I Dream of Rain

By Muhammad Ali Bandial

Two bullets fired fourteen years apart have come to define Bunny's life and his relationship with his father.

All Babar 'Bunny' Ali ever wanted was a chance to bond with his father, with whom he shares a love for books. When the prospect of an adventure comes up out of the blue, Bunny jumps at the opportunity. However, everything changes one night when a random bullet, deep in the heart of the jungle, completely transforms their lives.

Fourteen years later, on a dark night, an unexpected phone call gives Bunny an opportunity to set things right. But he will have to open old wounds and revisit the wrongs of the past. As he sifts through the rubble of his childhood memories, picking up the fractured pieces, he must journey within to find the path that brings him home.

Can Bunny find a way to rejoin the two halves of his life? Can the bonds of love survive the hurt of past mistakes?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Muhammad Ali Bandial
• Release date: Jul 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215232934

Muhammad Ali Bandial

Hi, I'm Muhammad Ali Bandial, an award-winning author, writer, editor and bureaucrat, whose writing has appeared in The Friday Times, The News, Khaleej Times, DAWN and more. I hold an MPA from the National University of Singapore and worked for more than a decade in the Civil Services of Pakistan where I held a number of portfolios including a brief stint in the National Counter Terrorism Authority. Talking with jailed radicals, victims of extremism and many other interesting characters, I was reminded of how each person has a unique story that sometimes gets brushed over with broad strokes. I got to expand my canvas through my interaction with brilliant characters, some good, some brilliant, all interesting during my journey. I write about character-driven stories, based on actual people with their flaws, idiosyncrasies, leanings and motives. In my spare time, I love to sketch. I’m a die-hard tennis player, a foodie and a one-time soccer player with a busted knee. I live with my wife and daughter and would love to hear from readers, so please feel free to contact me.

Book preview

Chapter II- First cut is the deepest

11th January 1993, Lahore

3.09 PM

I can still recall that January morning in Lahore like it was yesterday. The first thing that hit me as we got out of the car was the cold. I tasted the fog in my mouth. Em shrieked with delight as I blew imaginary smoke circles. A thick white blanket enveloped the city. It only retreated for a small part during the day when the rays of the mid-day sun would poke through. Lahore winters sneaked up on you. Seeped into your bones and made them cackle.

But for me, it was a pleasant change from Pano Aqil where even the coldest day felt like midsummer in Lahore. We had come on a month-long vacation to attend a couple of family weddings. It was a complete surprise and out of character for Abu. But I wasn’t complaining. Having lived in the desolate isolation of Pano Aqil Army cantonment in the heart of Sindh for over a year, I was looking forward to the trip. I couldn’t wait to visit all the bookstores and stock up my collection. We had dropped off my mother and sister at the hair salon. It was finally only me and Abu. We made our way to Ferozsons bookstore on Mall road.

I checked my pocket for the tenth time, making sure I had the long list of all the books I intended to buy.

As a kid, I had not been a very talkative child. My family would place bets on how long it would take for me to produce my lopsided grin. My aunts and uncles would tell

me how their jaws would ache. It was from the countless hours they would spend making funny noises and faces, trying to get a reaction out of me. But nothing they did could break my concentration. I seemed to be forever lost in my own internal world.

From early on, I decided I wanted control over my environment. I wanted to observe the world and only interact in a manner and style that suited my moods. I wanted to be able to shut out the world whenever I wanted to. Even as a child, I realized things were not going to be the way I wanted in the outside world. Everything was a little too fast, too loud, and too in-your-face all the time. And so, I would retreat and back away into my imaginary world. A place where I could set the pace and turn down the noise when it got too loud.

It was my father who had first noticed this in me. He had made me feel that there was nothing to be ashamed of. Little by little, he had prodded me out of my shell. He would take time out to listen to the worries and life-threatening scenarios of a toddler.

I fell in love with books from an early age. They opened a world without assumptions and repercussions. A world where I could try on as many personas and personalities as I wanted. I got hooked on the possibility that, no matter how bad the situation got, I could always slam it shut and walk away. I could take a timeout, gather my thoughts, and come back again to tackle it at my convenience. I had the power to keep all the excitement and danger at arm’s length. Locked within the confines of the pages and the world they created. But something was missing. While I loved reading all sorts of books, I had yet to find something that truly swept me off my feet. That was about to change. As with all epic love stories, mine also started with heartbreak.

It all began in the summer of ‘92. I had flunked in Maths. As punishment, Ammi had grounded me for the summer vacations.

