Pir-E-Kamil: The Perfect Mentor (49 page)

'Imama had contacted me.'

Salar could not breathe.

'It was five or six years ago. She'd wanted to speak to you. Nasira had picked up the phone and she had recognized Imama's voice. At that time you were in Pakistan, but instead of you, Nasira had given me the phone. She had asked me to get you on the phone. I told her that you had died. I did not want her to get in touch with you, because I didn't want to be again dragged into the mess from which we had gained relief. I was certain that she would believe me because you had tried to commit suicide several times. She was Waseem's sister and knew everything about you. In fact, she was herself witness to one such attempt. I couldn't tell her about the clause of her right to seek divorce in the marriage deed nor about the divorce papers, which I had got prepared on your behalf. When I'd sent you to America, I'd got your signature on a blank sheet, so that, if the need arose, I could myself have the divorce deed prepared. Whether it was legal or not, I do not know, but I had this ready, and I wanted to tell Imama about it, and I had wanted her to have all the papers, but she hung up. I had the number traced out but it was of some PCO. A few days later she sent me twenty thousand rupees in travelers' cheques through the post. There was also a letter with them. Perhaps, you'd given her some money, and she'd returned it. I hadn't told you about this because I didn't want you getting involved in this problem again. I was afraid of Imama's family. I feared reprisal from them, and I wanted you to concentrate on your career.'

Holding that envelope, his face drained of blood, he watched Sikandar Usman. Someone had quietly sucked away his very lifeblood from him. He put the envelope on the table. He did not want Tayyaba and Sikandar to see the trembling of his hands - they had, indeed, noticed it, but his senses had left him momentarily. He gazed for some time at the envelope under his hand on the table before him. Then, without taking the envelope off the table, he pulled out the paper from it.

Dear Uncle Sikandar,

I am very sorry to learn of the death of your son. Some years ago, your family was put to a lot of trouble because of me, for which I am truly sorry. I had to pay back Salar some money, which I am enclosing.

Allah Hafiz

Imama Hashim.

Salar felt as though he was really dead. Ashen-faced, he put back the piece of paper in the envelope. Without a word, he stood up, clutching the envelope. Sikandar and Tayyaba watched him with bated breath. As he passed by, Sikandar stood up.

'Salar!'

He stopped. Sikandar put his hand on his shoulder. 'Whatever happened it was unintentional. I didn't know that you if ever you had told me of your feelings for Imama, I would never have done all this. I would have handled this whole affair differently, or else, I would have put you in touch with her. I ask you not to harbour any ill feelings for me.'

Salar did not lift his head, he did not look him in the eye, but there was a faint indication of a nod. He held no grouse against him. Sikandar removed his hand from his son's shoulder.

He quickly left the room. Sikandar wanted him to make an exit. He had noticed the trembling of his lips, like a child's, and he was repeatedly trying to purse them to gain self-control. If he had remained there a few moments longer, he would have burst into tears. Sikandar himself also did not want to heighten his own remorse.

Tayyaba, all the while, in this whole conversation, had not interfered, but after Salar left, she tried to console Sikandar.

'There's no need to regret. Whatever you did, it was for his good. He'll understand.' Looking at him, she could gauge Sikandar's mental state. Sikandar, lighting a cigarette, was pacing the room.

'This was the biggest mistake of my life. Without getting Salar's consent, without telling him, I should never have done all this. I shouldn't have lied to Imama....I....' Leaving the sentence incomplete, clenching his fist and drowned in remorse, he went to the window and stared out.

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The car was sliding ever so cautiously down that road. Salar, after several years, was driving on that road at that time of the night. That bygone night was unwinding like some movie before his very eyes. He felt as though the past eight years had just vanished. Everything was the same; everything was exactly where it had been.

Someone quietly slipped in besides him. He allowed himself the dream. He did not turn to look at the seat next to him. He, with open eyes, let illusion turn to reality. Someone was crying quietly next to him.

