Pir-E-Kamil: The Perfect Mentor (11 page)

Zainab did not know then about Imama's religious leanings. She was very careful about purdah so Zainab thought Imama too was from a conservative background like herself.

Two or three days later, without informing her friends Imama bunked classes to attend the naat competition. That was when she saw Jalal Ansar for the first time. He was a bearded young man, about 25 years old, and resembled Zainab. Imama's eyes followed him as he rose from his seat and came on stage to take his place at the rostrum. Eyes closed and arms folded across his chest, he began reciting:

Kuch nahi mangta shahon se ye sheda tera
(Your admirer asks nothing from the kings)
Is ki dolat hai faqat naqsh-e-qaf-e-paa tera
(For the dust of your tracks is my greatest reward)

A current seemed to run through Imama. There was pin drop silence in the hall where only his voice echoed, casting a spell. She did not notice when he finished and came offstage, who came next, what the outcome of the competition was or when the last student left the hall. After a long time the realization hit her that she was the only one sitting there.

'I heard your brother recite yesterday,' she told Zainab.

'Really? He won the first prize.' Zainab smiled.

After a pause, Imama replied, 'It was a beautiful naat.'

'He has been reciting the Quran and naats since childhood and winning awards. Now he has lost count,' Zainab said with some pride. 'The beauty of his voice lies in the depth of his faith and the passion with which he recites,' she continued. 'He venerates and adores the Holy Prophet (pbuh) beyond limits. He has never recited anything except the Quran and naats. Whenever asked to participate in other events, he says that the tongue that serves God and His Messenger could never sing praises of anyone else.

'We love the Prophet (pbuh) too, but I have not seen the kind of adoration that my brother has. He has not missed a single prayer in the last ten years and he completes the reading of the entire Quran every month. You've got to listen to his Qirat...' Zainab extolled her brother. Imama listened to her quietly but did not ask any more questions.

The next day, Imama just lay curled up in bed instead of getting ready for class.

'Don't you have a class? It's getting late.' Javeria tried to awaken her.

'You run along—I'm not going,' Imama said, closing her eyes again.

'Why?'

'Not feeling good,' said Imama.

'Your eyes are irritated—too red. Didn't you sleep well last night?'

'No... and now, please let me sleep.' Imama warded off more inquiry and Javeria left for class.

Imama had indeed not slept well. Jalal Ansar's voice kept echoing around her and she could hardly focus on anything else. She kept repeating his name under her breath, wondering what attracted her so, why she could not dislodge him from her mind. Imama recalled Zainab's words as she stood by the window. 'The beauty of his voice lies in the depth of his faith and the passion with which he recites. He venerates and adores the Holy Prophet (pbuh).'

Depth of faith, passion, the pain and sweetness of his voice...what was it that had moved her so? 'The world begins with the adoration of the Creator and ends with the adoration of His messenger, the Prophet Muhammad (pbuh),' she remembered. The thought plunged her into silence and deeper thoughts— as if she were descending step by step into herself, searching the dark void for some light, some guidance. 'What is it about the Prophet (pbuh) that brings tears to the eyes of his devotees? That touches a chord in their hearts? Faith?

Veneration? Passion? Why was I not moved to tears? Why did words of praise not rise on my lips?'

Imama's voice broke as she tried to recite the verses presented by Jalal. She cleared her throat and tried again, and tried again, standing by the open window. Halfway, she stopped: it was Jalal's voice that haunted her, loud and clear, like a call to prayer. She felt a wetness on her face and realized that she was crying. Her fingers touched her streaming eyes. Confused, and covering her face with her hands, she sank to the floor and sobbed her heart out. The most difficult dilemma for a person is perhaps when his heart testifies to an inevitable reality yet his tongue will not proclaim it, when his mind screams in acceptance of the truth but he cannot bring himself to state it. Imama Hashim found herself at the same crossroads. The decision that had tortured her for the last two or three years had been made by a call—without searching or examining the basis of faith in the Hoy Prophet (pbuh). For years, she had heard praises being sung of their prophet, yet they never evoked such a response—brought no tears to her eyes nor softened her heart—but whenever she had heard, read or talked about Hazrat Muhammad (pbuh) she found herself strangely moved, drawn towards him. Her resistance to Sabiha's lectures evaporated, and Jalal Ansar's voice was like a firefly leading the way.

