Pir-E-Kamil: The Perfect Mentor (2 page)

'Your exams are on. Pay attention to your studies. You should be in your room. I will have a word with your father!'

'What rubbish!' Standing up, he flung the remote control at the wall and stomping his feet, left the room. Tayyaba, helpless and humiliated, watched him go.

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It was New Year's Eve: thirty minutes to go before the New Year began. A group of ten or so teenagers were roaring around the city streets on their motorbikes, doing all kinds of stunts. Some of them wore shiny headbands to celebrate the coming year. An hour ago they were in one of the uptown supermarkets, teasing girls with whistles. They had firecrackers too which they let off to celebrate. At a quarter to twelve they reached the parking lot of the Gymkhana Club where a New Year's party was in full swing. The boys also had invitations to the party and their parents were already there.

When they got in, it was five to midnight. In a few moments, the lights in the hall and the dance floor would be switched off and then with a display of fireworks on the lawns, the New Year would be heralded in. The partying would be on all night—dancing, drinking—all the festivities especially organized for the occasion by the Gymkhana management. 'Lights off meant a display of complete abandon—that was what the crowds came for.

One of the teenagers who had joined the party was on the dance floor, rocking to the beat and impressing all with his performance. At ten seconds to twelve the lights went off. Voices and laughter filled the hall as people counted the seconds to the New Year, and this rose to a pitch as the clock struck midnight and the hall lit up again. The teenagers were now out in the parking lot, their car horns blaring away. Beer can in hand, the youth who was on the dance floor got on the roof of a car. He pulled out another beer can from his jacket and pitched it at the windscreen of a parked car, which shattered with an explosion as the full can hit it. He stood on the car, calmly drinking from the can of beer in his hand.

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For the last half hour Salar had been watching Kamran trying to master the video game: the score remained the same, probably because Kamran was trying to maneuver a difficult track. Salar was also in the lounge, busy writing notes. From time to time, he would look at the TV screen as Kamran struggled to win more points. Half an hour later, Salar put his notebook away, stifled a yawn, stretched his legs out on the table and crossing his hands behind his head, looked at the TV screen as Kamran started a new game, having lost the previous round. 'What's the problem, Kamran?'

'Nothing...I got this new game but it is really tough to score,' Kamran said in a tired tone.

'Let me see.' Salar got up from the sofa and took the remote control. Kamran watched silently: in the opening seconds Salar was racing at a speed that Kamran had never reached. The track that had challenged Kamran was like child's play for Salar—it was hard for Kamran to keep his eyes on the car that was racing at a fantastic speed in the first minute, and yet Salar had complete control over it. Three minutes later, Kamran saw the car swerve, go off the track and explode into smithereens. Kamran turned to Salar with a smile—he realized why the car had been destroyed: Laying the remote control down on the table Salar picked up his notebook. 'It's a very boring game,' he remarked as he jumped over Kamran's legs and went out. Kamran clenched his teeth as he saw the seven digit score on the screen. He looked at the door as Salar left.

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They were both quiet once again. Asjad was beginning to worry: Imama had not always been as withdrawn as she was now. One could have counted the words she had spoken in the last half hour. He had known her since childhood; she was a lively girl. In the first year after their engagement, Asjad had felt happy in her company—she was so quickwitted and vivacious. But in the last few years, she had changed, the transformation having become more pronounced since she started medical school. Asjad felt that she had something on her mind. At times, she would appear to be worried and sometimes she was distinctly cold and distant as though she wanted to end their meeting and leave as soon as possible. This time too he had the same feeling. 'I often think that it is I who insists on our meeting—perhaps it makes little difference to you whether we meet or not,' he said despondently. She was sitting on a garden chair across from him, looking at the creepers on the boundary wall. At Asjad's remark, she fixed her gaze on him. He cast an inquiring glance, but she was silent, so he rephrased his words.

'My coming here makes no difference to you. Imama...am I right?' 'What can I say?'

