The old man sitting at the next table was hollering at the waiters. They had served him a cold cup of chai. The manager walked over and placed a hand on the grumpy man’s shoulder.

“Everything will be okay, sir. Just calm down.” The old man halted his loudness charade but kept on moving his lips, probably cursing the entire world.

“Sir, do you smoke?” said the manager.

“I do.”

“Here, have a cigarette. Go outside. Have a smoke. When you are done, come back inside and you’ll have the hottest cup of chai in Islamabad waiting for you.”

The old man accepted the peace offering, got up and started walking out. Just before pulling the door open, he stopped and patted his pockets. He was wearing a thick woollen coat and red bermuda shorts. His upper body was dressed for winter and lower for summer. He patted some more pockets as he turned towards me.

“Young man, do you have a lighter?” He asked as if everybody in the world owed him a lighter. I handed my Zippo over. He got excited and thanked me in four or five different languages in near-native pronunciation—obrigado, merci beaucoup, danke schön, shukran, gracias— and walked out. I was intrigued. He was standing on the footpath and I could see him pulling at his cigarette. I told the manager to set up two chairs outside and picked up my cup of chai and joined the sartorial oxymoron outside. Across the road, F-9 Park was turning deep orange. Autumn in Islamabad is painfully beautiful. The old man was standing with his back towards the Margalla Hills.

“The wind coming from the mountains is very cold,” he said in a guttural voice.

“You need to cover your legs too in this weather,” I stated the obvious. A waiter set up two chairs and a folding table. We both sat down.

“They are life-proof legs.” He patted his gnarled knees.

“How did they do that?”

“What?”

“Your legs. How did they become life-proof?”

“When you’ve walked away from every disaster unharmed, you start thinking your legs are special.”

“I can see some varicose veins.”

“I stood around for days watching things being built. I used to be a designer of petrol stations. For some years, I was the only one in Lahore who could meet the safety standards of the ISO and Pakistani regulatory authorities. From underground storage tanks to retail points, I was the man you had to consult. It all went wrong one summer at a petrol station which I had designed.”

“What do you mean?”

“Can I sponge a cigarette off you?”

“I handed him the pack. He pulled one cigarette out and put the pack in his pocket. When I stared at the invisible cigarettes in his pocket, he laughed as if getting caught for being too clever was normal for him. Then, he gave me the pack back.”

I also lit one. Two cups of hot chai arrived. We started sipping. “Go on,” I said.

“Look, you know, petrol is a very volatile liquid. This retail station that I had designed had its underground tanks built in winter. The vapor pressure and the vents had also been tested in winter. I’d told everybody to wait for the summer. Vapor control devices should be tested in summer before the storage system is considered safe.”

“Makes sense but it is all new to me. Just tell me what happened?”

“The owner was greedy. He wanted his investment to start paying back as quickly as possible. But you can’t disrespect ancient life forms, animals, and plants.”

“Ancient life forms?”

“Petroleum is the essence of ancient life forms. I have lived on offshore and onshore drilling rigs and travelled along the delivery vehicles and pipelines. Pakistani and Gulf summers go beyond all the Europeans and American safety standards. In California, where the temperature rarely goes beyond 36 celsius, you get more than 10 pounds of vapor per 1000 liters of petrol. Above 36 celsius is a heat wave for many Westerners. In Pakistan, selling petrol in a city like Larkana, one of the hottest places on earth in May and June, is something else. Even the attendants are high on the fumes coming from the dispensers and the vents. Anything can happen. Ancient bones are eager to cast their spell.”

“That’s poetic but please tell me what happened.” He was getting excited talking about petrol. I wanted him to tell his story.

“What happened? A customer had left the engine of his ice-cream delivery van idling near the vent pipes. Something sparked. Boom.”

“You must be kidding.”

“Everything I am saying is true.” He slammed the cup on the table to assert and continued. “The station was up in flames in seconds. Ambulances and fire trucks came blaring their sirens. By that time, some passersby had pulled the burning bodies out from under the melting fibreglass canopy.  Four attendants, two customers, and one manager were lying on the road half-charred. Only one attendant survived.”

“That’s horrible.”

“The owner filed a case against me and hired some of the best lawyers in the country. He also had the law and energy ministers on speed dial. I showed my emails in which I’d asked for more safety tests. But nothing worked for me. He walked unscathed. I had to pay hefty sums to him and to the families of the victims. It was a scandal. If you watch the news or read papers, you couldn’t have missed it. You probably know about it already.”

“No. I don’t. I was in Phnom Penh for some years.”

“I had to sell my business and house. I declared bankruptcy when I was left with ten thousand rupees. My wife and sons turned away from me. They couldn’t bear the shame. I moved here to escape the disgrace and now live in a small rented place in Seri Saral.”

“Where is that? I’ve never heard of it.”

