Pir-E-Kamil: The Perfect Mentor (4 page)

'This place has its own charm and there's no comparison between these women and our girlfriends. Girlfriends can't dance like the women here,' the other boy said with a laugh. 'And today one of Pakistan's top actresses is going to perform—just wait till you see her.' 'But you had taken me to see her dance,' the first boy interrupted. 'Oh that was nothing—just a "mujra" at my brother's wedding. But here it's a different story.'

'But that actress lives in a very posh locality; why would she want to come here?' His tone was somewhat suspicious. 'Ask her yourself today, if you want. I don't ask such questions.' The other boys laughed at this remark, but the first one looked at him askance.

They finally reached their destination at the end of the lane. From a shop near the entrance, they bought garlands of motia which they wound round their wrists, and also on the wrist of the boy who was objecting to being there. Then they bought paan laced with tobacco and also offered one to him—he had probably never had paan before. They went up the stairs.

He looked around critically and a look of satisfaction crossed his face when he saw that the place was not only clean but well decorated too. The floor was covered with white sheets and there were bolsters to recline on. Curtains fluttered softly on the doors and windows. Some people had already arrived but the performance had not yet started. A woman with a lovely but fake smile swiftly made her way to them. As she spoke to them, the first boy took in her appearance. She was middle-aged, plastered with make-up and sported masses of rose and motia garlands in her hair. She was dressed in a screaming red chiffon sari and her blouse seemed to have been made not to cover but to reveal her body. She led the boys to a corner of the room and seated them. As soon as he sat down, the first boy immediately spat the paan out into a spittoon nearby. It was hard for him to talk with his mouth full of paan; besides he did not quite like its feel or flavor. The other three boys were speaking in low tones. He looked around at the other men in the room who reclined against the cushions with wads of notes and bottles of alcohol in front of them. Most of the older men were dressed in starched white clothes; it was the first time he had seen so many people dressed in white other than at Eid congregations. He himself was dressed casually in black jeans and a black T-shirt like his friends and the younger crowd.

A little later, another woman in garish clothes entered the hall and, seating herself in the centre, began to sing a ghazal. Musicians accompanied her. After a few songs, she collected the money that had been showered on her and left. Then the famous actress for whom they had all been waiting entered the hall and everyone's eyes were riveted on her. She twirled around and welcomed her admirers with a gracious nod.

The musicians did not play this time and loud recordings of raucous songs filled the room. The performer began to dance. The silence that had preceded her performance was broken by applause as the men noisily appreciated her dancing and drinks went around. Some of the more intoxicated men got up and began to dance with her. The only one who sat still watching the performance was the first boy. His face was impassive, but if one looked closely it was obvious that he was enjoying himself. When the actress came to the end of her dance about two hours later, most of the men in the hall had passed out. Going home was not a problem for them as they had not come with the intention of going back any time soon—they were there for the night. The four boys also spent the night there.

The next day, on their way back, one of the boys turned to the first one who was looking out of the car. 'So, how was the experience?' 'All right,' he replied casually.

'All right? That's all? Honestly...' Annoyed, he broke off in mid-sentence.

'It's a good place to visit occasionally. What more can I say? But it did not have that "something special" touch about it. My girlfriend is better than the woman I spent last night with,' he retorted.

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Hashim Mubeen's entire family was present at the dining table. They were chatting amiably as they ate. Imama was the subject of their conversation.

'Baba, have you noticed that Imama is becoming more serious with each passing day?' observed Waseem as he looked at her provokingly.

'Yes...I've noticed this over the past few months,' Hashim Mubeen replied, his eyes searching Imama's face.

Imama stared at Waseem as she took a spoonful of rice.

'Imama, is there a problem?'

'Baba, he talks nonsense and you fall into his trap. I'm serious and busy because of my studies—after all, not everyone is as useless as Waseem,' she said with some annoyance. He was sitting next to her and she rapped his shoulder lightly.

