Pir-E-Kamil: The Perfect Mentor (29 page)

He wasn't a chain-smoker, but he had become one now. He was an organised and tidy person by nature but now his apartment was the picture of chaos and dirt. He wasn't bothered by the sight of stuff strewn around the place. His contact with his parents and siblings had decreased and his conversation with them reduced to a minimum. They would keep talking and he would listen, hardly responding. He had nothing more to tell them or share with them—it had all come to an end, and he had no idea why this had happened.

But he knew that all these events, these thoughts were related to Imama Hashim: had she not come into his life, all this would not have happened. First he disliked her; now he hated her. The slight sense of regret he had earlier disappeared altogether.

'Whatever happened to her was justified. Whatever I did to her was right. That is what she deserved,' he kept telling himself. He loathed every word, every line that she had uttered. The memory of Imama's conversations would drive away his sleep and peace of mind: he'd be engulfed by strange desperation. All that he had scoffed at now haunted him.

'Am I going mad? Slowly losing my mind? Am I becoming schizophrenic?' strange fears would grip him unexpectedly.

The lack of meaning and purpose in everything was becoming increasingly apparent. Who was he? What was he and why? Where was he and why was he there? Such questions had begun to bother him all the time. 'What happens when I get an MBA from Yale? I land a very good job, set up a factory, then what? Was this the reason for which I was created...with an IQ of 150+ so that I acquire some more degrees, run a successful business, get married, have children, enjoy luxuries, then die...that's it?'

He had experimented with death four times in his life, just to satisfy his curiosity; but now, despite severe depression, he did not try to end his life. In spite of thinking about death all the time, he did not want to approach it. However, if someone were to ask him if he wanted to live on, he would hesitate to answer in the positive.

He did not want to live because he did not understand the meaning of life. And he did not want to die because he did not understand death. He was suspended in a vacuum, in limbo, somewhere in between being alive yet dead and dead yet alive...He was reaching the limits of hedonism moment by moment—this man with an exceptionally high IQ, who could not forget anything said or heard in his presence. Swathed in cigarette smoke, swigging beer, dining in plush restaurants, dancing away in nightclubs, spending nights with his girl friend, there was just one question on his mind: is this the purpose of life?

'Riches and luxuries, elegant clothes, excellent food, the best facilities available for a life of sixty or seventy years...and then?' He had no answer to that 'and then?' but this query had upset the pattern of his life. He was gradually becoming an insomniac, and it was during this period that he found himself turning to religion. He had seen many people do this to escape depression and he did the same. He tried to read some books about Islam, but all the books went over his head. No word, no idea in them attracted him. He would force himself to read but put them away after a few pages; a little while later, he would pick them up again and then put them back.

'No—perhaps I should actually start praying; maybe that would help.' Salar tried to reason with himself, and one day when he was with Saad, he expressed this desire.

'I'll come with you,' he told Saad, who was stepping out.

'But I'm going to say the isha prayers,' Saad reminded him.

'I know,' he said, tying up his jogger laces.

'You'll come to the mosque?' Saad was surprised.

'Yes.' Salar stood up.

'To pray?'

'Yes,' he replied. 'And there's no need to give me that look—after all I'm not an unbeliever.'

'No you're not, but...anyway, come on and pray,' said Saad. Then he suddenly shifted the topic. 'I've told you so often before to come along.'

Salar did not reply; he quietly walked out with Saad.

'If you've come to the mosque today, then keep it up. Don't let this be your first and last visit,' Saad continued.

It was snowing when they stepped out. The mosque was a short distance from the residential building; it was in a house belonging to an Egyptian family. They had given the ground floor to be used as a mosque while the upper floor was used as their residence. Sometimes, the number of people praying there would be twenty to twenty-five, but more often there were only ten or fifteen. Saad apprised Salar of all these details till they reached the mosque. Salar walked silently beside him, somewhat unconcerned, but carefully avoiding skidding cars and watching his step on road lined with piles of snow.

