AROUND a decade ago, when digital media was still a thing of the future, The Serial hit the market and captured imaginations. An investigative podcast that looks into an earlier murder of an 18-year-old high school girl in the United States, the episodes take the listener to the murder, its investigation and the trial. Her boyfriend was convicted of the murder. The podcast takes a deep dive into the case, raising questions and pointing out loopholes in the prosecution’s case that convicted the young boy.

The podcast was an instant sensation. In a period of two years or so, the podcast had been downloaded 80 million times, setting a still continuing trend of true crime podcasts. Since then, other than the podcasts itself, we have also been treated to a TV series, Only Murders in the Building, which is based on the popularity of the trend, as well as books. For instance, a young adults book, A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder, (which has now been turned into a show by Netflix) is clearly not just inspired by the investigative journalism but also the original case.

Sadly, journalism in Pakistan rarely spares time for any issue other than high politics; even crime is a sideshow in our little world.

Be it papers or television, crime rarely ever makes it into the top headlines or the front page, and even less frequently does it lead to in-depth reporting.

But recently, two women journalists took the decision to delve into a 50-year-old crime. Tooba Masood and Saba Imtiaz began with a podcast into an old but famous case from Karachi and later turned it into a book, which I inhaled in a single day.

The authors point out how the Mustafa Zaidi case was given more attention than the events of East Pakistan.

Titled Society Girl, the book follows the death of poet and civil servant Mustafa Zaidi in Karachi, in united Pakistan. The 40-something-year-old was found dead in his house, while a young married woman was also present there in a state of unconsciousness. She was later accused of his murder and then acquitted. But from the time the body of Zaidi was discovered to the acquittal, the case, according to the authors, became a staple for the newspapers of those days, from the English to the Urdu, from the broadsheets to the more sensationalist eveningers.

Following a trail that has been cold for 50 years, the authors have their work cut out for them, and while they provide a detailed account of the events and most of the evidence available on record, as is the case in real life, the mystery of Zaidi’s death remains a mystery. Neither are they really able to tie up any of the loose ends, thrown up by their own narration of the story. But what they have done is turn their account of the case into a commentary of sorts on the socio-cultural environs of Karachi in which both Mustafa Zaidi and the young woman, Shahnaz Gul, socialised, as well as the larger political context.

In the account of Mustafa Zaidi’s early years and his multiple attempts at suicide, the two authors lead into a short discussion about mental health and the ignorance about it. Shahnaz’s move to Karachi along with her husband and their social life allows them to discuss the life of the city’s elite, from club memberships to the nightlife provided at hotels such as the Metropole. And the trial leads to a discussion of how the newspapers turned this into a witch-hunt of a young woman, even though there was little evidence of the death being murder.

The two journalists provide a wonderful account of how the newspapers turned the entire saga into one of a ‘sinful’ woman. Zaidi and Gul were both married to other people and seemed to be having an affair; they were both found (one dead and one alive) in odd circumstances, and despite Zaidi being known for his infidelity, it was the woman who was targeted by the press and the society at large. Even the fact that Zaidi had flyers printed with Gul’s nudes, calling her Pakistan’s Christine Keeler, led to questions about her rather than the toxicity of his act. (Christine Keeler is the woman who was at the centre of the Perfumo affair in the UK.)

The case is covered in such lurid detail that the authors are at pains to point out how it was given more attention than the events of East Pakistan. At one point, even Zulfikar Ali Bhutto used it in a speech to gain brownie points, by promising not to let the accused leave the country.

But by the end of the book, one is stuck not just by the misogyny of the times but also the impact it had. The book paints a picture of a complicated man, who is brilliant, talented, complicated and perhaps toxic. His friends speak of him, as do his relatives, and there is his poetry, which also reveals his thoughts.

And on the other side there is a silent woman. Her family didn’t speak to the authors of the book and, during the case, Gul simply gave one ‘interview’. Other than that, there is perhaps a statement or two that she gave to the police during the investigations. Women friends and others who socialised with her or saw her at court either focus on her looks or mention her lack of intellect. One of them even calls her ‘paindu’. It is as if she had no personality, no thoughts, no desires or needs.

At one level, a woman who was embroiled in a scandal of those proportions 50 years ago perhaps could not afford to do anything but stay quiet. But the fact that those who were acquainted with her could also not add any flesh and blood to her was hard to digest long after I finished reading.

The woman was silenced in so many more ways than we realise. While the man wasn’t, not even after his death.

The writer is a journalist.

Published in Dawn, January 7th, 2025