Pir-E-Kamil: The Perfect Mentor (46 page)

Coming out, Salar sat in his car, pondering, for quite some time. The last veil too had been lifted from his eyes. Several years ago when Imama Hashim had left home without considering the consequences, he had been unable to understand her passion. To him it was sheer stupidity. Later it began to make sense to him. He came to know that a person could indeed hold the prophet ((PBUH) so dear and in such high esteem that they could give up everything for love of him.

As he learned more about Islam and its history, he came to know that the revered companions of the Prophet (PBUH) had also made many such sacrifices for the faith. From Hazrat Bilal (RA) to Hazrat Owais Qarni (RA) there had been countless individuals, and in every era too who had given their all for Islam. Salar Sikandar admitted that the love of the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) was such a powerful magnet that it could compel anyone to give up anything. He had not tried to analyze this sentiment before and today, as he sat there, he was pondering over it for the first time.

It was not just the love for the Prophet ((PBUH) that had made Imama Hashim walk away from her home: she had seen the path to goodness, the straight path, and she turned towards it. It was the same path that he had been searching all these years, the path that the companions of the Prophet (PBUH) had trodden.

Imama Hashim had found the Perfect Mentor, the Prophet Muhammad ((PBUH) years ago. The guidance she received from the love and respect for the Prophet (PBUH) had given her courage. Salar to this day had not been able to identify Hazrat Muhammad (PBUH) as the ideal mentor, and Imama had done this all by herself. She did not need anyone's support or guidance as Salar did.

In the last eight years, Salar had experienced every possible emotion for Imama—contempt, mockery, regret, hatred, love, everything—but that day, he felt envy for her. What was she but a woman? An ordinary woman, not some hour of paradise. What was her worth compared to Salar Sikandar?

'Does she have an IQ level like mine?'

'Has she had successes like I have had?'

'Can she do the kind of work I do?'

'Can she acquire a reputation like I have done?'

'She was nothing, had nothing, and yet everything had been offered to her on a platter. And I with an outstanding IQ level have been unable to see what has been before me all along.'

Staring ahead into the dark, and moist-eyed, Salar was muttering to himself. 'Just gave me the capacity to step out and conquer the world: that world which has no meaning or value...that world...' He stopped. He was really angry at Imama. Eight years ago, he would have abused her, called her 'bitch' as he did; but today after this passage of time, he could not bring himself to say anything derogatory about her—he could not dare do so. How can one possibly say anything negative about a woman who stood far ahead of oneself on the path of righteousness?

He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes. He seemed defeated. 'The Perfect Mentor (PBUH)...the path of righteousness.' It had taken him eight years to reach this point, but his search had ended—he had found the answer.

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They were both in a restaurant. Ramsha had dressed up especially for the occasion. She was very happy and happiness exuded from her very being. Even Salar could feel it. Salar took the menu card from the waiter but he folded it and laid it on the table. Ramsha looked at him in surprise.

'The lunch is on me, but you will decide the menu,' he said with a smile.

'OK,' Ramsha responded with a wide grin. As she looked through the menu, Salar looked around. She placed the order and the waiter left.

'Your invitation for lunch was a real surprise for me,' she remarked. 'You had not done this before—ever. In fact, you refused my invitation.'

'Yes, but now there are some things we must discuss and that's why I invited you here,' he replied.

Ramsha looked at him meaningfully. 'Some things to talk about? Just what?'

'Let's eat first. We'll talk later.' Salar tried to put it off.

'But by the time we are served and we have eaten, it'll be too late. Wouldn't it be better to talk now?' she asked impatiently.

'No, it's not better. After lunch,' he said in a final tone.

Ramsha did not insist. They engaged in small talk. Then lunch was served and they began to eat. It took them nearly an hour to finish and then Salar ordered some coffee.

'I think it's time we talked,' said Ramsha, taking the first sip of coffee. Salar appeared very serious: head bent, he was stirring his coffee. When Ramsha spoke, he looked up at her. 'I wanted to talk to you about that card you sent me two days ago.'

