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Am I all evil, then? It must be so.
If I was created so, born to this fate,
Who could deny the savagery of God?
– Oedipus Rex, Sophocles
Javed Khanani has an interesting relationship with power and violence. He craves the former, has it in spades, but can’t dole out the second himself, which is why he needs Iqbal to bloody his hands, and why, after having first met Rehman Dakait, he is both raving and wary, the way a predator gets when it encounters one that’s higher on the food chain.
Iqbal’s the highest still.
“Arrange a meeting, then,” he says, “If you think he will be useful.”
“What if he doesn’t give in to our demands?”
“Dying in Lyari is easy.”
Javed laughs. This, too, he likes: introducing the convict to their executioner.
--
Many men try, upon making his acquaintance, to assert themselves. He believes it’s a kind of fear response, in the end; they try to make themselves look bigger, meaner, so that Iqbal hesitates for a split second, worries that it’ll hurt if he goes for the throat.
It never works.
Rehman Dakait is somewhat slender, smaller than the men flanking him, and he’s got a thoughtful frown that tugs down at his face, eyebrows and lips drooping with wariness. It’s that detached insolence that gangsters learn early on, because they’re not allowed to show any fear towards anything or anyone.
He sprawls in the armchair and Iqbal wants to smile bigger than he already is.
All men have angles; one that can make them scream, and one that can make them bend.
Rehman Dakait wants this political career, and, though he has qualms, though he may regret this, later, he knows that Iqbal is the one who can deliver it.
He watches decisions make themselves on that face, and finds it an interesting one to look at.
Iqbal gets what he wants, but not without a threat, not without those eyes boring into him and that mouth telling him that these hands are capable of the most gruesome things.
He remembers that story, about Dawood’s brother getting his skull drilled with bullets, just because Rehman Dakait thought the most powerful man in all of Pakistan had talked to him with a little too much cheek.
Iqbal smiles, again.
How endearing.
--
The first time he dreams of his father killing him, he’s ten years old and he wakes up covered in his own sweat and piss.
The next few times, he starts to fight back, and the struggle grows more frenzied and bloody.
His father always starts with that look, the one that says Iqbal is more than a disappointment, more than failure, more than sin. There’ll be words, the same he’s heard so many times – any of the bastards I’ve fathered would be more worthy than you – and then there’ll be the hand rising in anger, striking down open-handed and turning, after a few hits, into a fist.
Then, he’ll remember that he’s stronger, now, and he’ll start running to the kitchen. His father will jeer are you scared, bachcha? Come back here, come back! as he rummages through the cupboards, but finds that all the knives are gone, so he’s just got his own body to throw, his hands to clutch at a throat.
I’ve killed stronger men than you, his father will say, by the dozens.
Iqbal will press on that throat for hours, but each and every time, Jahangir will get back up, because this is a dream, after all, and people get to resurrect in nightmares as many times as they want.
Sometimes, his mother will come upon the scene and she will look tired, sad.
“Iqbal,” she will mutter, “It’s no use. It’s no use, my dove. Stop it. It’s no use.”
Other times, Iqbal will dream of Samina, and of the way she had looked on the day their families arranged the nikah.
“You better fuck her until she screams,” his father had leered, “That’s the only way to breed sons out of whores.”
--
There had also been curious times. After his mother’s death, his father had gone quiet and old. He’d clutch at Iqbal’s hand and drag him to the bed, saying that he couldn’t sleep well all alone.
His mother had grown so used to Jahangir. He remembers how he would listen to their arguments, keeping count on who was winning and always thinking she did, even when he beat her to the ground.
--
They learned early that the child would be born with Down syndrome, though Samina knew about it first, safely secluded away in the doctor’s office, and attempted to keep it from him for a while.
“My sweetness,” he had told her, “I will never let Allah’s blessing be ripped from you.”
She had taken refuge in his arms. It had taken work, to get to that point with her; she’d always been a skittish thing, and bringing her into his madness had only worsened her fearfulness, her yearning for acceptance in a place where Jahangir would never accept anything other than his own hatred.
“My Kulsum,” she had gasped, tears flowing, “My Kulsum…”
Thankfully, through God’s will, the stroke happened a month before she gave birth, and Jahangir remained bed-ridden through most of their daughter’s first few months.
