Pir-E-Kamil: The Perfect Mentor (20 page)

'In that room there—I'll get her a prayer rug. Let me do that before I check the engine for you,' he said as he went towards the room.

Salar saw Imama move towards the drum and stand there looking somewhat puzzled. Involuntarily, he approached her. The water was in a large barrel that was once used once for road tar; it had a cover on it.

'How can I get water from this?' Imama turned at the sound of footsteps behind her. Salar looked around and seeing an empty pail, he brought it.

'I think they use this to get the water,' he said as he dipped the pail in and filled it up for her. 'Let me help you,' he said. Imama looked somewhat uncomfortable at first; then she rolled up the sleeves of her pullover and taking off her watch, held it out to Salar, and squatted on her feet. As Salar poured some water on her outstretched hands, she shuddered as if a current had hit her and drew them back.

'What's the matter?' he was taken aback.

'Nothing—the water's very cold. But pour it, please.' She held out her hands. Salar began to pour the water as she performed the ablutions. For the first time, he saw her arms up to her elbows; for a while, he could not take his eyes off her wrists and then he shifted his gaze to her face.

Without removing her chadar, she very carefully cleansed her hair, her ears and throat, and Salar's eyes followed the movements of her hands. He discovered for the first time too the gold chain swinging from her neck and the pearl pendant on it. Every time Salar had seen her she had been covered in a chadar—the colors would be different but she always wore it in the same style. He had never thought about her shape, her figure.

I'llpour water on my feet myself.' She stood up and took the pail, now nearly empty, from Salar. He moved back a few paces and watched her,

fascinated. His fascination came to an end when she had completed her wuzu; he held out her watch.

They walked to the room indicated by the man. He had already spread out the prayer mat in a corner. Imama moved forward quietly. There were a few chairs and a small stool also in the room. Salar could not immediately comprehend the use of this room; then he moved to the window-like counter at the other end.

'Get us two cups of tea,' he told a boy there who nodded obediently and proceeded to light a stove. Salar then returned to the room. Imama had begun her prayers. He sat down on a chair and, stretching his legs to the table across, he watched her pray. He thought that, considering her predicament, she would collapse into tears in supplication—it was but expected. But, to his disappointment, she did nothing of the sort. Hands raised, she prayed quietly for a while, and then passing her hands over her face, she stood up. Salar drew a deep breath and looked away.

As soon as they entered the precincts of Lahore, Imama said, 'You can drop me off at any bus stand now; I'll make my own way.'

I'lldrop you wherever you want to go. Waiting in this fog for any transport will take a long time.'

The roads were quite deserted at this time in the early morning hour and fog engulfed everything.

'I have no idea where I'll be going, so how can I give you any directions? I

think I'll go to the hostel now, and then...'

Salar interrupted. 'Then I'll take you to the hostel.' There was silence between them as he headed towards the hostel.

At some distance from the building, Imama said, 'Stop here; I'll walk over. I

don't want to be seen going there with you.' Salar stopped the car.

'In the last few weeks, you have been extremely helpful towards me: I want to thank you: if it weren't for you, I wouldn't be here now.' She continued after a pause. 'I still have your mobile with me—I'll need it for a while, but I'll send it to you later.'

'No need for that; you can keep it.'

I'llcontact you after a few days; you can send me the divorce papers then.'

She added, 'I hope you will not divulge anything to my parents.'

'Need you say that?' His eyebrows went up. 'If I wanted to, I'd have told them long ago,' he said indifferently. 'You had a very poor opinion of me—

do you still think in the same terms, or has your opinion changed?' Salar suddenly asked with a knowing smile. 'Don't you believe that I'm really a very nice person?'

'It's possible,' she uttered softly.

'It's possible?' Her response shocked Salar. He gave a doubtful smile.

'Even now, you say it's possible. You are really ungrateful, Imama—I've done all that for you which no young man would be ready to do, and yet you are not willing to admit any goodness about me.'

'I'm not ungrateful. I accept that you have done me many favors and that anyone else in your place would not have obliged...'

