The Third

Ambushed by a horde of tears, Arsalan was struggling to pull the fuschia silk tent through her outstretched arms. This dress was, in his opinion, a monstrous creation: an offensively shiny frock with underside threads irritating his daughter’s tender, eczema-prone skin. Plus, the fact that they only had jeans as bottoms and not the traditional Pakistani chooridar pajama, wasn’t helping. It made her look like…like…well, like she had been dressed by a single dad with too much on his expanding plate. 

To add to her humiliation, all he had to offer by way of a hairdo for “Culture Day” was a plain old, neat ponytail. None of those fancy “fishtail braids” and “updos” that crowned some other girls in the second grade.  

“Papa, you don’t know anything!” she wailed at the sight of her utterly incoherent outfit. (This was a line she’d recently started parroting from God-knows-where, and it would take him some getting used to.)

In any case, the floodgates had been opened, and Arsalan’s fate was sealed. In less than half an hour he’d be in the grip of a pulsing headache.  

He sighed darkly, suppressing the pangs of pain and defeat. Yet, as quickly as the pain had come to assault his heart, it was now scrambling towards the backseat. You see, Arsalan was one of those people who never could take their suffering for more than a joke. His personal troubles were always overriden by one thing, and that was his stubborn sense of obligation. For instance, at that very moment, he was thinking: is it her fault that Papa was working on his office presentation till 2 am and didn't have time to plan an outfit? 

But Arsalan always thought this way about everyone, not just about his child.

This was also his mode of thought when his ex-wife left and sent a message that she had finally found her “place in life”. At that moment as well, his thoughts catapulted over and above his agony. Finally they landed safely into the question: is it her fault that I failed as a husband? 

Thankfully, the damage from the divorce wasn’t too bad. Or so Arsalan perceived. Although the blows of fortune were severe, somehow, it was the same fate that kept rewarding him for refusal to be a victim. She neither returned nor asked for her child. Within the span of a few years he was promoted to the rank of Senior Advisor, and in a field that was sexy only to him: infrastructure planning and management. It wasn’t the top-dog position and someone else would always be taking the credit for his work. But he was content. 

With one problem settled, another had emerged: lately his manager had become exceptionally vicious (and not without reason). Yesterday’s feedback on the report would have stung if Arsalan wasn’t so exhausted. He recalled some vague nonsense about the need to be more “professional” and “develop better communication skills”. Now this was manifest bullshit.

His whole time at this organization, he had never peeped a toe out of line. Never been more than ten minutes late for a meeting. Never delivered anything less than spotless work. 

All of this, despite the guilt of entrusting his daughter to a daycare; despite knowing that while he sat through another pointless meeting, she was having an afterschool heart-to-heart with some paid stranger and not her only parent.

The manager didn’t get it: Arsalan wasn’t being “unprofessional” when he was taciturn in meetings or when his reports were “too matter-of-fact” and “unmarketable”. It's just that he had never been a person of words. As a middle-class immigrant from Pakistan who had “made it” in America, learning flowery English was not his life’s most burning passion. 

He was plenty happy that he now lived in a country without “load shedding”: daily, unpredictable power outages in the sweltering and crammed South Asian heat. He was silently grateful for his scholarship-funded Masters in Economic Policy (while Ma back home announced this fact to every single relative she could lure in). Still, it wasn't exactly a fancy writing or communications degree. 

Besides, English wasn’t his first language and even if it had been, his strength always lay in numbers: boring, dependable calculations that nobody wants to put on the cover. Arsalan had an inexplicable kinship with these nameless, unfailing abstractions. 

After all, how many times had he been the unseen earth beneath his manager’s lightweight feet? Every day, Arsalan’s meticulous labor ensured that there was some meaty substance for Mr. Communication to gloss over with his words, wrap in a pretty bow, and gift like stolen booty to the higher-ups. 

Empty as the manager’s critique was, there was something that he did understand, all too well…and it was veiled in the thorny cloak of pointless jibes…

Just last month, at their largest annual conference, Arsalan had been relegated to the end of the stage lineup…until, probably for the first time in his career, he had stepped out of line and spoken words unprompted…

He smiled serenely while allowing himself to drown in this syrupy memory… 

“Papa! Papaaa! My hair is still all tangly!” 

His reverie now violently broken, he got to work with a sparkly detangling brush. Kissing his daughter’s forehead, he began brushing with incredible gentleness, as if she were made out of cotton candy.

“It’s okay Sara…Papa is brushing it out, alright? Shhh…”   

But the softness in his voice betrayed the uncharacteristic rush of blood surging through his limbs.

For this memory was not just a memory. In fact, it was the precise moment at which Arsalan’s Maker had started to weave a brightly colored thread into the fiber of his otherwise colorless being.  

