I watched Neelam, the most famous courtesan of the Heera Mandi (the red-light district), move her elegant body to the music that came from the tabla, sitar, and harmonium. Her body was hard to ignore, but the matter that kept on pressing its urgency in my mind was much more harder to disregard. Sami Duranni. This bastard, after raping and killing 20 prostitutes of Heera Mandi, gave himself up to the police. Now who does that? I mean it was really nice of him that he confessed, but why after 20? Why not 10? Why not 1?
Before he gave himself up, the police did everything in their ‘limited’ power to expose this serial killer (that is what they called him) so that they could get over dealing with the ‘filthy prostitutes’, the same one’s they used to have all the fun with. I say limited because had it been the daughters of the elite who were raped and murdered, action would have been taken, and this little power would have miraculously turned into an ample amount. However, these were prostitutes, and frankly, who cares about them? No news, no nothing. Their illegality somehow made it legal for them to be raped and murdered. Prostitutes were just for pleasure and fun. Not to forget, mostly women.
It is incumbent upon me to tell you that, had it not been for the love I had of watching Neelam perform her classical Mujra, I would have never come to know of this brutality that was being inflicted in the narrow, insignificant streets of Heera Mandi. My name is Saadat Mazhar Abbas, and back in the days which I am writing about, I was a famous journalist. They used to call me Saadat Bhai ‘The Truth-Teller’. Not to sound modest, but I did always prefer writing the truth, because no matter how much people tried to hide their own, they always found solace in the truth of another person.
So I had to know the truth behind this sudden change in Sami Durrani’s heart. Neelam was still dancing, and I, still thinking. There was this calm that gripped me when I saw her dancing. So, this Kotha she danced at, was where I came whenever I had to write about something. Would sound funny when I say this, but Neelam was my literary motivator.
Sami was to be hanged in two days, and I needed to get an interview with him. He was a highly guarded prisoner, and it would have been impossible for me to get an interview with him if it wasn’t for the blessing of money and how it had the power to make people do unfathomable deeds.
So on the evening of October 21st, 2000, a day before Sami was supposed to be hanged, I found myself at the police station where he was imprisoned; winked at the inspector, gave him money from under the table and expressed the desire to have a conversation with Sami.
The inspector asked me how much time I would take, and I replied that I didn’t know. When he said that he’d have to think about it, I slipped him more money from under the table because that is what he was implying indirectly. Finally, after thinking for 2 minutes, he allowed me to have an interview with Sami and told me that it was to be, at maximum, finished half an hour before he was going to be hanged. I agreed and followed the constable to Sami’s high-security lockup.
His lockup was like all the lockups with only one difference in sight- It was his. I assure you that I expected Sami’s appearance to be as ugly as his deeds. However, I should have known better because his sur-name ‘Duranni’ suggested that he was a Pashtun and Pashtun’s, we are all aware, are blessed with a unique kind of beauty. Light brown hair, hazel eyes, 6’1 height and a fair complexion. He looked nothing like a serial killer. But then again, the worst kind of monsters are the ones who appear to look like angels.
The wide smile he wore while looking at me, startled me. “Saadat Bhai! Alas, we meet”, he said. While saying this, he advanced towards me, his hand ready for a handshake. I hesitated for a moment. However, I reminded myself that these were the very hands which had undertaken the brutal endeavors I was to write about and so it would be rather intelligent to make acquaintance with them. And so I shook hands with him. A hard, cold, rough hand.
Sami told me that he knew me and liked all of my works. In fact, he was hoping I’d show up to listen to his story too. I did not know how I was to react to these confessions of his, and as time was limited, I asked him to narrate to me ‘his story’. Which I am now going to narrate to you in the same manner.
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“Saadat Bhai, I know what you must think of me and what people must think of me. Everyone must hate me for what I did to those poor prostitutes. I know everyone wants to know why I did it and more importantly why I gave myself up. And I am ready to unfold that truth too. However, you must promise me Saadat Bhai, whatever I say in here, is what goes out there. Nothing more. Nothing less.”
I promised him and asked him to start with it because it was 10 pm and he was to be executed at 6 in the morning.
