Pir-E-Kamil: The Perfect Mentor (56 page)

She had reached a conclusion; she could not let anyone into her secret.

'I would rather finish my studies first. I do not wish to be a burden on anyone; I want to stand on my own feet. If after getting married there are issues, I want to be able to support myself. There is no way of knowing how things will be after marriage; I may not have the opportunity to study.' Imama spoke at length after a long silence.

'Imama, we will always be there to help you. We do not plan to cut ties with you if you get married. We are not trying to get rid of you. For me you are like my own daughter, my fourth daughter.'

Imama's eyes welled up.

'I am not putting any pressure on you Imama. This was only a suggestion.'

'Let a few years pass and I will marry whoever you tell me to. But not now, not immediately,' Imama spoke aloud but in her mind she was thinking, 'For now, I have to get rid of Salar. I must find a way to get a divorce.'

'Which city would you like to study in?' Dr Sibt-e-Ali dropped the idea of marriage.

'Anywhere—I have no preference,' Imama replied.

When she had left her house, Imama had taken all her documents, plus as much of her jewelry as she could. When Dr Sibt-e-Ali called her a few days later to inform her that he had decided to admit her to a college in Multan she went to her room and fetched a small bag from her suitcase. She returned to Dr Sibt-e-Ali's study and opening the bag took out the envelope containing the necessary documents and handed it to Dr Sibt-e-Ali. Then she took out another small container from the bag and put it on the table.

'This is some of my jewelry that I have with me; it is not much, but if I sell it, it can cover the cost of my education for some time,' she said.

'No. Don't sell the jewelry; you will need it when you get married. As far as your education goes, I am responsible for you and it is my responsibility to take care of your needs...' About to say something more, Dr Sibt-e-Ali stopped suddenly startled by something he saw gleaming in the open bag in Imama's hand.

Slightly ashamed of herself for hiding it from him, Imama pulled out the little pistol out of the bag and put it on the table. 'This belongs to me. I brought it from home. As I had said earlier, I needed Salar's help and he is not a good man...' She was unwilling to give more information than this.

Do you know how to use it?'

Imama gave a sad smile. 'Yes, I had trained with the NCC in College. Also my brother Waseem used to go the Rifle Shooting Club regularly and I would often go with him. I had begged my father to buy me this pistol. It is gold plated.'

Dr Sibt-e-Ali picked up the pistol. 'Do you have a license for this?' he asked.

'Yes, but I did not bring it with me.'

'In that case, leave it here with me. Do not take it with you to Multan. As for the jewelry, let's put it in a locker.' Imama nodded her head in agreement.

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A few months later Imama found herself in Multan. A city she had never even given a second thought to in her life. But then so much had happened to her that she never imagined could happen. Could she ever have imagined that at the age of twenty, she would be restarting her studies; this time with a view to taking a B.Sc. degree...at an age when most girls have completed their B.Sc...?

Could she ever have imagined that she would have willfully abandoned her desire to be a doctor...?

Could she ever have imagined that she would be the cause of so much hurt and humiliation for her parents...?

Could she ever have imagined any other man in her life other than Jalal...? And that she would be so desperate to marry that man...?

Could she ever have imagined, given her failure to marry the man of her choice that she would end up marrying a man like Salar Sikandar...? And that too of her own volition...?

Could she ever have imagined that having given up the security and comforts of her own house she would end up with a family as kind and caring as Dr Sibt-e-Ali's?

She had no experience of the outside world, and she had had no need of it, either. When she left home, she had prayed earnestly for her own safety—that she may not need to go from pillar to post in her struggle for survival. She was not bold enough to fend for herself and take on the odds. She really did not know that she would now have to manage everything on her own or how she would deal with strange men and all kinds of people— and that too when she had no family to fall back on.

It was a different matter to study in a medical college in Lahore and dream of going abroad for higher studies, when in the protective shade of one's family. There were no financial issues, and Hashim Mubeen's name and reputation were sufficient to ward off unwanted attention, persuading people to approach her with due respect.

