Pir-E-Kamil: The Perfect Mentor by Umera Ahmed

  'I haven't run away because of him!' she shouted suddenly. Salar's foot hit the brake as he looked at her in amazement.

  'Why are you screaming at me? There's no need for it,' he admonished as she sat looking out of the window.

  'You know, this religious theory or philosophy or point you've made— whatever it is, I don't get it! What difference does it make if anyone follows another prophet? There's more to life than these silly arguments—fighting over religion, faith and sects—what rubbish!'

  Imama gave him an angry glance. 'It's not necessary that things which are meaningless for you should be so for others. I do not want to continue with the religion I was born into, or to marry a man from the same faith. It's my right to do what I want. I don't want to argue with you over things that are beyond you so don't make any comments on these matters.' 'I have a right to say what I want: freedom of expression,' Salar shrugged. Imama's response was to stare silently out of the window. Salar drove on without a word, but a little later he broke the silence and returned to his topic. 'This Jalal Ansar...I was talking about him. What's so special about him?' he glanced at Imama who looked straight ahead. 'He's no match for you. He's not at all good-looking and you're a beautiful girl—I'm amazed at your interest in him. Is he very intelligent?' he asked her.

  She was surprised. 'Intelligent? What do you mean?' 'See, people are attracted by one's looks, but I don't think it was his looks that attracted you or his family background. I don't know about his social or financial status, but I know that you have a very sound family background so you could not have been attracted to him on that score. The only thing that remains is a person's intellect, his capability...so is he very intelligent?

  Brilliant and outstanding?'

  'No,' she murmured.

  Salar was quite disappointed. 'Then what was it that drew you to him?'

  She continued to gaze at the road ahead, lit up by the car's headlights.

  Salar did not repeat his question; he just shrugged it off, focusing on his driving. There was silence between them.

  'He used to recite naats very well,' she spoke under her breath, as if to herself, after a while. Salar had heard her but it seemed unbelievable.

  'What?' He wanted confirmation.

  'He recited naats very well.' This time Imama's voice was louder.

  'Just for his voice...is he a singer?'

  'No. he recites only naats, and very beautifully.'

  Salar laughed. 'So you fell in love with him just for that! I can't believe it.'

  Imama looked at him. 'Then don't—who needs your conviction?' she said brusquely. There was silence again.

  'Let's accept that it was his style of reciting naats that affected you so deeply that you went to such lengths, but it's very impractical. It's right out of a Barbara Cartland romance whereas you are a medical student with a mature mind,' he said somewhat unkindly.

  Imama looked at him again. 'I'm very mature—to mature, and in the last three or four years no one can claim to have considered things as practically as I've done.'

  'I reserve my comments. Possibly my being practical is quite different from your view of practicality. Anyway, I was talking about Jalal, what you said about his naat recitals.'

  'Some things are beyond one's control...! have none either.' Her tone reflected defeat.

  'I don't agree with you—everything is within our power; at least we can control our feelings, our emotions and actions. We know when and why we develop feelings for someone; and these emotions do not grow unless we let it happen knowingly. Therefore I cannot accept that we have no control.'

  While talking, he turned to look at Imama and was aware that she was not listening. She was staring, unblinking, at the windscreen or the scene ahead. She was somewhere far away, he couldn't say where. She looked abnormal to him. After driving in silence for a fairly long time, Salar addressed her again.

  'Besides reciting naats, what other qualities does he have?' His rather loud tone startled her. He repeated his question.

  'All those qualities that should be present in a good human being, a good Muslim.'

  'Such as?' Salar raised his eyebrows.

  'And even if he had no other qualities, I would still prefer him over other men because he has such adoration for the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) that this alone would have been enough for me.'

  Salar smiled quizzically. 'What logic! I can really not understand such an argument.' He shook his head in disbelief.

  'Will you marry of your own choice or your parents' choice?' Imama's sudden query took him by surprise.

  'My choice, of course! Parents's choice does not prevail in this day and age,' he said nonchalantly.

  'You too will fall for some quality in the girl you choose to marry, or you'll develop some understanding with her, won't you?'

  'Definitely.'

  'That's just what I am doing. It's a question of one's priorities—you'll marry for the reasons you listed; I too wanted to marry Jalal Ansar for a similar reason.' She paused. 'It was my wish to marry someone who loved the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) more than me. Jalal was such a person and I

  felt he was the one I should marry. But, as I told you, some things are beyond one's control—there are some desires that one cannot be rid of...'

  She shook her head sadly as she spoke.

  'And now that he is married, what is your plan?'

  'I don't know...'

  I'lltell you what—find yourself another naat reciter and marry him,' he laughed, mocking her. Imama stared at Salar: he was insensitive to the point of cruelty.

  'Why are you looking at me this way? I was just joking.' He had stifled his laughter. Imama looked away without a word.

  'Your father beat you?' Salar resumed the conversation after a while.

  'Who told you?' she asked without looking at him.

  'The maid,' he replied calmly. 'The woman thought you had refused marriage because of me so she conveyed your "pitiable condition" in her most melodramatic style. Did your father beat you?'

  'Yes.' She registered no reaction.

  'Why?'