'At least you can say "No, you're mistaken", that...' 'No, you're mistaken,' Imama cut him short. Her tone was as cold and her expression as indifferent as before. Asjad sighed in despair.

'Yes, I wish and pray that it may be so, that I may indeed be mistaken. However, talking to you I feel you do not care.' 'What makes you think so?' Asjad detected a note of annoyance in her tone.

'Many things—for one you never respond properly to anything I say.' 'I do make every effort to reply properly to whatever you say. What can I do if you do not like what I have to say?' Asjad felt that she was more annoyed.

'I did not mean that I did not like what you say: it's that you only say "yes" or "no" in response. Sometimes, I feel as if I'm talking to myself.' 'When you ask me if I am well, I say "yes" or "no"—what else can I say? If you want to hear a spiel in response to a simple question then tell me what you would like to hear and I'll say it.' She was serious. 'You could add something to that "yes" or "no". If nothing else, ask me how I am.' 'Ask you how are you are? You are sitting here across me, talking to me—obviously you are quite well. Otherwise, you'd be at home, in bed, sick.'

'Imama, these are formalities...'

'And you know very well that I do not believe in formalities. There's no need for you to ask me how I am; I will not mind it at all.'

Asjad was speechless. 'Fine. Formalities aside, one can talk of other things, discuss something. Talk to each other about what interests us, what keeps us busy.'

'Asjad, what can I discuss with you? You're a businessman, I am a medical student, What should I ask you? About the stock market position? Was the trend bullish or bearish? By how many points did the index rise? Or where you are sending the next consignment? How much rebate did the government give you this time?' she went on coldly. 'Or shall I discuss anatomy with you? What affects the function of the liver? hat new techniques have been used for bypass surgery this year? What should be the voltage of electric shocks given to restore a failing heart? These are our spheres of work, so what points of discussion can we have about these that will help us to achieve love and familiarity? I fail to understand.'

The color of Asjad's face deepened. He was cursing the moment that he had complained to Imama.

'There are other interests too in a person's life,' he said weakly.

'No, besides my studies there's no other interest in my life,' Imama said decisively, shaking her head for emphasis.

'After all, we shared interests earlier on.'

'Forget about what happened earlier,' Imama interjected. 'I cannot afford to waste time now. What surprises me is that despite being a businessman you are so immature and emotional; you should be more practical.'

Asjad was silent.

'We know our relationship. If you think my practical approach to our relationship shows a lack of interest or indifference then I cannot do much about it. That I am here with you means that I value this relationship, otherwise I would not be sitting here having tea with a stranger.' She paused a moment, then continued, 'And whether you coming here or not makes any difference to me, the answer is that we are both very busy people. We are the products of a modern age. I am no Heer who waits upon you with delicacies while you play the flute, nor are you Ranjha who will indulge me for hours. The truth is that it really makes no difference whether or not we meet or talk. Our relationship, as it is today, will continue. Or do you feel it will change?'

If Asjad's brow did not sweat, it was simply because it was the month of December. There was a difference of eight years in their ages, but for the first time Asjad felt it was not eight but eighteen—and she was the older one. Just two weeks ago, she had turned nineteen, but to him it seemed as if she had raced overnight from teenage to middle age and he had regressed to his pre-teens! She sat across him, legs crossed and eyes fixed on his face, impassively waiting for his response. Asjad looked at the engagement ring on her finger and cleared his throat.

'You're right...I just thought we should chat more because it would help develop some understanding between us.'

'Asjad, I know and understand you very well. I am disappointed to learn that you think we still need to develop an understanding between us. I thought there already was a good deal of understanding.'

Asjad had to accept that it wasn't his day.

'And if you think that talking about business and anatomy will improve the situation, then very well—we'll do that in the future.' There was an element of disinterest in Imama's tone.

'You're not happy with what I said?'

'Why should I be unhappy?' This embarrassed him further.

'Perhaps I said the wrong thing...not perhaps, but certainly I said the wrong thing.' He repeated the last phrase with emphasis. 'You know how important this relationship is for me. I have many dreams for the future...'

