Pir-E-Kamil: The Perfect Mentor (37 page)

'And where does the money come from, for all this?' queried Salar.

'To begin with it was my father's effort—his gratuity, my mother's savings, and some from his friends. Then Mehran and I contributed and some of our friends too. I send a good share of my income to the village every month to help run the dispensary. The doctors there work gratis—its part of their social responsibility. The medical camps also function in the same spirit. The school's funds are in affixed deposit and the returns take care of its expenses, staff salaries, etc. in the future, we're thinking of setting up a technical institute as well.'

'When are you going there?'

'I'm leaving tomorrow morning.'

'If I want to come with you?' asked Salar.

'Most welcome....but isn't the valima taking place tomorrow? You'll be busy here,' Furqan reminded him.

'That's at night. I'll be free all day. Will it be hard to get back by the evening?' Salar asked.

'Not at all: you can get back quite easily. It's just that we have to leave quite early in the morning, if you want to spend time there. Otherwise, you'll be quite tired by the end of the day,' said Furqan.

'I won't be tired. You've no idea of the kind of trips I've made and the places I've seen with the UNICEF teams. I'll be ready after the fajr prayers, just tell me the time.'

'Half past five.'

'OK. Just give me a call on my mobile when you leave home, and buzz the horn a couple of times—I'll be out.'

Salar then bid him goodbye and went in. The next morning, Furqan was there on the dot. Salar came out at the first call and they were on their way.

'Why did you return to Pakistan when you could have advanced much in England?' asked Salar, out of the blue. They were half an hour out of the city, speeding along their way to the village.

'England didn't need me; Pakistan did.' Furqan spoke with composure.

'The absence of Dr Furqan made no difference there. The presence of Dr Furqan here does make a difference. My services are needed here.'

Furqan stressed the last part of his statement.

'But there you could have advanced professionally in all these years, and succeeded financially also to send more funds for your project here.

After all, you couldn't have had the same level of success in Pakistan,'

Salar remarked.

'If you mean success in material and financial terms, then yes—you're right. But if you mean professionally—as a doctor—then I am saving more lives here than I would there. You cannot estimate the satisfaction a doctor derives from seeing his patients get well. Oncologists are in profusion in England, but in Pakistan they can be counted on one's fingers. My sending huge sums of money would not solve the problem of filling the gap for a missing person. I am a person of limited needs, Salar, and so is my family. If I've learnt anything it is to be of use to one's own people. I can't leave my people to die and go around saving lives elsewhere. There's nothing right with Pakistan: there's everything wrong with it. Hospitals are minus facilities, the health system is decrepit beyond description and corrupt as well—whatever ills you can think of, you'll find them here. But I cannot leave this place, I cannot leave these people. If I have been granted the power to heal, then my people have the first right to it.'

Salar had no words in response. For a long time, there was silence in the car. Then Furqan spoke up.

'You have asked me why I came back to Pakistan, and I answered you.

Now I ask you, why don't you return to your country?' he asked with a smile.

'I can not live here,' Salar shot back.

'Is it because of finances and facilities?'

'No—that never was, nor is, a problem. You know my family background.'

'Then?'

'Then...then nothing, I just cannot live here,' he replied with finality.

'You are needed here.'

'By whom?'

'Your country needs you.'

Salar smiled, spontaneously. 'I'm not a patriot like you—things are quite well here without me. A doctor is a different thing, but a finance manager cannot heal the sick or save lives.'

'The service you're rendering there can be given here. Whatever you're teaching in your lectures in universities there can be taught in the universities here.'

He felt like telling Furqan that he would be incapable of teaching anything here, were he to return, but he kept listening to him quietly. 'You've seen poverty, hunger and disease in Africa, but you'll be shocked to see the poverty, hunger and disease in your own country.' 'The situation is not as bad here, as it is in those countries, Furqan! This place is not that backward.'

