Pir-E-Kamil: The Perfect Mentor (6 page)

'There's a great difference between trying and dying.'

'It's a coincidence that you have been saved all three times; otherwise, you had left nothing to chance.'

'Look, what you call an attempted suicide is not what I intended—I just wanted to know the pain of dying...how it feels.' The psychoanalyst watched his face as he very calmly clarified his purpose.

'And why do you want to experience the pain of dying?'

'Just like that...call it curiosity.'

He took a deep breath and looked at this brilliant young man who was now staring at the ceiling. 'So your curiosity was not satisfied with one attempt?'

'Oh, I passed out then—I was unconscious, so I could feel nothing. The next time too, and this time too—I could not feel it.' He shook his head.

'So you'll try again for the fourth time?'

'Certainly. I want to know how it feels to experience the furthest limits of pain.'

'What do you mean?'

'Like ecstasy is the furthest limit of joy—but I don't understand what comes after ecstasy. And so it is with pain...there must be some level of pain beyond which one cannot go.'

'I don't get it...'

'Suppose you're watching a striptease—there's loud music, you're drinking and you've also taken drugs, you're dancing, and slowly you lose your senses—you're in ecstasy...where are you then? What are you doing? You don't know...all you know is that you like it very much, whatever it is. When I go abroad for my vacations, I go to such bars with my cousins: my problem is that unlike them, I never get wild with joy, I'm never ecstatic. I don't get turned on like they do—and it makes me unhappy. I thought that if I cannot cross the limits of happiness then perhaps I could go to the limits of pain, but I couldn't.' He looked very disappointed.

'Why do you waste your time on such things? You have such a fantastic academic record...'

'Please, please, do not start harping about my intelligence. I know what I am.' Salar's tone was one of resignation. 'I am sick of hearing my praises.' The psychoanalyst watched him for a while.

'Why don't you set a goal for yourself?'

'I have.'

'What?'

'I have to try suicide once again.' He was completely serene.

'Are you depressed about something?'

'Not at all.'

'Then why do you want to die?'

'Shall I start all over again—to tell you that I do not want to die? That I am trying to do something else?' He was bored sick.

It was back to square one: the psychoanalyst fell quiet for a while. 'Are you doing all this because of some girl?'

Salar turned in surprise to look at him. 'Because of a girl?'

'Yes...some girl you are very fond of and would like to marry.'

He burst out into loud, uncontrolled laughter. 'My God! You mean I would kill myself for some girl?' he laughed. 'In love with a girl and kill myself—too funny!'

The psychoanalyst had several such sessions with Salar and the result was always the same—he had no clue.

'My advice is that you not send him abroad; instead keep him here and keep a close eye on him. Perhaps he does this to attract attention.' This was his suggestion to Salar's parents after several months. As a result, instead of sending him abroad for higher studies, Usman enrolled Salar in one of Islamabad's top institutions. He thought that if Salar was kept close to the family, he would not attempt suicide again.

Salar did not show any reaction to this decision just as he had not shown any reaction to his earlier decision of sending him abroad.

After the last session with the doctor, Usman Sikandar and Tayyaba sat Salar down in their bedroom and had a long talk with him. They listed all the luxuries they had provided for him over the past so many years; they told him about their expectations of him and their love and affection for him. He sat before them, expressionless, chewing gum mechanically and watching his father's distress and his mother's tears.

Frustrated, Usman finally asked him, 'What is it that you lack? What more do you want? Tell me.'

Salar thought for a while and said, 'A sports car.'

'Very well, I'll import a sports car for you, but don't ever do such a thing again—okay?' Usman Sikandar felt better.

Salar nodded in affirmation. Tayyaba wiped away her tears and drew a sigh of relief. When Salar left the room, Usman turned to his wife.

Lighting a cigar, he said, 'Tayyaba, you will have to cut down on your activities and keep an eye on him. Try to spend some time with him daily.' She nodded in assent.

-------------------------

Waseem saw Imama sitting out in the lawn. She had the earphones on and was listening to something on her Walkman. He slipped up very quietly behind her and grabbed the earphones off her, but she swiftly turned off the Walkman.