He had loved her as soon as he laid eyes on her. The most perfect of Allah’s creations.
--
He’d been so darkly pleased, the first time Jahangir had pissed the bed. He’d cried and cried for Bashir to come and change the sheets, turn him over, and Iqbal had redirected him to any other task he could think of, every time the frightened little man would try to scurry to help.
“What useless… ?! Bashir! Bashir!”
“What happened, hm?” he’d asked, peering inside.
“Go the fuck away! Where’s Bashir?”
“Making Kulsum’s bed.”
“Call him here right now, you useless…! Kulsum’s bed…”
“He will tell her a story after that. She likes them. He’s good at it.”
“Iqbal…”
He’d turned back. Jahangir had raised hell in the following days, but it had been worth it, after all.
--
The story of Babu Dakait’s death crawled all over Lyari, back then. Shocked whispers and awed gasps and many details from the crowd that had gathered there to see a man dragged to his death, skull bashed until the bone and the flesh couldn’t register as human anymore.
“First his mother, and now his father,” Sajid had said, watching the news, “He’s a piece of work, isn’t he? Can anyone keep him in check?”
“Every man’s got an angle,” Iqbal had replied, sipping some whiskey.
Sajid’s angle is that he wants to grow as close to God as he can, but yet is unable to stay on the righteous path for a while. It helps, for Iqbal to guide him, to tell him that it’s ok, to steer him in the right direction.
Sajid likes being on a leash.
Rehman, though, might be something else.
--
How good it must have felt. Like tearing a thorn from your side, and watching old blood and old hurt drain out, the sanies of a rotten childhood.
--
Rehman doesn’t make it to deliver the weapons he’d promised, sending his brother and brother’s shadow instead. Iqbal is disappointed, because, somewhere deep down, the man he’s got hooked onto hundreds of little blades in the backroom was meant for him. If Rehman wants to threaten him, then he can show him, in return, what he is capable of.
What he is proud of.
It is no matter. Iqbal pulls on his gloves and takes Uzair Baloch and Hamza Ali Mazari there, to show off his work.
Sajid’s panting. These Indian spies are always trouble; they slither into his home like serpents in the garden, and, when they are caught, they bite and bite with all the venom they have.
Iqbal had always found that stereotype from the West funny, about how they’ve got a snake charmer sitting on the corner of each street, as if they themselves would have the pied piper roaming every one of their avenues.
He likes to trample them, personally, until the guts pour out and that forked tongue is grey with dirt.
--
Rehman’s a busy man, now that Zarwari-sahab has welcomed him into the fold. He takes to politics like he was always meant to shine in the eyes of others, like adoration comes to him easily, peacefully.
And yet he has shed rivers of blood to stand in front of a crowd.
It is an interesting sight, though Iqbal only catches it on the news. He has roused warriors before, spoken so as to make them want to kill, but he’s never really yearned for, or felt love for the men beneath him; neither does he know if he would be able to inspire such love.
God is easier to love than Iqbal.
Though Sajid might love him. Such things happen when God blurs into man.
Oh, blasphemy.
He takes a sip of whiskey.
Oh, sin.
“You think you’ve done something great?” Jahangir had said, after the killings, “This is nothing.”
Iqbal thinks that watching the world burn would not be enough for Jahangir.
Perhaps he yearns to burn himself.
Perhaps this is why he has kept him alive, all these years. Weak and feeble and rooted to the chair.
Sometimes, a man’s angle is his will to die, or live.
He picks up the phone.
“Rehman bhai,” he smiles, “We should celebrate. I have a great wine that just arrived from Burgundy.”
--
He has to make sure that his father won’t interrupt him, and so he crushes sleeping pills into his chai. It had taken him a while, to find the ones that will give him peace; Jahangir has been sleeping more, with age, but there are times where he will rage against the night, go on such rants that Kulsum will start to cover her ears and mutter a little song, just so that she can escape from the stories of blood and rape and evil.
“I will be right back,” Iqbal states, his hand brushing against Rehman’s shoulder.
The other man wears a black sherwani, his hair sleek and his eyes sharp.
He opens the door to his father’s room and finds him dead asleep, nestled in the sheets.
