Pir-E-Kamil: The Perfect Mentor (43 page)

'We need to install a hand pump in our house for water. Please help.'

Salar used to hear their requests in amazement—were such simple things such an insurmountable challenge that people should waste their years trying to overcome them? When he made his monthly visits to the village, he would carry ten to fifteen thousand rupees with him. That money distributed in small amounts would meet their simple—but to them, important—needs. It would bring some ease to their lives. The few lines he wrote or the few calls he made to some bigwig on their behalf would lift their burdens and cut away the invisible shackles off their feet—perhaps, even Salar was not aware of how this worked.

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During his stay in Lahore, he visited Dr Sibt-e-Ali with regularity. Every evening after isha prayers, people would gather there and Dr Ali would speak on a topic of interest, sometimes of his own choice and sometimes one of his visitors would ask a question which then became the topic of discussion. Unlike most speakers, Dr Sibt-e-Ali did not believe in a captive audience that only listened. His lectures were interactive and he threw questions at them to encourage discourse. He valued their opinion and took criticism in a mature and positive manner. Salar Sikandar was the only one perhaps who had not yet raised any queries nor tried to answer those asked by Dr Sibt-e-Ali. He did not join those who offered opinions nor those who criticized.

Often he would accompany Furqan and if Furqan was not there, then he'd come alone and take up his usual place, at the far end of the room. He'd listen quietly to Dr Ali and the discussions that went on. Sometimes, on being asked, he'd introduce himself briefly, 'I'm Salar Sikandar; I work with a bank.'

As long as he was in the USA, he used to call up Dr Sibt-e-Ali once a week, but his conversation with him was very brief and always the same. He would call; Dr Ali would receive the call and always ask him just one question.

The first time he heard the query, he was taken aback. He had landed in America a few days ago and Dr Ali was asking him about his return—to Pakistan. Salar was surprised.

'Not soon...'he had replied, not understanding the nature of the question.

Later on, it did not strike him as odd because unconsciously he seemed to know what Dr Ali meant. The last time he asked Salar about this was when he had gone to the Red Light Area in search of Imama. After returning to Paris, he called Dr Ali the next week, as always, and as always, the dialogue ended on the same question: 'When are you coming back to Pakistan?'

Suddenly Salar felt he had had enough—it took him a while to regain his composure.

'Next month: I am resigning from this job and will work for a bank in Pakistan.'

'Very well. Then we'll meet next month,' said Dr Ali.

'Pray for me, please,' Salar finally said.

'I will. Anything else?'

'No, nothing more. Allah hafiz,' he said.

Dr Ali replied likewise and these conversations ended on the same note till Salar's arrival in Pakistan.

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Visiting Dr Sibt-e-Ali gave Salar a sense of peace. That was the only time when he felt the depression lift off him completely. Sitting silently before him, Salar sometimes felt like unburdening himself, telling him all that he had kept within himself and which corroded him like a poison. The guilt and remorse, the restlessness, the helplessness and sense of shame, the regret—everything. Then the fear of Dr Ali's reaction—what he would think—would break his resolve.

Dr Sibt-e-Ali was an expert in removing ambiguities. Salar sat in his company, silent, listening, understanding, absorbing, coming to conclusions—there was a veil that was being lowered and s view that was becoming clear. The questions that had burdened his mind all these years were being answered by Dr Ali.

'If you study Islam with understanding, you'll realize its scope—how open it is. It is not a faith subscribing to narrow-mindedness and meanness; there's no place for these in Islam. It begins with I and moves on to we— from the individual to the community. Islam does not expect you to sit on a prayer mat all day, a cap on your head and a rosary in your hands, doing nothing but praying and preaching. In fact, it asks you to make your life an example of fair dealing, devotion, honesty and diligence. It asks for sincerity and steadfastness. A good Muslim convinces others not by his words but his deeds.'

Salar recorded Dr Sibt-e-Ali's talks and listened to them later at home. He had been in search of a mentor and had found one in Dr Sibt-e-Ali.

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'Salar, come on! Come, please...how much more do you want me to beg you!' Anita dragged him by the arm; she was getting annoyed.

