Pir-E-Kamil: The Perfect Mentor (5 page)

'OK.' Salar was enjoying this game. Sikandar dialed a number then switched off the phone. Salar immediately took the receiver and dialed the same number as confidently as his father had. Sikandar's head was spinning. Salar could remember any numbers that he dialed, and could then dial them accurately. He had a photographic memory.

Sikandar called his wife. 'I haven't taught him numbers,' she said. 'Yesterday I just said out the numbers one to hundred. But I did get him some books a few days ago.'

Sikandar asked Salar to count to a hundred—this he did while his mother watched in amazement. Convinced that the child was far ahead in intelligence for his age, they enrolled him in school much earlier than they had his siblings. He excelled in school.

'This child needs your special attention, because compared to children of average intelligence, such children have a more sensitive and complicated nature. If he has a good upbringing, he will be an asset to your family—indeed to the country.' Sikandar Usman and his wife listened with pride to the psychologist who was a foreigner. They began to give Salar preferential treatment at home: he became the most beloved and favorite child and they were very proud of his achievements.

At school, he was promoted to the next class after just one term, and then again at the end of the term he was promoted yet again. Sikandar was perturbed—he did not want Salar to be sitting for his O levels and A levels at the age of eight and ten. Considering the speed of his progress, this seemed quite likely.

'I would like you to let my son spend a full year in class before he is promoted to the next level. I do not want him to race through his academic career in school at this abnormal speed. You can increase his subjects and activities, but let him progress normally towards promotion.'

So, Salar was not moved up mid-term; his talents and energy were channeled into sports and other extra-curricular activities. Chess, tennis, golf and music interested him the most, and he took an active part in whatever happened in school—if he did not participate in something it was only because he did not find it challenging enough.

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'Javeria, give me Professor Imtinan's notes, will you?' Imama asked Javeria who was studying. Javeria handed her a notebook which she began to leaf through it. Javeria continued with her reading, but suddenly turned to Imama, as if she had remembered something.

'Why have you stopped taking notes during lectures?'

Imama looked up. 'I would if I could understand them.'

'What do you mean? You don't understand Prof. Imtinan's lectures?'

Javeria was surprised. 'He's such a good teacher.'

'Did I say he wasn't? It's just that...' Imama trailed off, distracted. She turned back to the notebook. Javeria looked at her closely.

'Aren't you getting absent-minded lately? Are you disturbed about something?' She put away her book; her tone was caring.

'Disturbed?' Imama muttered. 'No...'

'You have dark circles under your eyes. Last night—I think it was three o'clock—when I woke up, you had not yet slept.'

'I was studying,' Imama replied defensively.

'No, you weren't. Your book was in front of you but your thoughts were somewhere else. Is there a problem?'

'What problem could there be?'

'Then why have you become so quiet?' Javeria ignored Imama's attempts to stall the conversation.

'Now, why should I be at a loss for words?' Imama tried to smile. 'I'm as talkative as ever.'

'It's not just me, but others too have noticed that you have been disturbed,' Javeria said seriously.

'It's nothing—just the usual tension because of studies.'

'I don't believe you. After all we're all together—you cannot be any more tense than us.' Javeria shook her head. Imama sighed—she was getting fed up with this.

'Is everything all right at home?'

'Yes, absolutely fine.'

'Have you quarreled with Asjad?'

'Why would I quarrel with him?' Imama responded in the same tone. 'But there can still be differences and...' Imama cut her off in mid-sentence.

'When I am telling you that there's no problem, why can't you believe me? In all these years, what have I not shared with you or what do you not know about me? Then why are you questioning me as if I were a criminal?' Imama was losing her temper.

Javeria was confused. 'Of course, I believe you. I thought you were holding back because I might worry. That's all.' Javeria, somewhat contrite, got up and went back to her table and resumed reading her book. After some time she yawned and turned towards Imama. She was sitting up, her back to the wall and notebook in hand, but her eyes were fixed on the wall in front.

