Whisked away from the comforts of Pearl Continental, I found myself in a small but decent house in North Nazimabad belonging to Uncle Yusuf and Auntie Zulekha, my ancient relatives, both in their early eighties. They had insisted that I must stay with them at least a couple of days before going back to Chicago, and I couldn’t disappoint them, for they were two of the very few relatives who had cared for me and my family and showered us with selfless love when we were in Karachi, prior to settling down in America. 

Having got their seven daughters married off, they now lived alone in their house, and in spite of their age, managed to get all the household chores done and even enjoy an occasional romantic, candle-lit dinner, the fact which Uncle Yusuf confided in me. After a mouth-watering dinner prepared by Auntie Zulekha, expert in the art, I was taken to a room which was supposed to be my bedroom for two nights. It was small but cozy, and I hoped to have a good night’s sleep. Just as I dropped down on the bed, everything turned dark. The power broke down. I opened the window to get some cool air, but instead of air an army of buzzing mosquitoes invaded the room, and in turn started feasting on my blood. I picked up an old newspaper lying on a table and tried to beat them away, but it was a futile effort. Covering myself completely with a bed sheet, I tossed and turned, and somehow passed the night. 

“Looks as if you slept well,” remarked Auntie at breakfast. I said I did, not wanting to tell her about how I really had passed the night. Her love and care outweighed the discomfort I had suffered. I didn’t go out anywhere that day, for I wanted to pass as much time as I possibly could with them. 

Something happened in the evening. I was watching Aalim Online, when I heard a deep, heavy voice saying, “Allah” at the door. I thought Sabri Qawwal had paid a visit, but Uncle Yusuf, before opening the door, briefed me that Bawa Sai had arrived and that I must kiss his hand in respect, because he was an enlightened soul, helping people in distress, and it was he who was going to dispel a big jinn who had made Uncle’s house his abode. 

I was stunned, and couldn’t believe my ears that Uncle could even think of such supernatural invasions. He opened the door, and a tall, well-built, dark-complexioned man of about forty entered. He was wearing a saffron qurta and a gold embroidered skull-cap on his head, which had a massive growth of hair, flowing at the back. A rosary in his hand, he walked in like a monarch on a mission to bless people. 

He was offered an easy chair, and I stepped forward to kiss his extended left hand, which had stone-studded rings on all the fingers. Was it marijuana that I smelled? Well, I could be mistaken. After chanting “Allah”a couple of times, he clapped his hands and submerged in silence, vigorously shaking his head. Then he started murmuring some mantra and went towards a wall. He scratched it for a while, then closed his fists and threw an imaginary object out the door. He clapped again, breathed heavily and collapsed on a chair. Bawa Sai was offered a plate of rice pudding, a specialty of Auntie Zulekha. He consumed it rapidly and asked for more. I was sure he would finish the whole dish, leaving nothing for me. He burped aloud and turned his gaze on me. Suddenly he began to laugh. “He likes you,” said Auntie Zulekha. “Naturally, now you will be blessed.” 

Bawa Sai now spread his hands, palm upwards. Auntie got the cue, went to her bedroom, and came out with an envelope full of currency notes. This she placed in his right hand. He pocketed it and patted her on the shoulder. 

I was witnessing a scene, all too familiar in the subcontinent. Tens of thousands of innocent, gullible people fall victims to such fake pirs and get themselves robbed. I didn’t want my old relatives to be continuously cheated. Something ought to be done, I felt. I thought for a while and said, “Bawa Sai, I have a problem. My business has taken a downturn and I am afraid I might go bankrupt. Could you do something for me?’ 

“Where do you do your business?” he asked.

“In Chicago.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“America,” I clarified.

“Ah, Amrika!” he said. “Amrika. Full of jinns. Every third person is carrying a jinn inside him.”

He asked me to describe the location of my place, which I did. 

Bawa Sai heaved a long, sonorous sigh and said, “Bachha, I can clearly see two male jinns residing together in your store, making a mess of things and devouring all the profits.” 

“Two male jinns, living together?” I asked. “Are they gay?”

He again raised his eyebrows.

“Never mind,” I said. “Forget it. Tell me how to get rid of these jinns.” 

“Ah!” he said. “Let me think. Yes, you will have to get me a visa, return air tickets and provide me with boarding and lodging for forty days in Amrika. I’ll pray in your store. You will also have to sacrifice black goats on alternate days.” 

“God!” I gasped. He was asking for a cool five thousand dollars! “Is there another option?” I asked. 

He closed his eyes and whirled his head from left to right. “I’ll have to go to a mountain resort in Mangho Pir, and do a chilla for forty days. I’ll myself sacrifice black goats, to be purchased by you every alternate day, and feed the meat to the crocodiles.” 

Twenty black goats! I wondered. 

“And during this period,” he continued, “you will have to be locked in a mosque with your head shaved. You will pray silently like a hermit all the time.” 

“I’ll do as you say. Will the jinns leave my place?”

“Definitely! They will come flying here.”

“Will I have to provide them with air tickets?” 

He clapped his hands and was lost in a reverie, probably congratulating himself on getting one more victim who would make him richer by a couple of lacs. 

I went to my room, took out a couple of one million Turkish lira bills. I had brought with me a number of such bills when I visited Istanbul two years ago. At that time one million Turkish liras were equivalent to eighty US cents. Then I scribbled a note in Urdu, which read: If you are ever seen again in this neighborhood, or if you bother my relatives, not only the local police, but the Anti-Terrorist Squad and the CIA will be alerted to look for you. You will not only be arrested, but may be sent to Guantanamo. The foreign currency notes enclosed can be cashed at any currency exchange. That should suffice you. 

I put the note and the bills in an envelope and put it in his extended right hand. “Allah,”he uttered loudly and before departing asked me to see him the next day at his place. 

The next day, I went back to the hotel. A couple of weeks later, before leaving for Chicago, I visited my ancient relatives. I was informed that Bawa Sai never again came to their place. They looked concerned, so I said, “Don’t worry. I met him recently and he said his job at your place is finished, and that you should now live happily.” 

“Did he do away with the jinn?”

“Of course! Didn’t you see him scratching the wall and throwing something out the door? The jinn was hiding in the wall. He took him out and now he is Bawa Sai’s prisoner.”