“I was 10, and he shot her before my eyes. No, not my mother, but the other woman he had bought with her. He was cheating on my mother in front of her eyes, but he claimed to be in love with her. When once again my mother walked on him with the other woman and caught them red handed, she said to him that she had had enough, and she was going to leave him now. He was angry. Not the angry which is dangerous but the angry which is frightened and scared. He begged her. He cried. She left.”
Sami paused for a moment, lost in deep thought.
“She left me with him and the other woman on that night. Quiet fell upon the house. Him, I and the other woman were in the same room doing nothing. I was supposed to cry because my mother had left me, but I wasn’t. Why? I don’t know.
He went out of the room and when came back, had a shot gun in his hands which he pointed at the other woman. He started Insulting and abusing her. He said that prostitutes destroyed homes. It was her fault. He insulted a woman and how they were these imbecile sluts and bitches.
She begged him. She begged him not to pull the trigger. She cried. I saw fear in those tired eyes. And then, Boom!
Her blood sprayed the off-white walls of my house, and formed a pool on the floor. I was supposed to be frightened, but I wasn’t. Why? I don’t know.
He laughed! Jumped up and down in the pool of thick blood that was on the floor like kids jump in puddles.
He looked at me. Stopped jumping in the puddle and advanced towards me with slow, steady steps. Blood on the sole of his shoes made the most uncomfortable sound. In a serious voice, he said, “Boy! You say about this to anyone, and it will be your blood in which I’d be jumping next! Do you understand me?” I replied, “Yes father. I do.”
The air in Sami’s lockup was as thick as the blood on the floor which Sami was talking about. I had thought that he had murdered all those prostitutes because his father had become his mentor but when I listened to his story further, I realized that this was not the case.
“He held the collar of my shirt, dragged me outside the house, pushed me into one of his expensive cars and drove me to a place unknown. We reached the place, he got out of the car, pulled me out and took me to these men who were well-built and huge. They talked in muffled voices for a while and then my father walked past me with a thick stash of money in his hands, to his car and drove away.
At that time, I was just a small child, so the concept of being sold was unknown to me. Later, I found out that my father had sold me to these child smugglers who had smuggled me from Lahore and bought me to Kashmir. By the time this truth revealed its-self upon me, I was 15 and was part of a Kashmiri family of 9 men, including me, and no women. Why no women? Well, Saadat Bhai, Women could be bought, so there was no reason for keeping them. One woman meant stagnation whereas different meant fun. If they wanted a woman, they’d just buy one. Once they bought her, she was theirs forever, but that did not mean that they were bound to keep her forever. You see, they followed a particular set of steps in the matter of women.
For instance, they bought a woman to cook for them:
Step 1) They said she hadn’t cooked well.
Step 2) She was to be punished.
Step 3) Rape was too little as a punishment.
Step 4) 9 men raping her at a time. A real punishment indeed.
Step 5) To rid themselves of this crime of raping a woman, they would spread rumors that this particular woman had seduced them into doing what they did, and that they had no choice left but to sleep with her.
Step 6) Stone the whore.
Step 7) Repeat all of the above.”
I asked Sami to stop. All of this was twisted, psychotic and disgusting. How? Why? What? Where was humanity? I asked the constable to bring me a glass of water because the brutality of what I had listened to was suffocating me.
Sami got lost in his thoughts again.
We stayed silent for at least 5 minutes before Sami resumed his side of the story,
“My first rape was at the age of 14. Frankly, I did not even know what I was doing Saadat Bhai. They just held her struggling body and asked me to do it. I knew how to do it because they had raped a lot of women in front of me and saw to it that I was learning. They told me that I’d have fun doing it too. And I certainly did. We celebrated that night because I had successfully been able to impose the dominance of my gender and had finally become a man.
By the age of 17, I was a pro at it, and raping women was an addiction which now controlled all my actions.
I must tell you that I have raped a lot of women, because, like your job is to write, mine was to rape. I remember each and every one of those faces and the frequency of their high-pitched screams; the helplessness in their eyes and the countless tears that fell from them. Want to know why I remember those screams and tears? They turned me on. Their screams were like a trigger that set in action the fiercest monster which had made home inside me. I laughed. I felt happy. I felt infinite.”
I asked the constable for another glass of water.
