Somnambulance...

And so, the day started with a bang. Thursday morning, some fanatical maniac slammed his carload of explosives into a U.S. diplomat’s vehicle, setting off a chain of explosions as the natural gas cylinders in surrounding cars exploded as well. Thus, he effectively elevated the route in front of the American Consulate back to its position as one of the most dangerous roadways in the world. I have commented in the past on the ineffective security surrounding the place, and once again I am confounded as to why the Americans have refused to shift their premises to a location that isn’t directly in the middle of thousands of commuter's routes to work, and sitting squarely between two five star hotels. It is currently a huge, red bull’s-eye of American arrogance that places local citizens in danger.

Even so, it was not the explosions that woke me that morning, even though the glassware shook throughout the house. I had been editing the TV show until four that morning, and was effectively passed-out. It was my intrepid servant Paul who knocked on my door, poked in his head, and said, “Boss, you stay inside the house. It is a bad day.” More than anyone else, Paul has been extremely worried in recent weeks that I will be mistakenly identified as a Danish caricaturist. The situation isn’t anywhere near as bad as you have heard on the news, but I am inclined to agree with Paul that there is no need to push one’s luck.

So I stuck around the house until I had assessed the situation, and then mid-afternoon, I braved the streets in order to finish shooting the final scenes of my television show. Believe me, at that point, getting that low-budget monkey off my back was the only thing on my mind. We started this silly show back in October so the prospect of finally finishing was like the light at the end of the tunnel. Even as shooting went long in the afternoon, even as we raced the sun to finish another scene before dark, the single thought, “Almost done” was like a beacon of sanity in the chaos of frustration.

That night, we were shooting at my house, on the roof, the final scenes of the final episode: a barbecue get-together for my character before he heads back to Canada. Things were slow, as usual, as we waited for the crew to set up the rooftop for the ersatz barbecue. Finally, at 11:30, we went upstairs. Someone had decided to shift the setup of the scenes from the front side of the roof, where I had suggested, to the other side of the roof, but at that point I just didn’t care where we shot it, as long as we got it done.

We shot the first scene and stopped to take a break for food. The cast sat around on the carpets, gorging ourselves since, by that time, we were all pretty tired and hungry. Still there was a jovial mood as we persistently reminded ourselves that we were almost done. My friend Adnan remarked how since the bombing that morning, there was a heaviness in the air. We all agreed, and I explained how Paul and I had discussed that very same thing earlier in the day. Soon though, we were all laughing and making jabs at each other. I even cursed at Faris in Urdu to get the crew laughing. All the while, the camera rolled, filming a montage of us eating in case we needed it for the episode.

In the midst of the laughter, I happened to be looking toward Khurram, the cameraman (which is technically a no-no), as he moved back to take in the whole scene. I saw him stumble and try to regain his balance, camera on his shoulder, eye to the lens. A sudden spasm of premonition clamped like a steel band around my chest and I couldn’t breathe or shout. Time stood virtually still as he started to fall backwards… as arms reached out for him and shouts from the crew failed to stop his momentum… as his normally harmless stumble became anything but… as he landed squarely on the single, small skylight… as the glass gave way, his body folded in on itself, and he disappeared.

A strangled cry came from Adnan, as I sat there paralyzed. One of the girls screamed and set Time off again at an outlandish pace. For a moment more, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the shattered place he had just been. My mind refused to acknowledge what had happened. It was too ridiculous. It couldn’t happen. The skylight was too small, no one could possibly fall through it. But in that instant, I also knew something that no one else did. I knew that the purpose of that skylight was to bring natural light to the stairwell, and that it did not just open onto the floor below, but all the way down to the cold marble of the ground floor, two and a half stories below.

Suddenly I sprang into motion. Others had rushed to the hole and were looking down, I headed straight for the stairwell. As I rushed by I heard one of the girls scream as she saw what I had already seen in my mind. I flew down the stairs, grabbing the banisters and propelling myself forward. I heard the strangled cries of others as they realized the extent of this fall.

The rest is a blur of activity, as my mind refused to keep up with what was happening. I remember moving him to Adnan’s car. I remember Faris and me shouting to the crew to be careful, trying to calm their panic as they jolted his body to and fro. I remember stopping, making them decide on the closest hospital before they left. I remember the agonized screams of one of his friends on the crew, holding his head and shouting, “Khurram? Khurram Bhai?”

I ran back upstairs, waking my housemate to get his car keys and leaving him dumbfounded with the words, “He fell! I need the car!” Paul was almost in tears. I heard him saying, “I told them… I told them the glass was cracked… I told them it was dangerous.” I grabbed the director and we raced off to the hospital.

The rest of the night I felt like I was seeing myself through a fog. I was a man asleep. I drove back to the house to make sure the girls were okay. I was grateful that Paul had cleaned up the glass and mopped the floor. I made sure that the girls all had rides and were safely on their way. Then I took Paul and the one remaining crew member up to the roof, where we methodically packed up all the equipment, as if in a dream under the dazzle of the TV lights, and moved it downstairs. Then I took them both back to the hospital.

We waited at the hospital, inside and outside, pacing, talking, analyzing. Paul moved beside me like a shadow, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder as we sat on the front steps. Eventually, I found a small garden by the parking lot, put my hands together and prayed.

And that, my friends, is the reason that the blog has been silent. I am shaken. I have been in a daze as I walk through my house. The house where I had suggested we shoot, because it has a nice roof. I can’t look up at the skylight. I try not to look at the spot that I forced myself to mop twice over with high-powered cleansers because I swore I could still smell blood. I have been far from the mood of ironic witticism necessary to write something for this site.

As of now, Khurram is still in the hospital. His life is no longer in danger, but his status is unknown; he has not yet regained consciousness. There is minor hemorrhaging and swelling of the brain, but not enough to operate. It is a time of infuriating anticipation. All that can be done, is wait.

Please pray.