'Baba, what will become of her when she qualifies as a doctor if this is what she is like in the early years of her studies,' joked Waseem. 'It'll be years before Miss Imama Hashim smiles...'

Everyone smiled around the table: this type of sparring always went on between these two. It was seldom that Imama and Waseem did not argue with each other. But Waseem was also Imama's best friend—probably their being the siblings closest in age lay at the heart of their friendship.

'And just imagine that Imama...' but she did not let him finish this time. She turned around and landed a fist on his shoulder with all her might. It made no difference to him.

'What else can we have at home but a doctor with a "healing touch"? You've just seen a demonstration and you can guess how doctors treat their patients these days. One of the reasons for the rising death rate in our country...'

'Baba, please stop him!" Imama conceded defeat as she implored Hashim Mubeen.

'Waseem!' He suppressed a smile as he turned to his son who dutifully kept quiet.

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He emptied the entire contents of the paper bag into the grinder and turned it on. The cook entered just then.

'Chote Saab, let me help you,' he offered but was waved away.

'No, I can manage. But get me a glass of milk.' He turned off the grinder. The cook got him the milk. To half a glass of milk he added the contents of the grinder, stirred briskly, and gulped it down.

'What have you cooked today?' he asked the cook, who started to tell him what he had cooked. A look of displeasure crossed his face. 'I won't have anything. I'm going up to sleep; don't disturb me,' he said harshly and left the kitchen.

He looked unkempt with a stubble, and except for one or two buttons in place, his shirt front was open. Dragging his slippers on the floor, he went into his room and locked the door behind him. Then he walked over to the huge music system and began to play Bolton's 'When a man loves a woman' at full volume. He flung himself face down on the bed, remote in hand, and feet swinging to the music.

Except for him and his bed, everything in his room was in order. There was not a speck of dust anywhere. The audio-video cassettes were neatly arranged on a shelf by the music system and on a shelf on the wall. Another shelf was filled with books and the computer table in the corner reflected his organized nature. Posters of Hollywood actresses and various bands adorned the walls, while the bathroom door and a few windowpanes were decorated with cut-outs of nudes from Playboy. Anyone entering the room for the first time would be startled because the nude pinups in the windows were life-size and lifelike and placed in special order. Along with the audio system, there was a keyboard, and a guitar, a piccolo and an oboe hung on the walls. It was obvious that the occupant of the room had great interest in music. In front of the bed was a television cabinet on the shelves of which were several shields and trophies. In another corner of the room cricket bats and racquets were artfully slung across posters of sports stars. It looked as if a tennis racquet was in Gabriela Sabatini's hand, while the other was held by Rodney Martin, and the squash racquet was in Jehangir Khan's hand. The double bed where he was lying on the crumpled silken sheets was a mess. A few pornographic magazines, mostly Playboy, lay scattered about with a paper-cutter and snippets—evidence that he had been cutting out pictures. Chewing gum wrappers, an empty coffee mug, a packet of Dunhill's and a lighter, an ashtray and scattered ash littered the white silk sheet that had holes burnt through. Somewhere there was a wristwatch and a tie, and a cell phone by the pillow where the young man lay face downward, perhaps half asleep as his hand mechanically but unsuccessfully searched the bed when the phone rang. The beeping went unheard and the remote in his hand fell to the floor as his grip relaxed. Michael Bolton's voice continued to fill the room with the lyrics of 'When a man loves a woman'—the knocking on the door became persistent and louder, but he lay motionless on the bed.

'Don't tell me! Imama, are you really engaged?' Zainab appeared jolted by Javeria's disclosure. Imama cast an accusing glance at Javeria who looked at her shamefacedly.

'Don't look at her—look at me and tell me if it's true that you're engaged,' Zainab addressed Imama sharply.

'Yes, but it is not something extraordinary or amazing that you should react like this,' Imama replied with composure. They were all sitting in the library and trying their best to talk in low tones. 'But at least you should have told us. What was the big secret?' This was Rabia.

'There's no secret and neither is it so important. Besides, we have become friendly only recently and the engagement took place years ago,' explained Imama.

