Pir-E-Kamil: The Perfect Mentor (50 page)

'Have you eaten?'

'No, I wasn't hungry...'

'It's getting on for two o'clock,' Furqan remonstrated. I'll send something for you. Have it then sleep some, we'll go out in the evening.'

'No, don't send me food. I'm going to bed. When I get up in the evening, I'll go out and get something to eat.' Saying this, Salar lay on the sofa and put his arm across his eyes. Furqan sat a while watching him, then got up and left.

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'Are you OK?' Ramsha asked, entering Salar's room. Going towards the reception, she had looked in through the blinds, some of which were open. She had stopped, instead of just walking through the corridor. Salar had his elbows on the table and was holding his head in his hands. Ramsha knew that sometimes he suffered from migraine. Instead of going towards the reception, she had opened the door and walked in.

Seeing her, Salar sat up and started looking at the open file on his table.

'Are you alright?' Ramsha asked with concern.

'Yes, I'm perfectly well '

He did not attempt to look at Ramsha. She, instead of turning back, came forward.

'No, you are not looking well,' she said studying Salar's face.

'Can you please take this file deal with it....I'm unable to....' Salar closed the file and pushed it towards her.

'I'll look at it, but if you aren't feeling well, you better go home,' Ramsha said with concern.

'Yes, it's better that I go home.' He opened his brief case and started to put his things in it. Ramsha watched him intently.

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He had returned home at eleven o'clock. This was the fourth day of his continuously distraught state. Suddenly, he had lost interest in everything: his job at the bank, the lectures at LUMS, the sessions with Dr Sibt-e-Ali, Furqan's company, the village school, the plans for the future—nothing seemed to attract him any more.

That possibility for which he had left behind everything and returned to Pakistan, that possibility was now over. He had never estimated that the end of this hope would mean the end of everything for him. He was trying hard to pull himself out of this state but without any success.

Just the thought of Imama living in someone else's home as his wife was as torturous for Salar as the earlier fear of her having fallen into the wrong hands and living a life of sin. In that state of mind, he decided to go for Umra—it was the only act that could give him peace and relief from the meaninglessness that had entered his life.

END OF CHAPTER SEVEN.

Wrapped in his Ahram, he was standing in the courtyard of the Kaaba. He was alone: there was not a soul in sight. It was late into the night and the light from the moon and stars reflected off the marble floor, bathing the entire scene in a milky glow. There was no other light except for starlight.

The ayaat embroidered on the black covering of the Kaaba seemed to give off a strange light of their own. There was a deep stillness all around broken only by a voice—his voice...his own voice. He was standing at the Station of Multazim, his eyes fixed on the entrance of the Kaaba, and looking up, he called out aloud.

'Labbaik Allahumma labbaik ; labbaik la shareeka laka labbaik; innal hamda wa al ne'mata, laka wa'l mulk; la shareeka laka'

'Here I am, my Allah, my Lord, here I am! Here I am and there's no equal with You! Doubtless, all praise is for You, all blessings are from You, and Yours is the Kingdom, the Power! You have no equal.'

Resonating at full strength, his voice filled the empty courtyard and corridors of the Masjid-al-Haram, rising into space it seemed.

'Labbaik Allahumma labbaik!' Standing there barefoot, half dressed, he could recognise his voice.

'Labbaik la shareeka laka labbaik!' Yes, it was his voice...' innal hamda wa al ne'mata, laka wa'l mulk.'

The tears pouring from his eyes flowed down his face on to his feet. 'La shareeka laka.'

He raised his hands to the sky. 'Labbaik Allahumma labbaik.'

The ayaat on the kiswah became suddenly very clear, very bright— scintillating, as it were, and the celestial light too shone more brightly. He kept staring at the ayaat, mesmerized, transfixed. Like a prayer rote-learned, he repeated the talbiyah: Labbaik Allahumma labbaik. Then he saw the door of the Kaaba opening slowly, very slowly and his voice rose, calling out in one breath, one cadence.

'Labbaik la shareeka laka labbaik!' This time, he felt another voice join him in prayer.

