Pir-E-Kamil: The Perfect Mentor (42 page)

'What is your problem, Salar?' he could not help asking him. After a moment, Salar shrugged, 'I have no problem.' 'Then....' Salar interrupted Furqan.

'You know that I have migraine, and once in a while this sort of a thing happens to me.'

'I am a doctor, Salar!' Furqan said earnestly. 'Nobody knows migraine better than me. All this was not solely because of migraine.' 'So, you tell me what other reason there could be,' Salar counter-questioned.

'Is there a problem with some girl?' Salar was taken aback by Furqan's perception.

'Yes....' He did not know why he was unable to deny it. 'Are you involved with somebody?' 'Yes...'

Furqan, for a long while, sat there quietly watching him in disbelief. 'Who are you involved with?' 'You don't know her.' 'You couldn't marry her?'

Salar kept looking at him. His tone was fiery, 'The marriage had taken place.'

'The marriage had taken place?' Furqan asked incredulously. 'Yes...'

'Then ...did you divorce her?' he asked. 'No.' 'Then...?' 'That's it...' 'That's what?'

Salar looked down and, with the forefinger of his left hand, traced the life line in the palm of his right hand. 'What is her name?' Furqan asked him softly.

He again moved his finger across his palm and was quiet for a long, long time. Then he whispered, 'Imama Hashim.' Furqan took a deep breath. Now he understood why he had bought his little daughter loads of presents. Since they had got acquainted and Salar had become a frequent visitor to his house, he had become very fond of Imama—they had become very good friends. Even whilst he was away from Pakistan, he would be constantly sending her gifts. But one thing perplexed Furqan. He would never refer to Imama by her name, nor would he address her so. Sometimes, Furqan had noticed this but he had ignored it. But now, hearing Imama Hashim's name, he realized why Salar would not address the child by her name. He was now haltingly and softly telling Furqan about Imama and himself. Furqan listened to him intently. When, after telling him everything, he fell silent, Furqan was also unable to speak. He did not know what to say: comfort him or say something else....perhaps, some advice.

'Forget her,' he said, breaking the silence. 'Tell yourself that where ever she is, she is well and happy. It's not necessary that something bad happened to her. Probably, she's very safe,' Furqan was telling him. 'You'd helped her to the extent you could. Now, try to stop being remorseful. Allah helps. After you, maybe she found someone better. Why you have such misgivings? I don't think you were the reason for her marriage with Jalal not materializing. Whatever you've told me about Jalal, my own feeling is that he would never have married Imama, whether or not you'd come between them, whether or not you'd tried to drive a wedge between them. As far as your not divorcing Imama is concerned, she should have approached you again. Had she done so, you would certainly have divorced her. If you've done some wrong in the matter, Allah will forgive you, because you are regretting it. You've been asking Allah for forgiveness. This is enough. Then, what's the use of your going into depression. Try to come out of it.' Furqan was trying very sincerely to make him understand. Salar's silence encouraged him to believe him that he was succeeding, but after this long speech when Furqan fell silent, Salar got up and started to open his brief case. 'What are doing?' Furqan asked.

'The time for my flight is approaching.' He was taking out some papers from his brief case. Furqan did not know what to say.

-------------------------

He had been coming to Pakistan for the last several years. He was never upset when returning, as he was today. At the time of take-off he had felt a strange emptiness descend within him. He looked out of the window. On that vast spread of earth, there was somewhere a girl by the name of Imama Hashim. If he had been living there, he would have spotted her some time, somewhere. Or, he might have run into somebody who knew her, but where he was heading there was no Imama Hashim. There, chance could not bring them together. He was again going away for a long time, leaving 'possibility' behind. How many times in his life would he leave 'possibility' behind? Ten minutes later, whilst gulping down the tranquilizer with water, he felt that he stood nowhere in life. That he would never be able to find his moorings, that he would never be able to feel the ground under his feet. Entering his seventh floor apartment, he had a feeling that he did not want to go there. He wanted to go some place else. But where? He locked the door of his apartment and switched on the TV in the lounge. CNN was airing its news bulletin. Taking off his shoes and jacket, he flung them aside. Then he took the remote and lay back on the sofa. Absentmindedly, he surfed the channels. The booming voice in Urdu stopped him. An unknown singer was rendering a ghazal.