Every day for the next two months, the only time I got out of the house was for an hour in the evening. I would sit on the lawn, knowing that only a wall separated me from my friends on the other side, unfettered. I would squirm and grind my teeth as I sat with a tutor. For an hour, we would do fractions, algebra, and other torture techniques. On the other side of our wall, I could hear the shouts of my friends as

they played ‘follow the leader’.

The reason for my harsh punishment was a boy. Although, to call him that would be a disservice to normal-sized boys. His name was Sabahat. Like star-crossed lovers, he and I were destined to meet. A combination of bad karma on my part and the fervent prayers of exasperated teachers had played a part. The rules and regulations of the Army Public School Pano Aqil Cantt also contributed to our union. According to the rules, a student could not spend more than three years in the same class. I had heard that the original rule had been for two years before Sabahat made them amend it. The first day I ran into him, I had said ‘Hello, Uncle’, thinking that he had come to pick up one of his kids like some dads did.

It had been an honest enough mistake. It made sense, considering the hairy tree trunks he had for arms and the lush foliage sprouting on his upper lip. If he was twelve, then I was General Zia Ul Haq. Sabahat had not taken kindly to my innocent

mistake. Although never a cheerful kid, Sabahat’s disposition had soured even further after watching his friends advance while his own academic progress stalled. I was able to reach that conclusion whilst being dangled in mid-air with my face partially submerged inside the school toilet. From then on, there had been no more misunderstandings. Sabahat and I got along really well. He pointed, and I jumped.

When he pointed at my Maths paper during the final exam, there really wasn’t a second thought. I jumped. I slipped him the answer sheet. He passed me his blank page. I turned over the first page and gasped. On the inside was a pencil sketch of Ms. Amtul, our school principal. Mrs. Amtul was a firm believer in excesses when it came to punishment and cleavage, to the dismay of both students and wives. My ears burned as I furiously erased the drawing, tearing the page in my embarrassment. But all in all, I felt I had come out with the better end of the deal. My actions had ensured I wouldn’t be going scuba diving inside the school toilet in the foreseeable the future.

When the result card came and Abu held it in his hand, he fixed me with a look that said, this could go two ways, you decide. At that moment, I saw a tiny bump along his temple throbbing. Like a ticking timebomb waiting to go off. I was man enough to concede I would do everything in my control to make sure it didn’t detonate. Not. On. My. Watch.

Lt. Col Shamsher Ali, aka ‘Shera the Muchh’ as his junior officers and sepoys called him, was not an imposing man by any stretch of the imagination. Standing at five feet six inches, he was short, thin, and wiry. But what he lacked in physical stature, he made up in aura and presence. He never walked, he bounced. There seemed to be an invisible spring attached underneath the tips of his feet that made him float. It was no wonder his shoes always used to wear out in the front, while the heels stayed as good as new.

Abu had a small round head between those two large ears. People had been making fun all my childhood for my small head. Oftentimes I had been called a ‘Dauleh Shah ka choohah’, named for the rodent shaped, small-headed children that, according to rumors, had iron caps placed on them during infancy. Abu got away with it because of his thick, wavy, shiny clump of curly black hair that glistened in the sun. Black bushy eyebrows thick enough to be mustaches perched above deep-set eyes that were slightly squinted. He wasn’t cross-eyed, but with Abu, you always got the impression he was looking at you, even when he wasn’t. The effect was unnerving and mesmerizing, depending on his mood at that moment. He could disarm you with those slightly misaligned eyes. Or he could turn your feet to lead and freeze the blood in your veins.

I used to spend hours in front of the Daffy Duck mirror in my bedroom, trying to squint my eyes as much as possible. I would always end up being slapped or rebuked by Ammi, who would catch me in the act. She would warn me that my eyes would permanently get stuck in the same position.

If only.

A large, hooked nose partitioned a luxuriant flowing mustache that would have made Tom Selleck proud. At forty, he still ran the thirty miles at the head of his regiment.

Afterward, when he came home, Em and I would fight to decide who got to take off his shoes and socks. His feet, which he had carefully bandaged and powdered, would be mangled and caked with dried blood. But he didn’t seem to care, laughing and joking with Ammi and horse playing with us.

If you were a friend, he could disarm you with his famous gap-toothed smile. It came out on rare occasions from behind his carefully waxed and twirled thick mustache.

That mustache had a personality of its own. I had seen grown men quiver and give up in front of that mustache. I had overheard his junior officers and sepoys talking about it in hushed and reverent tones. If you knew him, you wanted him to be proud of you. You would do anything to avoid disappointing him. What chance did I have? I wanted to confess to it all.

