Today I decided to buy a gun. I had read a news report in Dawn that there are 20 million guns in Pakistan for a population of 180 million. This works out to one gun for every ninth person. It was very encouraging to see that the State of Pakistan was so committed to protecting the life and property of the ordinary citizens that it had empowered them to own guns and defend themselves. After all, as the maxim says, “God helps those who help themselves.”

To make sure that I do no more than follow the national trend in gun ownership, I counted eight close relatives and friends who I knew for sure did not own a firearm. Clearly this anomaly needed to be addressed so – like a responsible citizen – I set out to buy a gun for myself.

I am no stranger to owning weapons. At the tender age of seven years I was the proud owner of a cowboy set, complete with a mask, a hat and a Sherriff’s Silver Star. Armed with a perfectly bad plastic replica of a Smith and Wesson 35mm gun I was keeping my wild siblings under control. After the “bad guys” were brought to justice and peace returned to the Wild West, the Smith and Wesson was replaced with a water gun that I used to deadly effect when dispersing violent protest by the siblings against me. Now I was ready for the “Final Showdown at Zamzama” that would bring the entire East under the writ of the law of the land.

On the way home from work, briefcase in hand, I walked into “Haji Shareef Arms Merchant” located right in my own neighbourhood. A young man who appeared neither shareef nor a Haji was snoring away in a comfortable chair. I shook his shoulder to wake him up. He lazily opened his eyes and inquired in an irritated voice, “What are you looking for?”

“Two dozen white roses and a pre-printed love note,” I replied haughtily. Now the man seemed alarmed and eyed my brief case with suspicion. “But Sir, this is an arms shop, not a flower shop”. “Then why the hell did you ask me what I was looking for?” I said. That put him in his place right there and then and an uneasy balance of power was established between the vendor and the customer. “But Sir, you seem to be an honest, decent gentleman, why would you want a gun?”

Clearly, my office attire and my grey hair had prompted this line of enquiry. “Listen, you naïve young man, it is precisely because I am an honest, law abiding citizen that I need to arm myself!” Standing so close to a plethora of weapons I felt dizzy with a sense of power. “Now stop blabbering and show me what is on offer here!” “Well, it depends on how many you want to kill”. He had asked a valid question. I started counting my potential victims but the figure got alarmingly high very rapidly. “Well, let’s see something that will put down a few for good and a leave a few others alive minus some limbs.” The young man nodded to acknowledge my humane attitude. He picked up a gun and put it in my hand, “This is a Glock 9mm, made famous by the great friend of Pakistan, the American Raymond Davis. This would fit perfectly in your briefcase.” I held the gun, my new friend to be, in my hand. For the first time in many years, I felt good. The salesman showed me a dizzying array of handguns from all corners of the world including our own neighbour, the Islamic Republic of Darra Adam Khel.

“If you are looking for a prohibited bore weapon, I can put you in touch with Haji Sahib’s older brother in Sohrab Goth. MashaAllah, the senior Haji Sahib has everything from the humble Klashnikov to rocket propelled grenades and Stinger missiles”. I was suitably in awe. “The only weapon not for sale yet is the nuclear bomb, but Inshallah, that too would be available soon. Just leave your cell phone number and I will give you a “miss call” when Haji Sahib has one in stock”. Since my finances are limited, I opted for a made-in-China, 9mm Glock, No. 2 Quality for Rs. 50,000.

“I assume you have a gun license, Sir?” The salesman was back to his stupid questions. “Young man, you are asking for a gun license? I am a citizen of Pakistan and I have the license to kill! And here is my genuine NADRA issued ID card confirming my citizenship. And throw in a few hundred rounds of ammo while we are at it”.

Thus fully armed I left the store feeling like an authentic Pakistani citizen. On the way home, I stopped by the shrine of the great saint Abdullah Shah Ghazi. I bought a dozen roses, and laid it at the saint’s feet with a silent prayer that I would never have to use my newly acquired weapon. Just then, three pickup trucks travelling at breakneck pace, with blackened windows and dozens of armed men in the back, nearly ploughed through the large number of old women and small children crossing the road to enter the shrine. I felt for my gun, but then an invisible hand restrained me, gently but firmly. Clearly, my prayer to the Saint had been heard.

But for how long would my offering last? The roses will soon dry and wither away; then all bets are off.