The evening is calm and the sea stretches into the horizon like a great blotchy carpet. Far offshore, red specks of light occasionally flash amid dark, menacing shades of blue.
What are those lights?
Ah, those buoys? They’re the shark lights. That’s where the sharks live.
I shiver, chilled by the thought of bobbing atop the deep blue far offshore. To my seven-year-old self, being a mere three metres out to sea was enough to cause concern. With enough imagination, all water is shark infested.
The ocean darkens as the sky fades from pastel pink to the cyan of late evening. A sandy path, still hot from the sun, winds between low undergrowth to the beach. I’m certain rattlesnakes lurk under the glossy leaves. A breeze rustles from left to right. Mum and her cousins make cold noises and the leaves shiver in agreement.
Have you ever seen a shark, Grandpa?
Staring out to sea, mind elsewhere, the old man says he has. He then begins to tell a wholly unrelated story.
In Lahore, there was an established and well-known Pakistani journalist named Mansur Ali who was an avowed Soviet communist. He was an excellent writer and had considerable influence on a generation of young journalists.
Early in my tenure, I decided I should call on him, as I had already done among other prominent journalists in the city. I found him to be friendly and charming, and we liked each other. But, of course, there was no possibility of my influencing him. Still, I had dinner several times with him and his equally charming wife.
I can’t remember what had happened internationally that brought Mrs Mansur out one day, leading her 80 or so Progressive Women of Pakistan for a noisy march past my building. They bore signs with slogans like YANKEE DOGS GO HOME and shouted similar endearments.
As they drew abreast to my office’s gatehouse, I saw Mrs Mansur dart over and hand an envelope to one of our guards. When the parade had passed, the guard brought me the envelope. My heart sank. It was addressed to me, and I expected a screed similar to the slogans she and her friends had carried.
But instead, the note inside said, “Dear Ray: Mansur and I hope you can join us for dinner tonight.”
I kept that lovely note for a long time but eventually, in one transfer or another, it was lost.