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He parked the car some distance away from the bridge across the canal. He opened the boot and took out a sack and a length of rope and moved towards the bridge, dragging the sack behind him. Some passersby saw him but they did not stop. Once on the bridge, he pulled off his shirt and flung it into the water—in a few moments the shirt was swept away by the flow. His tall, athletic frame, clad in dark blue jeans, was a handsome sight.

His eyes were inscrutable. He could have been anywhere between 19 to 29 years of age, but his height and appearance made him look much older. Holding on to one end of the rope, he threw it over the bridge till it hit the water. Then he started tightly winding and knotting the rope in his hand around the mouth of the sack till he had used it all up. Now, he pulled back the length of the rope, leaving aside about three feet; standing with his feet together, he firmly tied them with this length. Next, he made two loops with the remaining rope and hopped on to the railing of the bridge, and then passing his hands through the loops behind his back, he pulled the knots and tied up his hands too. A smile of satisfaction hovered on his lips. Taking a deep breath, he threw himself backwards over the bridge. His head hit the water sharply and he was submerged to the waist, head down and hands tied behind his back, dangling from the rope tied to the weighted sack above. He held his breath and tried to keep his eyes open underwater, but the canal was murky and the silt stung his eyes. He felt as if his lungs would burst and when he breathed in, the water entered his body through his nose and mouth. He began to flap about helplessly—he tried but could not use his arms to raise himself up from the water. Gradually, his movements slowed.

Some people who had seen him jump off the bridge, ran to the railing, shouting. The rope was still shaking. They did not know what to do— there was no visible movement under the water; his legs appeared to be still. A crowd gathered, looking with fear at the lifeless body: the water swung him like a pendulum, back and forth...back and forth...back and forth.

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'Imama, get ready quickly!' called Rabia, taking her clothes from the closet and flinging them on the bed.

'Get ready? What for?' Imama looked at her, surprised.

'We're going shopping. Come with us.' Rabia moved fast as she ironed her clothes.

'No, thanks. I don't want to go anywhere.' Imama lay back on her pillow, her forearm shielding her eyes.

'What do you mean by "I don't want to go anywhere"? Who's asking you, anyway? I'm telling you,' Rabia continued in the same tone.

'And I'm telling you that I am not going,' replied Imama without moving.

'Zainab's coming too—the whole group is going—and we'll go to the movies when we are done shopping.'

Imama looked up. 'Zainab's coming along?'

'Yes, we'll pick her up on the way.' Imama became thoughtful.

'You are getting duller by the day, Imama!' Rabia's tone was piqued.

'You've stopped going out with us; what on earth is happening to you?'

'Nothing. I am just too tired today and want to sleep,' Imama said, looking at Rabia.

After a while Javeria came in and she too tried to persuade Imama, but there was just one refrain from her: 'I am too tired, I want to sleep.'

Unable to coax Imama outdoors, the girls grumbled as they left her behind.

As they picked up Zainab on the way, Javeria realized that she had left her wallet behind in the hostel. 'We'll have to go back for my wallet,' said Javeria. When they got to the hostel they were shocked to find the room locked.

'Where's Imama?' Rabia was surprised.

'Don't know...where could she have gone, locking up the room like this? She'd said she wanted to sleep,' said Javeria.

'Could she be in someone else's room?' wondered Rabia. For the next few minutes, they looked for Imama in their friends' rooms, but there was no sign of her.

'Could she have gone out?' A sudden thought struck Rabia.

'Let's check with the warden,' said Javeria, and they went to see him.

'Yes, Imama went out a while ago,' the warden confirmed. Rabia and Javeria exchanged looks, speechless. 'She said she'd return by the evening,' the warden informed them.

They came out of the warden's room. 'Where could she have gone? She refused to accompany us saying she was tired...she wanted to sleep... was unwell...and then she goes off like this.' Rabia was really annoyed.

It was quite late at night when they returned. Imama was in the room and welcomed them back, smiling.