But how could I tell my larger-than-life father that I was afraid? That I had been bullied into handing over my paper? There’s no right age to disappoint your father, but when you’re growing up, you want to do everything possible to impress your

father. You definitely don’t want him to think you fear someone. So, you rationalize your cowardice to yourself. You reason you’re doing the right thing by saving your father from all this hassle. He’s got enough on his plate. What with the Anti-Dacoit operation going on and the office politics, which I kept hearing about in muffled tones. So, I kept quiet and endured the stare of the mustache. A minor price to pay

for the peace of the region. And also, to keep my head out of the toilet. A small step for humanity, a giant leap out of the toilet for me.

Anyway, back to my story. Long story short, I had flunked Maths and been grounded. I could tell the decision to ground me upset him almost as much as me. But it had to be done.

One day after an excruciatingly long hour of fractions and their intricate relationships, I trudged back to my room to fling the books as far as I could when my eyes fell on something inside my parent’s bedroom.

When you’re a kid, the parents’ bedroom is like the sun during a solar eclipse. You don’t look at it directly unless you’re wearing shades, which means never. It is a ‘No Go’ area and trespassers are not tolerated. But that day something caught my eye, and I committed the cardinal sin.

I peeked.

It was a shoebox, protruding from Abu’s side of the cupboard. I could just about make out the frayed yellow pages of a book. I had never been the outdoorsy and sporty type, much to Abu’s chagrin. I preferred the company of characters from storybooks. I had been an avid reader for as long as I could remember. Having already exhausted both the contents of the children’s section of the Army Library and the patience of the librarian, who had admonished me multiple times for sneaking into the adult section, I was intrigued.

I looked around. I could hear Ammi downstairs talking to the cook. Abu would not be home for another hour.

Perfect.

I slid one foot across the threshold. It did not catch fire or set off an alarm. Commandos did not descend from the ceiling. I snuck inside, tiptoeing across the length of the room. I peeked into the contents of the shoebox. It was overflowing with paperbacks, all by some author called Louis La’mour.

My world of books until that stage had been defined by the adventures of The Secret Seven, The Famous Five, Hardy Boys, Roald Dahl, and the like. Not that I wasn’t aware of the world of cowboys and westerns. I knew about them. I knew that Abu liked them, but that was that. He had never mentioned his own personal collection, and from what I had heard about them, they seemed silly. I had decided that they weren’t for me. I had no interest in them. The Army Central Library also didn’t have an impressive collection of westerns, and the ones they had didn’t seem interesting. Perhaps fate had been waiting for the perfect moment for me to be at a point where everything was perfect for me to stumble upon my father’s secret treasure trove.

Little did I know that while being ‘locked up’ indoors, I had stumbled upon a hidden treasure that would open my eyes to an alternative world.

I picked up the topmost novel. The cover showed a man in a leather shirt carrying a rifle. The book was titled The Skyliners. Intrigued, I read the first page.

I was hooked.

In the dusty, unforgiving landscape of westerns and cowboys, I found my world. There would be no turning back. Every day for the next week, I would sneak in and sit beside the cupboard, reading a couple of pages, savoring each sentence, drawing up images of hardened men who went to battle for honor and fought for what was right. Then I would carefully put the book back in the box and sneak out.

One day, after I had finished The Skyliners and moved on to The First Fast Draw, I was about to put it back among the pile when I heard someone chuckling behind me. I whipped my head around so fast that I saw stars for a couple of seconds. As my vision cleared, I saw the gleaming gap-toothed smile under the mustache. Abu held out a paperback.

‘Read this next. You’ll love it.’

I looked at the book, the title was Hondo.

I took it. ‘When did you start reading these?’ ‘When I was about your age.’

‘You’re not angry?’

‘This’ll be our little secret, amigo.’ Abu ruffled my hair.

That had been the beginning of our secret bonding. It developed quickly into something transcending the usual father-son relationship. Over the next month, Abu and I developed a camaraderie that made me abandon my bicycle gang. In bonding with my father, I had found somebody who shared my enthusiasm for escaping into imaginary worlds. We talked more than ever. And each day, I saw more and more of myself in my father. I saw, for the first time, the boy he had once been. When we weren’t discussing the latest Louis La’mour novel I had finished, we would imagine various scenarios and situations from which the hero always saved the day.

