
found no option when my solicitor from London offered an out-of-court settlement. He
quietly transferred the London apartment to my name as I transferred the country
house to his. However the papers he signed were not sufficient, he did not pay service
charges or rates and neglected the properties to the extent that rats romped through
them. I could not sell without him, he would not sign. He told the children that he
would rather let the managing agents have the properties. I would not get a penny, just
years of mental torture trying to persuade a man who didn't mind the loss, whereas I
had no money to save the flat by at least paying the charges. The court ordered, its
forfeiture. I am now trying to retrieve it from the agents as I well as from Mustafa
Haslemere stands in ruins, it has not been visited since 1986.

My oldest daughter Tanya graduated from high school in America and returned to
Pakistan. Finally I was able to welcome her into my home. She has now settled with us
as if she had never been away. A talented artist, she would like to pursue a career in
graphic design.
Naseeba is an aspiring politician. She plans a future run for a seat in Parliament, from
Mustafa's constituency, in order to fulfill the promises that her father made to the
people of Kot Addu.
Nisha speaks of studying criminal law and working to help the poor.
Ali, 'my little feudal lord', shows a great inclination toward mathematics and 'shooting'.
Hamza is the gentle one, the baby who remembers little of life with Mustafa.
All five children have become firm supporters of my cause.
Nuscie and J.J., along with their children Nadia and O. J. are with us constantly,
members of our extended family, helping us in our attempt to fashion a new type of
home in an anachronistic society. They have been my strongest pillars.
Shugufta has learned to drive and is very much a part of our family.
The first edition of this book was published in Pakistan in 1990. The initial reviews were
extremely negative. Many said that it was scandalous, publicity-seeking rubbish. Some
called it obscene and pornographic. No-one in Pakistan, however, doubted us accuracy.
Some reviewers speculated that I had accepted a bribe from Mustafa's political rival,
Nawaz Sharif. In a country where the loyalty of Parliament is frequently bartered to the
highest bidder. I could not blame anyone for believing this.
My father gave written notice to the press disowning and disinheriting me. He ordered
me to refrain from using his name.
I answered that statement with a press release of my own, accepting his disinheritance
as the natural outcome of unconventional behavior. Such isolation is the cause of a
woman's silence in our society. But I refused to give up my name. My parents have
neither seen nor spoken to me since. In fact, most of my family has disappeared from
my life The only ones who have remained steadfast during my time of adversity are my
sisters Zarmina and Minoo, their husbands Riaz and Ali, and my cousin Bina and her
husband Aslam Quraishi.

Following publication, two criminal charges were registered against me. One charged
me with treason for the assistance I had given Mustafa in his dealings with Indian
intelligence agents. This occasioned much drawing-room discussion, but no action I was
not even questioned by government investigators and Mustafa, whose involvement was
far more severe, remains a Member of Parliament. The other charged me with adultery.
This is an offence punishable with death by stoning under the Hadood ordinance, as
yet, no-one has been willing to cast the first stone.
Gradually the negative publicity decreased and my account began to be received in its
intended spirit, as an insight into the socio-political disorder of our country. Although I
remained a curiosity, I became acceptable. My name is now a household word in
Pakistan, feudal husbands took to chiding their rebellious wives. 'Don't try to be
Tehmina.'
I announced 'Jehad' - a movement to represent the silent majority to raise controversial

issues that most people feel afraid to speak about. It liberated me from the corrupt
politics that I had witnessed. I decided to stand apart and away from the mainstream of
the rotting political system and the deficient and self-serving politicians that consumed
our national wealth and exploited our people.
My movement spoke the forgotten language of truth:
- I demanded accountability, I demanded a referendum, and went on hunger

strike.
- I took up: Mir's issue and extended him support against selective justice,
demanding a definition of Zia's role against the violation of the Constitution and a
clearer sense of justice, and humanity.
- I demanded from Benazir an explanation for using her position to install Mustafa
Khar in a sensitive ministry despite serious anti-state allegations uncleared and
undenied by MI or ISI, I also declared our properties in London in an attempt to put
into focus Mueen Quraishis law whereby parliamentarians had to declare their assets or
else lose their seats - Mustafa had not done so, nor had most others, I am sure.
As was expected nothing happened and Mustafa remains a minister despite, amongst
other things, a broken law.
When a news item appeared announcing the pending international publication of My

Feudal Lord, Mustafa called me. He was furious but controlled when he asked, 'What is
this nonsense I hear about the book?'

I could not resist reminding him of our lunch conversation, when he said that I had no
identity of my own and would have to introduce myself as Mustafa Khar's ex-wife. I
said, 'Well, Mustafa, now the world will soon know you only as Tehmina Durrani's
exhusband.'

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MY FEUDAL LORD

I dedicate this book:

My Feudal Lord - Tehmina Durrani; Copyright © www.sanipanhwar.com 1

'Oh.' I thought: Mus-sta-fa-khar's wife is very beautiful.

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My Feudal Lord - Tehmina Durrani; Copyright © www.sanipanhwar.com 3

Mustafa took this deference in his stride.

I was the perfect victim.

A painting hangs on the wall of my home in Lahore, depicting a breathtakingly

My Feudal Lord - Tehmina Durrani; Copyright © www.sanipanhwar.com 4

Regardless of my growing, deep-rooted, internal complexes, my childhood must have

My father is a Pathan, descended from the family of Ahmed Shah Durrani of

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My Feudal Lord - Tehmina Durrani; Copyright © www.sanipanhwar.com 6

As we grew older nature bestowed the benefit - necessary if one is to be acceptable to

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My Feudal Lord - Tehmina Durrani; Copyright © www.sanipanhwar.com 8

Looking back, I realize that we were being raised to be schizophrenic; an appearance of

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Nevertheless, I attracted increasing attention. Weddings or any social gatherings were

'In Murree. At the convent.'

He asked, 'Which class are you in?'

'I'm, doing my Senior Cambridge,' I said.

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I was left in a void of embarrassment, disillusionment and hopelessness. My one ray of

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Three days later I became a most confused bride.

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By systematically marrying the daughters of tribal chieftains, Mustafa's grandfather,

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He argued that the unchecked accumulation of wealth must not be permitted. He

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Powerless to prevent it, I felt pulled by an undercurrent: I was magnetically attracted to

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Mustafa made no direct overtures. He said nothing to me that could be remotely

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I asked, 'Are you going away for long?'

'Is Mustafa that ill?' I asked in bewilderment.

I became curious about his relationship with Sherry it seemed to be in a state of

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'Why not?' I asked.

I suggested, 'Just tell him I decided to do so on the spur of the moment.'

'Don't tell him,' I said.

'That's impossible,' she countered, pointing toward Dai. 'She will.'

We did not stop for food.

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