Shark

“It is a whale shark,” the affable fellow in a lab coat confirmed, having introduced himself as Dr. Ilahi, “a very rare species — the largest fish to be found in Pakistan. We are going to move it to the old Natural History Museum. I’ve asked experts from the Sindh Wildlife Department, the Pakistan Council of Scientific and Industrial Research, the National Institute of Oceanography and marine biologists from Karachi University to join me there. We don’t need people from Britain. We will collect samples and determine the cause of death. Then the beast will be preserved and displayed for all to see…for free! An expert from Islamabad is also on his way.”

The crowd buzzed in appreciation, even pride, until Bill asked, “Have you people autopsied a whale shark before?” A murmur of doubt now reverberated around us like the static behind a radio broadcast.

“No,” Dr. Ilahi admitted, “but we are qualified, sir. And time is of the essence. I see your press card. I invite you to join us…to observe. You will see.”

Bill seemed less than convinced, but before he could say anything more, a lone shout went up from the crowd: “Down with Amrika!” Yes, others piped in. “Down! Down!” The sudden turn was enough for Bill to slink away, blond hair shaking with his head as his police escort sneered at the people, clutching the M-16 he carried a little more tightly than before.

The plan seemed quite reasonable to me. Endangered species could not be harvested for profit. That was the law of the land. My only doubt was the involvement of the city commissioner. He was not a man to be trusted. So I decided to stay and watch the fish being prepared for transport, even as most of the onlookers were finally pushed away, hawkers in tow.

“Will you be compensated?” I asked Haji Sahib, who had stood by silently since the commissioner had pulled him aside before leaving. He didn’t answer, only shrugging his shoulders and cocking an eyebrow, letting slip a silver toothed smile, oddly at ease for a man with no more than the assurances of a government official that his investment was not lost.

My only doubt was the involvement of the city commissioner. He was not a man to be trusted.

“Does it look like the fish was killed or caught dead?” I asked Dr. Ilahi when he got a chance to speak with me directly.

“I think it was caught in a net, alive, but died before they could free it. It happens from time to time. But we will have to wait for the autopsy results. If you want to help, find the fishermen who hauled it in and ask for their version. Come to the museum when you know.”

I considered that a fine idea, asking any and all fishermen still on the dock where I might locate Muhammad Jamal, the boat owner. The sun had set and the fish was already loaded onto a truck and driven away before the toothless pterodactyl I had first spoken with pointed me in his direction, not far the from harbor. Buried in an alley behind a chaotic tangle of hoardings and electric cables, on a street choked by the fumes of racing rickshaws and minivans, he was seated in the dim light of a small teashop that apparently doubled as his office.

“I don’t go out anymore,” the weathered old man mumbled, his eyes as tired as the antique fan whirling above his bald head.

“You knew about the fish, though?”

“Yes, yes. Haji Sahib sent five thousand rupees and his man said he gave another two thousand to my boys.”

Five thousand? Haji Sahib said he’d paid two lakhs. Something was fishy.

“Where are your boatmen?”

“Go up,” he motioned toward a dingy staircase at the back of the shop. He seemed to be glad to be rid of me, returning to his daal-chawal without so much as a khuda hafiz.

I climbed the stairs, cursing the spittle on every step and now on my new shoes. At the top, a small veranda opened onto two rooms; one strewn with bedding, the other crammed with five men scooping lentils and rice off a communal thali on the floor. From their complexions I could tell they were, indeed, Bengalis as I’d heard.