She was lucky that on leaving home she did not have to face the kind of problems she had feared. Salar Sikandar had dropped her to Lahore and Dr Sibt-e-Ali's family had given her sanctuary. Since she had been at Dr Sibt-e-Ali's she was fortunate that all concerns, big or small, were taken care of. Her change of name, admission in college in Multan, a place to stay in the hostel, the expenses involved with her education—all had been handled by Dr Sibt-e-Ali—and she was profoundly grateful to God for it. At least she did not have to face the daily strife for survival in a hostile world.

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She left for Multan. This was the beginning of a new life for her. A difficult life. She felt herself all alone in the hostel. Sometimes she would miss her family and the home in Islamabad with such intensity that it took all her willpower to stay where she was and not run back to them. Often she would cry for no reason at all. Sometimes she thought of getting in touch with Jalal Ansar. She still longed for him.

A number of girls who were studying with her were those who wished for admission in Medical colleges but who failed to get the required grades in their F.Sc. exams. They were now sitting for their B.Sc. in the hopes of doing better and entering the field of their choice.

'Medical college...doctor...' For a long time these words were like daggers twisting in her heart. She would look at lines etched in her hands in amazement. What was it in her fate that was turning to dust all that she cherished? Often she would recall her conversation with Javeria.

'If I cannot be a doctor, I have no wish to live...I will die,' she had said.

But she had not died. She continued to live.

'I will be the country's most renowned eye specialist,' she had declared.

It had all remained a dream. All that she was so close to achieving had remained so far.

She had no home.

She had no family.

Asjad was not hers.

She was not going to be a doctor.

Jalal was not hers.

In one sweep, she had lost all the comforts of life that she was used to, yet she lived. Imama could never have imagined that she had or could ever have had the courage to live thus of her own will and yet she had proved herself at every moment.

As time passed, the sense of loss decreased. She was finding in herself strength to bear the tribulations in her life. After God, it was Dr Sibt-e-Ali and his family who did all they could to help her recover. Once a month, she would visit them on a weekend. They regarded her as part of their family. 'What would have happened to me had I not met them?' Imama often wondered.

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Imama was unable to get Salar out of her mind during her long stay in Multan. She wanted to call him and again ask him to divorce her and, if he still refused, she resolved to reveal all to Dr Sibt-e-Ali. Thus, once her B.Sc. exams were over she went to a Public Call Office (PCO) and rang up Salar.

It was long since she had stopped using the cell phone Salar had given her; since that was Salar's own number she wondered if he had restarted using it for himself, or whether he was using the new number he had given her to call him those two years ago. With great trepidation, she rang both numbers in turn but got no reply to either. He obviously had a new number for his cell but since she did not have it she could not contact him. Having no choice she called his home number. The bell rang, then somebody picked it up and a woman's voice said, 'Hello.'

'Hello. I wish to speak to Salar Sikander,' Imama said.

'Salar Sahib....Who is this calling?'

Imama realized that whoever was on the other end was suddenly suspicious. The voice was familiar but she could not place it. Before Imama could speak the woman at the other end spoke with great enthusiasm, 'Imama BibL.is that you Imama Bibi?'

Imama felt a thrill of fear run through her. Inadvertently, she dropped the receiver into the cradle, disconnecting the line. Who could it be who had recognized her so quickly merely by her saying those few words? And that too in Salar's house? She remained rooted to her spot in fear. Her hands were trembling. Sitting in the inner booth of the PCO she tried to reassure herself.

'I have nothing to fear. I am so far from Islamabad, no one can trace me here. I have nothing to fear.' Gradually she recovered her composure. Having convinced herself that she had nothing to fear she gathered her courage to call again. She asked the owner of the PCO to connect her to the same number again.

Somebody picked up the phone immediately; a man's voice greeted her. It was not Salar; she would have recognized his voice.

'I wish to speak to Salar Sikander,' she said.

'Is this Imama Hashim?' the voice at the other end was gruff and unfriendly.

'Yes...' Imama remained unruffled this time.

There was complete silence at the other end.

