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

  'Oh, so your son's here? Which one—the older one or the younger?' Salar asked with some interest.

  'I'm talking about my neighbor's son, Rashid,' she elaborated, with some annoyance.

  Salar realized that for her every boy was her son, every girl her daughter—she built up relations with great facility.

  'So where's he?'

  'He went back. I came with him on his motor bike—he drives like the wind! We started at nine and he got me here at exactly half past ten. I kept telling him to slow down but he wouldn't listen. When we got here he said it was the last time he'd give me a lift on his motorbike. "The next time, I'll walk you down" he said...'

  Salar was amused. He could well understand the frustration of the young man at having taken an hour and a half to complete a journey that would not be longer than half an hour. It was not easy to spend time in the company of old people—this had become quite clear to Salar when he had first encountered Saeeda Amma.

  'So how will you go back? Will Rashid come for you?'

  'Yes, he did say he'd come after the match was over. Let's see when he turns up.' She then continued to add to his knowledge about her daughter and her in-laws. Salar listened patiently though he could have had no possible interest, but he realized that after all she could not be discussing banking issues with him. Whatever she was saying made little sense to him but he pretended to be most interested.

  She also had lunch with him. He didn't try to warm up something from the freezer as he did not want another round of advice on the benefits of marriage. So he ordered some food from a takeaway. When Rashid had not yet arrived, Salar offered to drop her home. She gladly accepted saying that he'd also get to know where she lived.

  'I know your address,' he reminded her as he looked for his car keys. Half an hour later he was at her house. He walked her to her door, but when she asked him to come in, he declined politely saying he had a lot of work at home. He regretted saying that as her admonitions began again.

  'Oh, child! That's why I've been telling you to get married. Your wife would look after the housework and you could go out instead of spending your weekend in domestic chores.' She looked at him pityingly.

  'Yes, of course, you're right. May I go now?' Salar said, surpassing himself in obedience.

  'Very well, but remember, you must come for the wedding. And also remind Furqan once again and give him his card.'

  Salar rang the doorbell and then turned away. He heard the door open behind him and then Saeeda Amma in conversation with her daughter.

  'Then what's your programme? Are you coming along?' Furqan queried as he came to collect his card the next day.

  'No, I'm going to Karachi this weekend for an IBA seminar. I'll be back on Sunday and plan to sleep the rest of the day—nothing else. You can go. I'll give you the gift envelope for her; do remember to give it with my apologies.'

  'That's shameful Salar. She came all the way to invite you with such affection,' Furqan chided him gently.

  'I know but I can't just go there and waste my time.'

  'We won't be there too long—we'll be back soon.'

  'Furqan, my return is not confirmed...! may not return by day, it might be Sunday night.'

  'You're really useless! And she's going to be very disappointed.'

  'That makes no difference—my not being there won't stop the wedding from taking place. Maybe she's got an inkling that I won't attend. Besides, you and I are not such important guests,' Salar stated carelessly.

  'Anyway, my wife and I will attend, regardless of how unimportant we may be,' Furqan replied angrily.

  I'm not stopping you—you're most welcome to go there. Otherwise too you have a more comfortable and informal relationship with Saeeda Amma.'

  'But she still cares more about you,' Furqan claimed.

  'It's out of kindness,' Salar brushed him off lightly.

  'Whatever it is, she does feel concerned. If nothing else, you should attend out of regard for Dr Sibt-e-Ali because she's his next of kin.' Furqan tried this angle to persuade Salar.

  'Dr Ali himself is out of town; and had he been here, he wouldn't be forcing me to attend the wedding, the way you're doing.'

  'Fine, you can do as you please. I'm not forcing you.' Furqan gave up.

  Salar resumed working on his laptop.