  'I didn't ask him...perhaps he was angry, that's why.'

  'Why did you let him beat you?'

  Imama turned around. 'Because he's my father, he has the right to raise his hand on me.' Salar looked at her in surprise. 'Anyone else in his place would have done the same thing in this situation. I did not mind it,' she said in an even tone.

  'If he has the right to hit you, he also has the right to marry you where he wishes. Then why are you making such a fuss about this?' His tone was sharp.

  'As long as it was to a Muslim, I would have married wherever he wished.'

  'Even if it weren't to Jalal Ansar?' he quizzed.

  'Yes...as if I'm married to him now.' Her eyes seemed to be moist again.

  'Then you should have told him.'

  'Of course, I did—you think I didn't?'

  'I'm really amazed by one thing: why did you decide to approach me for help? In fact, how did you do this, considering that you actually disliked me?'

  'I had no other option beside you,' she said quietly, pausing between sentences. 'None of my friends were in a position to help me the way a man could. Other than Asjad, you and Jalal were the only men I knew, and you were the closest whom I could have contacted immediately—so I did.'

  'You were convinced that I'd help you?'

  'No; I took a risk. How could I be sure of your help? As I said, I had no choice.'

  'So you're saying that you were ready to exploit a situation to suit your purpose?'

  This comment summed up Salar's reaction and Imama was cornered into silence. He was an expert at driving home a point, but he was not wrong in saying so to her face.

  'Very interesting.' He was quite pleased with his observation.

  -------------------------

  'I want to stop the car here for a while.' Salar looked at the dingy hotel and gas station by the roadside. 'I need to get the tyres checked.
There's no spare tyre in this car and a flat tyre would mean a real problem.' Imama nodded. He pulled his car into the gas station. From some distant mosque the call for fajr prayers came across. Except for the couple of hotel staff, there was no one else around. Seeing the car drive in, one of the workers came out; perhaps he had heard the car. Salar opened the door and stepped out.

  Imama leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes for a while. The azaan became louder: she looked around and then alighted from the car. Hearing the door open, Salar turned around. 'How long will we stop here?' she asked him.

  Ten or fifteen minutes... I need to get the engine checked too.'

  'I want to say my prayers; I need to perform the wuzu,' she said.

  Before Salar could reply, the man said, 'Baji, there's water in this drum if you want it for wuzu.'

  'And where will she pray?' Salar inquired of the man.

  'In that room there—I'll get her a prayer rug. Let me do that before I check the engine for you,' he said as he went towards the room.

  Salar saw Imama move towards the drum and stand there looking somewhat puzzled. Involuntarily, he approached her. The water was in a large barrel that was once used once for road tar; it had a cover on it.

  'How can I get water from this?' Imama turned at the sound of footsteps behind her. Salar looked around and seeing an empty pail, he brought it.

  'I think they use this to get the water,' he said as he dipped the pail in and filled it up for her. 'Let me help you,' he said. Imama looked somewhat uncomfortable at first; then she rolled up the sleeves of her pullover and taking off her watch, held it out to Salar, and squatted on her feet. As Salar poured some water on her outstretched hands, she shuddered as if a current had hit her and drew them back.

  'What's the matter?' he was taken aback.

  'Nothing—the water's very cold. But pour it, please.' She held out her hands. Salar began to pour the water as she performed the ablutions. For the first time, he saw her arms up to her elbows; for a while, he could not take his eyes off her wrists and then he shifted his gaze to her face.

  Without removing her chadar, she very carefully cleansed her hair, her ears and throat, and Salar's eyes followed the movements of her hands. He discovered for the first time too the gold chain swinging from her neck and the pearl pendant on it. Every time Salar had seen her she had been covered in a chadar—the colors would be different but she always wore it in the same style. He had never thought about her shape, her figure.

  I'llpour water on my feet myself.' She stood up and took the pail, now nearly empty, from Salar. He moved back a few paces and watched her,

  fascinated. His fascination came to an end when she had completed her wuzu; he held out her watch.

  They walked to the room indicated by the man. He had already spread out the prayer mat in a corner. Imama moved forward quietly. There were a few chairs and a small stool also in the room. Salar could not immediately comprehend the use of this room; then he moved to the window-like counter at the other end.

  'Get us two cups of tea,' he told a boy there who nodded obediently and proceeded to light a stove. Salar then returned to the room. Imama had begun her prayers. He sat down on a chair and, stretching his legs to the table across, he watched her pray. He thought that, considering her predicament, she would collapse into tears in supplication—it was but expected. But, to his disappointment, she did nothing of the sort. Hands raised, she prayed quietly for a while, and then passing her hands over her face, she stood up. Salar drew a deep breath and looked away.

  As soon as they entered the precincts of Lahore, Imama said, 'You can drop me off at any bus stand now; I'll make my own way.'

  I'lldrop you wherever you want to go. Waiting in this fog for any transport will take a long time.'

  The roads were quite deserted at this time in the early morning hour and fog engulfed everything.

  'I have no idea where I'll be going, so how can I give you any directions? I

  think I'll go to the hostel now, and then...'

  Salar interrupted. 'Then I'll take you to the hostel.' There was silence between them as he headed towards the hostel.

