Pir-E-Kamil: The Perfect Mentor (34 page)

He took out the paper listing the books he wanted and put it before the shopkeeper. He wanted a copy of the Quran's translation and some books about prayers. The shopkeeper, who knew him well, looked at him in amazement. Salar used to go there to buy pornographic magazines and the latest novels of Sidney Sheldon, Harold Robbins, and the like. Salar had understood the man's surprise. Instead of looking him in the eye, Salar kept looking at the counter.

The shopkeeper, after instructing a salesman, turned to Salar.

'You've come after a long time. Were you away somewhere?'

Salar shook his head and scribbled 'Was out for studies' on a piece of paper.

'And what's wrong with your throat?'

'Nothing much, just sore.' He scribbled again.

The salesman returned with the translation of the Quran and the other books Salar wanted.

'Oh yes! There's quite a trend these days for reading up on Islam. It's a good thing too, especially if you're abroad,' the shopkeeper stated with a smile, in a businesslike way.

Salar was unresponsive; he began to skim through the books placed before him. a few moments later, to the right of the Quran, he saw a pile of pornographic magazines. He looked up in surprise.

These have just come in—I thought I'd show them to you. Perhaps, you might want to buy them.'

Salar looked at the translation of the Quran and then those magazines, lying a few inches away and a wave of fury coursed through him. Why? He didn't know. With his left hand he picked up that pile and flung it as far as he could across the shop. For a few moments there was complete silence. The salesman stood aghast.

'Bill!' Salar scrawled and held it to the salesman's face. The man, without a word, began to calculate the amount for the books Salar had selected. Salar paid up and was out of the shop with his books.

'Idiot!' He heard someone say as he stepped out. It was a girl, and Salar did not bother to see who it was: he knew that he was the object of the remark.

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

His voice was restored two weeks later; although it was still quite hoarse, at least he could speak. In these two weeks he had been on a soul-searching journey—something he was doing for the first time in all his years. Perhaps it was the first time that he had realized that there was such a thing as the soul and if there was a problem with one's soul.... He had entered a phase of silence: not to speak but only to listen. And listening was, at times, more important it dawned on him for the first time.

He had never been afraid of the night before but after this incident he was terrified of the dark. He slept with the light switched on. He had recognized those two boys in police custody, but he had refused to accompany them to that place where they had left him trussed up. He did not want to go through any mental torment again. He had never experienced so many sleepless nights as he did now and was compelled to take sleeping pills. Sometimes when he didn't take sedatives, he'd spent the entire night wide awake. In New Haven too there had been times like this, painful and tortuous, but then it was more of confusion and restlessness, and maybe, remorse. But now he was going through a third state—fear. He could not determine what fear had overcome him that night in the hills: was it the fear of death, or the grave or hell?

Imama had said that after ecstasy comes pain: death was pain. She said that after pain was nothingness: the grave was nothingness. She said that after nothingness would come hell. He did not want to reach that stage. He wanted to be saved from that ecstasy that would lead him from pain to hell.

'If I didn't know about these things, how come Imama did? She's about the same age as me and comes from a similar background, then how did she have the answers to all these questions?' he would think, astonished. 'She had the same luxuries as I did, so what made us different?' What was the school of thought she belonged to and why did she not want to be part of it? He read about them now and it added to his confusion. Was the Prophet's (PBUH) finality such an important issue that a girl should want to leave home forever?

'I didn't marry Asjad because he did not believe in the finality of the Prophet (PBUH); do you think I'd be ready to marry someone like you who, though he believes in the Prophet's (PBUH) station, lives a sinful life and does all that my Prophet (PBUH) has asked us to refrain from? If I do not marry one who does not believe in the Holy Prophet (PBUH), I will not marry one who flouts his instructions either.'

He remembered each word spoken by Imama Hashim and now he was pondering over their meaning.