  -------------------------

  It was a lush green place, a garden as it were, and they were together there among the trees and flowering bushes. It was quiet all round. They were sitting in the sunshine by a bush in full bloom. Imama sat with her arms wrapped around her knees while Salar lay supine on the grass, his eyes closed. Their shoes lay some distance away. Imama was wearing a beautiful white shawl. They were in deep conversation and Imama was looking at something as she spoke to him. He had taken a corner of her shawl and covered his eyes with it, as if to keep out the sun. That shawl seemed to bestow peace, a sort of elation on him. Imama made no effort to pull it back from him. The sunshine refreshed him and eyes shut, he could feel the soft touch of the shawl on his face. He began to feel drowsy and was soon in the grip of a deep sleep.

  Salar suddenly opened his eyes. He was lying flat across his bed. Something had broken his slumber, and he looked around uncertainly. This was not where he wanted to be—another dream...another illusion...he closed his eyes again. His attention was then drawn by the ringing of his cell phone by his bedside—that was what had pulled him away from his dreams. Thoroughly annoyed, he reached out for the phone. It was Furqan calling.

  'Where were you Salar? I've been calling for hours...why weren't you attending the call?' said Furqan the minute he heard Salar's voice.

  'I was sleeping,' replied Salar, as he sat up in bed. He caught sight of the clock—it was four in the afternoon.

  'Get to Saeeda Amma's at once!' Furqan told him.

  'Why? I'd told you that I ...'

  'I know what you told me,' interrupted Furqan, 'but there's an emergency here.'

  'What sort of emergency?' Salar was anxious.

  'You'll find out when you come here. Now get here at once; I'm hanging up.' Furqan switched off.

  Salar looked at the phone, worried. Furqan's voice, his tone, expressed his anxiety but what could be the nature of the concern at Saeeda Amma's? Within fifteen minutes, Salar had changed and on his way. Furqan's next call came as he was driving.

  'At least, tell me what has happened? You've really got me worried,' Salar asked again.

  'No need to get worried—you're coming here, you'll get to know. I can't go into the details over the phone.' Furqan hung up again.

  Driving fast, Salar covered the distance of half an hour in fifteen minutes. Furqan met him outside Saeeda Amma's house. Salar had expected there would be much noise and celebration here, but that was not the case. There was no hint whatsoever of any wedding party or procession at the scene. He accompanied Furqan into an old-fashioned drawing room to the left of the main door.

  'What was it that you had to summon me like this?' Salar was getting irritated

  'There's been a big problem with Saeeda Amma and her daughter,' said Furqan as he sat opposite him. He looked very worried.

  'What problem?'

  'The young man who was going to marry her daughter has backed out and he has gone and married a girl of his own choice.'

  'My goodness!' Salar exclaimed.

  'Those people just called up Saeeda Amma some time ago to inform her and expressed their regrets. They are not going to come here. I went to their place a while earlier—they really have no choice. They have no information about their son or where he could be. He just called to tell them about his decision.' Furqan disclosed the details.

  'If he was not interested, he should have told his parents honestly. If he had the guts to elope then he should have had the guts to refuse his parents too.' Salar found the whole affair very distasteful. 'Saeeda Amma's sons should have been here to handle this situation.'

  'Yes, but since they're not here someone h
as to deal with this.'

  'Doesn't Saeeda Amma have any other close relatives here?' Salar queried.

  'I spoke to Dr Sibt-e-Ali a short while ago,' Furqan informed him.

  'But Dr Ali's not here—it would have been a different story if he were present,' noted Salar.

  'He told me to have you speak to him on the phone.' Furqan's tone was a little slow this time.

  'Me? How can I help?' Salar was suddenly alert.

  'By marrying Amina.'

  Salar couldn't believe what he had heard—he stared at Furqan dumbfounded. 'Are you out of your mind?' he could barely get the words across.

  'Yes, I'm quite sane.'

  'Then you don't know what you're saying.' Salar's face was an angry red. He shot up to leave but Furqan blocked his way.

  'What made you say such a thing?' Salar could hardly control his voice.

  'Whatever I said was on Dr Ali's instructions.'

  Salar's face was a kaleidoscope of emotions. 'Why did you suggest my name?'

  'I did not suggest anything, Salar! He himself suggested it. He told me to ask you to help Saeeda Amma at this juncture by marrying her daughter.'

