Al Sāliħah Al Rashīd was also proud of her daughter, Lily Turner.
Yet, due to my Svarūpé Avasthānam, none of us looked aged.
Lily Turner still looked anywhere in her late thirties.
Actually, she was sixty-two now, on the brim of completing her sixty-three even.
“The bastard.” She said.
I smiled fucking her more passionately,
“No. He says there are certain female shareholders who don’t want to come in the open, supporting Hindu Lund Muslim Choot International Club. Imām Muħammad Ħasan doesn’t have their addresses. They are kept secret.”
“And Shaguftah Rashīd is one of them?”
“And Shaguftah Rashīd is one of them.”
“Maybe he is really not entrusted. Yet, it sounds goofy to me.”
“Anyway, that’s his story.”
The door from the manager’s apartment opened.
Raziyah Najmul Ħasan, wearing a housedress, came toward us.
Her face had been given a generous application of rouge somewhat evenly applied.
She smiled at us,
Raziyah Najmul Ħasan turned toward the door.
We followed her gaze.
Through the plate glass, we saw a slim waisted young man run up the porch stairs, and jab a key into the lock of the door.
Raziyah Najmul Ħasan had time to say, before the door opened,
“This is Iqbāl Rashīd now.”
We waited until Iqbāl Rashīd was well on his way toward the elevator.
I noticed his half running pace and the excited tension that seemed to grip him.
“Putting out a fire?”
Iqbāl Rashīd apparently saw us for the first time.
He jerked to a standing stop, and stared.
Raziyah Najmul Ħasan said, ingratiatingly,
“Iqbāl Rashīd, this is…”
She stepped forward and jerked back the lapel of her coat so that Iqbāl Rashīd could see her badge and stars.
Iqbāl Rashīd’s reaction to it was instantaneous.
He half turned back toward the big plate glass door as if about to run.
His face was white.
She watched Iqbāl Rashīd’s countenance.
It began to twitch.
Realizing he was trapped, Iqbāl Rashīd took a deep breath.
Even I could see his hands clenching into fists.
“Well,” he asked, “what is it?”
I also studied Iqbāl Rashīd.
He was a small boned slim hipped man.
His coat was heavily padded at the shoulders.
The even tan of his face indicated that he habitually went without a hat and was much in the open.
His hair, black and glossy, waved back from his forehead with a rippling regularity that suggested the touch of a professional hairdresser.
His height was medium and he didn’t weigh much more than a hundred and thirty pounds.
“What’s the hurry?”
“I wanted to get to bed.” Iqbāl Rashīd controlled himself surprisingly.
She reassured me similarly without using even a single word.
Iqbāl Rashīd managed to smile sophisticatedly.
He didn’t comment.
“Sure, ma’am. Whatever I can help the law.”
“Shaguftah Rashīd is your sister?”
“We’re trying to locate her. We got a lead to you.”
“Well, Shaguftah Bājī doesn’t live with me.”
“Where does she live?”
“She has her own residence, Shaguftah Rashīd Apartments.”
“I see. Your Bājī is that Shaguftah Rashīd?”
“When did you see her last?”
“Last? Why? Is there something abnormal, officer?”
“Don’t try to question me, young chap. Just answer me. When did you see her last?”
“A week ago? An hour ago?” I too asked.
“Oh, probably yesterday sometime. She’s at the Hindu Lund Muslim Choot International Club. I too am manager there.”
“Yes, ma’am. Is there anything wrong?”
“Not that the police know of. Yet, there are so many Musalmīn that think the name of the club is disgraceful to them. Don’t you yourself think so?”
“The Musalmīn that think so, don’t know the Hindu Lund Muslim Choot International Club is actually owned by internationally renowned and well established zillionaires, trillionaires, billionaires and at least multi-millionaires Musalmān Beauties. The Hindus have a too much negligible shareholding in the club. So even if it is a disgrace to the Musalmīn, the Hindus are not responsible for it. The internationally capable, accomplished, talented, proficient, skilled, gifted, adept, skillful, clever, and influential, powerful Musalmān Beauties are accountable for it. Most of them are feminist nudists. They don’t think the name of the club is disgraceful to them. Instead, they think it’s disgraceful to the Hindus, not to Musalmīn. ”
“What? Disgraceful to the Hindus? How?”