'You will not understand this,' she had often told him: so often that it had begun to annoy him. What was she trying to prove anyway—her superiority, that she was a great scholar or that she was very pious, and he was inferior? But now he realized that she was right. He really was not capable of appreciating her thought. How can a worm that lives in the muck know what dirt is? To such a one all others seem to be in the pits. He was like that worm then.

'I loathe the look in your eyes, and your unbuttoned shirt!'

He too now began to detest these things. For a long time, this statement had echoed in his head like a buzz word every time he faced the mirror; try as he would to shake it off or lose himself in his work, it had gone on repeating itself. Now he had started buttoning up and keeping his gaze lowered. He could not even look himself in the eye in the mirror. No one had ever told him such a thing about his eyes, and certainly not a girl. Imama was the first one to do so, and it was not his eyes but the look in them that was loathsome. Imama had identified that look. He used to talk to girls who looked him in the eye and spoke candidly—he enjoyed their company. Imama did not do so—she'd look at him but not directly, and if she found him staring, she'd look away. Salar had the mistaken notion that she looked away because she found his eyes mesmerizing.

'I loathe the look in your eyes, and your unbuttoned shirt!' Hearing her say this over the phone, he had been quite shocked. Eyes are the windows of the soul: he recalled reading this somewhere. So did his eyes really reflect the sordid depths of his soul? He was not surprised—it must be so, but to recognize this filth, there must be a criterion of purity before one. Imama Hashim was that example of purity.

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

'You need not explain or instruct me now. You will have no further cause for complaint,' said Salar without looking up at Sikander.

He was going back to Yale, and before his departure, Sikander—with a faint hope of change—had launched into the usual instructions and admonitions. But even before he could complete his words, Salar had assured him sincerely—for the first time—and Sikandar had faith in his son's assurance—for the first time ever.

He had been observant of the change in Salar after the incident in the hills. Salar was not the same person—his thought processes, his attitude, his appearance, his very life had changed. It was as if the flame within him had been extinguished. Whether these changes were right or wrong, good or bad, Sikandar was yet unable to comment, but he did know that there had been a major impact in Salar's life which had brought about this change. He did not realize that this was the first time that Salar had been defeated, and the first blow in life brings stalwarts to their knees—Salar was just a strip of a boy barely into his twenties.

Sometimes in our lives we do not know whether we have emerged from darkness into light or if we are entering into the dark—the direction is unknown. But one can differentiate, in any case, between the earth and the sky. When you raise your head, it is the sky above; and when you lower it, it is the earth below—whether or not it is visible. To move forward in life, you need just four points of direction—right and left, ahead and behind— the fifth is the ground under your feet. If that were not there, it would be an abyss, hell, and on arriving there one would have no need of direction.

The sixth point of direction was above and that was unattainable. That was where God was—He who was invisible to the eye but was present in every heartbeat, every pulsing flow of the blood, every breath, every morsel that went down one's throat. To Salar, his photographic memory, his 150+ IQ level were a torment now. He wanted to forget everything, all that he had been doing till now, all that he could not forget. If only someone could understand his agony.

END OF CHAPTER 5

On his return to New Haven, Salar embarked on a new journey of his life. He remembered all the promises he had made, sobbing, tied to the tree that night in the horrendous and lonesome darkness of that jungle. He began to live in isolation from all the others, with the least contact or connection with anyone. 'I don't want to meet you.'