'So that means I am good, right?' he interjected. She did not reply, but kept looking at him.

'No. I know that's what you want to say; although an eastern woman's silence is assent, they say, but your silence means refusal. I'm right, am I

not?'

'We're getting into a pointless argument.'

'Possibly,' he shrugged. 'But I'm surprised that you...'

This time, Imama cut him short. 'You have certainly done a lot for me, and if I did not know you, I'd certainly believe you to be a very good human being and even say so. But—I know you well so I cannot say you're a good person.' She stopped. Salar stared at her steadily. 'A person who attempts suicide, who drinks alcohol, who has plastered his room with pictures of nude women cannot be good.' She spoke bluntly.

'If you had gone to a man who did none of these three things but did not help you either, would he be good in your eyes?' Salar spoke angrily. 'Like Jalal Ansar?'

Imama's expression changed. 'Yes. He did not help me but that doesn't make him bad. He's a good man...I still consider him good.'

'And I helped you, I married you, and certainly in your opinion, I am still a very bad person?' He smiled sardonically as he said this. 'What do you think about yourself, Imama—that you're a very good girl?'

His tone was acerbic and, without waiting for her response, he continued. 'I

don't think you're a very good person: you ran away from home for another man...you deceived your fiance...you ruined your family's honor.' He was speaking without thinking of consideration and courtesy.

There was a hint of tears in her eyes. 'You're right. I am not good, and I

have yet to hear this from many others. I could give you a lengthy explanation but there's no point in doing so, as you can't appreciate these things.'

'Suppose I had taken you somewhere else instead of bringing you down to Lahore, then? But I brought you here safely; do you realize what a favor I've done you?'

Imama looked at him and said, 'I was certain that you would bring me here,

that you would not take me anywhere else.'

'You believed in me? Why? I'm a bad person, remember?' Salar chuckled.

'I didn't believe in you—I believed in God.' Salar frowned at her words. 'I

gave up everything for God and His Prophet (PBUH). It could never be that I would be left helpless at the mercy of someone like you.'

'Suppose it had happened,' he insisted.

'Why should I presume something that did not happen?' She was equally insistent.

That's to say that you don't give me any credit whatsoever?' he taunted her. 'What if I do not let you go now? What then? The car doors won't open unless I unlock them, you know that; what will you do?'

She fixed her gaze on him. He went on. 'Or I do this,' he said and picking up the cell phone on the dashboard began to key in the numbers. 'I call up your home.' He waved the phone before her—her number flashed on the screen.

'I tell them where you are and with whom, and then I take you straight to the police station and hand you over—what of your trust and belief then?'

He mocked her.

Imama watched him without a word. Salar felt very pleased with himself.

He switched off the phone and showed her the screen.

'Do you see what a favor I have done you by not doing what I could have done?' he asked, replacing the instrument on the dashboard. 'Although you were utterly helpless, last night, I could have taken you somewhere else—

what would you have done then?'

'I'd have shot you.' she spoke one word at a time.

He laughed in her face. 'Done what? "I'd have shot you",' he mimicked her as laughed hilariously, his hands on the steering wheel. 'Have you eve seen a pistol in your life?' he mocked her.

He saw her reach for her feet. 'I think this is what they call a pistol.'

The smile was erased off his face. In Imama's hand was a small and costly ladies' pistol. Seeing her grip on the weapon, he realized that she was no amateur. He looked at her uncertainly.

'You could have shot me?'

'Yes, I could, but I didn't do so because you did not deceive me in any way.' Her tone was composed, firm. She had not pointed the weapon at Salar, but kept holding on to it.

'The car's lock...' She did not say anything further. Salar unlocked the doors. She placed the pistol in her handbag. There was no more conversation between them; opening the door, Imama stepped out. Salar saw her move swiftly towards a van that approached them and she got aboard.

Salar prided himself on his keen power of observation: he could read a person's mind by looking at their face. But, on that fog-engulfed road, he had to confess that he had not been able to figure out Imama Hashim.