***

It was just like any other day: Arsalan was knocking out a multitude of tasks that he didn’t deserve to tackle alone. Just like any other day, he fried Sara’s chicken nuggets and arranged them on a paper towel in a ruled-straight line. Eventually, he would secure all six in her lunchbox in the five minute window before departure, to ensure optimal crispiness (or she just wouldn’t bite). 

Then there was the whole ritual of looking sharp, although his presentation would be negligible. From showering to chiseling the edges of his beard, it took him roughly 45 minutes. Of course, in intervals throughout it all, he got his little doll ready for school.

Now she sipped her chocolate milk while he plugged in the USB one last time…you know, just to triple-check that the presentation folder was all in there, including his one slide. 

Actually, all the slides were “his”. Every single one of them he had prepared diligently but the manager would be the glittering mouthpiece. Arsalan was not bothered by this. All he wanted right now was to error-proof the offering so there wouldn’t be any trouble.

“All clear”, he whispered, unplugging the USB and scooping up his coat…

After dropping Sara off to daycare (they’d take her to school today), he drove hurriedly to the venue. It was a quaint but capacious hotel in a nearby county, known as “The Bridgerton” (which looks exactly how it sounds). Apparently it was renowned for its “historical charm”. Clearly, Arsalan’s bosses wanted to impress the hundreds of attendees with a veneer of rusty sophistication.  

From the moment that he arrived that day, things went just as he’d expected. 

His manager was all Downtown Abbey while he was all concrete reality. Arsalan didn’t understand why, for an infrastructure planning conference, the sandwiches had to be delicately arranged in neat triangles like parallel mountain peaks…or why the front-row seats had to be strategized as if in a chess game…did it matter where the mayors of various small towns would sit? They’d all be bored to death anyway. 

But he did as he was told, forgetting the fact that rearranging chairs and unwrapping gluten-free muffins wasn’t technically his job. Arsalan was a practical man. If a job needed doing, he’d ignore whose it was. 

Still, he chuckled as he glided over to a wall with an empty table, lifting and setting down chairs as easily as if they were styrofoam.

I’d love to see the look on Ma’s face if she saw me like this, he imagined. 

I should send her a pic. Maybe then she’ll stop showing off her first-born son with his fancy “office job in Amreeka”… 

As he savored the thought of deflating Ma’s pride, his eyes fell on a large painting above the table. At first he’d categorized it with the rest of the stuffy, overdone decor; the swooping chandeliers, dark wooden paneling, and other such claustrophobic signs of taste. 

Yet here was a scene with something actually happening. What riveted him at first was the restless musculature of the two men; clearly, the artist had a measure of talent for depicting the human form. They were both wearing nothing but identical grey loincloths. However, their postures were starkly opposed. 

One lay on the ground with his belly exposed, hand up to heavens…or was it to his brother, imploring not to strike? A beam of light shone dramatically over his sculpted cheekbone, such that his beauty confirmed his goodness. But the standing man had already made his choice. His arm was raised high in the beginnings of a powerful downward arc.

Yes, the blow was sure to fall, and there would be no deterring it. His face was sunken, sallow, and anxious…a strange expression for the one who’d walk away alive! And what was that he was holding? A knife? An axe? Or just some sort of cane? It didn’t matter, because the artist had obscured the details of the weapon in clouds of insignificance.   

Underneath the picture, engraved on a miniscule golden plaque, were the words:

THE WORLD’S FIRST MURDER

World’s first murder…world’s first murder…and that’s when it hit Arsalan…

Oh wow! I know this! It was the story of Habeel and Qabeel that he had heard a lifetime ago in Pakistan. The two sons of Adam, one of whom murdered the other out of jealous spite. 

I wonder what they’re called in English?

No idea. After all, he wasn’t exactly discussing theology in his infrastructure management job. Still, he vaguely remembered something about one of the brothers being more successful or handsome than the other…an old tale not to be envious…anyway, he always found these preachy tales to be so unbearably long.

Just get to the point. He wished everyone would just state the point, and then act out the best course of action. 

"Hey, Arsalan buddy! We don't have time for sightseeing! Attendees coming any moment now!" 

Still amused by this depiction of a tale from his childhood, Arsalan rushed over to the stage. He'd already handed over the USB to his manager, who was strutting around like a peacock ready to unfurl its plumage. 

***

“...and that's how we exceeded the milestones for this year. It was incredibly challenging as you can see, but we managed to do it. Ha! You know, my team and I.”  

There was an embarrassingly faint applause as the manager concluded his presentation. Most faces were strained from the effort of staying awake. Some older, more seasoned attendees didn’t even care about such niceties; they were simply dozing off upright. 

“Now, before we get to your questions, I’d like to introduce my team, all of who’ve worked so hard…This is Alice, our fearless communications czar…”

Alice suppressed a twinge of irritation as she took the mike, droning on about her experience at the organization. 

Arsalan knew that with this lineup, he’d have to wait another fifteen minutes before he could speak and be done for the day. He didn’t mind the least bit that the manager forgot to summon him for “his slide”. In fact, this lapse had saved Arsalan from prolonged stage exposure. 

