Overcoming his pain he tried once more to free his wrists. His arms hurt excruciatingly. After struggling for fifteen minutes, he stopped. He then realized that the strip across his mouth had loosened and that he could get it out by manipulating his neck, which he did. Next, he spat out the tissues. He inhaled deeply for several minutes and then kept yelling aloud—as loud as he could—for help.
He was hysterical. After continuously shouting for half an hour his courage and voice packed up. He was out of breath, as though he had run several miles, but even so no one answered his call for help. The wounds on his wrists were hurting unbearably and now the insects stinging his face and neck also. He did not know what over took him but suddenly he burst out crying aloud uncontrollably like a child.
For the first time in his life he was crying with such intensity. Perhaps, never before had he felt so helpless, and tied as he was to the tree trunk, he realized that he did not want to die. He was being engulfed by death the way he felt he had been in New Haven. He did not remember for how long he cried out hysterically. Then his tears started to dry. Perhaps he was so tired that he could not even cry. Dog-tired, he leaned against the tree trunk and shut his eyes. His shoulders and arms hurt so much that he felt that they would be permanently paralyzed.
'I have never hurt anybody like this, but why has this happened to me?' Tears started to flow again from his eyes.
'Salar! My life is already beset with problems, don't try to increase them; my life is already difficult and with the passage of each day it is becoming even more difficult.
At least try to understand my predicament and don't increase my difficulties.' Leaning against the tree trunk Salar opened his eyes. His throat was drying up. Deep down below, far, far away he could see the lights of Islamabad.
'Am I trying to increase your difficulties? Me....? My dear Imama! I am besought with your problems. I am trying to put an end to them. Consider, living with me what a good and protected life you could have.' Salar bit his lip. *
'Salar! Give me a divorce,' she had exclaimed.
'Sweetheart! You go get it from the court, as you have already said you would.'
He was now quietly staring at the distant lights; he could discern his own image and that of someone else too in a mirror. 'I had only joked with Imama,' he mumbled.
'I....I did not want to hurt her.' His words appeared hollow to him.
Heaven knows to whom he was trying to clarify. For a long time, he stared at the lights of Islamabad, then his eyes grew dim.
'I accept I've done some wrong.' His voice was a hoarse whisper. 'I had intentionally tried creating problems for her. I tricked her, but I made a mistake and I am remorseful. I know that by my not giving her a divorce and by lying about Jalal, she must have had to face a lot of difficulties. I am really sorry for all that happened, but apart from this I have not hurt anyone.' And he began to weep again. .
'My God if I get out of this, I'll seek out Imama and divorce her, and I'll never trouble her again. I'll also tell her the truth about Jalal. Please, Lord, just release me.'
He was now sobbing uncontrollably. For the first time, he realized how Imama must have felt when he had refused to divorce her. Perhaps, she had felt her hands were tied, the way he felt now. Sitting there, he could, for the first time, imagine Imama's helplessness, fear, and pain. He had lied to her about Jalal Ansar's marriage and he still remembered the heartbroken expression on her face. He actually enjoyed seeing her in distress. She had cried almost all the way from Islamabad to Lahore that night—and it had amused him.
Now he could appreciate her mental and emotional state. That dark night, traveling in that car, she might not have been able to see ahead or behind her. The only refuge for which she had left home was Jalal Ansar's house, but Salar would not let her go there. At that hour of night, in that pervading darkness, he could feel Imama's fear and forebodings which had wrenched her heart.
'I am sorry, indeed, I am sorry, but but what can I do if ....if I see her again I'll apologize to her, I'll help her as far as I can—but now...at this time I can't do anything. If If I have ever ever done any good, God, get me out of this misery. Oh God! Please....please ....please.'
With tears streaming, he tried to recall the good deeds that he had done. It occurred to him for the first time that, till now he had not done any good in his life. No good deed that he could present before God and, in return, ask Him for his release. He was gripped by another fear. He had never given in charity, as he did not believe in it. He did tip in hotels and restaurants, but never gave any alms to a beggar. At school or college, when funds were collected for various causes he would neither collect nor donate.
'I don't believe in charity,' he would coldly expound. 'I don't have spare cash to throw about.' He had continued with this attitude in New Haven also. This niggardliness was not just limited to charity; he did not believe in helping out anybody. He could not recall any instance where he might have helped someone. He had only helped Imama, but after what he had done to her he could not call it a good deed. He also did not pray regularly.
Perhaps, as a child, he might have gone a few times for Eid prayers with Sikandar, but even that was more a ritual than worship. He remembered the night in New Haven when he had absconded midway from the isha prayer, and he also remembered the $50 he had given to the hooker.
Probably, that was the one instance when he had felt pity for someone. He tried hard to recall any good that he might have done, but in vain.
And then he was reminded of his misdeeds. What had he not done? His tears and supplications immediately stopped. The slate was clean. If he had died in that state, he would not have been dealt with unfairly. If, at the age of 22, with an IQ level of 150+, a photographic memory, and after thinking for several hours a person is unable to recall even one good deed that he had done, then how could he expect God to bail him out of his predicament?
