Pir-E-Kamil: The Perfect Mentor (31 page)

'Are you feeling all right, sir?'

Without another word, Salar pulled out his wallet, put some dollar bills on the table and left the restaurant.

It was not Imama—it was a bad spirit that haunted him wherever he went. It would be her face or her voice and if it was not these then it was his regret. When he tried to forget one thing about her then something else would surface. Sometimes he would get so volatile and agitated that were she to appear before him, he would strangle her or shoot her. He hated everything about her. Those few hours spent driving her overnight had overshadowed his life completely.

'But why are you coming?' Salar was irritated as he talked to his elder brother, who had called to tell him of his arrival in New Haven a few days later. Had Salar's life been following a routine pattern, he would have welcomed this news. But he was going through a bad patch and Kamran's arrival at this point annoyed him. He couldn't hide his annoyance.

'What do you mean by why am I coming? To see you of course, what else!' Kamran was somewhat taken aback by Salar's tone. 'And Papa also told me to look you up.'

Salar heard him out with clenched teeth.

'Pick me up from the airport. I'll give you the flight details a day ahead.' After some banal conversation, they hung up.

Four days later, Salar received Kamran at the airport. He was shocked to see Salar.

'Have you been ill?' asked Kamran.

'No—I'm fine.' Salar tried to smile.

'You don't look it.' Kamran's concern grew. Salar used to look a person in the eye when he spoke. Now he was shying away. Kamran observed Salar as he was driving; he used to be a very rash driver, to the extent that you sat with him at your own risk, but now he was driving very carefully. Kamran felt this was a positive change in his brother; however it was the only positive change—the other changes that Kamran saw were worrying him.

'How are you studies coming along?'

'Doing well.'

Throughout the trip, these were the kind of responses Kamran got from Salar. When they got to his apartment, Kamran was appalled as he followed Salar in.

'Is this your apartment, Salar? My God!'

Salar used to be very organized, keeping everything in place but this orderliness was nowhere in view. Everything was in a chaos—his clothes and shoes lay strewn about; books, newspapers and magazines were scattered all over; the kitchen was in a messy state and the bathroom worse still. Kamran surveyed the apartment, shocked by what he saw.

'How long has it been since you cleaned this place?'

'I'll do it right now,' Salar replied coldly.

'You were not used to such living—what happened now?' Kamran was most concerned. His glance fell on an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. He picked it up and began to sniff the contents. Salar gave his brother a piercing look but said nothing. Kamran replaced the ashtray in disgust and turned to him.

'Salar, what are you up to this time? Come clean—what's the problem? What's going on? Are you into drugs?'

'No, I'm not taking anything.' His reply angered Kamran, who gripped Salar's shoulders and dragged him before the bathroom mirror.

'Look at yourself—you look like a drug addict and you act like one. Raise your eyes, Salar, look at your face!' Kamran was tugging at his collar. Even without seeing his reflection, Salar knew what he must be looking like. What else could one see but for the dark rings around his eyes and the overgrown stubble on his face. The image was completed by the spots and pimples on his face and his dry flaking lips—the result of endless coffee and cigarettes. He had stopped shaving because of his acne-ridden skin. Upset, he jerked himself free of Kamran's hold and tried to get away without a glance at the mirror.

'You look absolutely despicable, cursed!'

Cursed was a word that Kamran often used, but Salar had never felt it so keenly as he did now. He was incensed.

'Yes—despicable and cursed: so what?' he stood defiantly in front of Kamran. 'When I'm telling you that I do not take drugs, you should believe me.'

'Believe you? huh!' Sarcasm dripped from Kamran's tone. Teeth clenched in fury, Salar continued to clear up the room without a word.

'Are you attending classes at the university?' Salar felt a warning bell ring.

'lam.'

Kamran was not satisfied.

'Come with me to the hospital; I want you to have a complete check up.'

'If this is what you've come for, it is better you return. I'm not a kindergarten child—I can look after myself.'

