No King, No King of Kings

has ever lit up our hearts like this. No king. See Bhutto in Karachi, 1972. His path strewn with rose petals, sprinkled with attar, leads him, not to the sea with its crashing surf and screaming gulls but into the alleys and passageways of a slum. Ferdowsi in Shahnamah tags it for the interim as “the place of worship before any others existed. . . ” No King, no King of Kings, had ever toured a slum before. It opened wide the thrice-locked chamber of mercy in our hearts. The gathering crowds expecting to catch a glimpse of Bhutto, are, instead, treated to a double vision: Alexander the Great, in a red robe, left hand resting on his sword, like in an illustration from Shahnamah , as he watches our own pilgrim, the unsuspecting Bhutto “reach for the door handle of the Ka'ba.” Bhutto’s entourage and PTV news crew push back. The crowd askew, insufflated by this vision, pushes Bhutto towards the hovel of the woman driven half-insane by poverty. Bhutto, aglow, with tears in his eyes, embraces the woman who collapses in his arms. No king, no king of kings, had ever lit up our hearts like this. No king.