'Living where you've grown up in Islamabad, you cannot judge the conditions in the areas around the city. Just go to any village outside Islamabad, and you'll see just how comfortably off the people are.' 'Furqan, I want to contribute something to your project,' Salar abruptly changed the topic.

'Salar, my project doesn't need any funding right now. If you want to do something for development, why don't you start a project of your own? You won't have a problem with funds.'

'I don't have the time. I can't manage this while working in America. If you want to set up a school in another village, I'll support you, but I cannot give this personal time and attention.'

Furqan did not reply. Perhaps he had realized that his insistence was irking Salar. The conversation turned to Furqan's village, once again. It was most certainly, one of the most memorable days of Salar's life. He was very impressed by the village school, and more so by the clinic. It would be more appropriate to call it a small hospital. Despite there being no full-time doctor, it was very organized and orderly. Furqan's visit was expected and there was a large number of patients waiting to be seen—all sorts of people, young and old, men and women, adults and infants.

Unconsciously, Salar began to pace up and down the compound. Some people, taking him for a doctor, approached him. Salar began talking to them. He had never before seen a cancer specialist fulfill the role of a physician, checking up people, writing out prescriptions. He had to admit that he had hardly seen a doctor better than Furqan: he was very professional and gentle with his patients; the quiet smile rarely left his face. A little while later, Furqan arranged for someone to accompany Salar to the school. There, he met Furqan's parents. They already knew of his arrival: quite likely, Furqan had called them up and informed them. They took him around the school. Contrary to his expectations, the school building was very spacious and well-constructed. He was also surprised by the number of students there. After spending a few hours at the school, he went with Furqan's parents to the haveli. As he entered the gates, a sudden rush of joy raced through him—he had not expected to see such a beautiful garden in this village. It was abloom with myriad colors in well laid out flowerbeds.

'A beautiful garden, very artistic!' he could not help express his admiration.

'This is Shakeel Sahib's passion,' said Furqan's mother.

'Mine and Nosheen's,' added his father.

'Nosheen?' Salar asked.

'Furqan's wife: the artistic touch is hers,' his father smiled.

'Ah yes! Furqan told me his family's in Lahore,' Salar seemed to remember.

'Yes, they live in Lahore, but when Furqan comes here, he brings his family along. These slides in the garden are for his children. Nosheen's a doctor too but she's not practicing as the children are too young. She also goes to the village clinic with him, but she's not here now as her brother's getting married.'

Salar looked around as he listened to his host. He had come to the haveli for lunch and was hoping that Furqan would join them. When lunch was served, he asked about Furqan and was told that he did not take a break. His mother said that he had only a sandwich and a cup of tea, in the least time possible, as there was a crowd of people to be examined and treated—quite often, this would go on till the evening.

They continued to converse as they ate. Furqan's father was in the Finance Division and had retired at Grade 20. When he learnt that Salar's professional interest was also finance, he became quite animated. Talking to him, Salar did not notice the passage of time. He spoke to him about the school.

'We really don't need anything for the school right now. One of Furqan's friends is getting a new block built—you may have seen it, it's almost ready. But if you want to contribute, you can do something for the clinic. We need a full-time/permanent doctor and we've approached the Ministry of Health several times; Furqan has also used his contacts, but no doctor is willing to come out and serve here. We desperately need a doctor—you must have seen the number of patients. There's a dispensary in a neighboring village but there too, the doctor goes on leave without waiting for the replacement to arrive.'

'I'll do whatever I can in this regard, but I also want to do something for the school. When I get back, I'll try to arrange an annual grant from UNESCO, through some NGO.'

'But we don't need this. Whatever you've seen here, we've done it ourselves: our family, relatives, family friends, my acquaintances, friends of my children. We never needed any grant from the government or from any international agency. Till when should UNESCO be expected to come and end the hunger, ignorance, and disease of our people? Whatever we can do on our own, we should.'

'All I had wanted was that this project be further expanded.' Salar tried to explain.