Kamran did not reply. He joined Salar in putting things in order. Salar breathed a sigh of relief; he thought that this argument had come to an end—but he was mistaken. Kamran extended his stay in New Haven by a week. During this period, Salar attended classes regularly. Kamran on the other hand, met with Salar's friends and his professors. He learnt from Salar's friends of his failure in the semester—this was a shock for Kamran. Anything could be expected of Salar but to fail so poorly, when till lately he had been breaking academic records and topping the university.

This time, Kamran did not discuss anything with Salar. Instead, he called up his father in Pakistan and briefed him on the situation. Once again, the earth slipped away from under Sikandar Usman's feet—Salar was maintaining his old record. Every couple of years, he presented his father with a new set of problems. The Hashim Mubeen and Imama business was about that old now.

'Don't talk to him about this now,' suggested Kamran. The university is going to close down for the holidays, so call him home to Pakistan for a while. Then Mummy should accompany him back and stay here till he completes his studies.'

Sikander followed Kamran's advice. A few days before the vacation commenced, he arrived in New Haven. The sight of Salar left Sikandar with knots in his stomach, but he did not argue with him. he simply asked Salar to come home for the holidays. Salar made excuses about studies and classes, but Sikandar ignored his demurral and booked his seat for the flight home. Against his will, Salar was brought back to Pakistan.

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It was one in the morning when they reached Pakistan. Sikandar and Tayyaba retired to their room; he went to his room. He was looking at it after nearly one and a half years—everything was as he had left it. He changed, switched off the light and lay down. He had slept during the flight so he did not feel sleepy now. Perhaps it was also the time difference.

'Looks like I'll gradually become an insomniac,' he said as he lay in the dark room. Tossing and turning for some time, he sat up; then he went to the window and drew the curtains open. Across the wide lawn was Hashim Mubeen's house on the other side. Salar had never really taken notice of that house in all these years but now he surveyed the building by the lights from the first floor. The memories came flooding back—he drew the curtains shut.

'Were Waseem's folks able to find Imama?' he asked Nasira the next day. She gave him a doubtful look.

'No, jee, no trace of her. They looked everywhere but there was no trace of her. They still suspect you, do you know? Salma Bibi curses you.'

Salar kept staring at her.

'The police questioned all the house servants too, but never did I utter a word. They also sacked me and my daughter—but they called us back later on. They keep asking me about you. Perhaps they re-employed us so that I could pass on news about your house to them. But, jee, I make excuses and get away with it.' Nasira went on extending her tale.

'Is the police still searching for her?' Salar interjected.

'Yes sir, they are still looking. I don't know much because they keep these things from the servants. They don't mention Imama Bibi before us, but one catches snippets of conversation. Salar Saab, don't you know anything about Imama Bibi?' Nasira asked quite suddenly.

'How should I know?' He fixed his gaze on her.

'I was just asking—just like that, because you were friendly with her... I thought you might know. Those papers you once sent through me—who were they for?' Her curiosity was getting dangerous.

'Those were property papers, for this house—I transferred it to her name.'

Nasira's mouth fell open. Then she composed herself and said,' But sir, this house belongs to Sikander Saab.'

'Yes, but I didn't know it then. Have you told anyone that you took the papers to her?'

Nasira touched her ears. 'Never, sir! I did not tell Sikander Saab anything.'

'And it's best for you not to say anything—just keep your mouth shut. If my father gets to know he'll throw you out lock, stock and barrel; you know his temper. Now leave,' Salar spoke tersely.

Nasira left without a word.

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On the weekends, sometimes, he used to go hiking in the Margalla Hills. That wasn't a weekend, but he felt like going anyway. As usual, he parked the car at the foot of the hills, and a small bag slung over his shoulder, he went off. He turned back giving himself enough time to get to the car before dark—it would have taken him two hours so he came onto a path used by many people. He had barely gone a few yards when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned around and saw two boys: they were fairly far from him but were moving fast.

He turned away and continued his trek downwards. By their appearance, the boys did not look shady. Dressed in jeans and T-shirts they looked like anyone else, but as he walked he felt someone quite close behind him. He suddenly turned and was dumbstruck—they were facing him, revolvers in hand.

