The World in My Hands.

Ahmed, K. Anis

The World in My Hands is an excerpt from a novel-in-progress by K. Anis Ahmed. The novel is set in a fictional South Asian nation called Pandua in a time of political crisis. In this early chapter, the protagonist, a journalist, negotiates risks and opportunities presented to him by the director of a mysterious bureau that has become even more powerful during the prevailing state of emergency.

Palitpur lay girded by rivers on all four sides. But to claim that any patch of Pandua was confined by some expanse of water was a bit misleading. Pandua, strictly speaking, was not so much a land mass as it was a vast and transformed water body. It was not a land that rested on deep beds of rocks or minerals. It floated on a forgotten wash of seawater and salt, and was built on silt drawn from the Himalayas. Hundreds of rivers crisscrossed the country, like a pattern quilted by a mad old lady. But more than any history of the elements, what defined Pandua was the ease with which water and earth changed places. What was earth today could dissolve into the river that gave birth to it, and the river itself could become a lush plot of land with a wave of green paddy within a lifetime.

This fundamental lack of a foundation worried Hissam. Could one possess strength without a solid base to stand on? Hissam envied countries that rested on layers reaching clown to the earth's core. Men from those lands came across as Men of Stone. Men of Resolve. Men of Destiny. In poor old Pandua, those elements didn't exist: this was a land replete with Men of Clay, Men of Mud. This line of thought gave rise to the inevitable question of what kind of man he was, and he found no profit or pleasure in probing that point.

It was with such ancient and near-tectonic quandaries that Hissam diverted himself as he sat in a waiting room on the fourth floor of the giant headquarters of the Bureau. The waiting room was a large rectangle of a hall, the walls fully lined with sofas encased in garish red material. Every seat was taken.

That Bakhtiar, who didn't even have time for calls, suddenly wanted a meeting meant there was some business afoot. Still, having to wait with the assorted crew of--who were these people? sources? supplicants?--hurt his sense of propriety, if not dignity. Two low-slung tables sat like docile pets in the very center of the room, unreachable from any of the sofas. An orderly--was that what the army still called them?--came in periodically to serve the guests cups of steaming lemon tea. Hissam hated lemon tea, but he enjoyed watching the crowd dynamic of returning cups. Even this congregation, dominated by men who liked to imbibe their tea with noisy slurps and, Hissam suspected, by a contingent who would think nothing of spitting on the sidewalk or relieving themselves in public, took the trouble to walk up to the center tables to deposit their used cups. Nobody put one clown on the floor beneath their sofa or wedged it between two cushions.

Hissam looked at his watch. It was 10:34 p.m. Panduans were a chatty people, but here they waited silently, like culprits in the chambers of a doctor of venereal disease, all too ashamed to speak of their secret afflictions.

It was about a year ago, soon after assuming his new role as director, that Bakhtiar had begun to convene his "consultations." Unlike most in his office before him, secretive, unknown shadow presences, Bakhtiar reached out to all quarters: politicians, businessmen, journalists, NGO bosses, labor leaders, students. Slowly a mix of NGO heads, media mandarins, and dyspeptic leftists coalesced into a core group, with whom Bakhtiar started meeting more regularly, and who presented themselves to the outside world as the Civic Forum. This group had done more than anyone else to build public support for the new regime. Hissam, as deputy editor of Daily Pandua, the leading English paper, was also regularly invited to these meetings, and while he didn't share the reformist passion of his peers at first, he went out of journalistic curiosity.

The term "consultations" had found its way into local parlance; all gatherings with the possibility or ambition of a conspiracy or ascendance now claimed this nomenclature. Unlike past directors, Bakhtiar was a man of soft suits and soft manner. The extremely close-shaved pate and steely glint in his eyes were the only hints of a tougher element beneath the surface he liked to present. He came across less a former soldier and more a highly disciplined professor of the sort working for well-paid consultancies.

During the previous year, when the country became ever more paralyzed by frequent strikes and shutdowns, street protests, and violence, rumors of some kind of intervention began to gain traction, and Bakhtiar met with his new cohorts again and again to sound out public sentiment, to find out how to bolster it in favor of a "solution."

Through that entire year of consultations, Hissam never had to wait for Bakhtiar. It was always Bakhtiar, the convener of those meetings, who was first to arrive and stood up to greet everyone. Hissam looked at his watch again--10:55--and stiffened as a neighbor blew his nose loudly into his coat sleeve.

At this point, a tall junior officer appeared quietly in the doorway and said, "Mr. Habeeb, the director is ready for you." The young officer, who, unlike Bakhtiar, wore a proper military uniform, led Hissam down a long and dimly lit corridor.

"Terribly sorry about the wait, but you know, things are so different now," said the young man as they passed two others, sitting in downcast postures in hard-backed chairs outside a room with a door slightly ajar. A loud conversation emanated from inside.