'Innal hamda wa al ne'mata, laka wa'l mulk.' That voice was not as loud as his—it was more like a whisper, but surrounding him. He knew it was not his voice—it was someone else. For the first time since he had been in the Khana-e- Kaaba, he felt the presence of another there.

'La shareeka laka.' The door was opening wider.

'Labbaik Allahumma labbaik.' He knew that feminine voice.

'Labbaik la shareeka laka labbaik!' She was repeating the words with him. The voice came from his left, from behind him, a few steps away.

He looked at his feet, now completely wet. Then he looked up at the Kaaba—the door had opened and the interior was filled with a glowing white light. He fell to his knees in prostration, his forehead touching the ground. The light began to fade and when he lifted his head off the ground, the light had paled further. When he stood up, the door of the Kaaba was closing and once again, he heard the feminine voice whisper near him, and this time he turned around to look.

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Salar woke up. He had fallen into a trance-like sleep, sitting in the verandah of the Haram Shareef, resting his head against a pillar.

That was Imama—without a doubt, it was Imama—standing behind him in a white ahram. He had seen just a glimpse of her but even that fleeting glimpse was enough to convince him that it was none other than her. Sitting there, absentmindedly watching people move around the place, he felt his heart brim with emotion.

It had been more than eight years since he had seen that woman who now appeared to him in a dream in the precincts of the Kaaba. A wound seemed to have been scratched afresh. He took off his glasses and hid his face in his hands. Rubbing away the warm tears, he had a thought: this was the Haram Shareef—he had no need to hide his tears from anyone. People came here to cry out their hearts. He removed his hands from his face as a fit of weeping swept over him. For a long time, he wept, his head bent low.

He remembered then that he had been coming here for Umra every year and he used to perform one round of the pilgrimage on behalf of Imama Hashim. He prayed for her long life, for her safety. He prayed that she may be protected against all anxiety and woes. In all those years, he had prayed for all that he could think of for himself and for Imama Hashim. But standing there, in that very holy place, he had never asked Allah for Imama Hashim for himself. It was quite strange that he had never prayed that she may be granted to him. His tears ceased and he stood up.

After the ablutions, he wore the ahram to perform the Umra. As he went around the Kaaba, he incidentally found a place near the Station of Multazim—where he had found himself in his dream. He lifted his hands in prayer.

'Your messengers and prophets stood at this spot and prayed to you. There's a world of difference between my prayers and theirs.' He was pleading. 'I am no prophet to pray the way they do. I am an ordinary human being with very human failings. My desires and my aspirations are all very ordinary. No one must have stood here and wept for a woman—how lower can my position, my debasement be, that standing in this pristine and sacred place, I should beg and plead for a woman? But I have no control over my heart nor over my tears.'

'It was not I who gave her a place in my emotions, in my heart—it was You who put her there. Why have You so filled my heart with love for her that even though I stand in Your presence, I miss her? Why have You made me so helpless that I have no power over my existence? I am that being who was created with all these failings. I am that being who has no guide but You. And that woman—she stands at every turn that my life takes, preventing me from making any move, going ahead. Either completely erase all thought of her from my heart, take away my love for her, or grant her to me. If I cannot have her, my entire life will be wasted mourning for her. If she should be mine then my tears will only be for You— grant that purity to my tears. Standing here, I beg you to grant me one of the pure and noble women—I ask for Imama Hashim.

'For my coming generations, I ask for that woman who cannot include anyone in her love and reverence for your Prophet (PBUH), who left all the ease and comforts of her life for the love of the Prophet. If ever I have done any good in my life, then in return I ask for Imama Hashim. If You wish, it is possible—even now.

'Please lift this misery from me! Make my life easy. Please release me from the anguish that has gripped me since the last eight years. O Allah, please have mercy on Salar Sikandar once again, for mercy is the highest of Your attributes.'

Head bowed, he wept for a long time, standing at the very spot where he had seen himself in his dream—but Imama was not standing behind him now. After a long spell of crying and pleading, he moved away. The starlight was fading but the Kaaba was scintillating with light. Despite the late night, there was a vast crowd of pilgrims. Unlike his dream, the door of the Kaaba was not open. Yet as he moved away, Salar felt lighter and relieved as if a burden had been lifted off him.