Ramsha blushed deeply. Two days ago when Salar got home, a bouquet and a card awaited him. He had been away for a week to Hong Kong on official work. The flowers and card were from Ramsha.

'You have no idea how thrilled I'll be to see you again.' Salar read the card, his mind stilled. His worst fears had proved true—Ramsha was expressing her sentiments for him. The next day at work, he did not mention the card, but over the weekend, he invited her for lunch. It was necessary to clear these matters with her.

'Did the card offend you?' she asked.

'No—it was the message.'

Ramsha was somewhat embarrassed. 'I am sorry! But Salar, I just...I just wanted to tell you how much I missed you.'

Salar took a sip of the coffee.

'I like you. I want to marry you,' Ramsha spoke after a brief pause. 'It's possible that this proposal may seem very odd to you, but I've wanted to discuss this with you since some time. I'm not flirting with you—whatever I've written on the card is what I really feel for you.'

Salar let her complete her words. He had put down the cup of coffee.

'But I don not want to marry you.' He spoke frankly.

'Why?'

'Is it necessary to answer this?' he asked.

'No, not really, but what's the harm in saying so?'

'Why do you want to marry me?' he queried in response.

'Because you're different.'

Salar sighed deeply.

'You're not like other men. You have a stature; you're cultured, well-groomed.'

'I'm not like that'

'Prove it,' she was challenging him.

'I can but I won't,' he said taking another sip of coffee. 'Every man is better than Salar Sikandar.'

'In what way?'

'In everyway...'

'I don't accept that.'

'Your accepting or not accepting won't change the reality.'

'I know it. I've been working with you for the last year and a half.'

'It's not advisable to come to a conclusion about men in such a short time.'

'Nothing that you say will change my opinion about you.' Ramsha was set in her views.

'You'll find much better prospects than me in the circles you move in. considering your family background.'

'Talk only about yourself.'

'Ramsha, I love someone else,' he confessed at last. For the first time in this conversation, the color drained from her face.

'You...you never told me.'

Salar smiled softly. 'We've never been that informal with each other.'

'Are you going to marry her?'

There was a long spell of silence between them.

'It's possible that I may not be able to marry her because of some problems,' he said.

'I'm unable to understand you. You love someone knowing that you cannot marry her?'

'It is something like that.'

'Salar, you're not quite so emotional. How can you say such things, being the practical person you are?' Ramsha laughed mockingly. 'Supposing you do not succeed in marrying her, then will you never get married?'

'No.'

She shook her head. 'I don't believe it!'

'But that's how it is. If ever I do think of marriage it may be ten or fifteen years hence—and it's possible that I may not even be alive so many years later,' he said dryly, as he beckoned the waiter.

'Ramsha, I'd appreciate if after today's discussion such an issue will not arise again between us. We are good colleagues and I'd want our connection to be confined to that. Don't waste your time on me—I am not what you take me to be.'

The waiter came with the bill; Ramsha, lost in thought, watched Salar settle the tab with the waiter.

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Salar was out of the office for some work. Seeing the traffic rush at the railway crossing, from a distance, he turned the car around. He did not want to waste his time being stuck in a traffic jam.

He reversed and turned another turn. It was a by-lane and was quite deserted. He had hardly covered some distance when he saw an old lady sitting on the kerb. From her clothes and general appearance she looked as though she was from a well-placed family. He could see that she was wearing gold bangles too, and he felt apprehensive that on this quiet road she may well become a victim of someone's greed. He pulled up near her and stopped the car.

The lady's fair complexion had become flushed and she seemed breathless. Maybe she had sat down to recover her breath.

"Assalam alaikum Ammaji! What's the problem? Why are you sitting here?' Salar asked, taking off his sun glasses and looking out of the window.

'Beta, I can't find a rickshaw.'

Salar was surprised at her. It was not a main road. It was a side street of a residential area and there was no possibility of finding a rickshaw there.

'Ammaji! You won't get a rickshaw here. Where've you got to go?'