'What are you listening to, sitting here all by yourself?' he said in a loud voice as he stuck the earphones into his ears.

Imama had already switched off the cassette. She got up and pulled at the earphones.

'This is the height of bad manners—Waseem, behave yourself!' She was furious. Waseem did not let go of the earphones: Imama's anger had no effect on him.

'I want to hear what you were listening to—what's rude about that?

Switch on the cassette.'

'I wasn't sitting here with this for your listening pleasure.' Annoyed, she detached the headphones. 'Here, take these and get lost.'

She sat down again, firmly gripping the Walkman. Waseem felt that she seemed somewhat disturbed...worried. But why should she be worried?

He shrugged off the thought. Pulling another chair, he sat down and put the earphones on the table before her.

'Here take these and don't be so angry. Carry on with whatever you were listening to,' he said, trying to placate her.

'No—I don't want to listen to anything now. You can keep them.'

Imama did not reach for the earphones.

'By the way, what was it?'

'What could it be?' she replied in the same tone.

'Ghazals, perhaps?' wondered Waseem.

'You know, Waseem, you share many traits with old women.'

'For example?'

'For example, nit-picking.'

'And...?'

'And spying on others without the least embarrassment.'

'And do you know how selfish you are gradually becoming?' Waseem replied likewise.

Imama did not mind it. 'So now you know how selfish I am?' she replied with a smile this time. 'You are so silly that I couldn't believe you'd come to this conclusion.'

'If you're trying to embarrass me, then don't bother—I'm not going to be ashamed.' He was being bull-headed.

'But still, it is one's duty to try.'

'Aren't you being too smart today?' Waseem looked at her closely.

'Possibly.'

'Not possibly—certainly. Anyway, it's better than that monastic silence you adopt on your return to Islamabad.'

'What monastic silence?' Imama responded.

'You've changed a fair bit since you went to Lahore.'

'I'm under the pressure of studies.'

'Everybody feels that pressure, Imama, but you seem obsessed.' Waseem said, interrupting her.

'Let's not fall into this silly argument...tell me, what are you doing these days?'

'Having a ball!' He was rocking his chair.

'That's what you do all year long. I'm asking you about any special interest now.'

'Just hanging out with friends. You should know what I do once the papers are over—you're forgetting everything, Imama.' Waseem looked at her somewhat sadly.

'I asked you this in the hope that you may have improved—but obviously my question was redundant,' replied Imama.

'You should know that I am a year older than you, so please wind up your allegations.' He was trying to rub in his being older.

'How are things with this boy next door?' Imama suddenly remembered something.

'Chu-Chu? Somewhat strange, I'd say,' shrugged Waseem. 'He's a weird chap. If he's in a good mood, he'll exalt you to the seventh heaven; if he's in a bad mood, he'll dump you into the gutter.'

'Most of your friends are like that,' she said with a smile. 'Birds of a feather flock together.'

'No—that's not the case. At least, I do not behave the way Chu-Chu does.'

'Wasn't he going abroad?' Imama asked Waseem.

'Yes, he was supposed to, but I'm not sure. I think his parents don't plan to send him.'

'His appearance is very odd—looks like he's from some hippy tribe or will be.'

'Have you seen him lately?'

'I saw him yesterday, when I was coming home. He was going out then—there was a girl with him.'

'A girl? Was she wearing jeans?' Waseem was suddenly interested.

'Yes.'

'And she had mushroom-cut hair? She was fair?' Waseem snapped his fingers with a smile. 'Ursa—his girlfriend.

'The last time you named someone else,' said Imama, staring at him.

'The last time? When was that?' Waseem wondered.

'Seven or eight months ago, when you spoke to his girlfriend.'

'Oh, that was Sheba. Wonder where she's now?'

'Then he had a mobile number painted on the rear screen of his car,' laughed Imama as she repeated the number.

'You mean you remember the number?' laughed Waseem.

'How could I forget? I've never seen a mobile number written so boldly and that too on a car!' she laughed again.

'I think I'll put my mobile number on my car too,' he said, running his fingers through his hair.

'Which mobile? The one you haven't bought yet?' she scoffed.