After walking for a few minutes, they turned into a side street and opening the door, Saad entered the house. The door was shut but not locked; Saad did not knock nor ask permission before entering—his movements were rather familiar. Salar followed him in.

'Perform your ablutions.' Saad turned to Salar, and led him to the bathroom. The cold water on his hands made him shiver for a while. By the time Salar had reached the last stage of the wuzu under Saad's supervision, the cold water had turned tepid. As he was running his hands over his head, he suddenly stopped. Saad thought that perhaps Salar did not know the right way, so he directed him again. Rather vacantly, Salar obeyed him. As his hands moved towards the nape of his neck, he felt the chain he was wearing and his glance fell on the mirror before him. Once again, his mind was somewhere else—Saad was saying something, but it did not register.

The ten people in the room were standing in two rows. Saad and Salar joined the back row. The imam began the prayer and along with everyone else, Salar also recited the niyat for prayer.

'Does prayer really give you peace?' He had found a young man in debate with Saad over prayer, about two weeks ago.

'It gives me peace,' Saad had replied.

'I don't mean you, I mean everyone—does it bring peace of mind to everyone?'

'That depends on the degree of involvement people have,' was Saad's response.

Salar stood aside, bored, listening to their argument, without any comment or interruption. He was consciously trying to enthuse himself on this topic.

'Peace? I really want to see what kind of peace it brings,' he thought to himself as he bowed for ruku. Then he prostrated himself for the first sajda. His restlessness and anxiety suddenly increased. The words being intoned by the imam were strange to his ears; the people around him were strangers, unknown; the environment was unnatural, and whatever he was doing there appeared to be sham, an act of hypocrisy.

The burden on his heart and mind grew with each prostration, and he completed the last four stages with great difficulty. As he read the closing salam and turned, he saw tears roll down the face of the middle-aged man to his right. He wanted to just get up and flee from there but he forced himself to stand up for another round of prayer and do this with as much interest as he could.

'This time I'll focus on every ayat that is read,' he thought. 'Perhaps, this way...' but his thoughts dispersed. The niyat was being recited. Salar felt extremely dejected—the pressure on his mind seemed to increase.

The recitation of the opening Surah of the Quran, al-Fateha, began.

'In the name of Allah, the most Compassionate, the most Beneficent. All praise is for the Sustainer/Cherisher of the Universe, the most Compassionate, the most Beneficent.'

Salar tried his best to concentrate.

The Lord of the Day of Judgment...' His attention wandered.

'It is to You that we bow in worship; it is You to whom we turn for help.'

He knew the translation of the Sura al Fateha; he had read it a few days ago.

'Guide us to the straight path'—Sirat al mustaqeem, the straight path, he repeated to himself.

The straight path? He wanted to run away. He made a last attempt to continue with the prayer.

'The path of those whom You bless...' Once again, his mind receded.

'(not) the path of those on whom Your wrath falls, and who go astray.' He was in the last row: very quietly, he let down his arms and stepped out of line.

'I can't do this. I cannot pray.' He was making a confession. He backed out slowly, unnoticeably as the others went into the ruku, and very swiftly, he came out of the room. Picking up his joggers, he stood absentmindedly on the stairs, looking right and left. Shoes and socks in hand, he came down the stairs to the back wall of the building. There was another flight of stairs, covered by snow and another door. It was dark as there was no light anywhere around. Bending down, he brushed the snow off a step, sat down and put on his shoes, then sat back against the door. His jacket hood was pulled over his head and his hands tucked into his pockets. On the road across, the traffic was thin.

Salar sat there watching the random cars and few pedestrians on the road. Sitting out there in the cold, foggy, night air he felt more at peace than he was in the warm and cosy prayer room. Pulling a lighter out of his pocket, he lit it, trying to melt the snow on the steps. This entertained him for a while but then he got bored and put the lighter away. As he straightened up he realized there was a woman standing before him; he had not noticed her presence as he had been looking down. Even in the dark, he could see the smile playing on her face. She was wearing a fur coat which had been left artfully open to reveal a miniskirt and a skimpy blouse. Hands thrust in her coat pockets, she stood before Salar very seductively. He surveyed her from head to toe. Her long, shapely legs were bare, the cold notwithstanding. He kept staring at her legs, highlighted by the neon lights behind her. She was wearing high-heeled boots and Salar wondered how she could manage them on these snowed down streets.

