The Dining Room, Army House 19:00 Hours (7:00 PM)
The dinner was an uncomfortable affair, at least initially. The waiters moved silently, serving Chicken Kiev and Nan—a strange mix of colonial and local, much like the country itself.
Imran ate sparingly, his eyes darting between me and the exits, as if he expected a colonel to burst in with an arrest warrant. Jemima sat with the poise of a woman who had endured a thousand awkward dinners in London high society, but her hand gripped her napkin tight.
They were waiting for the other shoe to drop. They were waiting for the General to ask for a favor, or to threaten them.
I wiped my mouth with a linen napkin and decided to drop the bomb. But not the kind they were expecting.
"Mrs. Khan," I said, placing my cutlery down with a deliberate clink. The sound seemed to freeze the room.
"Yes, General?" She looked up, her blue eyes guarded.
"I have been reading the intelligence files on you," I said flatly.
Imran stiffened. His hand moved instinctively toward his wife's arm. "General, if this is about the tile smuggling case—" he began, his voice rising in defense.
"The case is garbage," I cut him off. "I read the files, Imran. And do you know what I found?"
I looked directly at Jemima. "I found that the Ministry of Interior spent twenty million rupees tracking a twenty-five-year-old mother, tapping her phone, and harassing her staff. And for what? To prove that she was sending 'antique tiles' to London?"
I shook my head. "It was a lie. A fabrication created by the previous government to break your husband's spirit."
Jemima remained silent, but her eyes widened slightly. She wasn't used to officials admitting the truth.
"But it wasn't just the tiles," I continued, my voice softening. "It was the names. 'Zionist Agent.' 'The Jewish Lobby.' 'Spy'."
I saw her flinch. Those words were the stones that had been pelted at her every day since she arrived in Lahore.
"I want to apologize," I said. The words hung heavy in the air. Generals in Pakistan did not apologize. They ruled.
"I apologize to both of you," I said, looking from Imran to Jemima. "On behalf of the State of Pakistan. We invited you into our home, Imran brought you here as a bride, and instead of throwing rose petals, we threw mud. It was shameful. It was un-Islamic. And it ends tonight."
Imran looked stunned. He opened his mouth to speak, but found no words. He had fought the system for three years, screaming for justice. He had never expected the system to say 'Sorry'.
"Words are cheap, General," Jemima said quietly. She was smarter than Imran in many ways. She knew that private apologies didn't change public perception. "It is kind of you to say this here. But out there? In the bazaars? I am still the 'Yahoodi' (Jew) to them."
"You are right," I nodded. "A private apology is not enough. The slander was public, so the apology must be public."
I leaned forward. "That is why I have made a schedule change for tomorrow evening."
"A schedule change?" Imran asked, suspicious again.
"Tomorrow is Tuesday," I said. "Do you know what airs on PTV at 8:00 PM?"
Imran frowned. "Neelam Ghar. With Tariq Aziz."
"Exactly," I smiled. "The most-watched show in the history of Pakistan. Every rickshaw driver, every housewife, every student watches Tariq Aziz."
I turned to Jemima. "Mrs. Khan, I have arranged for you to appear on Neelam Ghar tomorrow as the Chief Guest. Tariq Aziz has been instructed to interview you. Not about politics. But about your charity. About your love for Lahore. About your children."
"And then," I paused for effect, "Tariq Aziz will do something he has never done in thirty years. He will apologize to you on live television. He will tell the nation that you are a guest of Pakistan, and anyone who insults you, insults the hospitality of the Prophet."
The silence in the dining room was absolute.
Imran looked at me as if I had grown a second head. "You... you are going to use the state media to clear her name? On Neelam Ghar?"
"I am going to use the state media to tell the truth," I corrected. "Tariq Aziz is the voice of the nation, Imran. If he accepts her, the bazaar accepts her. If he calls her 'Daughter', the Mullahs lose their weapon."
"Why?" Jemima asked. Her voice wavered slightly. "Why would you do this for us? We are nobody politically."
"Because I want to correct the mistakes of Pakistan," I said, channeling every ounce of sincerity I could muster.
"This country has a habit of eating its own children, Mrs. Khan. We killed our first Prime Minister. We hanged Bhutto. We drove our intellectuals away. I am tired of it."
I stood up, signaling the end of the conversation.
"I cannot fix the past. But I can ensure that from tomorrow, when you walk in Liberty Market, no one dares to look at you with anything but respect."
I looked at Imran. "This is my way of showing you, Kaptaan, that 'Accountability' isn't just about catching thieves. It's about restoring honor to the innocent."
Imran slowly stood up. The skepticism was cracking. The anger was melting. He looked at me, and for the first time, he didn't see a dictator. He saw a partner.
"If you do this..." Imran said, his voice thick with emotion. "If you truly clear her name..."
"Watch the show tomorrow, Imran," I said, offering my hand.
He took it. This time, the grip wasn't testing. It was firm. It was an alliance.
The Inner Monologue
As they left, I walked back to the window. Brigadier Tariq stepped out of the shadows, looking horrified.
"Sir... Neelam Ghar? Tariq Aziz?" Tariq whispered. "That represents millions of rupees of airtime. And you are giving it to the wife of a failed politician to talk about... charity?"
"I am buying loyalty, Tariq," I murmured, watching the tail lights of Imran's Mercedes fade into the night.
"Imran Khan is a Pathan. If I gave him a ministry, he would suspect me. If I gave him money, he would insult me. But I just gave him the one thing he couldn't get for himself: his wife's dignity."
I glanced back at the empty chair where the cricket legend had sat. He was perfect. He was my first Avenger. Unlike the bitter old Generals or the venomous Mullahs, Imran didn't carry the cancer of hatred in his blood. He had played in Eden Gardens; he had friends in Bombay. He wasn't anti-India; he was just pro-Pakistan. With him holding the microphone, I could finally steer this ship away from the iceberg of eternal war. I could drag Pakistan toward India—not as a defeated enemy surrendering at Dhaka, but as a dignified equal shaking hands at Agra. He would sell the peace to the mob, while I drafted the treaty.
I smirked at my reflection in the glass.
"He will walk through fire for me now. And all it cost me was a phone call to PTV."
"Correcting the mistakes of Pakistan?" Tariq asked, raising an eyebrow.