'Looks like you've done loads of shopping,' she said, looking at their bags and parcels. They did not reply—putting down their shopping, they stared at her.

'Where were you?' asked Javeria. Imama got a jolt. 'I came back to get my wallet and you weren't here. The room was locked.'

'I went after you both.'

'What do you mean?'

'I changed my mind when you left, so I went to Zainab's as you were going to pick her up. But her chowkidar said that she had left with you, so I came back. I just stopped on the way to get some books,' explained Imama.

'See—we'd told you to come along but you refused. Then, like a fool, you traipse behind us. We were getting suspicious about you,' said Rabia as she took her purchases out of their bags. She seemed relieved.

Imama did not reply: she just smiled at them when they showed her their shopping.

'Your name?' 'I don't know.'

'What did your parents name you?' 'Go ask my parents.' Silence. 'What do people call you?' 'Boys or girls?' 'Boys.' 'They call me by many names.'

'Mostly what?'

'Daredevil.' More silence.

'And girls?'

'They too have many names for me.'

'What name do they usually call you?'

'I can't tell you that...it's too personal.' Silence and then a deep breath and...silence again.

'Can I give you a suggestion?'

'What?'

'Why don't you try to find out something about me that neither you nor I knew before? That white file on the table to your right has all my particulars. Why are you wasting your time?'

By the light of his table lamp, the psychoanalyst observed the young man lying on the couch. He kept moving his feet from left to right. His face was calm and he wore an expression that seemed to say that the session with the psychoanalyst was a waste of time. The room was cool and dark, and as the boy spoke, he looked around the room. He was a dilemma for the psychoanalyst; he had a photographic memory, his IQ level was 150, he had an outstanding academic record throughout, he had won the President's Gold Medal for golf for the third time running...and this was his third attempt at suicide. His desperately worried parents had brought him to the psychoanalyst.

The boy belonged to one of the few prestigious and extremely wealthy families of the country. He was the fourth of five siblings—four brothers and a sister; two brothers and his sister were older than him. His parents doted on him because of his intelligence and capabilities—yet in the last three years he had tried to kill himself three times.

The first time was when he was speeding on his bike in the wrong direction on a one-way road and had lifted his hands off the handlebar. The cop behind him had seen him doing this. He was lucky that when he crashed into a car, he was thrown over another and landed on the other side of the road. He suffered a few broken ribs, and a fractured arm and leg. Even though the police officer had seen this happening, his parents believed it was an accident. He had told them that he had mistakenly entered the one-way street.

The next time—a full year later—he had tied himself up and jumped into the canal. People on the bridge had saved him by pulling him up by the rope he had used. This time there were several witnesses but his parents still could not believe that he had attempted suicide. Salar claimed that some boys had stopped his car near the bridge, tied him up and thrown him over, and the way he was tied, it did seem as if someone else had done it. For the next few weeks, the police kept searching for boys whose appearance matched the description given by Salar. Usman Sikandar hired a guard to be with Salar, day and night.

But the third time he could not deceive his parents. He ground a large quantity of sedatives and swallowed them. The effect was such that even after a stomach wash, it took him a long time to recover. This time, there was no mistaking what Salar had done—the cook had witnessed him grinding the pills, adding them to a glass of milk, and gulping down the whole.

Tayyaba and Sikandar were in a state of shock—they thought of the previous two incidents and regretted that they had believed his stories. The entire household was upset and the news spread to the school, in their neighborhood and to the whole family. He could no longer deny that he had attempted suicide, but he was not willing to explain why—neither to his brothers and sister and nor to his parents.

Sikandar had intended to send Salar abroad after his A levels, as he had his other two sons. He knew that getting admission was not a problem for Salar: he would even be able to get a scholarship. But all his plans seemed to have gone up in smoke. And, on the advice of his friend, he sent Salar to a psychoanalyst.

'Very well, Salar, we'll keep our discussion to the point. Why do you want to die?'

Salar shrugged. 'Who told you I want to die?'

'You have made three attempts at suicide.'