Gandhi was a bonehead
Imagine if you will that long, gory hall through which her assassins must walk — or crawl, or grovel — on their way toward promised glories. Just as there were no entrances into madness, only the manic moments, there will be no exit from recrimination, no surcease at all but entropy. Entire worlds will pass away before the echoes of that blast attenuate to nothing.
In the end, Allah will send Bhutto, like an angel armored in light, with a golden needle in one hand and a silken thread in the other, offering explanations and a way to bind up the aeons of regret. But the fires of Hell are subtle, and no one will answer her. No one at all.