'Dear Uncle Sikandar,

I am very sorry to learn of the death of your son. Some years ago, your family was put to a lot of trouble because of me, for which I am truly sorry. I had to pay back Salar some money, which I am enclosing.

Allah Hafiz

Imama Hashim'

The contents of the letter echoed in his mind.

After leaving Sikandar Usman, he had gone to his room and sat there a long time with the letter. He had not given any money to Imama, but he knew what debt she had repaid: the price of his mobile phone and its bills. Sitting on the bed in his semi-dark room, he stared absent-mindedly out of the window at her house - as though the whole world had been suddenly emptied of all things mortal.

He read the date on the letter. It had been sent approximately after two and a half years of her leaving her house. If she was sending twenty thousand rupees after two and a half years of her leaving her house, it meant that she was alright. At least his worst misgivings about Imama had not been proved correct. He was happy on this account, but he feared what it meant if Imama had truly believed that he was dead and was, thus, out of her life.

He sat there in limbo for several hours, then heaven knows what went through his head, he packed his bag and left the house. And now he was on this road—in the same fog, the same season. Everything seemed to have turned to smoke or disappeared into a mist as a few hours later he found himself at the same cafe-like service station. He stopped the car. The building, swathed in the mist, had changed considerably. He turned the car around and brought it into the service station. Then he stepped out. Silence still reigned there as it did eight years ago; it was better lit up, though. He hadn't blown the horn so no one came out. There was no water-filled drum in the veranda. Salar crossed the veranda and was going in when someone came out. Before he could say anything, Salar said, 'I want to have some tea.'

The man yawned and turned back. 'Step in, please...'

Salar followed him. It was the same room, but the interior had changed. They were more tables and chairs than before and the set up was better too.

'Just tea or would you like something with it?' the man suddenly stopped and asked Salar.

'Just tea.'

Salar pulled out a chair and sat down. The man was behind the counter, busy lighting a stove.

'Where have you come from?' he asked, turning around. There was no response. The man who had come to have tea had his gaze fixed on one corner of the room—he sat still and motionless like a statue carved out of stone.

She had said her prayers and then joined him, sitting right across the table. Without saying a word, she had taken the cup of tea from the table and started drinking it. The boy serving them had brought and put the burgers before them. Salar looked askance at the plate being put before him. He lifted up the top half with his knife and looked critically at the filling. Then he addressed the boy.

'This is a shami kabab.' He was removing the upper layer of the filling.

'And this is an omelet.' He slightly lifted the lower layer. 'And this is ketchup—so where's the chicken? I had asked you for a chicken burger, hadn't I?'

He spoke brusquely to the boy. Meanwhile, Imama had started eating her burger.

'This is a chicken burger,' said the boy, somewhat confused.

'What sort of a chicken burger, when there's no chicken in it?' Salar challenged him.

'We call this a chicken burger,' said the boy nervously.

'And that plain burger, what do you put in that?'

'That has a shami kabab, but no omelette.'

'So you add an egg to make an ordinary burger a chicken burger? Because the chicken comes from the egg and thus indirectly if not directly, you've added chicken to it?' Salar spoke very seriously. The boy giggled in embarrassment. Imama continued to eat her food without paying any attention to this conversation.

'It's alright, you can go,' said Salar.

The boy, as can be expected, heaved a sigh of relief and vanished from the scene. Putting down the knife and fork, Salar picked up the burger with his left hand. Eating her burger, Imama, for the first time, noted with amazement, the journey of the burger from the plate to Salar's mouth, all the while held in his left hand. But this amazement ceased immediately, as she again got busy eating her own burger. Salar took just one bite of the burger but instantly banged it back on the plate.

'This burger's no good. I don't know how you can eat it,' Salar exclaimed, as he forced down what he had bitten off.

'It's not as bad as you think,' Imama countered calmly.

'Your standard for everything is very low, Imama - be it a burger, or be it your choice of husband.'

Imama stopped eating her burger. Salar saw her fair complexion turn red, and he broke into a sarcastic smile. 'I'm talking about Jalal Ansar,' he ventured to remind her.