'What do you mean by "years ago"?'

'I mean two or three years ago.'

'But still you should have told us...' Zainab persisted.

Imama smiled at her. 'When I get engaged again, I'll definitely tell you—whether or not I tell anyone else.'

'Very funny.' Zainab glared at her.

'At least show us a photograph of him... Who is he? What's his name? What does he do?' As usual, Rabia's questions came pouring out in one breath.

'He's my first cousin...his name's Asjad,' The words came slowly and Imama paused thoughtfully. 'He has completed his MBA and runs his own business.'

'What does he look like?' asked Zainab. Imama looked at her closely.

'He's all right.'

'All right? I'm asking you is he tall, dark, and handsome?'

Imama smiled at Zainab without a word. Javeria replied on her behalf.

'This is Imama's choice...he's quite good-looking.'

'Yes, we should have known—after all he's Imama's first cousin. Now Imama, your next task is to show us his photograph,' ordered Zainab.

'No, her first duty is to take us out for a treat,' interjected Rabia.

'But now let's leave; I have to go to the hostel.' Imama got up and they all left together.

'By the way, Javeria, why didn't you tell us about this earlier?' Zainab asked her.

'Listen, Imama did not want it—that's why I never brought it up,' said Javeria. Imama turned around and gave Javeria a warning look.

'Why wouldn't Imama want it? If I had been engaged and that too to a boy of my choice, then I would have screamed it out from the rooftops,' Zainab declared loudly.

Imama chose to ignore her.

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'Your son is amongst those 2.5 percent of the world's population who have an IQ of more than 150. With this level of intelligence, whatever he does may be extraordinary, but not unexpected. Salar had been at the International School for only a week when Sikandar Usman and his wife had been called over by the school administration. The school psychologist had informed them about Salar's various IQ tests in which his performance and score had amazed his teachers and also the psychologist. He was the only child in the school with such a high IQ and very soon he became the focus of everyone's attention.

During his meeting with Mr and Mrs Usman, the psychologist got another opportunity to dig out more information about Salar's childhood. He had been studying Salar's case with much interest which was personal rather than professional—it was the first time he had come across such an IQ level.

Sikandar Usman remembered well that when Salar was just two years old, he was remarkably fluent in his speech, unlike other boys of his age, and very often he came up with things that left him and his wife wondering.

One day he was speaking to his brother on the phone while watching TV, and Salar was playing nearby. After the call ended, Sikandar saw Salar pick up the phone and say, 'Hello, Uncle, this is Salar.'

Sikandar watched him as he happily chatted away. 'I am well. How are you?' Sikandar thought he was play-acting. The next sentence made him sit up. 'Baba is right here, watching TV. No, he did not call—I called you.'

'Salar, who are you talking to?' asked Sikandar.

'Uncle Shahnawaz,' he replied. Sikandar took the phone from him. He thought Salar may have dialed at random or else pressed the redial button.

'Salar has dialed the number, I'm sorry,' he apologized to his brother.

'How could he do that? Isn't he too young?' His brother was surprised.

'He probably pressed the redial button accidentally.' Sikandar switched off the phone and put it back in place.

Salar, who was quietly listening to this conversation, went and picked up the phone again—Sikandar looked at him as he expertly dialed Shahnawaz's number, just as an adult would. He was shocked—he did not expect a two-year-old to do this, He reached out to disconnect the call.

'Salar, do you know Shahnawaz's number?' he asked.

'Yes,' came the calm reply.

'What is it?'

Salar rattled it off. Sikandar stared at him—he did not think Salar knew how to count, let alone remember a string of digits. 'Who taught you this number?'

'I learnt it myself.'

'How?'

'You just dialed it' Salar looked at him.

'Do you know how to count?'

'Yes.'

'How far can you count?'

'Till a hundred.'

'Show me how.'

Like a machine, Salar counted from one to one hundred, in one breath.

Sikandar could feel knots in his stomach. 'I am going to dial a number now, and when I disconnect you call the same number,' he said.