'It will expand hugely. When you come here 20 years hence, you'll find it a different village. The poverty that you've seen today will not be there then. Their "tomorrow" will be different from their present,'

Furqan's father said with great conviction. Salar watched him silently.

In the afternoon, Furqan phoned him from the dispensary. After some small talk, he told Salar, 'Now you should be leaving for Islamabad. I'd wanted to go drop you myself, but there's a lot of rush here. If I don't attend to the people who have come from the other village, they'll suffer. That's why I'm sending my helper. He'll drop you back in the car to Islamabad.' He fixed the programme.

'OK,' replied Salar.

'Before you leave, come and see me at the dispensary,' Furqan said, putting down the phone.

Salar had tea with Furqan's parents. By then the car had arrived and he drove to Furqan's. The morning rush had decreased, and now there were only twenty-five to thirty people left. Furqan was examining an old man. Seeing Salar, he smiled.

'I'll see him off, and be with you in a couple of minutes,' Furqan said to his patient and got up. He walked with Salar to the waiting car outside.

'How long will you be in Pakistan?' he asked Salar.

'A week and a half.'

'Then, we'll not be able to meet again, because I'll not be able to make it to Islamabad and here till next month. But I'll call you—when is your flight?'

Salar, ignoring his comment, counter-questioned, 'Why can't we meet?

I can come to Lahore—that is, if you invite me.'

Furqan gave him a surprised smile. They shook hands and Salar got into the car.

Salar was not aware of what it was that brought him so close to Furqan or why he liked him so much—it was beyond him. Four days later, he went to Lahore for a day. He had informed Furqan who offered to pick him up from the airport. But Salar declined.

As agreed, he reached Furqan's place at 4 p.m. Furqan lived on the ground floor of a well-appointed apartment block. Salar rang the doorbell and waited. There was the sound of a child running up to the door; a five year old girl, held back by the security chain in the door, peeped out.

'Who do you want to meet?' she queried. Salar gave her a friendly smile but the child did not respond—she was very serious.

'Child, I want to meet your Papa.'

The little girl bore such a strong resemblance to Furqan that there was no doubt of her being his daughter.

'Papa doesn't meet anyone at this time,' she informed him.

'He'll meet me,' said Salar, enjoying this encounter.

'Why will he meet you?' came the reply.

'Because I am his friend. If you go and tell him that Salar Uncle's here, he'll come and meet me.' He smiled gently, but she was not impressed.

'But you're not my uncle.'

Salar burst out laughing. 'Don't laugh,' she said, obviously upset.

Salar sat back on his haunches facing her and, looking at her, said, 'You look very nice in this frock.' His compliments did not affect the mood or reaction of the little madam on the other side.

'But I don't like you.' More than her words, Salar was enjoying her attitude and reactions. He could also hear someone else approaching the door.

'Why don't you like me?' he asked patiently.

'Just like that,' she retorted, tossing her head.

'And what's your name?'

She looked at him for a while and said, 'Imama!'

The smile vanished from Salar's countenance. Then, through that crack in the entrance, he saw Furqan emerge behind Imama. He picked up the child and opened the door.

Salar stood up. Furqan had just stepped out of the shower and water dripped from his disheveled hair. Salar made a feeble attempt to smile, and held out his hand.

'Come, I was waiting for you,' said Furqan, leading him in. Imama was in her father's arms, constantly trying to whisper something into his ear and being ignored by him.

'Have you met Uncle Salar?' he asked instead.

'I don't like him,' she said candidly.

'That's not nice, Imama—one doesn't say such things about guests,' he chided gently. 'Now go and shake hands with him.' He put her down and instead of going towards Salar, she ran out of the room.

'That's strange—her not liking you. She's very friendly with all my friends. She seems to be a little out of sorts today,' he clarified with a smile.

'It's her name,' thought Salar. 'I'd have been surprised if she'd liked me.'

They talked over tea and Salar disclosed, by the way, 'In a couple of weeks, there will be a doctor at your clinic'

'That's a very good news,' Furqan perked up