Pir-E-Kamil: The Perfect Mentor (3 page)

'You keep a record of everything, don't you?' she replied, smiling at her husband whose gaze was fixed on Salar as he received the trophy from the chief guest.

'Only for golf and you know the reason very well. I bet that even if Salar had been playing this tournament with professional players, he would have still won the trophy,' he claimed proudly.

Salar was shaking hands with the other winners seated around him.

Sikandar's wife was not surprised by his claim about Salar. She knew that it was not an expression of paternal sentiment: it was the truth—Salar was indeed extraordinary.

She recalled when he had played 18 holes at this golf course with her brother Zubair for the first time. The way he had brought a ball that had accidentally fallen into the rough, out onto the green, was a display of expertise. Zubair was amazed. 'I can't believe it!' He had repeated this statement endlessly till the end of the game.

If the shot from the rough had amazed Zubair, then Salar's putters had floored him. As the ball rolled towards the hole, he leaned against his club and turned around to gauge the distance between Salar and his target. Shaking his head in disbelief, he looked at Salar.

'Salar Sahib is not playing well today,' muttered the caddie standing by the golf cart behind Zubair, who turned around in surprise.

'So he's not playing well?' He looked at the caddie. Was this a joke?

'Yes, sir, otherwise the ball would not have gone into the rough,' the caddie said. 'You have played here today for the first time, but Salar Sahib has been playing here for the last three years. That's why I say he's not playing well,' he added. Zubair looked at his sister who was smiling benignly.

'Next time, I will be fully prepared when I come here, and I will also select the site for the game.' Zubair was somewhat miffed as they walked across towards Salar.

'Any time, any place,' she confidently challenged her brother on her son's behalf.

'I want to invite you to Karachi this weekend, with all expenses paid,' Zubair said casually as he approached Salar.

'Why?'

'To play on my behalf against the president of the Karachi Chamber of Commerce. I lost the election to him, but if he loses a golf match, and that too to a child, he'll have a heart attack. So let's settle the score.'

Salar's mother laughed at her brother's words, but a frown creased Salar's brow.

'Child?' He repeated with emphasis the only objectionable word in Zubair's comment. 'Uncle, I think I'll have to play another 18 holes against you tomorrow.'

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Asjad opened the door and entered his mother's room.

'Ami, I need to discuss something important with you.'

'Yes...what is it?'

Asjad sat down on the sofa. 'Have you been to Hashim Uncle's lately?'

'No...is there anything special?'

'Imama is over for this weekend.'

'Very well, we'll go this evening. Have you been there?' Shakeela smiled at him.

'Yes...'

'How is she? She's come home after a long time,' Shakeela remarked.

'Yes, after two months.'

Shakeela sensed Asjad was upset. 'Is there a problem?'

'Ami, I find Imama a little changed,' Asjad said with a sigh.

'Changed? What do you mean?'

'I cannot explain what I mean. It's just that her attitude towards me is rather strange.' Asjad shrugged his shoulders. 'Today she took offence to something quite minor. She's not the way she was before. I am not able to figure out the reason for this change.'

'It's your imagination, Asjad. Why would her attitude change? You are thinking too emotionally.'

'No, Ami. Initially, I thought I was being oversensitive, but after today I don't think I am imagining things. She treats me in a very off-hand manner.'

'What do you think is the reason for this change in her attitude?' she asked as she put the brush back on the table.

'I have no idea...'

'Did you ask her?'

'Not just once, but several times.'

'And?'

'Like you, she always says that I am mistaken.' He shrugged again.

'Sometimes, she says it's because of her studies, sometimes, she says it is because she has matured now...'

'It's not so far-fetched; perhaps, that is the reason,' Shakeela replied pensively.

'Ami, it's not a question of her becoming serious! I think she's moving away from me,' said Asjad.

'You're being silly, Asjad. I don't believe there's any such issue. You have both known each other since childhood. You know your temperaments.'

