The last thing one wants, when they’re trying to drown their sorrows in tiramisu, is coming across the blow-dried brigade. Y’know, the aunties with the Valentino bags, Sana and Safinaz caftans and the obligatory pair of shades holding their perfectly blow-dried hair in place. But that wasn’t the worst part of what happened yesterday. In an attempt to distract myself, I looked across the restaurant and saw *cue ghost about to appear and make the heroine shriek music* …Sharifuddin Pirzada, having lunch with some unknown gentlemen.
Now, for anyone who’s ever heard of Pirzada, or Sharfu as I affectionately like to call him [not to be confused with the servant Sharfu in the stage drama Bakra Qiston Pe], and is aware of how he’s gang raped the Constitution of the country, this was a golden opportunity.
For years, I’d been kicking myself at the fact that I’d never said anything to Sharfu during his visit to the Quaid’s Mazar during the imposition of Emergency rule in December 2007. I do remember that Sharfu had taken quite some time praying at the Quaid’s grave, and refused to speak to the media who was thirsty for his blood.
This time, I vowed to myself, things would be different.
But back to yesterday. Sharfu sat there, bent over the table, old and wrinkled, and yet, damningly enough, STILL ALIVE (I suspect some kind of magic potion for his long age, or as the sister just suggested, maybe he’s alive by feeding on the remnants of torn-up copies of the Constitution)
I clutched my butter knife.
Sharfu got up and shuffled slowly towards the exit.
I clutched my butter knife even harder.
I thought about what I’d say and how I’d say it. “Where was your sense of ethics when you were writing PCOs left right and center!? You’ve ruined everything, everything.” This sentence would be prefaced with choice expletives.
Sharfu passed by our table. I looked at him. I looked back at my tiramisu and took another bite.