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It was late afternoon.
Jeda was lying on his bed while Naz rested in the other room. Just then, a young man entered.
Jeda smiled and said, "Come, sit down."
The boy sat and asked,
"Do you know about Jacob Lines' den?"
"Hmm," said Jeda. "There's no den there."
"Which den in Karachi is hidden from me?" Jeda said with pride. "That's Basheer's area — and I know every inch of it. What did you see?"
"There are new quarters beside the shanties in Jacob Lines," the boy explained. "An old man lives in one of them — with a long beard. I think he lives alone. At night, prostitutes come to his place. There's music and singing till late. The old man plays the sitar, and sometimes the harmonium. I've been watching him for six days. Shamim from Japani Road, Taji from Agra, and a few new girls come often in the evenings. Don't you think it's a brothel, Master?"
"No?" Jeda asked.
"No," said the boy. "Except for the old man, no other men come. The women arrive one by one, then leave. But I'm sure it's a den, Ustaad."
"Have you ever seen Basheera there?" Jeda asked.
"Never," the boy replied.
"Then maybe Basheera doesn't even know that someone has opened a secret den in his territory."
Jeda fell deep in thought.
There wasn't a single gambling den or red-light corner in Karachi that was hidden from him. He knew every setup, every "business." Whenever a new place opened up in the city or the outskirts, he knew whose gang ran it and where the money went.
But when the boy told him about Jacob Lines, he couldn't recall any such den. The girls the boy mentioned — Shamim and Taji from Agra — were among the most beautiful women in Karachi, high-end prostitutes who sang and danced for elite clients. They didn't need anyone's protection or patronage.
That area belonged to another gang leader — Basheera — who was Jeda's equal in power.
Jeda thought of talking to him, but decided first to see for himself who this old man was. Maybe the boy was mistaken.
"Show me the quarter," Jeda said finally. "I'll go there tonight."
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Nightfall
It was early night.
Jeda stood at the door of the small quarter, thinking.
The door opened. Jeda stepped aside and began pacing.
A woman came out. In the dim light, he couldn't recognize her. When she disappeared down the lane, Jeda entered the house.
He crossed the small courtyard and stopped under the veranda.
For a moment, he thought — what if this was a respectable home?
Then he smirked. Respectable? He was a criminal himself.
From inside the room came the soft, trembling sound of a sitar — a deep, pure melody — played by a true master. Jeda felt drawn to it. He found himself standing at the doorway.
In a corner of the room sat an old man, playing the sitar.
He looked around seventy. His beard and hair were long and white as milk.
He was so lost in the melody that it seemed he was creating the greatest, final song of his life.
Jeda stood silently at the door. The music had mesmerized him too.
The old man seemed unaware of his presence. Then, absently, he looked up and said softly,
"Come in, my son. Sit down."
Jeda took a few steps forward but didn't sit.
The old man's face — framed by thin, silken strands of white hair — seemed to glow. Jeda studied every feature, every wrinkle, searching for a trace of guilt or sin. There was none.
The music, like a spell, began to dissolve Jeda's inner turmoil.
He started to forget why he had come there — and even who he was.
"Sit down, son," said the old man again, still strumming.
The word son came from so deep within his heart that Jeda couldn't resist. He sat down on the mat — as if under a spell.
"I was tangled in a few things," the old man murmured, still touching the strings gently. "My fingers have grown weak. They slip now and then."
He set the sitar aside, smiled, and said,
"So, why have you come, my son?"
"I heard the sitar," Jeda replied. "So I came in — without asking."
"You did well to come," the old man chuckled. "Who else would come to this old hut? I spend my time with these strings. No one visits. Just now, a few girls brought a bit of life to the place. Tomorrow again, it will be all silence."
"Girls?" Jeda smiled faintly. "Old man, they dance and sing for money — they're prostitutes."
"Maybe," the old man said, smiling gently. "But here, they are my daughters. They may be prostitutes where they dance and sing, but in my hut — they're my children. How do you know them, my son?"
"I just know them," Jeda stammered. "But why do they come to you?"
"To learn music," said the old man simply.
He looked around as if searching for something, then got up and went into the other room.
Jeda thought to himself, Learn music? Why would they need that?
"Come here, son!" the old man called from inside.
Jeda followed him.
The room had a few trunks, a bed, and a table with a teapot and utensils. In one corner lay a pair of tablas and a harmonium. The old man lifted the lid of a pot and peeked inside.
"What did you say — why did you come?" the old man asked, without looking at him.
He had called Jeda "son" so many times that Jeda had forgotten his purpose entirely.
"I heard the sitar," Jeda said vaguely. "I thought, if you allow, maybe I could hear a tune or two."
"I will surely play for you," said the old man, picking up the pot and stepping outside. "Come, son."
Jeda followed.
There was no lamp — only pale moonlight.
The old man was lighting small sticks in the stove.
"Every night, I play a bit," he said. "There was once a Raag by Tansen that could set fire by sound alone. Look — these sticks won't catch fire! My hands tremble so much now."
Jeda's attention drifted to his trembling hands.
"You live here alone?" he asked.
"Yes, alone."
"No children?"
"None," said the old man, blowing into the fire. "No one of my own.
But whoever comes here — becomes mine. You too are my child.
See — the fire still won't light!"
Pity stirred in Jeda's heart. He bent to help, blowing into the stove, but the wood still wouldn't burn. His eyes watered from the smoke.
The old man laughed heartily, pushed him aside, slid a few papers under the wood, and lit them. Soon, the fire flared up.
The old man placed the pot on the fire.
"I cooked this in the afternoon," he said. "There's enough left for both of us. I'll bring the bread — keep stirring the curry, son."
And Jeda, like an obedient child, began stirring the curry.
Smoke rose, stinging his eyes, but he felt a strange sweetness in that pain — a faint, forgotten memory. The heat and smoke seemed to peel back a curtain inside him, revealing the world he had long buried — the warmth of home, the rhythm of clinking pots in a kitchen, the echo of a mother's voice.
The ladle struck the pot's edge with a gentle ting-ting —
and the sound echoed through Jeda's being like a temple bell, as if the whole universe bowed in silent worship.
A strange peace filled him. He forgot where he was — lost in that moment.
Dinner was ready. The bread was warm. The old man spread a mat, served the food, and sat beside him.
"Eat, son. Eat," he said softly. "Do you have a job, my boy? What do you do?"
And before Jeda could stop himself, the words escaped:
"I pick pockets, father."
The spell shattered.
The two words — father and son — struck like thunder.
Reality rushed back.
He looked around — the half-eaten bread, the empty plates, the sitar lying in the corner, and the old man smiling quietly.
Jeda's eyes widened. Everything seemed to mock him.
"Whom did you just call father?" a voice inside him asked. "Where is your father, Jeda — the thief, the pickpocket, the criminal?"
The trance broke.
The black curtain fell again.
Whoever he had called father vanished behind it.
He stood up suddenly, glanced at the old man — and in the next instant, leapt out of the room.
"Where are you going, son?" the old man called. "Listen!"
But Jeda had already jumped across the courtyard and out into the street.
The old man called once more — and then laughed, a deep, echoing laugh that filled the night.....
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To be continue.....