The lady mentioned the name of an area of the inner city. It was not at all possible for Salar to have gone and dropped her there.

'Come with me. I'll drop you on the main road and you'll get a rickshaw from there.' Salar undid the lock of the rear door and got down from the car. Ammaji appeared quite apprehensive and Salar immediately sensed her misgivings.

'Ammaji! You needn't be afraid. I'm a respectable person, I won't harm you. I only want to help you because you won't find a rickshaw on this road now; the road is deserted and you've got jewelry on you. Somebody could harm you.'

Salar gently tried to dispel her fears. The lady, adjusting her glasses, looked at her bangles and said to Salar, 'Now....all this jewelry is imitation.'

'Fine, this is very good, but somebody might misjudge it. Nobody's going to ask you if it's real or fake,' Salar pretended, glossing over her lie.

She debated, and Salar was getting late.

'It's OK, Ammaji, if you'd rather not ' he turned back towards the car. Ammaji spoke up.

'No, no. I'll go with you; as it is, my feet are killing me.' She tried to get up, pushing down on her legs.

Salar, holding her arm, pulled her up, opened the rear door and helped her in.

He crossed the side street and quickly came on to the main road. He was looking for a rickshaw but none was to be found there. He was driving slowly, scanning the traffic for a free rickshaw.

'What's your name, son?' she asked.

'Salar.'

'Slaar?' she repeated, as though for confirmation. He smiled bemusedly, as this was the first time he had heard his name mispronounced. Correction was futile, as she was a Punjabi woman who was, with difficulty, speaking with him in Urdu.

'Yes,' Salar confirmed.

'What's this name, and what does it mean?' she suddenly asked with interest.

Salar, now speaking in Punjabi, explained the meaning of his name to her. Ammaji was pleasantly surprised at his speaking to her in Punjabi, and started to speak to him in it.

After asking Salar the meaning of his name, she said, 'My elder daughter-in-law has had a son.'

He was surprised. It had not occurred to him that after learning the meaning of his name she would come out with this. 'Congratulations,' was all that he could say spontaneously.

'Yes, thank you.' She received his congratulations with much good cheer.

'My daughter-in-law had called me: "Ammi, please suggest a name." Shall I give her your name?'

Surprised, he looked at her in the rear view mirror, 'Yes, do that.'

'Now, that solves this problem.'

Ammaji, very relaxed, took off her glasses and started wiping them with the end of her large chador. Salar had not found a rickshaw yet.

'How old are you?' She resumed the conversation from where she'd left off.

He told his age.

'Are you married?'

This set Salar thinking. He wanted to say 'Yes' but realized that if he did, it would lead to a string of questions. He decided to deny it and that turned out to be his biggest mistake of the day.

'No.'

'Why not?'

'Just like that—never thought of it,' he lied.

'I see.' There was silence for a while. Salar prayed for a rickshaw to come along: he was getting late.

'What do you do?'

'I work in a bank.'

'What sort of work?'

Salar told her his designation—he believed it would not register with her.

But he was astonished when she replied, That's an officer, isn't it?'

Salar laughed out—no one could have better explained his work. 'Yes, Ammaji—it is an officer.'

'How educated are you?'

'Sixteen grades.' This time Salar's response was in the kind of terminology she would understand. Her reply was even more amazing.

'Sixteen grades—what do you mean? Have you got an MBA degree or an MA in Economics?'

Salar suddenly turned to look at her. She was watching him through her spectacles.

'Do you know what an MBA or an MA in economics is?' he was really surprised.

'Now, wouldn't I know? My eldest son got his MA economics degree here in Pakistan; then he went to England for his MBA. He's the one whose wife had a son.'

Salar took a long breath.

'So, you haven't told me yet...'

Salar seemed to have forgotten what she had asked him.

'About your education,' she continued.

'I have an MBA degree.'

'From where?'

'From America.'

'Very well. And your parents—are they living?'

Salar replied in the affirmative. Then she asked him about his siblings: the questions seemed to be endless. Salar could not find an escape.

'Five.'

'How many sisters and how many brothers?'