That summer of ‘92, Abu and I were inseparable. As kids my age celebrated the Cricket World Cup victory, fighting amongst themselves over who got to be Wasim Akram or Inzy, I spent every waking moment with my father. When the Army Anti- Dacoit Operation began and my father got posted to Sukkur City, I managed to convince Ammi to let me tag along with him for the duration of the summer vacation. Most of the heavy lifting had to be done by Abu, who assured her I would be safe and would not miss my mathematics tuition.

As he winked at me behind Ammi’s back, I fired from my imaginary six-shooters. We were going to be two trail-hardened cowboys riding into the sunset. And that was how it felt over the next couple of months as our bond and relationship grew and blossomed. What happened a year later in the aftermath of Khalqu Chachar’s capture caught me off guard.

We had been browsing through the bookstore for about an hour when Abu tapped me on the shoulder, signaling that it was time to leave. I was sad to leave the bookstore. I felt there was more to the place that could have been explored. At the counter, Abu took the two books I picked out.

‘Shadow Riders.’ He arched his eyebrows. ‘Excellent choice.’ I beamed.

‘Did you know there’s also a movie based on the novel starring Tom Selleck?’ ‘Your favorite actor?’

‘Yeah, he’s not too bad.’ Abu smiled as he twisted the ends of his mustache.

‘Have you read it?’ I asked, more out of idol worship than actual curiosity. Abu, true to form, scoffed. ‘You’re talking to Shamsher Ali Sackett here, pardner,’ he drawled, pointing his imaginary six-shooter at me.

I grinned.

The shopkeeper smiled at us. ‘Your son has great taste,’ he said as he put the paperback in a parcel. ‘May I recommend a book for you?’

I looked with saucer eyes at Abu, who shrugged as if to say, what the hell, why not?

The shopkeeper handed me a white hardback with the picture of a tiger wading through a stream. The title read Maneaters of Kumaon. I looked at the book, intrigued by the sight of the tiger and the word ‘maneater’. I looked at Abu, who nodded. ‘Yeah, this is by Jim Corbett, right?’ he opened the book to confirm. ‘Yup, he was this great British hunter who used to kill tigers and leopards that killed and ate people.’

‘Ate?’

‘Yup, it’s true.’

I had seen a fly-ravaged, bored-looking tiger once in the zoo as a kid. Instead of being scared, I felt pity for the poor jungle cat. To imagine that pathetic-looking creature that refused to come out of the shade and roar for my pleasure, out in the open, terrorizing people and feasting on them seemed a stretch for my brain.

‘Whoa!’ I gushed as we made our way back to our car after paying for the books. For the rest of the journey, I was in a world of my own. Nancy Sinatra’s ‘Summer Wine’ played on the stereo. I hardly heard anything as Abu talked in the background. He said something about visiting the son of his college professor who ran a boarding school in the city and how the situation in Sindh was getting dangerous regarding the ongoing military operation. My mind was completely switched off. I nodded for his sake. In my mind, I was galloping across the prairie on my mustang stallion, my handlebar mustache flowing in the wind.

An hour later, we turned into a narrow lane, stopping outside a black gate that opened up to a narrow driveway leading up to a white double-story bungalow. A couple was standing at the entrance to greet us as we got out. Abu introduced them as Mr. and Mrs. Jamal Amjad. As we were led inside, Mr. Jamal asked me which class I was in and what subject I liked. I replied absent mindedly, having long mastered the art of giving the appropriate response. I was the undisputed champion of small talk, having had to sit and converse with unexpected guests countless times while waiting for Ammi and Abu.

After tea, I glanced at Abu and pretended to look at my watch as if to say Let’s mosey along, amigo. For the first time in memory, I saw apprehension cloud those piercing eyes.

‘Bunny, why don’t you go with Jamal uncle and look at the guestroom?’ he said. I knew what he meant. It was a part of our routine that me, Em, and Gohar used to do in Pano Aqil when Abu wanted to stall for time.

Being the commanding officer of a regiment was a full-time job. Often times Abu would be relaxing by taking a nap or playing with us when senior and junior officers would drop in unannounced at odd times. We would be in the middle of a gripping game of kasoti, trying to guess the mystery personality when the doorbell would ring This was a big problem for Abu, who took his downtime seriously.

Abu had come up with a solution for this problem by enlisting additional recruits. Me, Em, and Gohar. Our job was to entertain the unannounced guests with small talk

while Abu and Ammi got ready. I became Subedar Bunny with Havaldar Em and Sepoy Gohar, who was still in his stroller, under my command. The job had its perks. After the guests left, anything that got left on the trolley was ours. Em and I would stuff our faces with the samosas, cakes, gulab jamans with Gohar happily drooling over a piece of bread.