"I can see," said Hissam as he straightened his spine to match the sturdiness of his guide. The young man walked Hissam to the end of the hallway and opened the door to an unexpectedly large office. Bakhtiar was standing behind his desk, facing a window that opened onto nothing but a dark sky. The room took Hissam by surprise. Shelves with locked glass doors boasted an overflow of books and folders as well as thick and irregular-sized volumes that seemed to mark bureaucratic obsolescence. A worktable, indeed all the tables and even a couple of sofas, spilled over with files and folders, maps and printouts. Statuettes, shields, trophies, and crests crowded the top of a sideboard against one wall. The assembled evidence of Bakhtiar's tasks, accomplishments, tastes, and importance were blessed by the low hum of an invisible air-conditioner.

Bakhtiar continued talking with his back to the room, either unaware of Hissam's entry or ignoring it for the moment. Hissam pulled up one of the guest chairs at Bakhtiar's large executive desk and, as he continued surveying the office, discovered with a start that two more men, bedraggled and morose, huddled on a sofa in the far corner. By the way Bakhtiar stood straight and at regular intervals shouted out a single syllable--"Sah," "Sah"--it was clear that he was on the line with someone much higher up. This is the universal sign of comprehension and abidance that is drilled into every officer of the army, perhaps in all armies, and Hissam suspected that the greater the separation of ranks, the louder the thundering intonation.

As the call came to an end, Bakhtiar gestured with a short jerk of his head to indicate dismissal to the miserable pair seated behind Hissam. A quick backward glance, and Hissam saw them being led away by a gruff-looking assistant.

"So sorry, Mr. Habeeb, to keep you waiting. As you can see, we're completely overwhelmed."

Bakhtiar looked crisp as ever in a starched, pressed, white shirt. He said "overwhelmed," but there was no sign of it in his appearance. No sweat, no creases, and, of course, no hair to be ruffled on his shining pate. Not even at 11 p.m., and that, too, on a day that must have started for him at 7 a.m. The jacket hanging on a small stand was Bakhtiar's only visible concession to the pressures of the day. No rolled-up sleeves, no unbuttoned collar or loosened tie. A man who so studiously refused any deviation of form commanded an instant and instinctive respect from his interlocutors.

"It's a busy time," said Hissam, retrieving his hand from a firm and vigorous military shake.

"As you saw, no doubt, they come every day. Hundreds of them. Some will wait outside practically all night to be the first in line in the morning."

"I didn't know the headquarters was open to the public," said Hissam.

"It's not, officially," said Bakhtiar. "But the country's in a special situation right now, and everyone knows someone--this or that's brother or cousin or uncle."

"Well, thank you for meeting me during such a time--" Hissam tried to say, before Bakhtiar cut him off.

"Oh no, please don't say that," said Bakhtiar. "I am truly sorry that I have not been able to take your calls, but please don't think for a minute that I don't think you, and all our colleagues, aren't our most important allies. I myself have been wanting to meet with you."

"That's very gracious of you," Hissam said again, anxious to get past the niceties to his query about the List, lest the meeting get cut short.

"We have a great deal to talk about. I will convene a meeting shortly. There are big, big tasks afoot. We need you, the intelligentsia. You can guide the people, mold public opinion. Not every measure will be liked by everyone, yet we have to push through even some unpleasant measures. There's no other way to clean out the corruption, the entrenched and internecine ties--"

Hissam could not hope for a better segue, so he interrupted Bakhtiar. "I know, and I can see you're moving fast," he said, as he pulled the List from his breast pocket and smoothed it out on the table.

The List had come into his hands a couple of days earlier. It alleged to name the most corrupt of Panudan politicians and businessmen. To publicly brand people in this way, in the absence of any indictment, was an extraordinary step.

One glance and Bakhtiar knew what it was. "You will print it tonight?"

"You want me to?"

"Yes, I thought given your support of us, you deserved to break this scoop," said Bakhtiar, his eyes glinting behind his gold-rimmed glasses.

So not only was the news authentic, it was a plant.

"I can print, but what is the follow-through? Will you be taking action against them soon? Or will I be left holding fifty lawsuits?"

Bakhtiar threw his head back and gave out a frill, roaring laugh. Hissam had never witnessed such an expression of mirth from him. "Mr. Habeeb, this is not a time for timidity. We have to take bold actions, and that always comes with risks."

"I am surprised to see people like Rafadar on this list. He is widely thought to be so clean."

"We could not disclose all the details of our plans, not even to our closest allies," Bakhtiar said impatiently and rang a red-buttoned bell on his desk.