I’ve heard somewhere that “A psychopath by definition is incapable of remorse” Sami was a sick psychopath. I would have quit his presence right there and then, but I do not know why I stayed. His story was not even making sense. If he raped and murdered all those prostitutes because he had been brought up in an environment like that, he could have just said it in one simple sentence. However, he did not. That is what made me stay, I guess.
“This world of men that I lived in was the best. Saadat Bhai, I tell you, men can do anything. It is their world. Women are just baggage.
Now I was 21 (2 years back), and I was an adult. My Kashmiri family was proud of me because I was the first one to rape a lot of women at such a small age. I was proud of myself.
But I had to leave the nest and explore the world in which women were rising and had to make them realize their place, which was not above or equal, but below that of men.
So I set for Lahore and found myself in the famous Heera Mandi. There were a lot of women here, but I did not have to force myself on any of them. Just pay for them, have an amazing time with them and leave them. No. This was not what I came for. I wanted more screaming and suffering; more tears and helplessness. These women appeared to be happy, and women are not supposed to be happy. I needed to do something about it.
So I thought to myself, how do you rape a prostitute? ”
What the hell Sami. What the hell!
“When the world was silent, and Heera Mandi was engulfed in quiet of yet another ugly night at 3 am; I used to sneak in the Kothas and look for women, weak and vulnerable.
And I started to find them.
I would hear silent cries of those who were made to sell their bodies without their consent. Excitement would flood my blood stream.
I decided to kidnap one of these miserable souls every month. Take them to a different location, rape them, murder them. Bring their bodies back to Heera Mandi and leave them in the middle of its narrow streets. All those crime shows I watched on the T.V helped me in learning how to cover my tracks well.”
Interesting.
“I have always had this fascination with names. So, before I raped and murdered my victims, I asked them their names. I don’t know why. It was a ritual, like rituals people follow before they slaughter animals. You would, of course, know the names of all my victims Saadat Bhai, for you have been visiting Heera Mandi a long time, and all the news passes your ears. But I would like to tell you their names again.
Faiza. Naureen; she was fourteen. Jameela; her screams were the loudest. Parveen; she wouldn’t stop begging me to not kill her. Qudsia; she was fat. I’m glad I killed her. Fatima; she was a midget. Surriya; a strong women. Was really hard to kill her and which is why it was necessary for her to die. Amna; she was a matric pass. Couldn’t find a job so ended up being a prostitute because her parents insisted on it. Nagina; a battered woman, I must say. Saadia; she scratched my arms with her long nails. Firdaus; tried to seduce me into not killing her. She should have known better. Had the most fun while I carved out her intestines. Zainab; she cried a lot. It was annoying. Meera; she stayed calm, almost as if she wanted me to kill her. Saleena and Saleema; they were sisters. Their father was a pimp. Fauzia; she just wouldn’t scream. Mahnoor; slept while I raped and killed her. Mazna; too petit for my liking. Reshma; tried to escape, but couldn’t. And.. and..umm.. there was…
She was..
amm..
Ma..
Marv..
Marvi.”
Sami Durrani was crying. This sick psychopath was crying. The helplessness in his eyes was the same one as he described in the eyes of the prostitutes he had killed. He was crying like a child, loud and uncontrollably, reminding me again of the prostitutes he had talked about. I gave him water and told him to calm down. It took him 15 minutes to quiet himself down. His eyes were red. I asked him the reason behind this sudden emotion.
It took him another 10 minutes to steady his speech.
“Marvi. She was the 20th. The last one. I killed her Saadat Bhai. I killed Marvi.”
A long pause greeted these lines.
“After murdering Reshma (6 months back), I was roaming the confined streets of Heera Mandi, and I saw Marvi, and I could not take my eyes off of her. I was foreign to the feelings of love and had no idea that this was what it was. She had a wheat-ish complexion, dark brown eyes, long jet black hair which she always tied in a plait. She was a typical, average looking girl, but she was the one who made my heart beat abnormally fast.
Before her, when I used to look at women, the first thought that used to cross my mind was rape. After looking at her, the first thought that crossed my mind was that I needed to know her. I needed her. I wanted her.