He had come to Islamabad, on three days' leave, for Ammar's wedding, although his family had insisted he join them for a week. The wedding functions had begun several days ago. He was well aware of the 'importance' and 'nature' of these events; hence despite their insistence, he planned to stay no more than three days. And here he was at Ammar's mehndi being celebrated jointly by both the bride's and groom's families. Both Ammar's and Asra's friends and relatives were dancing away to Indian film songs and pop music. It was an atmosphere of wild abandon— sleeveless dresses, baring necklines, clothes clinging to the bodies, sheer dresses and silk and chiffon saris with net blouses—the women of his family were in the same kind of attire as everyone else.

It was a mixed gathering and, before all this singing and dancing started, he found himself a seat where people from the corporate and banking circles or those who knew his father and brothers were sitting. But then the mehndi ceremony began and Anita dragged him off to the stage. Ammar and Asra were there, chatting away. He was meeting Asra for the first time. Ammar introduced them. Salar tried to get away once the ceremony was over but Tayyaba stopped him.

'It's your brother's mehndi and you're sitting away in some corner! You ought to be here,' she admonished him. So he stayed back, with Kamran and his wife. One of his cousins came up and tried to put a mehndi sash around his neck that all the others had. Salar shook him off once again, expressing annoyance. In the next few minutes, the dance music began and along with Ammar all his siblings and cousins were dancing. Anita pulled him towards the dance floor.

'No, Anita, I can't dance. I don't know how to.' He tried to disengage himself and excuse himself from participating. But instead of listening to him, Ammar and Anita brought him into the heart of the melee. At Kamran's and Moiz' weddings, he too had danced like this, but that was seven years ago. And in these seven years he had traveled a long way—a journey of the mind and soul. At Ammar's wedding, standing there in that crowd, he found it difficult even to raise his arms. Quite lost and helpless he just stood there in their midst.

Bending down, he whispered into Anita's ear, 'I've forgotten how to dance—please let me go.'

'Just begin—it'll come back,' replied Anita, putting her hand reassuringly on his shoulder.

'I can't. You all carry one, I'm enjoying the event. Let me go.'

Meanwhile, Asra had also joined the crowd and her arrival gave Salar a chance to slip away.

'To reach the zenith is the dream of every nation, every generation; and then those communities, who have received divine revelation, consider it their right to achieve pinnacles of glory. But they do not qualify just because they have been blessed with a divine messenger and scripture; not until they prove themselves through their actions are they entitled to a status or a special dispensation or quality. The same situation has arisen in the past with the Muslims and continues to afflict them. Their problem is that their upper classes are the victims of ostentatious indulgence and egoism— these things are like an epidemic, spreading from one to another to another, endlessly.' Standing there, watching the dancing men and women, Dr Sibt-e-Ali's words sprang to Salar's mind.

'A momin—a true believer—is never profligate: neither when he is one of the populace nor when he is the ruler. His life is not like that of an animal or insect led by base instinct—just eating, sleeping, reproducing and dying. This cannot be a Muslim's way of life.'

A smile came to Salar's lips—here he was amidst a throng of such animals and insects, and the knowledge that he had left their company long ago made him happy. Everyone there was happy, contented and at peace with themselves—rising laughter, glowing faces and shining eyes. Before him was Tayyaba, dancing with Ammar's father in law, and Anita dancing with her eldest brother Kamran.

Salar rubbed his temples—perhaps it was the loud music or his mental agitation that he felt a wave of pain pass through his temples. He took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. Then wearing them again, he tried to find a way out of that chaos and succeeded.

'Where are you going?' Tayyaba's voice followed him through the noise, and she caught hold of his arm. She had just stopped dancing and was out of breath.

I'll be back soon, Mummy, after my prayers.'

'Let it be today...'

Salar smiled but said nothing; he shook his head and gently pulled his arm away. He tried to find a way out.

'He can never be normal. Enjoying life is also an art and this fool will never learn this art,' she thought ruefully as she watched her third son walk away.