My life is but a separation, though in my heart she lives

So close, so near to every pulse, yet so distant from my yearning eyes.

He put the remote on his chest. The singer's rendition was beautiful, or perhaps, he was articulating his very sentiments.

This life too will be sacrificed, somehow, some where -Feel free to hang me- if none else.

Poetry, classical music, old films, instrumental music: he had begun to appreciate their worth in the last few years. He had developed a taste for good music, but the Urdu ghazal was alien to him.

Be it the peak of Sinai or the hour of reckoning, I'll endure the wait To meet my beloved somewhere, anywhere, whenever, wherever.

He remembered Imama again. He always remembered her. At first, he remembered her when he was alone, then he would see her in the crowd. He had misunderstood love - he had, all along, thought it was remorse.

She is beyond me, but my love is pure, not base desire -

To her alone I belonged, I belong - even if mine she may not be.

Salar suddenly got up from the sofa and made towards the windows. Standing on the seventh floor, he could still feel the darkness in spite of the lights. Strange was the wilderness beyond, strange was his state within.

The decision, let it be known here; save it not for the final day, Let the blow that will strike me then, be my fate here and now.

Standing there, looking at the lights blinking in the dark beyond the window pane, Salar tried descending the depths within him.

'Me? And love some girl? The question doesn't arise!' He recalled his oft-repeated statement of several years ago. The darkness outside intensified, as did the torment within he bowed his head in defeat, and after a few moments, looked up again and gazed out of the window. Where does one's right to take matters in one's own hands begin, and where does it end? Another bout of depression - the blinking lights of the night were dying out.

The heart that so yearns for a glimpse, Naseer, will surely succeed Regardless of her secrecy, however veiled my love may be.

Salar turned to look at the screen: the singer was rapturously repeating the last line. Like an automaton, Salar moved to the sofa and sat down. Pulling the brief case on the table towards him, he took out his laptop.

The heart that so yearns for a glimpse, Naseer, will surely succeed Regardless of her secrecy, however veiled my love may be.

The singer was repeating the closing couplet of the ghazal. Salar's fingers flew across the keyboard as he typed out his resignation. The sound of music in the room died down. Every line of his resignation letter seemed to thaw his spirit that was ice, as it were. It was as if he was stepping out of a magic circle, as if some spell was working to free him.

-------------------------

'Only you can take an idiotic decision like this at this stage of your career.'

He listened to Usman Sikandar in silence. 'Why on earth are you leaving such a good position and that too so suddenly? And if you have decided to leave this job, then come and join a business venture—what's the great idea of joining a bank?'

Usman Sikandar was very critical of Salar's decision.

'I want to work and live in Pakistan, that's why I've left this job.

Business I cannot do; besides, I've had this offer from the bank for quite some time now. They're ready to post me in Pakistan, which is why I've accepted the offer.' Salar answered all his father's questions in one go.

'Then don't join the bank—come and work with me.'

'I can't do that, Papa—please don't force me!'

'Then stay where you are. Why return?'

'I'm unable to stay on...'

'A fit of patriotism?'

'No.'

'Then?'

'I want to be with you all.' He changed the track.

'Anyway I am sure this decision is not solely on our behalf.' His father's tone had softened a bit.

Salar did not replay. His father too was quiet for a while.

'You've made up your mind so there's not much I can do about it. You might as well come back if you want to. See how it works out in the bank, but my desire is that you should join me in looking after the family business.' Usman Sikandar seemed to accept his son's decision.

Then he remembered something. 'You wanted to complete your Ph. D— what became of that?' he queried.