He took a deep breath. She continued to stare, expressionless, at the creeper along the wall. 'Perhaps that is why I am so sensitive about it. I have no fears about us. This engagement took place with our consent.'

His gaze was fixed on her and he spoke with emotion, but suddenly, he felt once more that she was not there, that he was talking to himself.

The music from the annex behind the huge bungalow could be heard on the lawn in front of the house. Anyone would have been amazed at the level of endurance of those inside. But one look inside, and one would know the reason behind this level of endurance.

The room was full of swirling smoke and a strange smell. Empty cartons of food from a popular restaurant, disposable plates and spoons, bottles of soft drinks, and scraps of leftovers were strewn all over the carpet which was stained by ketchup. The seven boys in the room were sprawled on the carpet; empty beer cans were scattered around. This was not all—they had been entertaining themselves with drugs too. This was the third time in the last two months that the boys had gathered here for an adventure of this kind. So far they had experimented with four different drugs. The first time it was a drug that one of them had found in his father's closet. The next time it was a drug which a schoolmate had bought from a club in Islamabad. Then it was something acquired from an Afghan in a Rawalpindi market. Every time they had combined drugs with alcohol, procuring which was no problem. Each time this happened six of the seven boys ended up completely stoned.

Even now it was only the seventh boy who was in his senses. His face was covered with acne, and he was dressed in a dark blue shirt with its collar turned up Elvis Presley style, and hideous grey jeans which had Madonna's face adorning each knee. He opened his eyes to glance at the others around him. His eyes were red but not because he was in a stupor like them. A little later he straightened up and shaking the remaining drug from the little container out into a cone, he pulled out a straw and began sniffing it. Then he threw away the straw and taking some of the drug on a fingertip, tasted it very cautiously. Almost instantly, he spat it out. The stuff was of excellent quality, but his expression showed that he had not enjoyed the experience. He swallowed some beer as if to clear the taste of the drug from his mouth. The other boys lay around on the carpet, totally intoxicated and unaware of themselves: he looked at them thoughtfully as he drank from the beer can. His eyes, though swollen, were bright enough. The drug had not knocked him out fully. This had happened the last three times too. Though his friends had been knocked senseless after taking drugs, the effect on him was not so pronounced. The first two times he had left them in their stupor and had driven home, late in the night. This time too he wanted to get away: the odor of the drugs in the room repulsed him. He stumbled as he tried to stand up. He straightened up and picking his key and wallet off the floor, he turned off the stereo. He looked around the room as if trying to remember something. Then he turned towards the door and sitting down again, put on his joggers, tying their laces around his ankles. Finally, unlocking the door, he went out into the dark corridor. Groping his way, he went past the main door out onto the lawn. As he was coming down the stairs, he felt his nose was running and when he touched his upper lip, he felt a sticky liquid on his hands. He switched on the light in the entrance and saw blood on his fingertips. Reaching into his pocket for his handkerchief, he wiped the blood off his fingers and nose. There was a strange sharp sensation in his throat which he tried to clear, but he felt he was suffocating. He took a few deep breaths to ease the constriction and spat two or three times. Suddenly he felt a tingling in his nose. He doubled over as blood began gushing out of his nose pouring down the marble stairs like a stream.

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The prize distribution ceremony was underway at the Golf Club. Salar Sikandar was to receive the first prize in the Under-Sixteen competition for his seven under par score.

Applauding when Salar's name was called out, Sikandar Usman thought he would have to do something about the cabinet where the trophies were displayed. The trophies and shields Salar would bring home this year would be as many as he had in the past year. All of Sikandar's children excelled in their studies, but Salar was different from the rest. In winning awards, he was far ahead of them. It was not just difficult to beat this boy who had an IQ score of 150, it was impossible.

Clapping proudly, Sikandar turned to his wife and whispered, 'This is Salar's thirteenth trophy and the fourth one this year.'