Stepping out and away from the noise and clamor, Salar breathed a sigh of relief. As Salar walked out of the gate towards the mosque, the singer was in full form. Salar was the only one from that house who was on his way to the mosque. Going past the lines of parked cars, he constantly thought of Dr Sibt-e-Ali's words, and also of those hundreds in his house at present who were busy having a ball, singing, dancing. There were only fourteen people who came to the mosque for prayers.

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On returning to Pakistan, Salar continued to live with his parents during his posting in Islamabad. When he was transferred to Lahore, he preferred to live in an apartment in Furqan's block, instead of renting out a bungalow in some posh locality.

Another reason for selecting proximity to Furqan was that he would not feel insecure about leaving his apartment unattended in his absence, and secondly, living in a house meant employing servants to maintain it, whereas he spent hardly any time at home. Moving with Furqan, Salar's social circle in Lahore also began to expand. Furqan was a very sociable being and his social circle was really quite large. Despite knowing Salar's moods and temperament, he would drag him along to various events from time to time.

That night Salar was with Furqan at one of his medical colleague's dinner and music party arranged on a farm. Salar had also been invited and when he heard about the ghazal evening, he could not resist.

The elite of the city had congregated on the farm. Salar knew most of them, and began talking to some acquaintances. Dinner had been served and while eating, Salar looked around for Furqan who was not visible. As Salar continued with dinner, he caught sight of Furqan, who seeing him, came up.

'Come Salar, let me introduce you,' he said. This is Dr Raza. He's a child specialist at Gangaram Hospital.' Salar shook hands with him.

'And this is Dr Jalal Ansar.' Salar needed no introduction. He did not hear what else Furqan was saying. He extended his hand towards Jalal and shook hands perfunctorily. Jalal too must certainly have recognized Salar.

Salar had gone there to spend a pleasant evening but it was going to be an awful night he realized. A flood of memories, breaking all bounds, assailed him. Everyone was moving to where the music had been arranged. Furqan was with Salar and Jalal a little ahead of them with other doctors. Salar looked at his back with a drawn face. Iqbal Bano was singing Faiz.

In the wilderness of solitude, dear love, Tremble the shadows of your voice, The mirage of your lips...

In the wilderness of solitude,

Beneath the debris of distance,

Bloom the cypress and the roses of your embrace.

The people sitting around him were swaying in ecstasy, moved by the singer's voice and the poetry. Salar, seated some tables away, looked at the man who was lost in pleasantries with his friends. Salar had never experienced envy, but he felt it now looking at that man.

After half an hour, he asked Furqan, 'Shall we make a move?'

'Where?'

'Home...'

'The programme has just begun. I'd told you that the party would be on till late at night.'

'Yes, but I'd like to leave. Get someone to drop me off. You can stay on.'

Furqan watched his face intently. 'Why do you want to leave?'

'I remembered something urgent.' Salar tried to smile.

'How can you think of anything urgent while listening to Iqbal Bano?' Furqan's tone was quite accusatory.

'Sit down, I'll find my way home,' said Salar instead, and got up.

'You're being quite odd. This farm's in the middle of nowhere—how will you go? Anyway, if you insist on leaving early, then let's go.' Furqan got up too.

They took leave of their host and got into Furqan's car. 'Now tell me, what happened all of a sudden?' asked Furqan as he drove out from the farm.

'I didn't feel like staying there any longer.'

'Why?'

Salar did not reply; he stared out of the window.

'Is Jalal the cause of your getting away from there?'

Salar turned around to look at Furqan who drew a deep breath.

'So my reading of this situation was correct—you left the party because of Jalal Ansar.'

'How did you know?' Salar said, admitting defeat, as it were.

'The way you both met was very strange. Jalal, unusually, did not give you any importance; although before a banker as well known as you a man like him should lay it on with a trowel. He lets no opportunity pass him by especially if his own benefit is involved. And you kept staring at him all the time,' said Furqan very calmly.

'You know Jalal Ansar?' inquired Salar, once again looking straight ahead. Then after quite some time, he added in a low voice, 'He is the man Imama wanted to marry.'

Furqan was at a loss for words. He did not expect that there would be this sort of acquaintance between Salar and Jalal or he would never have asked any questions. For a long time there was silence in the car.