'I'm buying one this month.'

'Then be prepared for Baba's wrath...if you have the number painted on the car, he'll be the first one to call you.'

'That is what holds me back,' Waseem said with resignation.

'It's best for you that rather than have your bones broken you should keep your emotions under control. Besides, there are other issues... what if Samiya gets to know about your mobile connections?'

Waseem cut her short. 'What will she do? I'm not scared of her.'

'I know you're not scared of her but she's the only sister of six brothers, if you please. While you plan to get engaged to her, do consider the pros and cons of consequences that may arise from any untoward action on your part.' Imama was bent on teasing him.

'Alas, what can I do now? My fate is sealed,' Waseem replied with a mock sigh. 'I should never buy a cell-phone as it will be of no use to me—at least, not for finding a girlfriend.' He began to rock on his chair again.

'Better late than never, but you have seen sense,' Imama said, as she reached for earphones on the table.

'What was it that you were listening to?' Waseem remembered s he saw her pick up the earphones.

'Nothing special,' she replied, putting off the question.

'If you're going to Lahore then stop by Imama's hostel on your way back. I've got her clothes from the tailor—you could drop them off,' said Salma to Hashim Mubeen.

'I'm going to be very busy—I can't possibly go around to Imama's hostel.' Hashim wasn't too happy with the idea. 'The driver's going with you; if you can't go then he can deliver the parcel. The season's coming to an end—if she doesn't get the clothes now, they'll just lie unused, and I don't know when she'll come next.' Salma launched into a long explanation.

'Right—I'll take them. If I don't find time, then I'll send them over with the driver,' agreed Hashim.

He spent a fairly busy day in Lahore and it was past five by the time he was free. He decided to take the parcel himself to Imama and went to the hostel. It was the first time he had come here since her admission. He sent her a message through the gatekeeper and waited for her. Ten minutes passed...then fifteen, then twenty: he was getting impatient. Before he could send another message, he saw the gatekeeper coming back, accompanied by a girl. When they came closer, he saw it was Imama's childhood friend from Islamabad.

'Assalaam Alaikum, Uncle!' said Javeria.

'W'alaikum Assalaam, child—how are you?'

'Very well, thank you.'

'I've got some clothes for Imama—her mother sent these as I was coming to Lahore. I've been waiting here for nearly an hour, but she hasn't come.' Hashim sounded plaintive.

'Uncle, Imama's out shopping with her friends. You can give me the parcel, I'll hand it over to her.'

He held out the parcel for Javeria and saying goodbye, he left. Javeria went back to the hostel. The smile had disappeared off her face and her anxiety was only too apparent. As she turned in towards her room, she came across the warden and her smile reappeared.

'Did you talk to her father?' the warden enquired.

'Oh yes. There's nothing to worry about—she's at home in Islamabad.

Actually, he brought me some clothes sent by my family; as he was coming to Lahore, Imama suggested he take them along. But he asked for Imama instead when he got here.' In one breath, Javeria rattled off many lies.

The warden breathed a sigh of relief. 'Thank God! I was worried sick...she'd told me about going home for the weekend...where could she be?'

As Javeria stepped into the room, Rabia jumped up. 'What's the news? She is in Islamabad, isn't she?'

'No,' Javeria said despondently.

'My God!' Rabia put her hands on Javeria's shoulders. 'Where could she have gone?'

'How should I know? All she told me was that she was going home—but she didn't, then where is she? Imama is not that kind of a girl,' said Javeria, as she tossed the parcel on her bed.

'What did you tell the warden?' asked Rabia, worried.

'What did I tell the warden? I lied; what else could I do? If I'd told her that she wasn't in Islamabad, all hell would've broken loose—she'd have called the police.'

'And what did you tell Uncle?' asked Rabia.

'I lied to him too that she had gone shopping.'

'But what happens now?' Rabia was very worried.

'I am concerned that if she doesn't get back, I'll be in real trouble.

Everyone will think that I'm hand in glove with her—that I knew her programme and I lied to her father and to the warden.' Javeria's anxiety was mounting.

'Could Imama have met with an accident? She's not the sort who...' A new fear struck Rabia.