  Salar felt as though the ground had been pulled away from under his feet, or the sky from over his head. He turned and slumped down on the sofa.

  'Furqan, did you tell him that I'm already married?'

  'Yes, I did—that you'd been married years ago, but the girl just disappeared and you never found her.'

  Then?'

  'Despite this he wants you to marry Amina.'

  'Furqan...I ...' he stopped, then asked, 'and Imama? What happens to her?'

  'Imama has been out of your life all these years. God knows where she is—or even if she's still around or not.'

  'Furqan!' Salar stopped him harshly. 'Just leave her alone or whether she is or isn't. What happens if she should turn up tomorrow?'

  'You'd better speak to Dr Ali about this,' advised Furqan.

  'No. You should tell Saeeda Amma and her daughter the truth. It could be that they will not accept an already married man as their son-in-law. If that were so, she would also have accepted the man who went off and married of his own choice.'

  'Had he turned with his family, she would have accepted him too, but the problem is that he's not ready to have Amina as his second wife.'

  'He can be traced.'

  'Yes, he can be traced, but not this time.'

  'Dr Ali has not made the right choice for Amina—what could I possibly giver her? I'm worse than that man who walked out on her.' Salar spoke like a defeated man.

  'Salar, they need someone now, and at a time of need only that person is valuable who can be trusted. You have been helping so many people through your life—can you not do something for Dr Ali?'

  'I have helped others monetarily,' he said. 'Dr Ali doesn't need my money.'

  Before Furqan could say a word, his phone began to ring. He looked at the number on the screen and held the phone out to Salar. It was Dr Sibt-e-Ali.

  With a somber look on his face, Salar took the call. Sitting there, the phone held to his era, Salar realized that not everything can be divulged to anyone at random. Whatever he had told Furqan could not be repeated in a loud and angry voice to Dr Sibt-e-Ali. He could not say 'No' to him. He could neither argue with him nor give any justifications or excuses. Dr Ali spoke to him in his typical soft tone.

  'If you can get your parents' permission, then marry Amina. She's like my own daughter. Consider that I am requesting this for my daughter. I am putting you to much trouble, but I am compelled—I have no choice.'

  'I'll do as you say.' Salar spoke in a low voice. 'Please don't request— just convey your orders,' he found himself saying.

  Furqan returned to the room about ten minutes later. He found Salar seated on the floor, cell phone in hand, looking lost and quiet.

  Furqan pulled up a chair and sat opposite him. 'Did you speak to Dr Ali?' he asked gently.

  Salar looked up and without a word handed back the cell phone. After some time, he said, 'I will not take her home yet. The nikah alone will be quite enough.'

  Salar began to look at the lines on his palms. Furqan felt very sorry for him—this was not the first time that a person had fallen victim to circumstance.

  -------------------------

  The traffic on the road was almost non-existent as the night deepened. The fog was slowly engulfing everything in sight.

  The streetlight seemed to reach out through the fog to relieve the dark in the balcony where Salar was sitting on a stool by the railing. The steam from the mug of coffee before him rose in strange shapes against the dark night: he sat with his arms folded across his chest, staring at the deserted road below. It was a weird sight, wrapped in the foggy dark.

  It was ten and he had reached home a few minutes ago. After the nikah ceremony, he left immediately and spent several hours driving around aimlessly. He had switched off his mobile as he wanted to be left alone. He wanted no contact with the world outside. He did not want to speak to Furqan who would have certainly called and tried to clarify matters. He did not want to speak to Dr Sibt-e-Ali who would have called to thank him. He just wanted absolute silence.

  Watching the wraiths of steam from the hot coffee, he relived the events of a few hours ago that evening. It was all like a dream. He wished it was a dream. Sitting there, he remembered his prayer at the Kaaba.

  'So is it a divine decision to remove her from my life?' he reflected, painfully. 'Then this torture should also have been taken away, for I had asked release from this pain, escape from her memory.' He wrapped his cold hands around the hot mug and poured its bitterness into himself. 'So, Imama Hashim, you're out of my life forever.'