Me tujhe alam-e-ashya me bhi paa leta hoon
(Your presence guides me in the material world,)
Log kehte hain ke hai alam-e-baala tera
(Though your abode is celestial I am told.)

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This was the beginning of a new journey for Imama. She went to Sabiha regularly and participation in these gatherings reaffirmed her decision and dispelled her doubts. Change of faith was a grave decision for Imama, one that impacted every aspect of her life. She could no longer marry Asjad as he was not a Muslim; she had to distance herself from her family, sooner or later, as she could not live in an environment where the truths and principles of Islam were being blatantly distorted. She began to have doubts about the source of the funds that paid for her education, and that she received for her expenses. That life that had seemed like a fairy tale now appeared to be nightmare though she herself had chosen this path. She was amazed at her decision to convert: she had prayed to the Almighty for courage and steadfastness and He had rewarded her but she was still young enough to fall prey to fears and suspicions. 'Imama, do not disclose your faith to your parents as yet. You should be able to survive on your own—then you can refuse to marry Asjad and tell your family about your conversion,' advised Sabiha, when they discussed Imama's dilemma.

'I do not want to spend the money my father gives me, especially when I know that he has acquired his wealth by propagating a false religion. It would not be right to use such funds.'

'That's right, but you have no option. It's better that you should complete your education so that you're no longer dependent on your father then.' Even if Sabiha had not shown her a way out, Imama had no choice: she did not have the courage to give up her dream.

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It was 10 p.m. when he came out of the cinema hall and walked on, munching on leftover popcorn. Half an hour later, he rang the bell of a huge mansion.

'Shall I serve dinner, Sir?' the servant inquired.

'No.'

'Milk?'

'No.' He walked to his room and shut the door. Switching on the light, he aimlessly turned over the books and papers scattered around. Then he went into the bathroom and taking a new razor blade from the shaving kit, he came and sat on his bed. He turned on the bedside lamp and switched off the main lights. Very carefully, he unwrapped the blade and then with a swift sharp move, sliced across his right wrist. A whimper escaped him but he clenched his lips. He tried to keep his eyes open as his right arm drooped over the edge, blood flowing in a steady stream onto the carpet.

His mind seemed to fall into a vortex from which sudden explosions jolted him. The noise increased and he opened his eyes, but he could not make any sense of it.

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She was rudely awakened from sleep. 'Imama! Imama!' It was Waseem, shouting out her name and loudly banging on the door.

'What is it? Why are you shouting?' She opened the door to find Waseem in a state of panic.

'Do you have a First Aid kit?'

'Yes. Why?' She felt the ground slipping away.

'Just get it and come with me. Choo-Choo has tried to kill himself again—he slashed his wrist. Their servant is downstairs...come on!'

Imama suddenly sighed in relief. 'Your friend belongs in a mental hospital, considering his behavior,' she said with annoyance as she picked up her dupatta and followed Waseem.

'I've just seen him—he's still conscious,' said Waseem as they came down the stairs.

'You should have taken him straight to the hospital.'

'That I'll do, but at least bandage his wrist so that the bleeding stops.'

'I can't do very much, Waseem. God knows what he used to cut his wrist, Anyway, where's his family?' Imama asked.

'No one's at home except for the servants. They came to tell him about a phone call and finding no response, they broke down the door.'

Imama tried to say something about Salar, but Waseem turned around angrily. 'For God's sake, can't you stop your comments? His condition is serious and you go on maligning him!'

'I have no sympathy for people who do such things.' They were now in Salar's house and, shortly, entered his room. Imama stopped in the doorway, shocked. The entire room was plastered with life-size posters of half-nude models—almost as if they were actually there. She blushed and the injured young man on the bed fell further in her opinion. The posters reflected the shallowness of his character and were a source of embarrassment for Imama because of the presence of other people in the room.