  At some distance from the building, Imama said, 'Stop here; I'll walk over. I

  don't want to be seen going there with you.' Salar stopped the car.

  'In the last few weeks, you have been extremely helpful towards me: I want to thank you: if it weren't for you, I wouldn't be here now.' She continued after a pause. 'I still have your mobile with me—I'll need it for a while, but I'll send it to you later.'

  'No need for that; you can keep it.'

  I'llcontact you after a few days; you can send me the divorce papers then.'

  She added, 'I hope you will not divulge anything to my parents.'

  'Need you say that?' His eyebrows went up. 'If I wanted to, I'd have told them long ago,' he said indifferently. 'You had a very poor opinion of me—

  do you still think in the same terms, or has your opinion changed?' Salar suddenly asked with a knowing smile. 'Don't you believe that I'm really a very nice person?'

  'It's possible,' she uttered softly.

  'It's possible?' Her response shocked Salar. He gave a doubtful smile.

  'Even now, you say it's possible. You are really ungrateful, Imama—I've done all that for you which no young man would be ready to do, and yet you are not willing to admit any goodness about me.'

  'I'm not ungrateful. I accept that you have done me many favors and that anyone else in your place would not have obliged...'

  'So that means I am good, right?' he interjected. She did not reply, but kept looking at him.

  'No. I know that's what you want to say; although an eastern woman's silence is assent, they say, but your silence means refusal. I'm right, am I

  not?'

  'We're getting into a pointless argument.'

  'Possibly,' he shrugged. 'But I'm surprised that you...'

  This time, Imama cut him short. 'You have certainly done a lot for me, and if I did not know you, I'd certainly believe you to be a very good human being and even say so. But—I know you well so I cannot say you're a good person.' She stopped. Salar stared at her steadily. 'A person who attempts suicide, who drinks alcohol, who has plastered his room with pictures of nude women cannot be good.' She spoke bluntly.

  'If you had gone to a man who did none of these three things but did not help you either, would he be good in your eyes?' Salar spoke angrily. 'Like Jalal Ansar?'

  Imama's expression changed. 'Yes. He did not help me but that doesn't make him bad. He's a good man...I still consider him good.'

  'And I helped you, I married you, and certainly in your opinion, I am still a very bad person?' He smiled sardonically as he said this. 'What do you think about yourself, Imama—that you're a very good girl?'

  His tone was acerbic and, without waiting for her response, he continued. 'I

  don't think you're a very good person: you ran away from home for another man...you deceived your fiance...you ruined your family's honor.' He was speaking without thinking of consideration and courtesy.

  There was a hint of tears in her eyes. 'You're right. I am not good, and I

  have yet to hear this from many others. I could give you a lengthy explanation but there's no point in doing so, as you can't appreciate these things.'

  'Suppose I had taken you somewhere else instead of bringing you down to Lahore, then? But I brought you here safely; do you realize what a favor I've done you?'

  Imama looked at him and said, 'I was certain that you would bring me here,

  that you would not take me anywhere else.'

  'You believed in me? Why? I'm a bad person, remember?' Salar chuckled.

  'I didn't believe in you—I believed in God.' Salar frowned at her words. 'I

  gave up everything for God and His Prophet (PBUH). It could never be that I would be left helpless at the mercy of someone like you.'

  'Suppose it had happened,' he insisted.

/>   'Why should I presume something that did not happen?' She was equally insistent.

  That's to say that you don't give me any credit whatsoever?' he taunted her. 'What if I do not let you go now? What then? The car doors won't open unless I unlock them, you know that; what will you do?'

  She fixed her gaze on him. He went on. 'Or I do this,' he said and picking up the cell phone on the dashboard began to key in the numbers. 'I call up your home.' He waved the phone before her—her number flashed on the screen.

  'I tell them where you are and with whom, and then I take you straight to the police station and hand you over—what of your trust and belief then?'

  He mocked her.

  Imama watched him without a word. Salar felt very pleased with himself.

  He switched off the phone and showed her the screen.

  'Do you see what a favor I have done you by not doing what I could have done?' he asked, replacing the instrument on the dashboard. 'Although you were utterly helpless, last night, I could have taken you somewhere else—

  what would you have done then?'

  'I'd have shot you.' she spoke one word at a time.

  He laughed in her face. 'Done what? "I'd have shot you",' he mimicked her as laughed hilariously, his hands on the steering wheel. 'Have you eve seen a pistol in your life?' he mocked her.

  He saw her reach for her feet. 'I think this is what they call a pistol.'

  The smile was erased off his face. In Imama's hand was a small and costly ladies' pistol. Seeing her grip on the weapon, he realized that she was no amateur. He looked at her uncertainly.

  'You could have shot me?'

  'Yes, I could, but I didn't do so because you did not deceive me in any way.' Her tone was composed, firm. She had not pointed the weapon at Salar, but kept holding on to it.

  'The car's lock...' She did not say anything further. Salar unlocked the doors. She placed the pistol in her handbag. There was no more conversation between them; opening the door, Imama stepped out. Salar saw her move swiftly towards a van that approached them and she got aboard.