Pir-E-Kamil: The Perfect Mentor (25 page)

Saad also lived in a rented apartment, but not alone-he shared it with four others. There were two Arabs, a Bangladeshi and a Pakistani, besides himself. They were all students.

Saad became quite friendly with Salar soon after their first encounter. When Salar's friend Jeff told Saad about Salar's academic achievements, he couldn't help but be impressed. Looking at Saad, especially at his bearded face, Salar was always reminded of Jalal. There seemed to be striking resemblance between them. Like his other friends, Saad would also be at Salar's over the weekend.

'You're a Muslim, but you don't have clue about religion,' he once told Salar.

'And you're too religious,' retorted Salar.

'What do you mean?'

'The way you pray five times a day and keep talking about Islam-it's overdoing it, you know.' Salar was very candid. 'Don't you get tired of praying all the time?'

'It's mandatory. Allah commands us to worship Him, to remember Him,' Saad said emphatically. Salar yawned lazily. 'You should pray too; after all, you're a Muslim.' 'I know, I know. Does my not praying make me a non-

Muslim?' Salar's tone was sarcastic.

'A Muslim only in name - is that the way you want to be?'

'Saad, please don't get into this senseless argument. I know you're into religion, but I'm not. So it is better we respect each other's views and feelings instead of forcing them down each other's throats. I'm not asking you to give up namaz, so don't insist on my praying.' Salar spoke so bluntly that he silenced Saad.

A few days later Saad visited Salar at his apartment. Salar went to the kitchen to get something for him. Saad followed and casually opened the fridge as they were conversing. He happened to see a burger that Salar had picked up the night before from a fast food outlet, and took it out.

'Put it back-you can't have that,' Salar reacted.

'Why not?' Saad was going to put it in the microwave.

'Because it has pork in it,' said Salar quite casually.

Saad stopped in his tracks. 'Don't be funny.'

'What's so funny?' Salar said, surprised, as Saad almost flung the plate on the counter.

'You eat pork?'

'I don't eat pork. I eat this burger as I like it,' he replied, lighting the burner.

'Do you know it's forbidden-haram?'

'Yes.'

'And yet you eat it?'

'Don't start off with your preaching. I eat not only pork but all kinds of meat, he replied,' in a devil-may-care tone.

'I can't believe it.'

'Well-what's so unbelievable about it? It's something to be eaten,' said Salar as he took the milk bottle from the fridge.

Saad was incensed. 'Everything is not meant to be eaten. OK, so you're not very religious, but you are a Muslim and Muslims know that pork is forbidden for Muslims.'

Salar listened quietly as he went about his work

'Don't make anything for me~l won't have it,' Saad told him as he left the kitchen.

'Why? What happened?' Salar looked at Saad with some surprise, as he was washing his hands vigorously.

Saad did not reply, but continued to wash his hands as he recited the kalima. Salar, teeth clenched angrily, gave him a piercing look.

'I cannot eat anything kept in your fridge. In fact, I cannot eat out of your plates if you eat pork and God knows what else. Let's go out somewhere for a bite.'

'That's very insulting.' Salar was really annoyed.

'No - there's nothing insulting. It's just that I do not want to eat haram stuff, and you are not used to being careful about such matters,' Saad said very calmly.

'I didn't try to make you eat pork. I know you don't eat it so I told you not to have that burger. But you have some sort of phobia, it seems—you're reacting as if I keep pet pigs in my apartment and live with them.'

'Come, let's go out.' Saad tried to pacify him.

'If we eat out, I'm not going to foot the bill-you will,' said Salar.

'Fine, I'll pay. No problem.' Saad was somewhat relieved.

'And next time you visit me, bring your own food.' Salar was piqued.

'Will do,' replied Saad.

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That weekend he was by the lake where many people like him were strolling around or sitting on the benches by the shore. Mindlessly, he looked around as he took a bite of ice cream. His attention was caught by a three-year-old kicking and chasing a football. The child's mother, in hijab , stood there watching him fondly. Salar, without realizing it, was staring at her. The boy was moving towards Salar, following the ball which landed at Salar's feet. Salar stopped it with his foot, but held it there. The boy came running up and stopped short: Salar didn't let go of the ball—he looked at the boy's mother, expecting her to come up. She did, somewhat puzzled by Salar's reaction.