'I don't want to do further studies at present. Perhaps, I'll go back to it a few years later—or maybe not at all,' Salar replied in a low voice.

'Are you coming back because of the school?' Usman Sikandar suddenly asked.

'Maybe...' Salar did not refute the statement. If his father believed that the school was the reason for his return, there was no harm in letting him do so.

'Reconsider your decision, Salar!' His father could not resist saying it.

'Very few people get the kind of professional start that you did—are you there?'

'Jee,' he replied in a monosyllable.

'You're mature enough and can decide for yourself,' his father concluded the conversation.

Salar put the telephone down and looked around his apartment. Eighteen days later, he had to relinquish it forever.

END OF CHAPTER SIX

His life entered a new phase on his return from Paris. Initially, he continued to work for the Islamabad branch of the foreign bank. After some time, they posted him at their new branch in Lahore. He had the option of going to Karachi, but he opted for Lahore as it also gave him the opportunity to spend time with Dr Sibt-e-Ali.

The nature of his activities changed with his work in Pakistan, but in no way were they any less than before. Here too he was busy day and night. His reputation as an exceptional economic expert traveled with him wherever he went. His name was not new in government circles, but on his return to Pakistan, he was frequently invited by the ministry of Finance for lectures to officers under training. This business of lectures was not new for him either as after completion of his studies at Yale, he had been teaching various classes there, and this continued even after he had moved to New York. He continued to participate at the seminars on human development at the Columbia University, where his attention turned to economics once again.

In Pakistan too he soon became involved in similar seminars organized at IBA, LUMS and FAST. Economics and Human Development were two topics from which he could not abstain in silence—they were close to his heart and the feedback on his lectures at these seminars was always exceptional.

He used to spend one weekend every month at his school in the village and living there introduced him to a new dimension of life.

'We have concealed our poverty in our rural areas, just like people brush dirt under the carpet.' Furqan had said this once while the school was still under construction. The days now spent in the village bore out the horror of this reality. It was not that he was unaware of the poverty in Pakistan: working with UNESCO and UNICEF in Asian countries, he had read many reports on Pakistan. But he was seeing for himself, the first time, people who lived below the poverty line.

'Step out of the ten or fifteen large cities, and you realize that people in smaller towns live not in the Third World but perhaps in the Tenth or Twelfth World—they have neither employment nor facilities. They spend half their lives yearning and half in despair. What sort of ethics advocates that a man should begin his day with a piece of dry stale bread and end it with starvation? And here we are—instead of putting an end to hunger and want; we go on building mosques—grand, expensive mosques, with walls and floor made of the best marble and with embellished ceilings. You'll find maybe ten mosques on one road—mosques empty of worshippers.' Furqan used to say bitterly.

There are so many mosques in this country that if the entire population of Pakistan were to come out and pray in them, half of them would still be empty. I don't believe in building mosques in a country where people commit suicide out of hunger and where generations of some social levels are lost in ignorance. You need schools, not mosques in such places so that education and awareness will provide opportunities for employment— only then will people thank God, otherwise they'll only complain.'

He used to listen to Furqan quietly. When he began going to the village regularly, he realized Furqan was right. Poverty had driven people to denial of faith. The most trivial of their needs would be on their nerves and they would be slaves to whoever could fulfill their needs. The weekend he would visit the village, people would line up to meet him for the most ordinary things. Sometimes, there would be endless queues.

'Get my son a job in the factory...even a thousand rupees per month will add to our income.'

'If I could have twenty thousand rupees, I'll get my daughter married off...'

'The rains have ruined our crops. I have no money to buy seed for the next season. Lend me some money, please; I'll repay you when the crop's harvested.'

'The police have my son in custody—they won't give any reason. They say they'll hold him as long s they want—please talk to the SHO.'

'The patwari is fighting with me over my land—he wants to allot it to someone else...he says my papers are forged.'

'My son works in the neighboring village; he has to walk eight miles back and forth...if only you could get him a bicycle.'