It has always been interesting, to watch a great monster slumber. He used to do it, back when his mother died and Jahangir would drag him to bed, restless and pondering as that mouth opened and breathed out dreams onto the pillows.
He turns back and finds Rehman sitting on the floor, next to Kulsum.
“Is it a fairy?” he asks, admiring one of her drawings.
“Yes. Abbu says I look like one. Do you know how to draw them?”
“I don’t think so. I can try to give her a flower…”
He takes the crayon she’s handing him, and he watches as Kulsum giggles, staring at his work.
“You don’t like it?” Rehman asks, smiling as well.
“It looks funny!”
“Kulsum,” Iqbal calls, “Are you making fun of our guest?”
“His flower looks funny,” she giggles still, pointing at it.
Iqbal looks at it, and doesn’t stifle his grin. Rehman looks up from beneath that strand of hair, though he doesn’t seem too offended.
“Go with Safiya,” he tells Kulsum, “The dolls have been telling her that they’re all lonely without you.”
Kulsum takes her dolls very seriously. She goes like a little lamb, holding Safiya’s hand, and Iqbal watches her go with pride swelling in his chest.
“She is a lovely child,” Rehman comments, still sitting on the floor.
The sight would be incongruous to many; the sher-e-baloch surrounded by colorful crayons and drawings, on his nice Persian rug.
He finds it endearing.
“Allah has blessed her,” Iqbal agrees, “Come.”
He puts a hand to the small of that back without a thought. It’s been a while, and he hadn’t considered things from that angle, but, as he looks at him appraising the color of the wine, he thinks there might be something there that he could yearn for.
Rehman is beautiful, after all, and Iqbal would love to break him.
Samina used to crumble so beautifully. She’d start begging, crying, and asking for more, and he’d give endlessly, because he had taught her to enjoy things his way.
He wonders if Rehman can be taught anything.
“I will probably ask for more guns,” he tells him.
“It will be done,” Rehman replies, “Shirani will not refuse me.”
“Hm.”
He takes a sip from his own glass.
“Are there any men that can refuse you?”
Rehman cocks his head to the side.
“I have my ways,” he drawls, laconic and pretty.
“What are they?”
He shrugs.
“You know.”
Iqbal smiles. His hand goes to the small of that back, again. Rehman is smaller, the way Samina used to be, though he hides strength and anger all the way down to the marrow.
“Do I?”
He moves a bit closer. Rehman Dakait is not the kind of man to cower; he merely looks up and lets Iqbal enter into this space, rooting himself there, assertive in a quiet, slightly defiant way.
Iqbal picks up that strand of hair between two fingers and tucks it back.
“You are beautiful,” he tells him, rather honestly.
“Did you call me here,” he drawls, “So that you could try this?”
“No,” he answers, honest again, “Would you let me?”
“What would you do?”
“Whatever you want,” he lies, because it always goes his way, in the end.
Rehman frowns. It’s that thoughtful tug of his lip, again.
“And if I refuse?”
“I would insist.”
The hand that hovered near his hair goes for the back of his neck. Rehman’s a bit stiff, but he lets himself get tugged closer, eyes up, chest pressing against his.
“Do not push me, Major,” he drawls.
“Do you not enjoy being pushed?”
A hand darts up, as though to pull himself backwards, and Iqbal just presses him closer, until their hips almost grind together.
He’s hard.
Rehman’s hand settles on his chest, open-palmed still. He assesses him with bright eyes, mouth tight.
Iqbal takes that wrist and twists it until the other man gasps, body locking up.
“Not too loud,” Iqbal drawls, “My father is sleeping in the other room.”
There. A slight shudder.
Iqbal bends down, and Rehman gasps into the kiss, body still tight. He holds onto that wrist, on the verge of making his grasp painful again.
“I see,” Iqbal says, licking at his own lips, “I will be kind, today.”
“You…” Rehman whispers, glowering.
How endearing, again, that he would start to mutter immediately.
Iqbal releases him. The other man clutches at his own wrist, but goes for his glass again, sipping wine as if nothing happened.
He watches him, feeling a little warm.
--
Hamza Ali Mazari gets married. Iqbal attends, as a gesture of good will and to talk shop.