He was emerging out of this state in which he'd been for the last one month. It was an unknown peace that washed over him when he finished praying. And this feeling of peace and relief stayed with him as he returned to Pakistan the next week.

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'I am going back to the US next year to complete my Ph D.'

Struck by his words, Furqan looked at Salar. 'What do you mean?'

Salar smiled, surprised. 'What do you mean by "what do you mean"? I want to work for a Ph D.'

'Out of the blue?' asked Furqan.

'Well, not exactly. The Ph D was a part of my plans. It's better I do it now,' said Salar with equanimity. They were on their way back from Furqan's village. Furqan was driving; Salar suddenly told him of his plans for the Ph D.

'I've informed the bank—I was thinking of resigning, but they want to give me long leave. I haven't yet thought about that—whether I should accept their offer or resign.'

'You've done all your planning.'

'Yes, pal. I'm not joking. I really intend to join the Ph D programme next year.'

'A few months ago, there was no such intention.'

'What's there about a decision—a decision can be made in a trice.' Salar shrugged as he looked at the fields speeding by.

'Otherwise too, I've wanted to write a book about banking, but I've been so busy for the past few years that I couldn't work on it. I want to write this while working on the Ph D and have it published too. Since I'll have some respite, I'll be able to do this comfortably.'

'And what about the school?'

'No problem—it will continue to function as it's doing now. The infrastructure will also improve. The Board of Governors is there, they'll visit. You're there too, and I've spoken to Papa...he'll be visiting the school regularly. My being or not being there makes no difference. For a long time now, the school has had no need of the crutches provided by Salar Sikandar, nor will it need them in the future, besides, I'm not abandoning the project—I'll look after it, and I'll be there when it needs me. I've been managing this way in the past too.'

He began to pour himself a cup of tea from the thermos flask.

'What will you do after the Ph D?' asked Furqan with serious concern.

I'll be back, and like before, I'll work here. I'm not going away forever.' Salar smiled and patted his shoulder.

'Can't you go some years later?'

'No—what can be done today must be done today. It must not be put off.

Right now I'm in the frame of mind for further studies. Perhaps, my mood may change later.'

Salar sipped his tea and tried to tune the car's radio. The Rotary Club has organized an event next weekend. I have an invitation. Would you like to come along?' he enquired of Furqan.

'Why not? I'll be glad to—their events are always interesting,' replied Furqan. The topic of the conversation had changed.

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It was a Sunday. Salar woke up late. Picking up the newspaper, he glanced at the headlines as he prepared his breakfast. He had just brushed his teeth and had yet to shower and shave. A loose pullover had been put on over his pyjamas.

He had barely put the kettle on the stove when the doorbell rang. Newspaper in hand, he came out and opened the door—to a real surprise. It was Saeeda Amma standing at his door. He let her in.

'Assalaam Alaikum. How are you?' he asked, trying to overcome his astonishment.

The Lord be thanked, I'm very well. And you?' she asked warmly, stroking his head.

'I'm fine, thank you. Please come in,' he replied with a smile.

'You don't look fine. You've lost weight and you're looking dark too.' She peered at him through her glasses.

'I haven't lost my complexion—it's because I haven't shaved.' Salar tried not to show his amusement as they went in.

'Now, now! And why haven't you shaved? Planning to grow your beard, I suppose. Well, it's a very good thing, very noble. It's good of you,' she said as she sat down on the sofa.

'No, Amma , I'm not planning to grow a long beard. It's Sunday and I woke up late—just a short while ago—so I haven't shaved as yet.'

'Why did you wake up late? That's not a good habit, son. You should wake up early for the fajr prayers—it gives radiance to the face. No wonder you look so tired and drawn. A person should get up early, say his prayers, read the Holy Quran, and then go for a morning walk. This is good for your health and also pleases Allah.'

Salar sighed deeply and said, 'I went to sleep after saying my prayers. I sleep late only on Sundays, otherwise my routine is exactly as you have described it.'