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Jaida stepped into the courtyard. There was a knock at the door, and when he opened it, a teenage boy stood there.
He was one of those boys who used to inform the ustads (gang leaders) in advance, giving them tips about potential targets.
The boy said, "Big catch, boss. A fat merchant is sitting in a shop in the market. He's out collecting payments, carrying a bag in his hand. If you hurry, maybe…"
Noor and the Memons, who dealt in wholesale business, would often go out to collect payments. They carried the money in bags, but they weren't so careless as to flaunt those bags openly in a busy market. Still, every now and then, some careless merchant would end up falling prey to an ustad.
"I saw him," the boy continued. "He was visiting shops with the bag in his hand. Doesn't even keep it under his clothes."
Jaida trusted his apprentices. They were so well-trained that they could tell just by looking whether the target was easy prey or not worth the trouble.
He went into a room and pulled out from under the bedding a pair of glasses, a dagger, a black cap, and fake moustaches. He stuffed them into his trouser pocket and stood in front of the closed door behind which Ibn's body lay.
"Mune, you come with me," Jaida ordered. "The boy has brought news of the target. Teepo and Badal, you stay busy with your work. Don't take too long."
A short while later, Jaida, Mune, and the boy were moving into the crowded market. The boy was ahead, sharp-eyed, making sure the target hadn't already disappeared from the shop.
"There he goes," the boy whispered, pointing forward.
A heavyset Memon trader was walking with a bag in his hand. The market was packed, a frenzy of pushing and shoving, as though everyone was desperate to crush through the crowd first.
Jaida's eyes were locked on the prey. He was just waiting for the right spot, the right moment. Mune and the boy already knew what trick their ustad would play and exactly what role they themselves would have to act out. They needed no further instruction—Jaida had trained them well.
The three of them drew close to the merchant, trailing him. The boy, after circling ahead, came back to join them.
Soon they reached that part of old Karachi where century-old three- and four-story buildings faced each other, and the narrow lanes had been starved of sunlight since the beginning of time. Mosquitoes, flies, and stench lived there. The alleys twisted so much that a man could vanish as though the walls themselves had swallowed him whole.
As soon as the merchant stepped into those alleys, the boy moved ahead. That was the signal. Jaida pounced like a hawk, snatching the bag from the trader's hand and slipping into a side lane.
The Memon merchant ran after him, but Mune and the boy darted in front. He collided with them, and by the time he regained his balance, Jaida had already disappeared into another lane. His footsteps echoed briefly before being drowned out by the merchant's screams.
"Thief! Thief! He's taken the bag!" The trader was wailing, beating his chest.
But in Karachi's rush and clamor, no one cared. Even if someone's companion was snatched away, the crowd wouldn't notice.
Two or three people had seen Jaida seize the bag and run. They rushed to help the trader, and others joined in the chase.
Mune and the boy seemed like the merchant's closest companions, running with him, appearing panicked as though the bag was theirs or the trader their father. Nobody realized they were only creating diversions—pointing to this lane or that one, urging, "He went this way!" while leading the crowd in circles.
Gradually, the group chasing the thief thinned out, each man peeling away one by one. Only the merchant, along with Mune and the boy, kept running.
"Come with me, brothers," the trader pleaded. "My whole fortune is gone."
"We're with you, Seth," Mune replied.
Just then, from another lane, a man appeared. Black cap on his head, glasses on his eyes, thick moustaches between his nose and lips, and a shirt slung casually over his bare shoulders, held by one hand.
"Did you see a man run past here carrying a bag?" Mune asked him.
"Yes, I did. What's the matter? Why are you all so restless?"
"Injustice, brother, injustice!" the trader cried. "He snatched away my four thousand rupees!"
"Four thousand?" Mune exclaimed in fake shock. "Then you should go to the police station, Seth. Running and crying won't help. By now he must have reached the main road and hopped into a motorcycle or rickshaw. I saw him myself. He had a green bag in his hand."
"That's the one!" the merchant shouted. "Green bag with a red string at the mouth!"
The trader forgot entirely that no lane in this area reached any main road in under ten minutes. He didn't know that his precious green bag was hidden just a hand's breadth away—beneath the very shirt resting on Jaida's shoulder.
All he knew was that his money was gone. He collapsed on the ground, wailing.
A crowd of children, women, and men gathered around. Taking advantage of the scene, Jaida—in disguise—slipped away with Mune and the boy. Another crime was added to Karachi's tally.
Not long after, Jaida, still in disguise, climbed into a taxi with his companions. The driver was bent under the hood, fiddling with the engine.
A weary constable stood nearby, leaning against the wall, yawning so wide it was as though he wanted to swallow time itself. He was desperate for his shift to end so he could finally get some sleep.
Jaida spotted him. He untied the bundle of cloth in which the bag was hidden, pulled out two ten-rupee notes, crumpled them tightly into a pellet, and flicked it from between his thumb and middle finger.
Just as the constable opened his mouth for another yawn, the paper pellet flew straight in. Startled, he shut his mouth, looked down, picked it up, and unwrapped it—two crisp ten-rupee notes.
He glanced around suspiciously. Jaida, peeling off his fake moustache, called out softly. The constable looked toward the taxi and smiled.
The taxi rolled away. His yawns vanished, and he began patrolling his beat with renewed energy.
"Well, driver?" Jaida tapped him on the shoulder. "Are our taxis getting passengers or not?"
The driver turned, did a double take, and gasped. "Ustad! By God, I didn't recognize you!" Then he laughed cheerfully. "Of course, Ustad. We're eating from your hand. Don't you worry—we'll take good care of your seats."
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Seven days had now passed since Ibn's disappearance from home. Today, he was gone from the world itself.
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To be continue....