Pir-E-Kamil: The Perfect Mentor (39 page)

'There's another village near my village It's in the same bad shape as my village was ten or fifteen years ago. These days, I've been trying to find someone who would build a school there. There is a government primary school, but only in name. It would be better if you started a school over there. My family and I would look after it in your absence.

We'll also help you in establishing it, but you'll have to run it yourself, and also, just providing the money will not be enough,' Furqan said after some thought.

'Can you go with me there tomorrow?' Salar asked, somewhat pensively.

'But your flight is tomorrow morning.'

'I can go a couple of days later. Once I leave, it'll not be possible for me to return soon, and I want to start this work before I go,' he told Furqan, who nodded approvingly.

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They flew to Islamabad that night and went straight to Furqan's village the same night. After staying the night in the village, he went with Furqan at the crack of dawn to the other village. Till noon, they talked to the people there and looked around. Salar was amazed at the condition of the school there - it was anything but a school. Furqan was not shocked like Salar, as he was already aware of the conditions there. He used to have medical camps set up twice or thrice a year in different rural areas, and he was better acquainted than Salar with village life and conditions. Furqan had to return by the evening flight to Lahore, and they left for Islamabad at about two in the afternoon.

Before he started this school project, he had spoken to Sikandar Usman.

He had briefly apprised him of it. He had listened to him without interrupting him, and then asked him earnestly, 'Why are you doing all this?'

'Papa, because I feel these people need...'

Sikandar cut him short. 'I'm not talking about the school.'

'Then what are you talking about?' Salar was astonished.

'What's happened to your lifestyle?'

'What happened to it?' he was a little surprised.

'You told us about memorizing the Quran when you had completed it—

OK, fine, I didn't comment. You wanted to go for Hajj and I had some reservations about it but I didn't stop you. You've put an end to your social life—I didn't object. You have become too interested in religion— you go to the mosque to pray—I had nothing to say. You wanted to do a job in America instead of joining my business—I let you. And now you want to set up a school. I feel we need to discuss this matter.' Sikandar Usman was very serious.

'Have you any idea that your lifestyle will make us unacceptable in our social circle? You were at one extreme, first, and now you're at the other. The kind of work you're involving yourself in at this age—26 years or so—is unnecessary, irrelevant. You need to pay attention to your career and change your way of life. This kind of attachment to religion will create social problems for us.'

Salar listened to him quietly, head bowed.

'And not just for us, but for you too...just consider what impression you're giving others. When we, or you, decide your marriage to a nice girl from your own background, this religious obsession will be a hurdle. No one will hand over their daughter just in view of Sikandar Usman's name or your qualifications. And to top it all, when others of your age are furthering their careers, you're involved with social work—you do enough of that with UNICEF—so there's no need to make it part of your personal life too. The money you're wasting on this school and the villagers should be saved up to provide a comfortable life for your future generations. Spend it on yourself—you have only one yourself? You had a bad experience—it's over; you've learnt your lesson, but that doesn't mean that you stop enjoying life.' He stopped to look at Salar. 'Do you get what I mean?'

'I haven't given up life for religion,' Salar said. 'You talk about leading a balanced life—that's just what I am doing. You know very well where I stand in my career; you're aware of my performance.'

'I know, and that's what I mean—that if you did not get involved with these sort of activities, you can progress further still,' Sikandar replied.

'I cannot progress anywhere else. If you think that I'll scale the Mt Everest of my profession by giving up all this, then you're mistaken.' He paused.

'Think about your future, about getting married. Who'll accept you if you have this sort of an approach to life?'

'I've thought about it, Papa. I don't want to get married.'

Sikandar laughed out. 'That's childish! That's what they all say. You should remember your "adventure",' he said.

Salar knew what his father meant. For a while, he could not answer him, not even that it was the adventure that led to this decision. Then he quietly said, 'I remember.'

'I'm already a misfit in your social circle,' he continued, 'and I'm not trying to make a place for myself here. Nor do I want to set up any new relationships in this circle. I don't care if others or my own siblings mock me or have fun at my expense. I'm mentally prepared for all of this.