Hands on the steering, he sat there for many moments in a state of uncertainty. This experience had augmented his dislike for Imama Hashim.

Regardless of the foggy conditions, Salar drove home at top speed. All the way, his mind was in turmoil—where had she pulled the pistol out from? He was certain that when she was performing the wuzu and washing her feet,

there was nothing visibly strapped to her calf. He had watched her from head to toe when she was praying and did not observe anything. She had gone to the car and sat down when they had finished eating; he had followed her a few moments later. Definitely, she must have had the pistol in her bag, he figured.

He was in a foul mood when he got home. When he pulled the car into the gate, he summoned the gatekeeper.

'You will not tell anyone about the girl who was in the car with me last night,

do you understand? In fact, I did not go anywhere as far as you're concerned,' he warned him in a threatening tone.

'Yes, sir. I will not breathe a word to anyone about anything,' the man nodded obediently. He was no fool to go around talking about such things.

Salar went to his room and slept peacefully. He did not intend to go anywhere that day.

-------------------------

He was in deep sleep when he heard a sudden loud banging on his door.

He sat up. The door was being jolted by the noise. He looked at the wall clock with half-open eyes—it was 4:00 a.m. Rubbing his eyes, he went to the door, furious at whoever was knocking on it. Angrily, Salar yanked the door open to find the servant standing there.

'What's your problem—why are you banging on the door? Do you want to break it down?' he shouted at the man.

'Salar Sahib, the police are outside.' The servant was flustered. Salar's sleep and fury both vanished. In a trice, he knew why the police was there and he was surprised at the alacrity of Imama's family and the police; how on earth had they reached him within a few hours of last night's events?

'Why are the police here?' Salar asked, keeping his voice calm and his face expressionless.

'That they're not saying, sir, except that they want to meet you. But the chowkidar has not let them in. He told them that you weren't home, but they have a warrant for you. They said they'll break in if they're not allowed to come in and they'll arrest everybody.'

Salar breathed a sigh of relief: the chowkidar had acted really sensibly. He must have been sure that the police were here to investigate about the girl last night so he had neither let the police enter nor told them about Salar being home.

'Don't worry... I'll handle this somehow,' Salar told the servant and went back into his room. If it were any ordinary citizen's house, the police would have stormed in; but the size of the house and its location intimidated them.

If Imama's family were not as influential, perhaps the police would not dare enter this sector, and that too with a warrant—they were now between a rock and a hard place.

Salar immediately called up Sikandar Usman in Karachi. 'Papa, there's a small problem. The police are standing outside our gate and they have an arrest warrant for me.'

Sikandar Usman almost dropped the cell phone. 'Why?'

'I don't know, Papa. I was sleeping when the servant woke me up to inform me. Should I go and inquire from the police why they want to arrest me?'

Salar asked his father in a tone of filial obedience.

'No, there's no need for you to go out or call the police in. Stay in your room; I'll call you in a while.' Sikandar Usman hung up quickly. Salar was relieved that the police would no longer be there a little later and that's just what happened. Ten or fifteen minutes later, the servant came to inform Salar that the police had left. The man was still talking to Salar when Sikandar rang him up.

'Have the police gone?' he asked the minute he heard Salar's voice.

'Yes, they've left,' Salar spoke in a calm and relieved voice.

'Now listen to me carefully. Your mother and I are reaching Islamabad tonight. Till then you are not to leave the house. Do you understand that?'

Salar found his father's tone rather strange—it was cold and brusque.

'Yes, I do,' he said and put down the phone. As he did so, his gaze fell on the carpet which had footprints all over. The servant was also looking at them in surprise as they seemed to come in from the window across the room.

'Clean up these footprints,' Salar ordered.

The servant went out. Salar went to the sliding window and opened it. He had figured it out right—the same muddy footprints trooped across the verandah too. Imama had jumped over the wall into the flowerbeds and trudged the mud all over. The marks stood out on the white marble floor of the verandah. Salar let out a deep breath. He turned to see the servant cleaning the marks on the carpet.