'What is next to ecstasy?' he had said whilst taking cocaine in his teens, asked his friend, who was also imbibing it.
'More ecstasy,' he had said. Then, taking some more, he turned to look at Salar.
'There is no end to ecstasy. It is preceded by pleasure and followed by more ecstasy.'
He went on in his stupor, but Salar was not convinced.
'No, it does end. What happens when it ends? When it really ends?'
His friend looked at him strangely. 'You know it yourself, don't you? You have been through it off and on.'
Salar, instead of replying, again started taking cocaine.
The twine biting into the flesh of his wrists was now speaking: 'Pain.'
'What is next to pain?' He had asked Imama Hashim jeeringly that night.
'Nothingness.'
A rope-like thing had dropped on his body. It slithered over his head, face, down his neck, chest, stomach, and then slid away swiftly. Salar choked his scream as his body shook. It was a snake that had slithered off him without biting him. His body was soaked wet with sweat and shivering like a fever-ridden patient.
'Nothingness,' the voice was clear.
'—and what is next to nothingness?'
The response was a sarcastic, contemptuous smile. 'Hell.'
She had said the same thing. He had been there, tied up, for the last eight hours in that desolate, dark and terrifying solitude. He had been shouting for help with all his might for an hour and his throat had gone hoarse, unable to speak another word.
He was suspended between 'Nothingness' and 'Hell'. Perhaps, he was about to enter 'Nothingness' and was about to reach 'Hell'.
'Don't you feel afraid to ask what would come after Hell? What can come after Hell? After a person dies—condemned and sentenced—what remains of him that you are so keen to know?'
Salar looked around himself with terrified eyes: what was that place? His grave or hell or a glimpse of it in this life hunger, thirst, utter helplessness, crawling insects whom he could not stop from biting him, almost paralyzed hands and feet, wounds on his back a
nd wrists getting worse by the moment whether it was fear or terror but he had begun screaming like a mad man. His screams were renting the air—hysterical and frightening screams, apparently without purpose. He had never felt such fear in his whole life. Never. He began to see demons and apparitions around him.
He felt that a blood vessel in his brain might burst or he might have a nervous breakdown. Then his screams slowly subsided and his throat was completely choked. He heard strange muffled sounds: he was sure that he was dying. His heart was failing or else he was losing his mental balance. And suddenly then, at that moment, the twine tying his wrists at the back of the tree loosened. His faltering senses seemed to jolt back to life.
Biting his lower lip, he moved his hands. The twine began to loosen further. Perhaps, it had broken due to the constant friction with the tree trunk. He moved his hands a little more and realized that he was free of the trunk.
Unbelieving, he straightened his arms; waves of pain shot through them. 'Have I, have I been saved?' he wondered as he looked uncertainly at the outlines of his arms and hands in the darkness. 'Why? What for?'
His mind was going numb. He removed from his neck the strip of cloth that had first been tied across his mouth. The movements made him groan as his arms hurt very badly, so badly that he felt he might not be able to use them again. His legs were also going numb. He tried to stand up, but fell to the ground. A whimper escaped him. He tried to stand up again with the help of his hands and knees and this time he succeeded.
The two boys had taken his joggers and his watch as well. His socks were lying somewhere around. He could have felt around for them in the dark, but he would have had to use his arms and hands. He was incapable of doing this, neither physically nor mentally.
He only wanted to get out of there at any cost: stumbling through the dark, he somehow got through the bushes, bruised and scratched, till he reached the road where the boys had accosted him. He walked down barefoot. The pebbles and stones hurt his feet, but this was nothing compared to the physical and mental ordeal he had been through. He did not know what time it was but he was aware that more than half the night was over. He did not know how much time it took him to walk down or how he did it. He only knew that he had wept loudly all the way.
He did not bother to look at the state he was in, even in the light on the roads of Islamabad. He did not stop, nor did he ask for help. Crying, he stumbled along on the footpath.
A police patrol car saw him first and stopped near him. The constables got down in front of him and stopped him. For the first time, he came to his senses but he could not stop his tears. They questioned him but what could he say? Within the next fifteen minutes he was in a hospital where he was provided first aid. They were asking him his home address, but his throat was choked. He was unable to tell them anything. With a swollen hand, he scribbled his home phone number and address.
'How much longer is he to be kept here?'
'Not long. As soon as he regains consciousness, we'll check him up again and discharge him. His injuries are not grave; he only needs complete rest at home.'
His mind was moving from the unconscious to the conscious state. The meaningless sounds were becoming comprehensible. He was beginning to recognize the voices. One voice was that of Sikandar Usman. The other voice must have been of some doctor. Salar very slowly opened his eyes. He was at once blinded by the light. The room was very brightly lit. He felt that it might be the private clinic of their family doctor. He had stayed in a room like this once before too, and a cursory glance was enough for confirmation. Now, his brain was functioning perfectly normally.
He again became aware of the pain in various parts of his body, even though he was in a very soft and comfortable bed.