'Let me begin this project, Papa. I have enough funds for it—it won't throw me out on the streets. Some people are physically unwell, so they go to a doctor for treatment. Some are spiritually ill—they do what I am doing, what I want to do. I can buy all I want with the money I have, but I cannot buy peace of mind. For the first time in life, I am investing this money to get mental peace. Perhaps, I will find it.' Sikandar Usman did not know what to say to his son.

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On his return to New York, he again became totally engrossed in his work. The only difference was that now he was in constant touch with Furqan and Dr Sibt-e-Ali in Pakistan. Furqan kept him regularly informed about the progress of the school.

This sort of work was part of his job at UNICEF and it was very well compensated too. But it was different doing this in Pakistan and that too with one's own resources. Those who knew the Salar Sikandar of the past could not believe him now: he couldn't believe it either that he could ever think of doing such work. Drawing money from his account for his project, he realized that it was well within his means. In the last three years, his expenses had reduced considerably. Many things on which he had spent money blindly were no more a part of his lifestyle. He was amazed to see the balance that had accumulated in his account. He was not the kind who was expected to save money. He had a scholarship to support his studies for the M Phil so he didn't need to spend anything in that regard. Going around his apartment that day, he observed that there wee no fancy, pricey things there—in fact it was rather Spartan. His kitchen was also stocked with only the basics—tea, coffee, milk, and the like, and not with all sorts of food. As it happened, he spent little time at home except to sleep there. For going to work, he had enough formal clothes and was not very particular, either. He clearly remembered the last time he had bought anything for himself. Apart from his colleagues at UNICEF and some old university friends, he hardly knew anyone in New York. Or maybe, he consciously limited his social circle, and that too was a ceremonious sort of relationship.

The only thing he spent money on was books. So if with this lifestyle, he had a tidy bank balance, it was no surprise—office, university, apartment—there was nothing more to his routine.

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Whilst doing his M Phil Salar had left UNICEF and had joined UNESCO.

After M Phil, Salar was posted in Paris. Prior to this, he was working in a field office, but now he was getting the opportunity to work at the UNESCO headquarters. In the past few years, he had been to Paris, from time to time, in connection with the projects he was working on, but now he was going to stay there for a long time. He was going from familiar surroundings to a strange place where he did not even know the language. In New York, he had a lot of friends, but here there was nobody whom he knew well.

As in UNICEF, he plunged into his work here too, but the school he had started in the rural area of Islamabad remained on his mind. Sometimes he would wonder why, in spite of being so closely attached to education in his job, he, unlike Furqan, had not thought of setting up a school. If he had thought of doing so several years ago, perhaps, today the school would have been well-established.

'I do not have much love for Pakistan, nor do I feel great affinity towards it,' he had told Furqan in their very first meeting.

'Why?' Furqan had asked him.

'I can't tell you why, but only that I don't have any special feelings for Pakistan,' he had replied, shrugging his shoulders.

'In spite of knowing that it's your country?'

'Yes, in spite of knowing that.'

'You have special feelings for America—you love America?' Furqan had asked.

'No, I have no feelings for America either,' he replied with detachment.

Furqan looked at him in amazement. 'Basically, I don't believe in nationalism,' he explained, seeing Furqan's amazed look. 'Or, perhaps, I find it difficult to nurture love for the place where I live. Tomorrow, if I move to a third country, I won't even miss America.'

'You are a very strange person, Salar!' Furqan exclaimed. 'Is it possible that a person should have no feelings towards his own country or towards the place where he lives?'

Furqan did not believe him, but he had not said anything untrue. After moving to Paris, he had not missed New York at all. Even going from New Haven to New York, he had no adjustment problems. He was a man for all seasons: he could settle anywhere.