“It is about eight kilometers from here. It is the cheapest place I could find.”

“I don’t know what to say to you and if any words can console you.”

“I’ve experienced public disgrace and loss. It has changed me. Now there is nothing left to lose. I can be as shameless and selfish as I want. What’s your story?”

“Very simple. Divorced. I live alone and work for an NGO. These days I am building a database of organizations that can be mobilized if a natural disaster strikes in South Asia. What do you do these days?”

“I watch people drink chai and sometimes talk to them. I live on the largesse of some former colleagues. Some of them still seek my advice informally.”

“That’s great.”

“I need to get going. I can still pay for your chai, young man. Thank you for listening to my story.”

“I think you should let me pay.”

“This is on me.”

“You should save your money.”

“I haven’t got anything to save or lose.” This silenced me. He paid for both of us and walked away after shaking my hand. I didn’t know what to make of his story.

_____________________________________________________________

I met him again after several days. The red shorts had given way to old corduroy trousers and his upper body was covered with a loose overcoat which was wrapped like a shawl. The manager gave him a couple of cigarettes. I offered him a plate of Cajun potato wedges which he accepted with thanks in only one language. I felt he was not going to pull through the winter.

“How do you get around?” I wanted to find out if he had the means to survive for some months. I was getting a handsome salary and had no dependents. I wanted to be helpful.

“I have an old motorbike.”

“In this weather, you ride around on a bike?”

“When it is too cold, I rely on the kindness of strangers.”

“You hitch hike?”

“I just stand at bus stops until someone offers a ride. I usually have nowhere to go.”

“Interesting. How did you get here today?”

“Today an employee of the National Archives offered me a lift in his car. He was kind enough to take a detour and drop me right outside this cafe.”

“And I can drop you back at your place.”

“Gracias, amigo.”

“How many languages do you speak?”

“I can order food and drinks in seven languages. ‘Uma cerveja grande para todos, por favor’ can be very handy if you are celebrating something on an oil rig in Brazil.”

“Do you want to eat or drink something? My treat.”

“No. I’ve had elegant sufficiency today. We can go.” We both walked to my car. The wind made me shiver. I looked at the old man. He walked briskly with his arms folded on his chest. When we got to the car, I opened the door for him to show courtesy and he acknowledged it by bowing his head. I felt he must have been a suave negotiator when I saw him genuflecting before seating himself. I turned the heater on and set the destination to Seri Saral on the navigation panel. It took fifteen minutes to reach the outskirts of Islamabad. Bright streetlights and macadamized roads disappeared as we took the turn to the basti he was living in.

“Park your car somewhere. We have to walk the rest of the way. And if you do not smell nervous, you are safe.”

“I am here to only drop you off. And what do you mean by smelling nervous?”

“I want to show you my place. I think dogs can smell anxiety and that’s how they figure out intruders.”

“How do you know that?” I asked as I parked at a dry spot among the puddles of sewage water.

“I must’ve read it in some scientific magazine. Then I tested this information when someone told me that dogs in graveyards like to eat human flesh because they can dig out dead bodies. I went to a graveyard to see if dogs that are fond of eating dead homo sapiens bark at me. I had a stun gun with me in case my experiment turned ugly.”

“Why?”

“Once a tinkerer, always a tinkerer. These days I don’t have access to my usual tools. So I have started doing things with whatever is available for free. Trees, dogs, insects are under observation. I don’t hurt anything. Sometimes a lightbulb and moths are all you need to test some interesting theories.”

We walked through dark and uneven alleys till he stopped in front of a shuttered shop. I thought he was going to break into a shop but he stooped down to open the lock and pulled up the shutter.

“Let’s get to your place, man.”

“This is my place.”

“You live in a shop?”

“I do. Nobody was willing to set up a business in it so the landlord gave it to me for living. It is an elegant solution.”

He turned on a sickly, yellow light. The room was a hymn to dust. He sat down in the only chair in the room and pointed the bed to me. I sank in the smell of defeat, Vicks VapoRub, and old age. In one corner, a leather suitcase had its countless airport tags turning into cobwebs.

“Do you have a washroom here?”

“No. When I’m here, I have to go to nature to answer the call.”

“Ah. Is that why you are always at that cafe?”

“Yes. During the day, I spend time at places where I can use the washroom for a cup of chai. At night, I can go to the fields behind the basti. You have to make do.”

“What about your other needs?”

“Yeah, they are there. I can’t bring a date or a lover here.”

“How do you solve that problem?”

“There is no solution. I just drive around with people if I meet someone interesting who has a car. I can’t bring a date here.”

“If you ever want to meet someone at a safe place, you can come to my flat. It is in one of those high-rises in F-10. People don’t mind a lot of things there.”

“I am thankful for your generous offer. I might avail it one day.”

“Sure.” We exchanged numbers and I left.

