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inaccessible. The IB personnel could eavesdrop only on the droning hum of the phones that were kept on constant tap or wiretap. They had planted the most sophisticated bugs in his home, but nothing was of any use.
    The Indian agents were even more frustrated because whenever Imran Shah Malik drew close to the bugs they had planted, he would recite divine Pashto poetry or hum melodious classical music with a perfect blend of raag and taal . Clearly, he found it amusing to mock his Indian 'friends'.
    Though he was fond of Ghazals, which spoke of idealistic lovers pining for each other unto death, he would sing old Punjabi songs with soothing tunes; spanning over a wide range of moods: the joy of living, the rains, sowing, harvesting seasons and what not? He hummed the love legends of Heer Ranjha, Sohni Mahenwal, Saifu Mulk and the many tragic tales told in those folklores, all aimed at misleading the Indians, who sat listening with wide earphones, hoping to catch even a minor aberration on Imran Shah Malik's part.
    However, the story of the car phone was entirely different.
    Imran Shah Malik's young driver constantly chatted with his fiancé over the car phone. It was also a free means of communication for the driver's friends: the gardener, the cook, the dhobi , the milkman and the fruit seller who frequented Imran's house on a daily basis.
    The Indian officer, who was deputed in New Delhi, to listen to conversations on Imran Shah Malik's phone, cursed the day he had joined the IB. He often begged his seniors for a transfer from the post because all that he got to hear day in and day out were the driver's sleazy words, his fiancé's coy giggles and the gardener's constant bickering with his wife - a mother to eight children, whose voices were forever present in the background.
    The overriding concern of the paan -chewing cook was to open a tea, samosa and boiled egg stall and then later on construct a small roadside dhaba of his own and to hire cooks and waiters. He would then sit at the cash counter and watch sitcoms through the day and occasionally scold the waiters, even if they worked well. At night, he would take home a few rupees to please his pesky wife. Most of the money would be spent on the maid, with whom he was madly in love. He would shower the Mohtarma with red lipstick, snow powder, talcum, alta , glass bangles and most importantly, slip a gold ring on her finger. This had been on his mind from the very first day he had seen her in Imran's house. He instantly knew that she would never refuse his advances. Oh! That night would be a different night. But he had no money to fulfil his dream. For this, he would have to keep abreast of the loan and the interest rates that were made available from the local sahukars , the moneylenders.
    The dhobi nursed a childhood dream of washing the silvery glad rags of the Sheikhs and Shaykhahs of Dubai in the basement of their stunning castles. Insha Allah , after serving those 'dumdum nobles', and 'gorgeous czarinas', the day would not be very far off, when he would be back to his fatherland, wearing his best bib and tucker! He would then employ another dhobi to wash his spotless white togs and black ties!
    And since he was a washerman , he had a very sound idea of the kind of clothes that the rich and famous wear. However, his imagination could not travel beyond wearing pants. And since hawai chappals or rubber flip flops had always adorned his flaky feet, the idea of slipping shiny shoes over his scaly feet had never ever crossed his fuzzy mind. So he would end up in his imagination, wearing designer clothing, paired with hawaiis and stepping out in style from an Air Emirates flight from Dubai to Lahore.
    But entry into Dubai was only through 'pushing', the term used for illegal immigration and for this constant networking over the phone with illegal immigration agents, their cronies and his Dubai-based cousins was crucial. Moreover, what could be better than the free car phone