Shakeela felt her son's fears were meaningless. 'Obviously, changes do take place as the years pass: you're no longer children. Stop worrying over trivialities,' she tried to reason with her son. 'In any case, Hashim Bhai wants the two of you to get married next year. Imama can continue and complete her education afterwards. He wants to fulfill his responsibility,' Shakeela revealed.

'When did he say this?' Shakeela was taken by surprise.

'Many times. In fact, I think they may have started the preparations.'

Asjad breathed a sigh of relief.

'Maybe that is why Imama is agitated.'

'Yes, possibly. The wedding should take place next year,' Asjad replied with some satisfaction.

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He was a tall, thin lad of sixteen or seventeen. He had a fuzzy growth on his face and had an innocent look about him. He was dressed in sports shorts and a baggy shirt, and had on cotton socks and joggers. He was in the middle of a crowded road, on a heavy duty motorcycle which he was racing recklessly without any consideration for traffic lights or oncoming traffic. Zigzagging his bike through the traffic, he periodically lifted both his feet off the pedals performing wheelies. Then, without breaking speed, he turned and changed lanes going the wrong way through the oncoming traffic. Suddenly he braked with a sharp screech. He raised his hands from the handlebars and the motorcycle slammed full speed into an approaching car. He was flung into the air and thrown down. He had no idea of what had happened...his mind plunged into a dark abyss.

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The boys stood behind the rostrums on the stage, facing each other. They were both canvassing for the post of head boy and this was part of the election programme. One rostrum had a poster saying 'Vote for Salar' pasted on it, while the other had a poster of the other contender, Faizan. At this point, Faizan was telling his audience what he would do for them if elected. Salar watched him intently. Faizan was the best orator in the school and was impressing the boys with his performance in a clipped British accent which was so popular. The excellent sound system carried his voice very clearly and there was pin-drop silence in the hall which was sporadically broken by the thunderous applause of his supporters. When Faizan finished half an hour later, the clapping and whistling carried on for several minutes. Salar Sikandar also joined the applause. Faizan looked around triumphantly, and seeing Salar clapping, he nodded in appreciation. As Faizan knew well, Salar was not an easy opponent,

The compere called Salar to begin his speech. To a roar of applause Salar began. 'Good morning friends...' He paused, and then continued. 'Faizan Akbar is certainly an asset to our school as an orator. Neither I nor anyone else can compete with him ...' He stopped again and looked at Faizan, who looked around with a proud smile. But the rest of Salar's sentence wiped the smile off his face. '...If it were only a matter of spinning yarns.'

Sounds of giggling filled the hall. Salar maintained a serious attitude. 'But there's a great difference between an orator and a head boy: an orator has to speak while a head boy has to work.' The hall echoed with the applause of Salar's supporters.

'I do not have the eloquence of Faizan Akbar,' he continued. 'I have my name and my record to speak for me. I do not need a stream of words where just a few would do.' He stopped again.

'Trust me and vote for me.' He thanked the audience and switched off the mike. Thunderous applause filled the air. Salar had spoken for one minute and forty seconds in his typical measured style and calculated words, and in that brief time he had overturned Faizan's ambitions.

After this preliminary introduction, there was a question and answer session. Salar responded in his customary brief manner; his longest response was not more than four sentences. On the other hand, Faizan's shortest response was not less than four sentences. Faizan's eloquence and way with words, which were his strength, now appeared bombastic compared to Salar's short and sharp responses on stage, and Faizan was all too aware of this. If Salar gave a one-line reply to a question, Faizan, out of sheer habit, went on with a monologue. Whatever Salar had said about Faizan seemed to be proving true to the audience—that an orator can only speak, not act.

'Why should Salar Sikandar be the head boy?' came a question.

'Because you should elect the best person for the job,' he replied.

'Wouldn't you call this arrogance?' came the objection.

'No, it is confidence and awareness.' The objection was refuted.

'What is the difference between arrogance and confidence?' another pointed query arose.

'The same as the difference between Faizan Akbar and Salar Sikandar,' he replied in a serious tone.

'What difference will it make if you are not appointed head boy?'

'It will make a difference to you, not to me.'

'How?'