So, I started visiting her as a client. In her company, all the thoughts of inflicting misery on women subsided and for the first time, I made love with a woman instead of raping her. 5 months went by, and I killed no women. Marvi had caged the monster that lived inside me and the key to that cage got hidden inside her normal being.
However, Marvi was a prostitute, and I was not the only man she could be with. She loved me, but her job required her to be with other men too. Whenever I saw other men leaving her room, anger took over me. Not the angry which is dangerous, but the angry which is sad and frightened. I had never cried in my life. Ever. She was bringing out all these emotions that had been buried inside me for so long. I cried because I longed for her each and every second of the day, and the truth was that I could not have her. I quit eating; I quit sleeping. I could not even ask her to run away with me because then I’d have to tell her where I was getting all the money from, without working. The fact that my Kashmiri family was sending me all the money would have somehow revealed the truth about my past to her. She made me vulnerable and week.
The monster inside me, it came out. Was I being controlled by a woman? Was a woman in control of all the things that I did? Was a woman, the reason behind my vulnerability? Was the same woman who I shaped according to my desires, shaping me according to her’s? I was a man, and I was superior. What had caused me to be this way?
Marvi.
And so, I killed her.
And I was free.
I looked at the tears on the lashes of her lifeless body. Reality hit me.
I had killed Marvi.”
He started crying again,
“Saadat Bhai… I tri..tried to wake her up. I sc..screa..screamed her name a..a thousand times, but she wouldn’t open her eyes. I apologized to her… I.. I.. told her, that I’d never do it again. Why was she not opening her eyes? Saa…Saa..Saadat Bhai I…I.. ki..l..killed my Ma..Marvi.”
Sami was crying so hard that he could not speak. There were tears in my eyes too.
The sun had risen, and its rays which came through the window in Sami’s lockup hit his face, exposing the innocence in his not-so-innocent character. 5:00 am on my wrist watch suggested that I had only thirty minutes left. 20 minutes went by calming Sami down and in the 10 minutes that followed, he spoke these last words to me,
“I gave myself up to the police. Maybe Marvi came in my life to make me aware of the fact that life was precious. The sight of her lifeless body made the faces of all those prostitutes that I had murdered flash in front of my eyes. I am not asking for sympathy, nor do I deserve it. I just want you to know that life is precious. Whether it be the life of a man, a woman or a child. This world has forgotten humanity, and the blood here is so cheap. We are conditioned to kill for pleasure, and always judge without knowing. This world is suffering from an incurable disease. Please find a cure Saadat Bhai. Please.”
Sami was taken to meet his dreadful fate. I made my way back to Heera Mandi because I missed Neelam.
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7 years have passed since Sami told me his story, and I am writing his story now because when I left the police station that day to go see Neelam, halfway through my journey, the police caught up with me. They threatened me not to write Sami’s story, and that if I did, I would be imprisoned for life. Why they were doing this was beyond me.
Later, I found out that Sami’s Kashmiri family did not want light to be shed upon their ugly, filthy and sick lifestyle.
Neelam is a bit old now, but she is still dancing, and I am still thinking.
Have you ever been aware of the worlds around you?
These worlds that appear in the form of humans?
Have you ever thought about what goes on in all these worlds that walk among us?
Like what about that random guy, who passes you by on a motorcycle? The most popular person in your class; your university? That one person who always sits as a substitute in all those football games? The one who is amazing at being a nerd? The one who tries so hard to smile? The famous prostitute?
Don’t get me wrong here.
You might absolutely be aware of all these worlds around you. But are you really aware of them? Are you known to the billions of the galaxies that co-exist within these worlds? Are you aware of the explosions that are taking place inside these worlds? Have you ever tried to make yourself aware of the fact that, the light which appears to originate from these worlds, might be the same one that comes from the stars? Maybe they are the stars of the world that they are. Maybe they are writhing and dying and burning every single day because if they don’t, they would stop shining and extinguish.
And some do.
Whenever you see the star from a world around you extinguish, please just pause your own world for a second and appreciate the beauty that somehow existed through the existence of their’s. Even if you didn’t know them. They were a star in their world which extinguished and in turn terminated the world itself.
Appreciate and get to know the stars that are still shining. Help them shine brighter.
And maybe one day, we might find a cure to the incurable disease that this world is suffering from.