Finally his turn came. There he was, sitting closest to the podium while his manager had started introductions from the other end. Just as the second-to-last person was finishing, and Arsalan was almost up, something odd happened. 

It happened in a flash, but there was no mistaking it. The manager looked Arsalan directly in the eye, stepping over to grab the mike from Steve in what he clearly thought was a very subtle move. 

Everything else Arsalan could easily forgive. But this? It was overly gratuitous; far too deliberate a gesture. And unbeknown to the manager, a dormant gene in Arsalan had just become activated.

“Excellent, Steve! With that, I’ll be happy to take all of your questions.”

Without thinking, without a moment’s hesitation, Arsalan stood up and stretched out his hand for the mike. 

“Hey David, before the questions. Do you mind if I add a few points?”

“Ah yes, yes, I’m sorry Arsalan, sorry I forgot! This is our Senior Advisor, Arsalan! Introduce yourself too while you’re at it, buddy.”

“Yeah, no problem. I’m sure David just forgot to mention me. After all, my chair is practically right under his nose. Who can see their own nose while looking down?” 

His voice was soft and his shoulders relaxed, but his tone, cutting. People in the audience were stirring from their waking slumber. Arsalan even caught a few laughs. After all, nothing captivates human beings like a good drama, especially at the workplace. The mayors themselves were watching with a frank curiosity as David couldn’t do anything to stave off the deepening tint of rose in his cheeks. 

“I’m also proud of us for exceeding our milestones this year. I just want to spend five minutes talking about the financial nuts and bolts of how we got here. I know, I know. How boring is that? Slides full of numbers. Well, that’s exactly what I’m here for. I’m the guy who makes sure all the numbers are in order. Then I give the green signal, so that leaders like you can do something concrete for your constituents. 

You know, I’m originally from Pakistan, and it’s been many years since I’ve been working in the United States. I love this country. And would you know it, one of the things that people back in the homeland adore about this place is that things get done. The USA. It’s the place that’s built for more than mere formalities. Here, conditions change. Lives get better. Roads and bridges get built and perhaps even improved.

Now, I’m a simple man, but isn’t that what infrastructure is all about? 

My request is for all of you to not just admire our organization, but to do better for your community. That’s where my expertise comes in. I’m no one to advise you, except a person who has been a non-American and an American, and much prefers the latter.

And with that, sorry David, is it alright if? I’m…I’m just gonna take five minutes to offer some additional ideas to our valued attendees…”

David stood numb, smiling stiffly, while Arsalan launched to his neglected slide. All throughout his presentation, Arsalan stayed on the broad “hows” of their success rather than the penultimate “whats”. However, not a single soul was bored. People weren’t exactly listening to his number-talk, but drinking up the remnants of his earlier speech, energized by the passionate pragmatism of an “other” who had somehow made this place his own.  

“So thanks David for indulging me…handing back the mike in your capable hands.”

Barely able to stabilize the twitch in his lips, David wrenched it back, feigning his best version of a calm and composed voice: 

“Thanks. So. Much. Arsalan.”

***

With Sara at school in her mismatched outfit, Arsalan was now driving to the office. He smiled, knowing exactly why David had been grasping for fresh points of attack. 

After all, it couldn’t have been easy to stand by that day and watch a voice emerge.  

And how would David react if he knew that one of the mayors who’d shaken Arsalan’s hand that day had also offered him a job, just last week? He still hadn’t told a soul. What did that old, corpulent man say again? 

“You have a story, son. Ever give it a thought? You know, politics?” 

Although he had nodded robotically back then, today, every morsel of his being rebelled against this idea. Or did it?

It’s everything I’m not. 

Speaking shitloads, doing nothing. 

And I was running away from talk that day as well. 

It’s just, sometimes, you have to…

His thoughts trailed off. 

The thing was (and this never happened to Arsalan) he wasn’t sure what course of action truly was the best. For once in his life, he had acted purely on his own volition. And for once in his life, he was confused about something as simple as what’s right. 

Perhaps all action is like that. It's like slicing off a mythical hydra’s head: as long as you evade it, you’ve got only one familiar enemy to confront. 

But as soon as you’re tempted to let the blade slash, doubts blanket you from every corner. How was Arsalan supposed to know that David’s immediate supervisor, the Associate Director, would be lurking there that day? Or that David was undergoing an “informal performance review”? Of course, as manager, he could have simply given Arsalan his proper dues… 

But still…poor guy…

Drowning men do thrash. 

Anyway…politics?

For many days, Arsalan played around with this new confusion frolicking in his heart. No matter what he chose, from this moment onwards, he would always be carving out for himself an impossible space.

He would live out his days plying apart a wedge between the tightness of Cain and Abel. Arsalan would be neither striker nor stricken, neither oppressor nor oppressed, neither first nor second, but in being a risen second, a third.