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Salar was in Pakistan attending a regional conference held under the auspices of the United Nations. He was staying at the Pearl Continental. He had to give lectures at an institute of Business Management and to settle with Furqan some matters pertaining to his school. It was the third day of his stay in Lahore. He had an early dinner and came out of the hotel for some work. It was seven-thirty in the evening and traveling on the Mall Road his car suddenly had a flat tire. The driver got down from the car and looked at the deflated wheel. He came over to Salar's window and said, 'Sir! There's no stepney. I'll get a taxi for you.' But Salar beckoned him to stop.

'No, I'll hail a taxi myself,' said Salar, getting down from the car. He could see some taxis in a parking lot some distance away. Salar was looking in that direction, when a car suddenly braked near him. The car came from the opposite direction and Salar, walking on the pavement, immediately recognized the man in it.

It was Akif and he was getting down from the driver's seat. Some years ago in Lahore, he was very much a part of his life. Akif and Akmal: he used to hang out with them mostly, and Akif was now meeting Salar after several years. He had left them all. Even on retuning to Pakistan or Lahore, he had never tried to contact them. They had repeatedly tried to contact him but, in spite of their efforts, he had been successful in avoiding them.

Now, after so many years, he had suddenly come face to face with him. Salar became very tense. Akif approached him with great warmth.

'Salar! I can't believe it's you where have you been hiding all these years? You had disappeared, just vanished! Where are you, pal, and what are you doing here? You've completely changed - where's your mop of hair? When did you come to Lahore? Why didn't you inform me that you were coming?'

He bombarded him with questions, one after the other. He had not noticed Salar's cold attitude. Before Salar could reply, Akif shot again,

'What are you doing on the Mall here?'

'The car broke down and I was going to get a taxi,' Salar explained.

'Where are you going, I'll drop you,' Akif said warmly.

'Oh no, I'll get a taxi—it's just here,' Salar said hurriedly.

Akif would have none of it. 'Come on, get in,' and he pulled him in.

Salar was perplexed but though he acquiesced, he was getting quite upset.

'You'd gone to the States to study, and then I learnt that you'd got a job there. Now, how come you're back in Pakistan?' Akif asked him, starting the car. 'Have you come to spend your holidays here?'

'Yes,' he replied very briefly so that he could extricate himself.

'What are you doing these days?' Akif asked, driving the car.

'Working for an agency of the United Nations.'

'Where are you staying here?'

'At the PC...'

'Why on earth at PC? You could have come to my place or called me.

When did you arrive?'

'Yesterday.'

'Then you're coming with me to stay at my place. There's no need to go to the hotel.'

'No; I'm going back to Islamabad tomorrow.' Salar lied with facility— he wanted to be rid of Akif. His presence was bothering him—or maybe it was the memory of the time spent with him in the past.

'If you're returning to Islamabad tomorrow then come home with me.

We'll have dinner together,' Akif offered.

'I just ate about ten minutes ago.'

'Even so, come home with me. I'll introduce you to my wife.'

'You're married?'

'Three years ago; and you?' Akif asked. 'Have you married?'

'No.'

'Why?'

'I was somewhat busy, that's why,' Salar replied.

'Good! You're still independent,' Akif observed, taking a deep breath.

'You're lucky.'

Salar made no comment. Akif, whilst talking, tried to take out a cassette from the glove compartment. His attention wavered, and inadvertently, a lot of stuff fell out into Salar's lap and at his feet.

'Too bad,' exclaimed Akif. Salar bent down and started picking up the things and Akif switched on the light in the car. As he was putting them back, he was shocked. He felt a current shoot through him—there was a pair of earrings lying in one corner of the glove compartment. His hands trembled involuntarily. He took out the earrings with his left hand. They were now in his palm, glimmering in the light inside the car.

He was looking at them in disbelief.

Several years ago, he had seen these earrings on somebody. He looked at them again and again, and yet again. He was looking at them for the fourth time. He had no doubt, now. They were Imama Hashim's earrings. He could draw those earrings with his eyes closed, every twist and bend. Akif took the earrings from Salar's palm, as though breaking his trance, and put them back in the glove compartment.