'If the best person is not appointed as the leader, it affects the community, not the best person.'

'Again, you are referring to yourself as the best person.' Once again, there was an objection.

'Is there anyone in this hall who'd equate himself with someone bad?'

'Perhaps there is...'

'Then I'd like to meet him.' Sounds of amusement rose from the audience.

'Tell us about the changes Salar Sikandar will bring about as head boy.'

'Changes are not talked about, they are demonstrated and I cannot do this before I become head boy.'

A few more questions were asked and answered and then the compere called for the last question. A Sri Lankan boy stood up with a naughty smile.

'If you answer this question of mine, then I and my entire group will vote for you.'

Salar smiled, 'Before I reply, I'd like to know how many people there are in your group.'

'Six,' the boy replied.

Salar nodded in assent and asked, 'Okay, what's your question?'

'You have to calculate and tell me that if 952852 is added to 267895 and then 399999 is subtracted from the total and 929292 is added to the sum,' he read slowly from a paper, 'then the figure is multiplied by six and divided by two and 492359 is added to the final figure, what would be one-fourth of it?'

The boy could barely complete his words when Salar's response to this 'silly' question came with lightning speed. '2035618.2.'

The boy glanced at the paper in his hand and, shaking his head in disbelief, began clapping. Faizan Akbar at that point felt that he was merely an actor; the hall was filled with applause—Faizan saw this entire programme as nothing more that a joke. An hour later, coming down the stage ahead of Salar, Faizan knew that he had lost the competition to him even before it had begun. He had never felt as envious of this 150 IQ scorer as he did now.

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'Imama Apa, when are you going to Lahore?' She looked up from her notes with a start. Saad was slowly cycling around her. 'Tomorrow. Why do you ask?' She shut her file. 'When you go away, I miss you a lot,' he said. 'Why?' she asked with a smile.

'Because I like you very much and...you get toys for me and you take me out for drives and...you play with me,' he answered in detail. 'Can't you take me to Lahore with you?'

Imama was not sure whether this was a suggestion or a question. 'How can I take you with me? I live in a hostel myself, so where will you live?' she asked.

He pondered this over as he cycled round. 'Then you should come more often.'

'Very well. I'll come more often.' She smiled at him. 'You can talk to me on the phone. I'll call you.'

'Yes—that sounds good.' Saad liked this idea. He began to race his bicycle round the lawn. Imama looked at him absent-mindedly. Saad was not her brother: he had come to their house five years ago. She did not know where he had come from—and was not concerned— but she knew why he had been brought in. He was ten years old now and had settled in with the family. He was closest to Imama. She often felt very sorry for him, not because he was an orphan, but it was his future that she felt sad about. Her paternal uncles had also adopted orphans and their future too was a cause for concern for Imama. Book in hand, she continued to look at Saad cycling the garden. Watching him, she was often troubled by such thoughts, but she had no answers—there was nothing that she could do for him.

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All four of them were in Heera Mandi, the red-light district of Lahore. They were between eighteen and nineteen years of age and their appearance gave away their upper class background; but out here neither age nor social background meant anything, because young boys often frequented the area and the elite were among the most regular customers.

The boys made their way through the narrow lanes of the bazaar. Three of them were lost in conversation but the fourth looked around with interest and a sense of mystery. It seemed that this was his first venture into this domain, and a later exchange with his friends confirmed this.

On both sides of the lane, in open doorways, stood women of every age, shape, size and complexion—fair and dark, beautiful and plain—all heavily made up and dressed in a revealing way. And men of all ages also passed through the lane. The boy observed everything very carefully.

'How often have you been here?' He addressed the boy to his right who laughed and repeated the words.

'How often? I don't remember now—I haven't kept count! I come here quite often,' he said proudly.

'I don't find these women very attractive...nothing special about them,' the boy shrugged his shoulders. 'If one has to spend a night somewhere at least the environment should be pleasant—this is such a filthy place,' he said looking distastefully at the potholes and the piles of garbage in the lane. 'Besides, what's the point of coming here when you have girlfriends?'