_____________________________________________________________

A month or so later, I am in the lift, going up to my flat. A shabbily dressed, middle-aged woman is also in the lift and she does not seem to know which floor she needs to go to. As we both are being pulled up, I catch the woman sizing me up. When I look at her, she holds my gaze and smiles.

“Sahib, do you need a maid at your flat?”

“What can you do?”

“Everything. Anything. Whatever you desire.” The way she says the words makes me think of the old man and his needs.

“What do you charge? I am not asking for myself. A friend of mine, an old man, can use a little happiness in his life. I hope you understand what I am hinting at.”

“I get you. You want an old man to sing happy songs. It will be 1000 Rupees per hour.”

“That’s okay. I live on the 9th Floor. You will have to wait till he arrives.”

“Sure.”

I open the door and offer her a seat in the lounge and put my briefcase in my room. I dial the old man’s number. He picks up. I tell him about the encounter in the lift and ask him to come. He asks about the price. I tell him not to worry it is a gift. He insists on knowing the price I have agreed to pay. I relent. He says he will be with me in fifteen or twenty minutes. I hang up and go to the lounge. She is checking out my flat. It is so sparsely furnished that it is mostly space. One sofa in the lounge. One study desk and chair. One single bed in each room.

“I can offer you chai or water while we are waiting for my friend. That’s all I have at the moment.”

“Nah, sahib. I am fine. How long will it take for your friend to reach here?” She looks at her mobile for time.

“Do you have to go somewhere else after this?”

“Maybe I can find another customer after this.”

“Have you explored this building before?”

“Yeah. But I am not the only one cruising in these buildings. There is a lot of competition.” I like her disarming candor.

“When do you start your day?”

“Around ten-thirty in the morning. That’s when the offices are open or jobless men are at home and their wives have gone to work and the children are in school.”

“That’s very shrewd.”

“What can we do, sahib? I have a good-for-nothing husband and have to feed four children.”

As I try to separate fact from fiction, I say, “Do you also work as a maid?”

“No. That’s just a good way to start a conversation. There is no profit in being a maid. You can earn twenty thousand rupees a month if you work your butt off. This way I can make more.”

“What about the police? Do they ever bother you?”

“No problem. The policemen in this area just want their flutes polished for free. Or they can take their share if I have earned something. That’s all.”

“That’s hard.”

“Nobody is saying life is easy.”

_____________________________________________________________

There is a knock on the door as we run out of things to say to each other. I open the door and the old man is standing there with another shabbily dressed woman who is slightly younger than the one sitting in the lounge.

“Who the hell is she?” I ask him in English so that both of the women don’t get what we are talking about.

“I met her in the lift while coming up. She has agreed to sleep with me for 700 rupees. I know you said it was a gift. But I tried to reduce your burden.” He waves me aside and walks in and the young woman follows him.

Now there are four people in the lounge. The young woman looks at the middle-aged woman already sitting in the lounge and recognizes her. They both are livid about meeting each other in my flat.

“What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?”

“This old man brought me here.”

“This sahib brought me here.”

I look at the old man and he just shrugs as the women both are staring me down.

“Who will pay me?” The older woman demands.

“I will pay. It is a gift from me to my old friend here.”

“Don’t pay 1000 to this old lady. This one is younger and cheaper.” The old man is talking as if he was deciding between two machines. I try to calm everyone down.

“Sahib, what is this?”

“Don’t worry. I will give you some money for wasting your time.” As I say this I feel I have insulted her. Or maybe the old man has insulted her. She gets up and marches out of the flat, banging the outer door behind her.

The old man looks at me with a celebratory glint in his eyes. The world is following his plans. He grabs the young woman by the wrist and disappears into a bedroom and bolts the door. I am standing in the middle of the lounge and my head is reeling. After two minutes, the door unbolts and the young woman marches out and the old man is trying to pull her back.

“I can’t do what he wants me to do.”

“What’s going on?” I look at the old man.

“This old man has watched too much porn. He wants to do weird things.”

“I am an old man. I cannot get it up without some foreplay.”

I look at both of them.

“I do it the good old way. That’s what our deal was. It was not for my mouth or ass. You have not bought my entire body with 700 rupees.” She is trembling with rage. The old man tries to hug her but she is not having any of it and pushes him away. She stares at him for some seconds and then she also marches out of the flat. She also bangs the door shut behind her.

Now the old man and I are standing in the lounge looking at each other. I just shrug and fall on the sofa. The old man looks at me.

“Everything was going fine till you thought of saving some of my money.” I say to him but he is not listening. Instead, he is checking me out.

“So many young men are gay these days. Don’t you have any such proclivity?”

I stare back at him, shocked. And then I pick up my phone as if I was going to call help.

“I think I’m going to walk out of another disaster unharmed,” with that, he hurries out of my flat.