“Ask them, the owners of the Hindu Lund Muslim Choot International Club I mean.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“You deserve to be a manager there. Quite efficient. Congratulations.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“That’s right ma’am.” Iqbāl Rashīd said good-naturedly.
After nodding good morning to several National Security officers, Lily Turner hastened up a narrow flight of stairs to the office of Dr. Shāhidah Ashraf, the recommended Chief of Staff of White House.
The office was two doors down from the President’s Oval Office.
Inside, three of Dr. Shāhidah Ashraf’s aides, informally attired, were lounging about discussing the contents of a speech President of USA, Jimmy Carter, would soon deliver on cuts in domestic spending.
Were the rumors true?
Is Durgesh really capable to replace anyone after his so-called Svarūpé Avasthānam?
How is it possible?
How a person can has his two bodies so drastically different in almost everything?
Wasn’t Karl Marx right when he said that Religion is opium of people?
But it doesn’t mean that everything whatsoever the Soviet Union believes in is wrong.
Dr. Shāhidah Ashraf dismissed the aides, postponing the conference on speech for later in the day.
Hell, Durgesh is actually representing not only India now.
Yes, Durgesh doesn’t say so in so many words.
But it may fool only the morons, not Lily Turner.
She had known Evelyn Carter a long time.
She knew she was extremely beautiful.
So did her intellect and her ability at organization.
Evelyn Carter appeared to be only half listening.
I was the male partner, and officially that was the reason I was there.
Lily Turner was neither sure nor actually, she was interested.
What the hell difference does it make?
Evelyn Carter was impatient somewhat.
“Look, Lily Turner, let’s go to Ved Nagar and Durgesh’s so called damn (Shanno Mitrah!) Svarūpé Avasthānam later. Do I have to hear it all twice? Let’s go over it at the cabinet meeting. Then it’ll be fresh in my mind when I settle down to lunch with Durgesh.”
Evelyn Carter laughed.
“We have four years now for it, dearie, haven’t we?”
“Ouch!” Evelyn Carter jumped up, “what are you doing?”
“Trying to make you listen to me, you moron.”
Evelyn Carter winked at her.
“I’m dying to watch Durgesh fucking us Christian Beauties.”
“Damn you! How do you know?”
When Lily Turner returned to her quarters, annoyed at her failure to get anywhere with Evelyn Carter, she considered phoning Dr. Åārifah Mustafā, Secretary to Secretary of State, Cyrus Vance, and Dr. Shāhidah Ashraf, the recommended Chief of Staff of White House, to pick up on the speech about cuts in domestic spending.*
The Shaguftah Rashīd Apartments was a little walk up.
There was no answer at Shaguftah Rashīd bell.
She ordered her to follow us up to the apartment with a passkey.
We climbed two flights of stairs, as the elevator wasn’t in working order temporarily then.
All the three of us, ACP Suraiyā Jamāl I and the beautiful manager of Shaguftah Rashīd Apartments, walked down a narrow, yet heavily carpeted corridor, fragrant with wonderfully pleasant aroma and the lighted emanations that fill an excellent ventilated place where people were sleeping.
It was noticeable that the immigrant apartment owners were providing more facilities to their tenants and customers in Ved Nagar than even the original residents.
They had to.
They had to win the tenants and customers from the original residents.
It had started a healthy competition between the immigrant apartment owners and the original residents of Ved Nagar in providing more and more facilities to their tenants and customers.
My administration there was encouraging it more and more.
It was impartial.
We wanted to encourage immigration.
Shaguftah Rashīd’s apartment was in the middle.
A light showed over the transom.
There wasn’t any answer.
She nodded to the beautiful manager.