  Salar ruminated over all the possibilities that could have prevented the situation he now found himself in. If only he had not run into Saeeda Amma and offered to drop her home; If only he had found her address and had not brought her home—neither would the connections have built up, nor would she have invited him to the wedding. If only he had stayed back in Karachi instead of returning to Lahore or slept with his mobile switched off, and his phone off the hook, or not responded to Furqan's call. If he had not known Dr Sibt-e-Ali, he would not have felt obliged to concede to his request. 'Imama is not destined for me,' he thought sadly as he drew his hands across his face. Then he reached for his wallet, as if remembering something, and pulled out a small folded paper. He opened it and read it.

  'Dear Uncle Sikandar,

  I am so sorry to learn of the death of your son. Some years ago, your family was put to a lot of trouble on my account, for which I am very sorry. I had to pay Salar some money which I am enclosing.

  Allah Hafiz

  Imama Hashim'

  He could not remember how many times he had read this in the last nine months. When he touched the paper, he could feel Imama's touch on it...his name, written by her, yet there was no familiarity in these few lines written on paper. He was also aware that the news of his death had not pained her. That news had come as a release for her after two and a half years, so how could it be a source of distress for her. Yet, in spite of all this, those few lines on a piece of paper had become very important for him.

  He ran his fingers over those lines lingering over her name, Imama Hashim, at the end. Then he folded it up and put it back in his wallet. The mug was still out there with a few mouthfuls of cold bitter coffee—he swallowed it in a gulp.

  Dr Sibt-e-Ali was returning to Pakistan from England in a week's time. Salar awaited his return. Whatever he had been unable to disclose to him about Imama Hashim, he wanted to tell him all now—all that he had been unable to reveal about his past, he wanted to tell Dr Sibt-e-Ali all about it. He no longer cared what he would think.

  -------------------------

  It was the fourth of Ramazan when Dr Sibt-e-Ali came back. He had returned quite late at night and Salar did not want to disturb him. He had planned to visit him the next evening but unexpectedl
y, Dr Ali called him up in the afternoon when he was at the bank. This was the third time he had contacted Salar after the nikah. After the customary inquiries, Dr Ali said, 'Don't come later at night. Come earlier and join me for iftar.'

  'Very well, I'll be there,' agreed Salar. They spoke a little longer and then Dr Ali called off.

  He left the bank a little earlier than usual. He went home and changed and reached Dr Ali's place about an hour before iftar. Dr Ali's servant, instead of seating Salar in the assembly hall, led him straight into the lounge. Dr Ali greeted him warmly, embracing him, and gently touched Salar's forehead with his lips.

  'You used to come here as a friend, but toady you are here as one of the family.' Salar knew what he was implying.

  'Come, be seated.' Dr Ali gestured towards the sofa, and took a seat at the other end. 'Congratulations! Now you are finally settled down.'

  Salar looked him with quiet eyes and a wan smile. Dr Ali was smiling broadly. 'I'm very happy that you have married Amina,' he continued. 'She is like a fourth daughter for me and you are thus a son-in-law.'

  Salar lowered his gaze. If the Imama Hashim chapter had not been a part of his life, he would have felt very proud to hear this. But she made the difference—she was the one who made all the difference, she who was and was not there.

  Dr Sibt-e-Ali observed Salar for a while and then said, 'You have been coming here for so many years, but you never disclosed that you were married. Not even when the subject was broached once or twice.'

  Salar looked up at him. 'I had wanted to tell you, but ' he broke off.

  'What could I tell you, every thing was so strange,' he thought to himself.

  'When did you marry?' Dr. Sibt-e-Ali was now enquiring softly.

  'Eight-and-a-half years ago, when I was twenty-one,' he said resignedly, and then, ever so slowly he disclosed every thing to him.

  Dr. Sibt-e-Ali had not interrupted him even once. He had held his peace for long time even after Salar had fallen silent.

  Eventually he had said, 'Amina is a very nice girl and she is lucky to have got a virtuous man.'