"Coffee," said Bakhtiar to the man at the door. Before the door closed, a young officer walked in briskly and placed on the desk a very official-looking sheet for Bakhtiar's signature. Given the long, cyclostyled nature of the paper, Hissam imagined it might be a warrant or an order of release, unless it was a permission for special interrogations. Who knew what protocols guided such matters?

"Look, Mr. Habeeb, this list is nothing. I have a much bigger scoop for you. That's why I wanted to see you in person. Run this first, but we'll need timely release of this bigger story," Bakhtiar said, pushing a medium-thick folder in Hissam's direction.

As Hissam stared at Bakhtiar quizzically, the man said with a mysterious, hushed thickness to his voice, "Just have a look."

The file was unmarked, but he had no sooner turned the first page than he tensed with anticipation. It concerned an arms case, one of the hushed-up stories of their times. While Hissam turned the pages, Bakhtiar took a couple of more calls. The phone had in fact never stopped ringing. They were simply talking through the noise of the phones, different tones for each of the several colored sets: white, black, blue, yellow, and red. Nor did the intrusions of younger officers and orderlies cease. People popped in with papers to sign or show, to confirm tasks completed, and to take fresh, whispered commissions.

The folder contained the first credible details Hissam had ever come across of the notorious arms case. Ten trucks of weapons, including shoulder-fired missiles that no civilian, not even the biggest gangs, could have any use for. Where was it headed? Who was involved? Where was it all stored? Even after years, the media had not been able to unearth any details so far. This could be the scoop of a lifetime.

Hissam sipped his coffee absentmindedly as he sped through the final pages. Bakhtiar was blasting a hapless source who could neither account for money he had taken nor produce the quality of information he had promised. "You think you can fuck with this office? We will extract every penny from you and your family. If you can't pay back in currency or information, you will pay with flesh."

Hissam looked up for a second at this utterance, and Bakhtiar paused and dismissed the urchin with a wave of his hand.

"Sorry. The kind of people I have to deal with," said Bakhtiar, recomposing himself as an officer led the miscreant away.

Hissam tapped the folder in his hands. "Are you sure of this?"

"Would I share it with you if I weren't?"

"How come we heard nothing of this in all these months?"

"We could not do anything about it. Until now. The level of people involved--"

"But you can investigate now. You can file cases--"

"A case like this may need to run long after we're gone," said Bakhtiar, reverting to his pragmatic self. "If we make it public, it'd be hard to hush it up again. Besides, the public deserve to know the truth, don't they?"

"They deserve to know certain truths--" Hissam added with a smile.

"The time for this one is here," Bakhtiar concurred.

"You know if I print this, I will be marked forever by the Party for--"

"An enemy?"

"For revenge," said Hissam.

"You will have our full protection. No one can touch a hair on you."

"What about when you leave this office? What about when the Old Guard's in power again?"

"Ah, that's the great question isn't it: will they be in power again? Ever again?"

To make vague allegations about unfinished projects and overpaid contractors or permits and licenses granted to cronies was one thing. To accuse top politicians of high crimes, on specific charges, was a different proposition.

"Run the List first, Mr. Habeeb," said Bakhtiar. "See if anyone makes a noise. It'll give you courage."

All his life Hissam had taken the more cautious, judicious choice while many friends, including boys from the provinces, who took big gambles, were lords of the land today. If he wanted to taste success on that scale, not just as deputy editor of a paper but as a man of real clout, he would have to make a choice that wasn't timid, that came from the gut.

"Keep in mind, we have plans not only for our enemies, but also for our friends."

This was deeply interesting to Hissam, who never understood why some people, who to all evidence were no more qualified than others, got appointed to high offices while more qualified people labored away in dutiful obscurity. He wanted recognition. Now.

Bakhtiar, rising from his chair, indicated the end of their meeting. "Trust me, I keep everything in mind. I won't forget." Things were moving forward faster than anyone expected. Neither his friends nor his foes, he could tell now, had any gauge of the magnitude of the battery that was about to come crashing in on them.

As he shook Bakhtiar's hand, a surge of boldness filled his chest, like the crisp, fresh air at a higher altitude. Passing the waiting room, he peeked in and was satisfied to find nearly as many petitioners in wait as when he first arrived. It pleased him to confirm that he was given consideration ahead of others. Once he was in his car, though, and opened the file again, a vague discomfort crept into the beautiful zone of strength that he was beginning to nurse. By the time his car sped off into the curfewed night of Palitpur, the unease began to blossom, like a great toothache that starts in the extremities far from its actual eruption, but proceeds nevertheless to inflict unforgiving and protracted pain.

Dhaka

K. Anis Ahmed is the author of Good Night, Mr. Kissinger, a collection of short stories that was a special feature at the Hay Festival in Dhaka 2012. He is the founder of Bengal Lights, a new English literary journal from Dhaka. He is also a co-founder of the University of Liberal Arts Bangladesh. He lives in Dhaka with his wife and son.