She quickly moved to the bed where Salar Sikandar lay. Waseem tightly held his wrist, covered with a corner of the bed sheet, to staunch the bleeding while Salar, half-conscious, tried to wrest himself free and at the same time attempted to talk to Waseem and the servants.

'Look at his wound,' Waseem said, as he held out Salar's wrist. Imama sat down and removed the sheet—the cut was long and deep. Salar again yanked his arm but Imama's grip was firm.

'Waseem, get me the bandage from the kit. The wound is too deep—we can't do anything here, he needs to be taken to the hospital. I'll bandage his wrist to control the bleeding,' she said.

Salar jerked his head and tried to open his eyes. Everything was shrouded in a mist through which he saw a girl holding his arm very firmly. Agitated, he tried to pull his arm away but a current of pain shot through: he felt almost as if he would die but the next minute he again tried to free himself.

'Who the hell are you? Go away! Get lost!' he faltered despite his anger. 'This is my room.... how dare you enter it? You're Waseem...get out! Just get lost...bloody bastard!' he shouted, stumbling over his words.

Imama heard him abuse her brother but did not let go of Salar's arm and in spite of his thrashing around, managed to bandage his wrist. Through the fog, Salar felt something gentle around his wrist. Once again, he attempted to release himself using his left arm to pull away, but he failed. His arm hit the girl's head, her dupatta slipped away and her hair fell open. She held on to his wrist with her left hand and her right hand slapped him sharply across his face. It was such a stinging blow that he came to for a moment to see her face, red with anger.

'If you make another move, and I promise that I'll slash your other wrist too—do you hear me?' she shouted.

Salar heard Waseem say something too, but he couldn't make out his words.

As he lost consciousness, he heard a female voice, 'Check his blood pressure...' He suddenly remembered the slap on his face and tried to look up, he heard the girl's voice again but the words escaped him as he slipped into darkness.

The next time he came to, he was in a private clinic. He opened his eyes to look around: a nurse was present in the room, adjusting the drip. Salar saw her smiling and tried to say something but once again, he faded into the dark.

He could not recall when he regained consciousness the second time, but he found himself surrounded by familiar faces. His mother came close as he opened his eyes.

'How are you feeling?'

'Just fine,' he replied softly, looking at Sikandar Usman who stood at a distance. Before she could say more, a doctor in the room came up to check his pulse. He gave Salar an injection and gave him another drip. Salar watched the proceedings listlessly and turned his eyes to the ceiling as the doctor spoke to Sikandar Usman and his wife, Tayyaba.

There was absolute silence in the room. Sikandar and Tayyaba sat, despondent.

Despite their best efforts and precautions Salar had attempted suicide the fourth time, and had nearly succeeded. A few minutes delay would have been the end of him, the doctors said.

Sikandar Usman and his wife had been informed about Salar by the servant at two in the morning. In their desperation and anxiety, they could hardly sleep, and Sikandar must have smoked more than a hundred cigarettes till they caught the morning flight from Karachi to Islamabad.

'I fail to understand why he does this...all our guidance, our counseling have had no effect on him. It seems my mind will explode when I think about him.

What have we deprived him of? What have we not given him? All the luxuries, the best education...I even took him to the best psychiatrist and yet this is the result. Where did we go wrong that we should be punished so? I'm the laughing stock of my friends and acquaintances.'

Sikandar was deeply worried. He walked a knife's edge as far as Salar was concerned and a moment of neglect had ended in this mishap. Tayyaba wiped her tears. Now in the hospital, they were at a loss for words, but Salar recognized their state of mind and welcomed their silence. However, three days later they confronted him.

'Just tell me why you do such things?' Sikandar asked him with equanimity.

'What is the problem? You had promised not to behave like this. I even got you a sports car as a reward. Yet you seem to have no regard for us or your family's position.'

Salar sat unresponsive. 'If nothing else, at least think about us, your parents,' pleaded Tayyaba. 'If there's a problem, share it...discuss it, but for God's sake, don't try to take your life. Have you ever considered what would have happened to us if you had succeeded?'