He had always been outspoken but none of his friends expected him to go to this extent. For a few weeks, he was the target of speculation and criticism from his group; then this changed to objections and discussion and, finally, to sarcastic remarks and distaste. Eventually, it simmered down and people got busy with their own lives. Salar Sikander was not the focus of anyone's life and nor was anyone the focus of his life. There were a few things he did when he came back to New Haven: one of these was to try and meet Jalal Ansar. He had brought Jalal's address from his family while returning from Pakistan. It was a coincidence that one of his cousins worked in the same hospital as Jalal; the rest was easy, in fact, too easy. Salar wanted to meet him once and apologize to him, to confess all the lies he had spoken to him and Imama about each other. He was ashamed of the role he had played in their relationship and wanted to atone for it. He had reached Jalal Ansar and now, through him, he wanted to reach Imama Hashim. He was with Jalal in the hospital cafeteria. Jalal looked very serious and the furrows on his brow reflected his growing displeasure. Salar had reached the hospital a while ago, and seeing him face to face left Jalal stunned. Salar asked for a few minutes of his time; Jalal obliged him after making him wait for two hours.

'First of all, I would like to know how you traced me?' he bluntly asked Salar, sitting down. 'It is not important.'

'It is very important. If you really want me to spend some time with you, I must know how you found me.'

'I sought help from my cousin. He is a doctor and has been working in this city for a long time. I don't know how he located you. I had only given him your name and some other information,' replied Salar. 'Lunch?' asked Jalal, very formally. He had brought over his own lunch tray to the table.

Salar declined with thanks. Jalal shrugged and proceeded with his lunch.

'What did you want to talk to me about?'

'I wanted to make you aware of some facts.'

'Facts?' Jalal raised his eyebrows, quizzically.

'I wanted to tell you that I had lied to you. I was not Imama's friend; she was my friend's sister—my next-door neighbor...'

Jalal continued eating.

'I had only a fleeting acquaintance with her. And that too, because once she had given me first aid and saved my life. She did not like me, neither did I like her, and that's why I made out to you that she was my great friend. I wanted to create misunderstandings between you two.'

Jalal was earnestly listening to him, eating his lunch.

'After this, when Imama left home and wanted to come to you, I lied to her about your marriage.'

At this, Jalal stopped eating. 'I told her that you had already married.

That is why she did not come to you. I later realized that I had done something inappropriate, but by then it was too late. I had no contact with Imama, but it is by chance that I was able to contact you. I want to apologize to you.'

'I accept your apology, but I do not think that it is because of you that any misunderstanding occurred between me and Imama. I had already decided not to marry her,' Jalal stated plainly.

'She loved you very much,' Salar said in a hushed tone.

'Yes, I know, but in a marriage, love is not the only criterion. There are many other things,' Jalal was saying realistically.

'Jalal! Isn't it possible for you to marry her?'

'Firstly, I have no contact with her. Secondly, if I were in contact with her, I could not have married her.'

'She needs your support,' Salar replied.

'I don't think she needs my support as a long time has passed and by now she must have found someone.' Jalal spoke complacently.

'It's possible she has not done so. She may still be waiting for you.'

'I'm not given to wondering about such possibilities. I have told you that marriage at this stage of my career is out of the question—and that too with her...'

'Why?'

'I see no need to answer this query—why. You have nothing to do with any of this business...why I don't want to marry her. I had already told her why and after all this time, you turn up, wanting to open this

Pandora's Box again!' Jalal was quite angry now.

'I'm just trying to make amends for the damage I've caused you both,'

Salar explained gently.

'No damage has been done to me and nor to Imama, I think. You are just being over-sensitive.'

Jalal popped a few morsels of salad into his mouth. Salar kept looking at him, wondering how to get his point across.

'I could help you find her,' he said a little later.

'But I don't want to find her. When I don't intend to marry her, then what's the point in looking for her?'

Salar sighed deeply. 'Do you know what the cause of her leaving home was?'

'Certainly, she didn't do it for me,' Jalal interjected.

'Very well, not for you, but the reason why she did so...as a Muslim were you not bound to help her, especially when you knew that she loved you deeply? She was inspired by you.'

'I am not the only Muslim in the world and nor am I duty-bound that I should help her. I have just one life to live and I'm not going to mess it up for someone else's sake. You're a Muslim too—why don't you marry her? I had told you then too, and you do have a soft spot for her, anyway.' Jalal spoke sharply.