The Return of Faraz Ali

"Closer," he said to the men on either side of him, and so they pressed in, their shoulders touching his. They could not afford to get separated or lost. He felt the men lined up behind him pushing. They were panting; the air, the city, was panting. Or perhaps it was him, perhaps he was panting. He couldn't see much so he tried to still himself to hear better. The troublemakers couldn't be far; they had gathered just outside Mochi Gate to wait for Bhutto, who was just as impatient for battle with President Ayub as they were, who was, they said, bringing a revolution with him. They didn't know police orders were to stop Bhutto from getting to Lahore, but it didn't matter. Bhutto or no Bhutto, everyone knew there would be trouble. The gardens could only be a few hundred yards away but just now he couldn't hear them, couldn't hear anything anymore. Closer, he thought, and his men pressed in again, though he had not spoken out loud. He was still listening when a minute later, or perhaps just seconds later, a dog trotted out of the fog. It looked around, tongue hanging out in the cool air. It took a few steps one way, then the other, skittish, sensing danger. Thick black letters had been painted on the dog's brown fur: ayub, they spelled. The officer next to Faraz gasped, incredulous at this smear on the president's good name. A rifle somewhere in the line was cocked, an officer poised to shoot, to obliterate this insult, but before that could happen, the air cleared and there they finally were: the rioters.

 

He squinted. They were boys-just boys. They waved their arms, they chanted; he saw their mouths, their white teeth in the dim light. They took a step toward the lines of armed police but then stopped, uncertain. Faraz waited, willed the boys to disappear back into the fog. But a moment later the ground shook. The boys barreled toward him, his men. And because he was surprised, he was late with the order to charge, and later he would wonder if he actually said it at all. Someone said it, or he did, or no one did, but their bodies knew what to do, or did what they had to, and they charged; a roar, and he was inside it.

 

When he brought down the lathi the first time, he hit air, then the ground. The second time he heard a crack. Maybe a shoulder, a skull; bone. The clink of a tear gas can as it rolled on the ground. A hiss. The smoke caught in his throat, his nostrils, his eyes stung with it. He brought down his lathi again and again. His eyes were closed but streaming, the only sound his breath. When he paused, he realized he was exhausted, as if he had been doing this forever. The line of

end. Maaza Mengiste, author of The Shadow King

A rich and deeply moving novel about confronting histories both personal and political. Marvelous. Yaa Gyasi, author of Homegoing and Transcendent Kingdom

The Return of Faraz Ali is a masterpiece. An intricately woven, deeply affecting labyrinth of history, hope, and longing that fulfills its every great ambition. I'm stunned by the gentle grace and spellbinding storytelling of Aamina, a writer I will return to for years to come.   Fatima Farheen Mirza, author of A Place for Us

Aamina Ahmad has done the impossible: made her literary debut with an enduring classic. Essential and compelling. Adam Johnson, author of The Orphan Master s Son and Fortune Smiles

A  gripping read everything beautifully evoked, from the alleys of the Old City to the atmosphere of corruption and secrets. Noir with a heart. Kamila Shamsie, author of Home Fire

Mesmerizing . That a novel so epic in scope can remain so intimate at heart is nothing short of astonishing. Anthony Marra, author of A Constellation of Vital Phenomena