You're right; my standard is, indeed, very low,' she confirmed placidly and continued to eat.

'I'd thought that you'd fling the burger at me,' he smiled mischievously.

'Why ever would I waste God's bounty?'

'You call this awful stuff God's gift? What other great gifts do you have at the moment?' he jeered.

'You cannot thank Allah enough. This sense of taste, what a great blessing it is. When I eat something, I can taste it. There are many who are bereft of this blessing which we take for granted.'

'And on top of the list of such people would be the name of Salar Sikandar, right?' he interrupted her loudly.

'You can't expect Salar Sikandar to eat such stuff and enjoy it!' he remonstrated.

The man brought the tea and put the cup before him. Salar was startled. The chair opposite him was now empty. 'You want something with it?' the man asked as a matter of course.

'No, just the tea is fine,' Salar replied, drawing the cup towards himself.

'Have you come from Islamabad?' he asked.

'Yes '

'Going to Lahore?' he persisted.

This time Salar replied with a nod. He was now taking a sip of the tea. The man suspected that his eyes were wet.

'I'd like to be left alone for sometime,' he said, putting down the cup, but without looking up. The man, looking at him with some surprise, returned to the kitchen and busied himself in small chores - all the while, keeping an eye on Salar from the distance.

After a full fifteen minutes, he saw Salar rise and leave the room. The man very quickly made it from the kitchen to the room, but before he could pursue Salar outside, the note under the empty cup stopped him. He was surprised and kept looking at it. Then he stepped forward, picked it up and quickly came out of the room. At that time Salar's car was reversing onto the main road. He looked in surprise at the departing car in the distance, then looked at the thousand rupee note in his hand in the glow of the tube light.

The note is genuine, but the man is stupid ' he muttered happily as he pocketed the money.

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Salar was on his mind when Sikandar Usman came to the breakfast table. 'Where is Salar? Call him,' he ordered the servant.

'Salar Saab's gone. He left last night.'

Tayyaba and Sikandar looked at each other in consternation.

'Where's he gone? To the village?'

'No, he's gone back to Lahore. He was saying that he had something important. He'd asked me to inform you in the morning.'

Sikandar immediately made for the phone. He dialed Salar's number. The mobile was switched off. He rang his flat. The answering machine was on. He hung up without leaving a message. Worried, he returned to the breakfast table.

'You couldn't get him on the phone? Tayyaba asked.

'No, the mobile is off. The answering machine is on at the flat. Heaven knows where he has gone?'

'Don't worry have some breakfast,' Tayyaba tried to comfort him.

'You go ahead I don't feel like it."

He got up and went out. Tayyaba sighed in despair.

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Salar opened the door of his apartment; Furqan was outside. He turned back in.

'When did you come back?' Furqan asked, astonished, as he followed him in

'This morning ' Salar responded, going towards the sofa.

'Why....? Didn't you have to go to the village?' Furqan asked, looking at his back.

'I saw your car in the parking lot. One informs friends when one returns.'

Without a word, Salar sat down on the sofa.

'What happened?' Furqan noticed his countenance for the first time and was overtaken by concern.

'What happened?' Salar repeated the question in reply.

'I'm asking you, what's happened to you?' Furqan said sitting on the sofa opposite him.

'Nothing.'

'All's well at home?'

'Yes....'

'So, then....have you got a head ache? Migraine?'

Furqan was now watching his face intently.

'No ' Salar did not try to smile. There was no use either. He rubbed his eyes.

'Then, what's happened to you? Your eyes are turning red.'

'I didn't sleep the night before; I've been driving,' Salar said as a matter fact.

'You could have slept when you got back here to your flat. What have you been doing all morning?' Furqan enquired.

'Nothing.'

'Why didn't you go to bed?'

'I couldn't sleep....'

'You take sleeping pills to sleep, then how come you are unable to sleep?' Furqan wondered.

'It's just that I didn't feel like taking them today, or you could say that I didn't want to sleep today.'