When Abu asked me to go with Mr. Jamal, I knew what he meant, but I couldn’t understand the motive behind our well-rehearsed move. But I was an excellent foot soldier and believed in a chain of command. I shrugged and got up, following him to the room. It was a normal bedroom with two single beds placed along both walls.

There was a wooden cupboard that stood at one end. A poster of a white-colored horse standing on its hind legs and pawing the air adorned the wall. The caption read ‘The essence of courage is not that your heart should not quake. But that no one should know that it does.’

Like all proper kids, my parents had trained me to feign interest at times for the benefit of strangers. It was the polite thing to do. So, I put on my best rendition of someone seeing clothes stacked in a cupboard for the first time. I ran my hands over the clothes while in my mind I rehearsed my speech for winning the Best Actor award for my performance.

In the background, I heard a car engine starting, followed by the sound of tires crunching over gravel as it backed out of the driveway. It took me an entire minute before it registered.

I ran into the lounge. There was nobody there. Heart pounding, I rushed out. Mrs. Jamal stood in the driveway. The orderly closed the gate. I stood there, too shocked to feel anything. Mr. Jamal came up and handed me my books.

I scrambled to find words for the feeling creeping up my spine. And then it came to me. It was Eid. I was seven. I remember running my hand over the coarse hair of Jugnoo, the snow-white lamb Abu had brought home from the market. It had been a part of the family for two months. I used to parade it around the neighborhood, feeding it fruits and vegetables.

At that moment in my moment of despair, the glassy stare of Jugnoo, just after they had slaughtered it, came to mind. I remembered its tongue lolling out of its mouth. I kept staring at it. Long after its legs had stopped thrashing maniacally in the muddy red puddle that mushroomed underneath its lifeless body.

Betrayal.

I don’t remember how long we stood there. Louis L’amour, Jim Corbett, and I. Staring at the black gate. Abu had just driven off into the sunset, leaving us behind.

Chapter III- I is for Idiot

24th July Islamabad 2006

8.40 PM

There was a knock on the door. Without waiting for a reply, Jabbar entered. He was clad only in a dhoti fashioned out of a threadbare bedsheet. Boots sat quietly by the window, stealing glances at me but not saying anything.

I looked up, quickly averting my gaze. ‘Geez, Jaybee,’ I said, shocked back to reality at the sight of my friend leaving nothing to imagination.

‘What?’ he asked as he scratched his protruding belly with one hand. With his other hand, he nonchalantly held onto his dhoti. The thin cotton cloth was the only boundary between me and a view that would lead to countless hours of therapy.

I tried to broach the subject of his choice of wardrobe as delicately as I could. 'Jaybee' I said, ‘I like you but not that much.’

‘What?’ Jaybee replied. His eyes fell on the mattress. I knew what was coming.

‘Are you happy to see me or is that a pizza in your...’ he trailed off, unable to slip in his favorite double entendre.

‘Nice try.’

I shook my head and pushed the pizza box towards him. ‘There’s enough in there for you and Boots,’ I said.

‘I’m full,’ said Boots.

‘Say no more.’ Jaybee rubbed his hands together, then quickly caught the dhoti as it threatened to fall off.

‘I think I should probably slip into something more hands free,’ he said.

‘I think that’s the first smart thing you’ve said all day,’ I quipped as I rummaged through the pile on my desk, looking for my jeans.

‘I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.’ Jaybee’s voice drifted from the room next door. He came to stand by me. I stood in the middle of the room, my eyes searching for the elusive jeans. My mind refused to switch on.

‘Bunny, you, ok?’ It was the genuine concern in his voice which made me step back into reality.

‘Abu’s been in an accident,’ I whispered as I slumped to the floor.

He sat down beside me and fished out a cigarette from behind his ear. As he lit up, I recounted the events of the call in as few words as I could.

‘Want me to drive you there?’

‘No, man, it's fine. Someone is coming to pick me up.’

‘You could just take Rustom,’ offered Boots as he got off the window and joined us on the floor. Rustom, the 1989 Suzuki Khyber, was like an older brother to Boots. It had been hit so many times that nobody remembered what it had originally looked like any longer. Each dent and scratch were now a marker of Boot’s progress. Each paint job and repair, a lover's smooch. Over the years, Rustom had many lovers: tongas, motorcyclists, lorries, potholes, electric poles and, on one occasion, a donkey. The donkey had survived. The bent rear door, which had to be kicked open from the inside, had been a parting gift that due to a chronic