'I charge fifty dollars an hour,' she said very chummily in a very familiar way. Salar looked up from her legs to her face, then back at her legs. This was the first time ever that he had felt sorry for a prostitute, wondering what had compelled her to parade half naked in such snowbound weather when he had felt himself freezing despite his thick warm jeans.

'OK, forty dollars,' she said, when he did not reply. She thought he found the rate too high so reduced her price. Salar knew that forty was too much—on this street, he could get a girl for twenty dollars. This woman was around thirty-five or forty years, and she looked around cautiously as she spoke to him. Salar knew she was on the look out for the police.

'OK, thirty—no more bargaining. Take it or leave it.'

She further reduced her rates, in view of Salar's silence. Without a word, he fished out some notes from his pocket—he wasn't carrying a wallet— and held them out towards her. She snatched them: here was a client who was, for the first time, giving her advance payment and that too fifty dollars, when she had quoted less.

'Will you come with me or do you want me to accompany you?' she asked very casually.

'Neither will I accompany you nor will you come with me. You can leave now,' Salar declared, looking beyond her at the shops across the road.

The woman looked at him uncertainly. 'Really?'

'Yes,' he replied, unmoved.

'Then why did you give this?' She held out the notes, still in her hand.

'So that you move out of my sight. I want to look at those shops and you're in the way.' He spoke coldly.

She burst out laughing. 'You do joke, don't you? You really want me to go?'

'Yes.'

She kept looking at him for a few moments. 'OK, thank you.' Salar saw her turn and cross the road, and without much interest, saw her walk to the other side. A man was standing there.

Salar started looking at the shops once more. It began to snow again, but he kept sitting there as the snow fell over him. He stayed there till the lights in the shops shut down, one by one. Then, dusting the snow off his clothes, he got up. If he hadn't been moving his legs from time to time, he would not have been able to stand on his feet. It was half past two in the morning. Pushing his hands into his pockets, and flexing his legs, he began to walk home. He knew that Saad must have searched for him and not finding him around must have gone home too.

'Where did you go off?' Saad shouted seeing Salar who walked in without saying a word.

'I'm asking you something,' Saad remonstrated. He shut the door behind him and came after Salar.

'I didn't go anywhere,' replied Salar, taking off his jacket.

'Do you know how long I searched for you—calling up God knows where and who. I was worried sick and was about to call the police...where did you disappear leaving the prayer midway?'

'I told you—nowhere.' Salar was taking off his joggers.

'Then where were you all along?' Saad was standing before him.

'Just there, on the footpath behind the mosque.'

'What? You sat there all these hours, in the snow?' Saad couldn't believe it.

'Yes.'

'You are totally senseless!' Saad was exasperated.

Salar was stretched out on the bed. 'Yes—really senseless,' he agreed.

Saad enquired if Salar had eaten and asked him if he'd like to, but he refused saying he wasn't hungry. Salar just lay there, staring at the ceiling. Saad came and sat beside him.

'What ever is the problem? Can you tell me?'

Salar turned his neck to look at Saad. 'Nothing; no problem,' he said flatly.

'I thought you had gone back to your apartment. I kept calling there, but got no response,' Saad was complaining, but Salar kept his gaze on the ceiling. 'It would have been better if I hadn't asked you to come along for prayers. Don't accompany me next time.'

Saad was really annoyed. He got up and wrapped up his work; then switching off the night lamp, he lay down on his bed. A little while later, just as he was drifting off to sleep, he heard Salar call him.

'What is it?' Saad looked at him.

'What is the sirat-e mustaqim?'

This simple question nonplussed Saad. He turned to look at Salar who lay flat on the bed to his left.

'Sirat-e-mustaqeem ...it is the straight path.'

'I know, but what is the straight path?' Another question.