“Okay. Open it up.”*
The beautiful manager of Shaguftah Rashīd Apartments hesitated a moment, then looked at me.
The door had Eīshān Vaigyānic lock.
While it was locked from inside it needed the Eīshān Vaigyānic rays emanating either from Shaguftah Rashīd’s own Saůūdī Årab Wahābī Musalmān Cunt or from the Saůūdī Årab Wahābī Musalmān Cunt of the beautiful manager.
Ħāfizah Kalām-e-Pāk sucked me and as soon as it was ready enough to fuck her, I nodded her to go into rukū.
It was her first time with me.
Ħāfizah Kalām-e-Pāk felt immensely honored.
Even then, Ħāfizah Kalām-e-Pāk whispered.
“Please honor my femininity by coming into me.”
I obliged her.*
The door clicked back.
The figure of a blond woman dressed in a tweed skirt and jacket stockings and rubber soled gold shoes, lay sprawled near the door.
The telephone had been knocked from a small spindly-legged stand to the floor.
A box of the chocolate creams was open on the table, and some wrapping paper.
It was evident that in the wrapping paper the chocolate box had been tied folded itself neatly around the edges of the box.
The cover lay slightly to one side.
On the cover, there was a chocolate smudged card.
‘These will make you feel better.’
The card was signed with the initials ‘FMA’.
The chocolates were cradled in little paper cups.
A blank space in the upper tray furnished the sole clue as to the number that had been eaten.
I made a swift survey.
I estimated that eight or ten were missing from the top layer of the box.
The lower layer seemed untouched.
“You must be a highly qualified doctor to qualify for being a manager here in Eīshān Vaigyānic areas. Are you?”
“Sure.” Ħāfizah Kalām-e-Pāk immediately was all-alert.
“I’m going downstairs. I’ve to call Inspector Pratāp at headquarters. I’ve to tell him I’ve found Shaguftah Rashīd and the candy. It’s evident that she’s been poisoned. I’ve to order Inspector Pratāp to rush out the fingerprint staff and an ambulance.”
“We may need your decisions as a competent police officer for what to do in certain medical turn outs while checking her.” Ħāfizah Kalām-e-Pāk protested, “Why don’t you use your mobile here to instruct your staff necessarily?”
“I may have to instruct my staff clandestinely.”
“That can wait. Your presence here is far more necessary. It can’t wait.”
I started to harden once more.
I looked at Ħāfizah Kalām-e-Pāk.
“Sure. That’s right.” Ħāfizah Kalām-e-Pāk confirmed.
“What if it were a man?”
“The men need different sort of first aid in Eīshān Vigyān.”
Shaguftah Rashīd’s face was slightly congested.
Her breathing was slow and seemed labored.
The skin was surprisingly cold to the touch.
“Looks more like a drug than an active poison.” Ħāfizah Kalām-e-Pāk said, “I think if you fuck her immediately perhaps we can bring her out of it without any more medical help.”
There was a legal question in my eyes.
“Nonsense. She is unconscious. She may hate me for what you both tell me to do with her.”*
Ħāfizah Kalām-e-Pāk said curtly.
“You didn’t hesitate when you’d to fuck me.”
“Well, she has spread her legs. Perhaps even in her unconsciousness she is inviting you to go ahead and fuck her.”
“Is she married?” I asked Ħāfizah Kalām-e-Pāk.
“Yes. Why did you ask?”
Ħāfizah Kalām-e-Pāk laughed bitterly.
“How do you know it wasn’t her husband that has drugged her to death? Musalmān Beauties don’t join Hindu Lund Muslim Choot International Club if they maintain healthy married life with their wretched Musalmān husbands.”
“Well,” I hesitated.
“Fuck her.” Ħāfizah Kalām-e-Pāk shouted, “She is losing the temperature of her body. She has been drugged to die of coldness, I think.”
“Do you know her husband’s name?” I looked at Ħāfizah Kalām-e-Pāk.
“Fahīm Muħammad Åbbās.”
4. On History
6. On Hinduism
7. On Islam