'Let go of the football.' She spoke in a polite but firm tone. Salar gave the ball a strong kick, sending it flying into the distance. He then looked at her very calmly. Her face had an angry blush; she said something under her breath and turned round, following her son who had run after the ball. Salar didn't hear what she said, but it couldn't have been very complimentary.

Salar was not very proud of his behavior but he soon realized the reason behind it—the girl looked very much like Imama. She was tall and slim, wearing a long black coat and a black hijab. Her build, her pale complexion and dark eyes were just like Imama's. Imama did not wear a hijab though— she would swathe herself in a voluminous chadar. Looking at this girl, he was reminded of Imama and in an involuntary way, by disregarding her he was not doing her bidding and it made him feel good—but she wasn't Imama.

'What's the matter with me? To be doing this...' he thought. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lit it and putting it to his lips he fixed his gaze on that girl once again. He was oblivious to everything else but her.

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That night he thought about Imama for a long time—about her and Jalal. He as convinced that they were married by now because, on getting the divorce papers from Sikandar. Even though Salar knew that despite his persuading him, Jalal was not willing to marry Imama, nevertheless, he thought that once Imama turned up at his threshold, Jalal would not be able to refuse her. She would have coaxed and cajoled him into it.

Imama was really beautiful: Jalal was no match for her. Her family was among the richest and most powerful families in the country. It would have to be a fool who despite his status, like Jalal, would reject such a profitable proposition. Or perhaps, he really was in love with her. Whatever it was, Salar was certain that they had got married and were in hiding somewhere, away from Hashim Mubeen's clutches—or perhaps, he had managed to track them down.

'I really should find out about her,' he thought, but the very next minute, he was chiding himself. 'For God's sake Salar—what the hell! What difference does it make if her father has reached her or not?'

But his sense of curiosity did not abate and he wondered why he had made no effort to find out if Imama's whereabouts had been discovered by her father.

'I'm Venus Edward,' said the girl, extending her hand. She approached him as he was taking a book from the library shelf.

'Salar Sikandar,' he replied, shaking hands with her.

I know—you don't need to introduce yourself,' she replied warmly.

Salar didn't say that she didn't need to introduce herself: he knew all of his fifty classmates by name and by face. Moreover, he could recount a brief bio-data of each one of them without making a mistake. He could have stunned Venus by telling her that she was from New Jersey where she had worked in a beverage company for two years, and that she had a degree in marketing. She was at Yale for a second degree and she was at least five to six years older than Salar. Though he looked older because of his height and physique, but in reality he was the youngest in the class, and he was the only one who was studying for his MBA degree without having any work experience. All the others had some years of job experience, but divulging all this to Venus at this point was tantamount to raising her expectations.

'If I should invite you for a cup of coffee?' asked Venus.

Then I would accept your invitation,' he replied.

She laughed. 'Then let's go.' Salar shrugged and replacing the book, followed her out.

They sat in the cafeteria and talked for nearly half an hour. That was the beginning of his acquaintance with Venus. Developing a relationship with any girl was no problem for Salar—he had been doing this very smoothly and this time it was made easier by Venus' making the first move.

Just after three or four meetings, he had invited Venus to spend the night at his flat and she readily agreed. They spent much time together wandering about after class and returned to his apartment in the late hours. Salar was in the kitchen fixing drinks for them; Venus was casually inspecting the apartment. Then she came and stood by the counter.

'I'd thought that since you live alone, the place would be a mess. I must say, you've kept it very well. Is this the norm or have you tidied up the place especially for me?'

Salar placed her glass before her and replied, 'This is how I live, in orderly style.' He took a sip and putting down his glass moved up to her. She smiled at him as he put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her close. Then he froze as he caught sight of a pearl swinging on a gold chain round her neck. She always wore this but he had not seen it before as she was always clad in high-necked warm clothes because of the cold weather. That day she wore a deep-necked dress and a long coat which she took off inside the flat.