'Hands up or we'll shoot you!' one of them shouted. Salar lifted up his arms. One of them went behind him dragging Salar, tried to push him to the ground. Salar tottered on his feet but did not lose his balance.

This way!' Salar moved in the shown direction without putting up any resistance. They wanted to get him away from the path so that they were not confronted by anyone coming that way. The boys propelled him towards the bushes and the undergrowth.

Kneel down!' one of them harshly ordered. Salar obeyed them: he knew that they would snatch his belongings—cell phone, money—and would let him off. He did not want to do any such thing that would provoke them into harming him. One of the boys went behind Salar and took the backpack off his back. There was a camera, a few rolls of film, battery cells, a pair of binoculars, a first aid kit, water, some snacks and his wallet in it. The boy who had taken the bag fished through the items in it; then he surveyed the contents of the wallet—some cash and his credit card. Next, he pulled out the packet of tissues and the first aid kit.

'Now get up!' the boy ordered Salar. He stood there, arms still raised. The boys went behind and began to probe the pockets of his Bermudas. He pulled out the car keys.

Good! He has a car.' Now, Salar was beginning to get worried.

'Look, you can take my stuff, but leave the car.' For the first time, he addressed them.

'Why? Why leave the car? Are you my cousin that I should leave the car with you?' the boy spoke roughly.

'Even if you tried to take the car, you'd have many problems—there are all kinds of locks in it.'

'That's our problem, not yours!' the other boy stepped up and snatched Salar's sunglasses.

'Take off your joggers.'

'My joggers—what for?' Salar looked at him in surprise. But the boy, instead of replying, slapped Salar with all his might. Salar staggered at the blow.

'Don't ask again—just take off your joggers.'

Salar gave him a baleful look. The boys cocked their revolvers at him menacingly. The one who had hit Salar slapped him again on the other cheek.

'Stare again, will you? Your joggers...' he demanded without looking at him, Salar slowly took off his shoes. He had only his socks.

'Now, your shirt.' Salar wanted to protest but he wasn't ready for any more beating. If they were not armed, Salar could easily have taken care of them as he was physically bigger and stronger. But unarmed, he felt vulnerable. He took off his shirt and held it out.

'Throw it down.' Salar did so. The boy then pulled something out of his trouser pocket—it looked like a ball of thin nylon twine. Salar at once understood their intention and was very disturbed. It was getting on towards sunset and shortly, it would be dark—how would he get out of there.

'Look here—don't tie me up. You can take my bag and my car—I won't tell a soul,' he said defensively.

Without a word, the boy swung around and punched Salar in the stomach. Salar doubled up with pain and a stifled cry escaped him.

'No suggestions!'

The boy then pushed Salar hard to one side. Salar, feeling excruciating pain, blindly did as he was ordered. The boy sat Salar against a tree trunk and very deftly started to tie his wrists behind the slim trunk with the twine. The other boy stood at some distance calmly looking around but with the revolver aimed at Salar.

After tying up his hands well, the boy came in front and took off Salar's socks and with the pair of scissors from the first aid kit started to cut out strips from Salar's shirt. He, again, with great dexterity, tied up Salar's ankles with the strips. Then he opened the box of tissues and emptied it.

'Open your mouth.' Salar knew what he was going to do. He was mentally cursing the boy, who stuffed all the tissues one by one in his mouth. Then passing the last remaining strip from the shirt across Salar's mouth, like a horse's bit, he tied him to the tree trunk .

The other boy was now calmly closing the bag. A few minutes later they had both vanished from the scene. The moment they left Salar started to make efforts to untie himself, but he soon realized that he had landed in great trouble. The boy had tied him up with great expertise and he could not wriggle himself free. Nor could he loosen the twine.

The more he tried the more the twine cut into his flesh. He was in a very bad state. He could neither call out for help nor could he in any other way draw attention to himself.

Around him, there were tall bushes and with the growing darkness it would have been a miracle for someone to stumble on him. He was left only with his knee-length Bermuda shorts and the night was getting chilly.