August 1956
"Nawab Shair Bahadur Khan Earns First International Gold Medal for Pakistan," declared the English daily. The headline resonated through the first-class cabin of the Pakistan International Airlines flight to Lahore. A shared, potent sense of national pride, unexpected in its intensity, connected the passengers, from the Heathrow ground crew to the gold medalist himself. They were strangers, yet suddenly countrymen.
As the initial excitement settled to a hushed murmur matching the thrum of the engines, the air hostesses, clad in Pierre Cardin uniforms, scurried through the aisles, hoping to catch his eye. But Shair was engrossed in conversation with the witty and elderly Mrs. Khan beside him. Her sharp comebacks had the first-class compartment erupting in laughter every few minutes.
As excitement filled the aircraft, a similar anticipation awaited him back home. Mureed, the haveli's caretaker, had procured numerous copies of the newspaper, eager to score points with his begum sahiba by distributing them among political allies, feudal lords, friends, and even foes. His young master, Nawab Shair Bahadur Khan, was returning home after fulfilling the family tradition of studying at a leading university in the United Kingdom. He was the sole heir of the late Nawab Umar Bahadur Khan, the much-respected feudal lord of Kot Bahadur Khan.
The whitewashed haveli presented a grand façade, contrasting sharply with the rows of colourful marquees erected for the celebratory political rally arranged in honour of Shair's homecoming. Red, blue, and green buntings drooped lifelessly, despite the air streaming from the pedestal fans dotting the expansive grounds.
Inside, in her parlour, Begum Zubaida Bahadur Khan, Shair's mother, sat composed in a light blue cotton saree, her hair neatly styled in a bun. Her Cartier reading glasses rested on her chest, suspended by a delicate chain of gold and pearls. Surrounded by a dozen servants, she gestured with manicured hands, issuing instructions and ensuring that every detail of her son's welcome celebration was perfect.
"Mureed," she said, concluding the meeting, "I want the crowd directed to the buffet tables after our guests of honour have entered the haveli for their meal."
Though a fixture at every political gathering, Begum Zubaida harboured no political ambitions of her own. Her presence among the league of leaders served only to pave the way for her son's future, which now seemed quite within grasp.
* * *
The seven-hour flight from London to Lahore had done nothing to diminish Shair's excitement to return home and assume his rightful place as the nawab of Kot Bahadur Khan. He was a tall, muscular man with thick, silky black hair and eyes of a curious green colour, unusual for this part of the country. Yet it wasn't the colour that was so appealing; it was the gleam of his soul that peeked from behind—a raw greed for life and all its excitement.
A crowd filled the two modest rooms of the Walton airport, most carrying garlands of 5, 10, or even 50 Rupee notes for the young nawab. Shair buttoned his coat, donned his thick-rimmed sunglasses, and stepped out, waving to the cheering masses below. Pakistan, still in its infancy, was a nation of zealous citizens, eager and optimistic for a bright future. He disembarked with quick, eager steps, ready to embrace his people, making it challenging for the few airport officials to maintain order. He extended both hands in greeting, mindful that they had braved the afternoon heat for a glimpse of him. Their presence testified to the Nawab family's centuries-old standing and the people's faith in him as their future leader.
Shair's personal servant, Allah Ditta, had accompanied him throughout his education abroad. Responsible for running errands and providing a constant stream of inconsequential chatter, Allah Ditta was the ideal companion for the young nawab. His efficient service at Shair's weekend parties had earned him the nickname "Ditto" from his British friends. Ditto paused at the economy class exit, closing his eyes as he embraced the sweltering heat of home. It was a welcome sensation, like one of those cigarettes his master smoked at his weekend parties. He gasped at the sight of the airport teeming with people from all walks of life, chanting pro-Pakistan slogans with overwhelming enthusiasm. Quickly descending the stairs, his roving eye spotted his father waving frantically. Ditto weaved through the crowd and embraced him in a tight hug.
By the time Shair reached his mother, the pile of garlands around his neck rose to his chin. With a smug smile, she patted his head, still bowed from the weight, before waving to the crowd. Amidst the chants for the new nawab and the excited bustle of the throng, they were ushered to their vehicles. The procession of buses and cars then departed the airport, making its way to the haveli.
Guards in starched white shalwar kameez and dark green turbans, armed with double-barreled guns, swung open the haveli's massive steel gates to admit the procession. The metallic clang of the gates echoed through the courtyard, a sharp counterpoint to the rising crescendo of the crowd. They fired a volley of celebratory shots into the air, the crack of gunfire electrifying the already charged crowd. The sound sent them into a frenzy of cheers for the new nawab, his late father, and the Muslim League—the nation's founding political party. Waiting for this cue, the drummers unleashed a vibrant beat on their dhols, their rhythmic pulse vibrating through the very ground. As if by design, the crowd burst into dance. The more spontaneous broke into bhangra, their colourful turbans and swirling patkas a blur against the backdrop of the haveli, while the traditional opted for the synchronised movements of ghummar.
Begum Zubaida, a gracious and welcoming hostess, had the perfect venue in the nawab's massive, two-hundred-year-old haveli. Its numerous rooms, built and renovated over generations, had hosted prominent leaders and thinkers of the past. And the haveli's sprawling, immaculate lawns had borne witness to every significant gathering of the Nawab family from political rallies to wedding receptions and funerals.
Shair, his mother, and their closest political allies met with their supporters as more party leaders joined the gathering. The speakers captivated the crowd with their poetic and impassioned speeches, painting a vision of Pakistan as an invincible nation. They congratulated Shair on his achievements and welcomed him as an active member of the party. These smoothly delivered promises resonated with the more naive attendees and offered a clear path forward for the sharper minds. Regardless of individual interpretations, the event was crucial. The leadership relied on these grassroots workers to spread their message throughout the constituency. The aam awaam, in turn, depended on these elites for jobs and favours.
As dusk deepened, painting the sky in deep purples and maroons, sparkling fairy lights framed the haveli like a bride. Inside the dining room, a refined gathering savoured a six-course meal of delicacies prepared by Chef Razaaq, renowned for creating the finest French cuisine in Pakistan. Outside on the lawns, a sea of commoners devoured mountains of chicken pulao and mutton qorma as if they were peanuts.
The villagers, once inside the haveli grounds, treated the occasion as a welcome respite, enjoying both the free food and the extensive company. It was a chance to catch up on gossip and forge new connections. They arranged marriages, mediated disputes, and, inevitably, sowed the seeds of future disagreements. Laughter, music, and dancing filled the air until late into the night. The haveli staff, too, looked forward to such events, using them as an opportunity to flaunt their positions and assert their own brand of power amongst their peers.