Salar's expression changed as that pearl jolted him back to another pearl, around someone else's neck, somewhere far in the past. To hands that were performing the ablutions and to fingers that moved from wrists to elbows...over the face, from eyes to the forehead and from the forehead to fingers sliding over the dark hair under the chadar.

The chain around Imama's neck was short so that the pearl on it rested in the hollow of her throat; had the chain been longer, he wouldn't have been able to see the pearl. That night she was wearing a close-necked qameez and a cardigan too but a chance look at that pearl seemed to have paralyzed him for a moment.

And what a time to remember her. He tried to avoid looking at the pearl—he did not want to spoil his evening with Venus. He tried to smile back at her as she said, 'I find your eyes so attractive.'

'Your eyes are repulsive.'

A voice seemed to whip him; the smile vanished from his face. Pulling away his arms from around Venus, he moved back a few steps and picked up his glass from the counter. Venus was taken aback.

'What happened?' She asked, putting a hand on his shoulder in concern.

Salar did not reply; he just swallowed his drink in one gulp. Venus tried to fathom his silence as she looked on anxiously. It took just a few moments to kill his interest in Venus: he didn't know why her presence was suddenly so annoying. He had been dancing with her for the last two hours at a night club and was having a good time, and now, in a few minutes...

Salar tried to shake it off and moved towards the kitchen sink to wash his glass. Venus brought him the other glass. She stood there, arms folded across her chest, watching him as he washed the glasses. Her looking on was bothering Salar.

'I...I'm not feeling too good,' he said to her as he put the glasses on the shelf. Venus was somewhat shocked—in other words, he was asking her to leave. Her expression changed: Salar's attitude was insulting. She stared at him coldly, then picking up her handbag and coat, she stormed out slamming the door behind her. Salar sank on to the sofa, holding his head.

There was no similarity whatsoever between Venus and Imama; even the pearls they wore around their necks were different. Yet the sight of that pearl swinging from the chain around Venus' neck revived the memory of Imama with a sharp pang. Why? Why now? Why ever? He was agitated by the thought. It had ruined an enjoyable evening. Suddenly, he picked up the crystal vase on the coffee table and, with all his might, hurled it against the wall.

After the weekend, he happened to run into Venus again, but his attitude was cold and brusque. This was the only way to nip their relationship in the bud. He began to be irritated and put off by any female/woman who reminded him of Imama in any way and Venus had joined the list. She had been hoping he would apologise for his behaviour and invite her again, but she was disappointed and badly hurt. This was her first affair at Yale.

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During the next few months, he was terribly busy with his studies—so busy that he had no time to remember Imama or to try and find out what had happened to her. And this situation might have continued if he had not run into Jalal Ansar by chance.

Over the weekend, he had gone to Boston, where his uncle lived, to attend a cousin's wedding there. That evening, Salar went out with his cousin to a restaurant for dinner. His cousin had stepped out after placing the order and Salar was waiting to be served. Suddenly someone called out to him.

'Hello?' Salar turned around. 'Aren't you Salar?' the man asked. It was Jalal Ansar. For a minute, Salar couldn't place him. He looked different: he had shaved off his beard.

Salar stood up to shake hands with him, and the adventure of a year ago repeated itself in his memory. After the perfunctory greetings, Salar invited Jalal to join them for dinner.

'No, thank you—I'm in a bit of a rush. I came over to say hello when I caught sight of you,' said Jalal, glancing at his watch. 'How's Imama?' Jalal asked by way of conversation.

Salar thought he had not heard him correctly. 'Sorry?' he asked apologetically. Jalal repeated the question.

'I was asking about Imama—how is she?'

Salar looked at him, unblinking. Why was Jalal asking him about Imama?

'I don't know; you ought to know about her,' Salar replied, shrugging his shoulders quizzically.

'Why me?' Jalal was surprised.

'Because she's your wife.'

'My wife?' A jolt went through Jalal. 'What are you saying? How can she be my wife when I had refused to marry her? You know that very well because you were the one, who came to talk to me about this a year ago,' he reminded Salar. 'In fact, I had asked you to marry her yourself.'