Rehman appears to be in high spirits. He lets himself get tugged close, lets Iqbal’s hand hover, and doesn’t seem to notice, when Khanani plants a little kiss on his hand, as if affection is natural, owed to him.
Iqbal technically has all that he wants or needs. This man will keep on supplying him with weapons, and won’t cause any trouble with the Balochi.
And yet, he would still ask for more.
--
“The delivery,” Rehman drawls on the phone, “Has been agreed upon already, Major.”
“Come over, Rehman bhai,” Iqbal smiles.
Rehman snorts.
He knocks on the door two hours later.
--
There’s a look of betrayal, as Rehman notices Jahangir in the living room, awake but a bit drowsy.
“This is my father,” Iqbal introduces, “Brigadier Jahangir.”
“Who are you?” his father asks, eyes already dark.
Oh, but he knows. This won’t be the first time, and, hopefully, it won’t be the last either.
“Rehman Dakait.”
Iqbal has always enjoyed seeing other men have no fear of his father. Jahangir hates it; hates that he’s rooted to the chair and can’t rise, can’t threaten with his whole body, has only his tongue to try and seep poison into a wound.
“That gangster?”
“I have joined politics, lately.”
Jahangir snorts.
“What good company you keep, Major,” he sneers, “First Bade-sahab, and now this rat from the sewer. Back in my days…”
“As you may see,” Iqbal interrupts, one hand encroaching on Rehman’s hip, “My father is not all there.”
“Shut up! I’m the only decent man in this household, you fucking whore –”
Iqbal plants a kiss on that neck, worrying at the buttons of Rehman’s kurta. The other man freezes against him, rooted to the spot.
“What are you doing, Iqbal?” his father rasps, eyes bulging out, “None of that filth in my house!”
“Filth?” he asks, voice soft, kissing that throat again, “But you used to rape women by the dozens, Brigadier. Surely, this is nothing to you…”
“Iqbal,” Rehman warns, taking a step back.
“Don’t move, pretty thing. I just want the Brigadier to see something, and then I will take you for myself.”
He tugs at the kurta, ripping the last of the buttons open, and shrugs it off his shoulders.
Rehman’s breathing hard, shivering a little.
Iqbal places a hand over that throat, turning his head sideways.
“See how pretty he is? None of the whores you’ve fucked have been that beautiful, Brigadier.”
Jahangir sputters, spasming on the spot. Perhaps he could kill him with just this. Anger and jealousy are quite potent, in a heart that’s already bursting with them.
Iqbal wonders if his father can still get hard.
“Come,” he tugs at Rehman’s shoulder, dragging him towards the bedroom, “He doesn’t get to enjoy more of this.”
“Come back here! How dare you, in my household?! I should have had your mother abort you, I should have dragged you out of her myself, I should have fucking skewered you with a knife…”
“You,” Rehman rasps, anger pouring from his eyes, “This…”
Iqbal has a beautiful bed. Samina had always wanted a canopy, and he had indulged her. The white sheets will drift like ghosts, sometimes, especially at dawn, when spirits linger after a night spent watching the living.
“What is it?” Iqbal asks, pushing him towards that bed, “Are you scared?”
“Scared?” Rehman asks, like that’s puzzling, “Your father…”
“My father will hear you scream as I fuck you, yes,” Iqbal drawls.
Rehman sits on the edge, eyes a bit wide. He looks younger, like this, his hair a little mussed.
Iqbal ruffles it even more, and is rewarded with a sneer.
“I won’t do this,” the other man says, “Let me go.”
“I fear there is no turning back, now.”
Iqbal tugs at his own kurta with nimble fingers. In spite of the threat, Rehman hasn’t moved, merely watching, assessing.
“I hear Babu had quite the reputation, back in his old days,” Iqbal says, “They found one of the boys he kept all torn up, once, in that house. Police officers are not very imaginative, so it was written down as ‘fucked to death’...”
Rehman goes very still.
“... And yet another report of a young boy, sent by Haji Laloo to try and kill him, but who was found ‘bedraggled and in a state of shock’, next to his mother’s corpse, a few hours later…”
“Stop this,” Rehman whispers.
“Make me.”
Rehman rises. For a moment, Iqbal wonders if he’s going to hit him, or go for the throat, but he merely tip-toes up, instead, and plants an aggressive kiss on his mouth, biting and sucking like he wants Iqbal’s mouth to feel as painful as the words he uttered.