'Can I speak to him please?' Imama repeated her request.

'That is not possible,' the man finally replied.

'Why not?'

'He...is no longer alive.'

'What? Is he...is he dead?' Imama could not stop herself asking.

'Yes...'

'When...'

There was a prolonged silence at the other end. Then the man spoke, 'When was the last time you were in contact with him?'

'Some years ago...about two and a half years ago.'

'He died a year ago. You...'

Imama disconnected the line. There was no need to hear any more. She was free. She knew that it was wrong to rejoice over the death of any human being, but she could not help it. Had Salar divorced her when she had asked him to do so, she would undoubtedly have mourned his death. But now, two years later she felt remarkably light—a sense of relief. The sword of Damocles which had been hanging over her head had been removed. There was no need to broach the subject with Dr Sibt-e-Ali—she was free in the real sense of the word. It was her last day at the hostel and that night she prayed for forgiveness for Salar's soul. As it was, she had forgiven him when she learnt of his death; but she could not mourn his death-she was immeasurably relieved over the turn events had taken.

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The woman Imama had spoken to was Nasira who worked both at Salar's house as well as at Imama's. She had recognized Imama's voice the minute she spoke. When Imama cut off the phone line, she went to Usman Sikander in a state of great excitement. It was just a quirk of fate that Usman Sikander was home that day. He had been unwell in the morning and had not gone to work.

'A girl called a little while ago...she wanted to talk to Salar...' the maid said to Usman.

'Well, tell him.' Usman was indifferent. By yet another twist of fate, Salar was there too—he was visiting from America, and was home at the time.

The maid was flustered. 'Saab jee, it was Imama Bibi calling,' she said.

Usman Sikander almost dropped the cup of tea he was holding. 'Imama Hashim? Hashim Mubeen's daughter?'

Nasira nodded her head in confirmation.

'So has Salar been lying all this time when he says he has no connection with Imama...' he thought, his mind a whirl.

Aloud he said, 'Did she say she was Imama calling?'

'No Saabjee, I recognized her voice. And when I asked her, she put the phone down on me.'

The phone rang again. Before the maid could pick up the phone, he reached for the extension in his room. The girl on the other end confirmed she was Imama; she also said that she had not been in touch with Salar for over two and a half years. While there was no way he could confirm what she was saying was the truth, his instinct told him the girl was not lying.

'If only I can keep her away from contacting Salar, we will have rid ourselves forever of a great deal of trouble,' the thought ran through his mind. And so he told her that Salar had died.

For Usman Sikandar the year Imama had disappeared has been a difficult one. Suspecting Salar in the disappearance of his daughter, Hashim Mubeen had brought all sorts of pressure to bear on Usman Sikandar. The bills for his firms that had always been easily passed through in Government offices were now inexplicably delayed; he began to receive threatening letters and phone calls from anonymous callers; near strangers would talk to him threateningly telling him to assist in the return of Hashim Mubeen's daughter; for a long time Salar had been shadowed and this harassment had not stopped even after he had been sent abroad. Even in America, Salar remained under surveillance until Hashim Mubeen was finally convinced that Imama and Salar were not in contact with each other. With no proof of Salar's involvement in Imama's disappearance the harassment finally ceased. Numerous attempts made by Usman to reestablish good relations with Hashim Mubeen were rebuffed but at least the threat to him and his family had ceased. And now two and a half years on this girl was trying to get in touch with Salar again. He did not want to go through all those hassles again nor did he wish that for Salar.

Had he himself not been a man of means, just as Hashim Mubeen Ahmed was, the latter could have caused him even more problems than he had faced in the first few months. He was anxious to send Imama a copy of the divorce deed he had prepared on behalf of Salar: that the deed was a forgery and that Salar had no knowledge of it was of no consequence—he just wanted to make it clear to Imama that she had no connection to the family and nor could she expect one. Had there been a connection— however tenuous it may have been—it was now snapped with the news of Salar's death. It was a coincidence that Imama had put down the phone before hearing him out. He tried to trace the call and learnt that it was from a PCO in Multan.