Iqbal puts both hands on the other man’s hips and lets himself enjoy the ride.
“Careful,” he tells him, when a mean bite threatens to split his lip.
He goes exactly for the same spot, even meaner, and Iqbal chuckles, pushing Rehman back onto the bed. The other man scrambles, but he grabs at his ankle, sitting on the edge, and wrestles him back until he’s halfway across his knee.
“Stay still,” he orders, tugging his pants down. The angle’s a bit awkward, but he manages to get them off and to reveal the ass splayed across his lap.
He bounces Rehman on one knee, juggling him a little up, and then he slaps, hard, just to see it bounce.
The other man gasps and tries to scramble away, again.
“Still, I said,” Iqbal reminds him, slapping again.
He doesn’t let up. Rehman doesn’t react, after a while, and that’s to be expected from a man used to pain, so he tries different angles, finding the ones that make him squirm and huff, as if his skin isn’t on fire already.
It’s turning a pretty color, the imprint of his hand embedding itself.
“All of you is beautiful, hm?” he comments, stopping to let a finger trail to the hole.
The lube’s on the other side of the bed, and he doesn’t feel like bothering. He spits on his own finger, and spits on the crack, too, just to see the foam drizzling down, before he’s breaching him with it in one quick thrust.
Rehman squirms. Iqbal digs in there, not in a way that’s meant to be pleasurable, making sure it’s nice and smooth and tight.
“Ask for lube,” he tells him, drilling in and out.
It’s going to burn, after a while.
“Lube,” Rehman barks out, like it’s an order.
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
Rehman huffs.
“Lube, please.”
“You can do even better than that.”
Rehman looks back, then, a bit puzzled. Iqbal breaches him with another finger, and he bristles, hissing with the burn and attempting to scramble away again.
“I don’t know what you want.”
“I think,” he twists the fingers, spreading them, “That you can guess.”
Maybe he has, but he keeps mum, mouth tight and eyes blazing.
“When your father fucked that boy to death,” Iqbal drawls, “Do you think that he begged for mercy? I think his name was Atif. The kind one, who did not get a kind fuck.”
He twists the fingers again, rasping his nails against the flesh. Rehman winces.
“I can make you bleed, if you’d like.”
The other man shudders in his grasp.
He turns his head, then, gaze still assessing, and drawls:
“Aba, please get the lube.”
It goes straight to his cock.
“Good boy,” Iqbal praises, smiling.
He takes the fingers out, Rehman hissing, and plants a kiss on his forehead.
“On all fours,” he tells him, digging for the bottle in his nightstand.
Not that the fight has completely gone out of him, but that he probably knows when it’s best to obey; Rehman gets on all fours, the line of his back and ass sinuous and beautiful to look at.
Iqbal lets a hand wander all the way up and down. There’s some scarring, here and there; that’s to be expected.
He pours lube onto his dick and some onto the hole, just digging his thumb in there to make sure it’s in.
He rubs the tip against that fluttering hole, watching it try to suck him in.
“Eager,” he comments, and he can see Rehman clench at the sheets in anger, “Ask for it.”
Silence.
He slaps across that ass again, mean and hard.
“Come on,” he whispers, kneading at the burning flesh, “I know you can.”
“Aba,” Rehman’s voice cracks on it, “Please fuck me.”
“Of course. Good boy.”
He puts it all in in one long thrust, and enjoys as he feels that body shudder, Rehman gasping, neck bending down.
He wrenches the head back, gathering hair into his fist – it’s soft, as he expected – the angle making that back even more beautiful, all twisted, as the meat of his ass bounces against the first few thrusts.
He tugs at the hair in a way that must be painful, and digs in there like he wants Rehman Dakait to feel a brand so deep it’ll burn for days.
He’s trying to keep quiet, he thinks, but not succeeding – there are little gasps, little overwhelmed ah, ah, ahs, as Iqbal fucks hard and fast, not letting up on the rhythm, slapping his hips against the cheeks and looking down as his cock gets swallowed perfectly, each and every time.
He slaps at them, every few thrusts, and Rehman’s voice goes a little shrill. He’s doing good, keeping the position, taking the fuck; definitely not his first time.
“Who’s had you before?” Iqbal asks, one hand splayed across his hip – he likes how big it looks, there.
Rehman shudders, his head trying to bend back down. Iqbal lets his hair go, clutching at his throat instead, and he also likes how big his hand looks, around that neck.
“Was it your dad?” he enquires, matter of factly, “Babu would do it. He wouldn’t give a shit, if you were pretty enough.”
Rehman sobs, his shoulders wracking with it, head turning away. He puts his arms back, grabs at his own asscheeks, and pulls them apart, just so that Iqbal can see what he’s doing there even better.
“Aba, please stop,” he rasps, “Only you, please.”
He stutters, rhythm faltering, just to prevent himself from coming right away.
His hand grabs at that throat until Rehman is almost half-bended into him, and he pushes his tongue inside of that mouth, the kiss more of a claim than it is anything tender.
He bites at the corner before releasing him.
“Sorry, guria. I won’t do it again. Only me.”
“Only you,” Rehman agrees, shivering all over.
Iqbal takes pity on those sore muscles, and releases him from his grip. Rehman goes back down, still keeping his hips nice and raised, all pretty, and clutches at his own hair in despair.
He aims for an angle, now, so that he can make him scream.
Jahangir’s started up again. He can hear him, spitting mad and all muffled, and he can also see that Rehman’s noticed, with the way his back has tensed.
“Relax,” he tells him, “He can’t hurt you. I won’t let him.”
He finds the angle in the next thrust, and sees Rehman melt into the sheet below, open mouthed moaning with a shudder.
Iqbal goes for it.
“Won’t let anyone hurt you, right? Who’s keeping you safe?”
He digs in there, grinding his cock onto the spot, and Rehman whines.
“Who?”
“Aba…”
“That’s right. Do you want to come?”
He nods, eyes glancing back, a bit wet and a bit gone.
“Please,” he whispers, not bothering to wait for the question, “Aba, please, please…”
“You’re doing so good,” Iqbal says, nodding and petting his hip.
“Please, please…”
The tip of Rehman’s cock is drooling.
“You get wet like a girl,” he comments, “Did that other man tell you that?”
“Stop!”
“I know, I know… I shouldn’t have, I’m sorry.”
He bends down to kiss that shoulder, nibbling a little, and starts jerking him off, quick and rough. Rehman clenches around him, fluttering a little, teeth gritting around his urgent sobs.
Another few strokes and there’s cum shooting from there, warm and sticky, all over Iqbal’s palm. He keeps jerking even after Rehman bats away at him, his hole clenching around him like a vice.
He licks at his own soiled fingers and keeps fucking with abandon. Rehman’s moans are growing a little pained with the overstimulation, the way he likes it – he used to make Samina come twice, thrice, fucking her and not letting her pull away as she spasmed on his dick.
“Too much..."
“You take it,” Iqbal mutters, “You need to take it.”
He slaps his ass again, and Rehman screams, finally, all wet and all raw.
It keeps pouring out of his throat, now, in a way that will hurt a bit later. Maybe Iqbal will feed him his cock, then, to scratch the itch at the back of his throat.
The picture of it – eyes boring into him from below, that strand of hair falling over one – is enough to have him come, the pleasure shooting out and melting his bones. Iqbal gasps, tired and boneless, and sags onto the body below.
He breathes hard and fast, blanketing that smaller body against the mattress.
“You,” Rehman sneers, “You…”
“Be nice,” Iqbal replies, stretching a little, “Or I won’t be.”
Jahangir’s still shouting obscenities. Iqbal laughs, a little raw, in spite of himself.
He pulls out and sits against the headboard, pulling Rehman’s head onto his lap.
He plays with his hair, the way his mother would when he was trying to fall asleep.
“How did it feel?” Iqbal ponders aloud, “When you got rid of the bastard?”
Rehman’s face turns towards him, eyes assessing him again. Iqbal pets at his mouth, tracing its outline with the tip of a finger.
“Like it was meant to be,” he whispers.
Iqbal nods.
Rehman kisses the tip of his finger, and then turns his head away again. There’s a slight tremble wracking his legs.
Iqbal pets his hair.
He doesn’t know whether it's Jahangir or Rehman who falls asleep first.