He was not in the clothes he had on in the government hospital where he had first been taken. He was in other clothes and his body may also have been cleaned up with water, because his arms exposed from the half-sleeved shirt did not show any dirt or grit. His wrists were wrapped in bandages and his arms bore a lot of small marks. His arms and hands were swollen. He could imagine innumerable such marks on his face and other parts of his body. He felt that one of his eyes was also swollen and his jaws were also aching, but worst of all was his throat. There was a drip in his arm which was about to finish.
The doctor was the first to see him regain consciousness. He was not their family doctor; perhaps, he was some other doctor working with their family physician. He beckoned Sikandar towards him.
'Has he come to?' He saw Tayyaba, who was seated on a sofa, move towards him, but Sikandar remained motionless. The doctor checked Salar's pulse.
'How are you feeling now?'
Salar wanted to say something but his voice failed him. He could only open his mouth. The doctor repeated his question, but Salar shook his head negatively.
'Try speaking.' Perhaps, the doctor was already aware of the problem with his throat. Salar again shook his head. The doctor picked up a torchlike instrument from the tray that the nurse was holding.
'Open your mouth.' Salar parted his aching jaws. The doctor examined his throat for sometime and then switched off the torch.
'The throat needs to be thoroughly examined,' he said to Sikandar Usman, turning towards him. Then he pushed a writing pad and pen towards Salar. The nurse, by now, had removed the drip from his arm.
'Sit up and tell what's happened to your throat.' He did not have difficulty in sitting up. The nurse had put the pillow behind his back. He kept thinking, holding the pad in his hand.
'What happened to you - to your throat, your body, your brain?' He was unable to write anything. He kept looking at the pen held in his swollen fingers. He remembered what had happened to him. He remembered his screams which had rendered him unable to speak. 'What am I to write? That on a hill I was robbed and tied up, that for a few hours I was lowered into a grave to find the answers to my questions....What is next to ecstasy?'
He kept looking at the crisp white paper and then briefly jotted down what had occurred. The doctor, holding the pad, quickly went through the seven or eight sentences and pushed the pad towards Sikandar Usman.
'You should immediately contact the police so that the car can be retrieved. As it is, a lot of time has been lost. Heaven knows how far they've escaped with the car,' the doctor sympathetically advised Sikandar Usman, who glanced at the writing pad.
'Yes, I'll contact the police.' The two talked for some time about the check up of Salar's throat after which the doctor and the nurse left.
The moment they left, Sikandar Usman flung the writing pad at Salar's chest.
Keep this pack of lies to yourself! Do you think that I'll ever believe you? No, never.' Sikandar was infuriated. 'This may be your latest adventure, another suicide attempt.'
Salar wanted to say, 'For God's sake! It isn't true,' but he looked at him unable to speak.
'What am I to tell the doctor? That he is in the habit of creating such situations, that he was born to create such problems?' Salar had never seen Sikandar Usman so angry. Maybe, they were really fed up with him. Tayyaba stood by silently.
'Every year, there's a new drama, new trouble. What sin have we committed in having you?' Sikander Usman was convinced that this was some part of a new adventure. Salar's injuries could not be taken as proof of a dacoity, particularly, when there was no witness, as the boy had tried to take his own life four times in the past.
Salar recalled the story about 'crying wolf. Some tales are indeed true. His constant lying had cost him the confidence of others. Maybe, he had lost everything: respect in the eyes of others, self-confidence, pride, honor—he had reached the nadir in all.
'It was a long time since a new drama had been created, so you thought "Why deprive my parents? It was long since they had been embarrassed and humiliated—it was time to give them a fresh blow.'
'Sikandar, maybe what he's saying is correct. You should at least inform the police about the car,' Tayyaba said after reading the message
on the pad.
'Do you think he is telling the truth? Has he ever told the truth? I don't believe even a word of his rubbish. This son of yours will have me hanged one day and you're telling me to go report to the police? Make a laughing stock of myself? He must have done something with the car too—maybe sold it to someone or disposed it off somewhere.'
Now, he was really abusing Salar, who had never been spoken to abusively before. Sikandar would only scold him but even so Salar would react vehemently. Of all the four brothers, he was the only one who could not even stand being reprimanded and Sikandar would be very cautious speaking to him, because he would over-react. But, today, Salar did not react even to his abuses.
He could understand how his father despaired of him. For the first time, sitting on the bed, he was trying to understand his parents' predicament. What had they not provided him? They had fulfilled his every wish without his having to utter a word. And what had he been giving them in return? What was he meting out to them now: mental anguish, worry, pain? Apart from him, none of his brothers or his sister had ever caused them problems. He was the only one who
'Someday, because of you, we both may have to commit suicide. You would then be at peace with yourself.'
Last night, tied up on that hill, for the first time he had longed for his parents. He realized for once how much he needed them, what would he do without them, who would worry for him except them. For once, Sikandar's words had not hurt his pride. He was always close to Sikandar and he quarreled the most with him too.
'I don't want to see your face again. I want to have you dumped back in the place about which you are lying.'
'Now stop it, Sikandar,' Tayyaba remonstrated.
'Why should I stop? Why doesn't he stop? Why doesn't he take pity on us and stop his antics? Has he been sent to make our lives hell on earth?' Sikander said with greater agitation.
'In a while, the police people who'd found him on the street will be here to record his statement, and he'd give them the cock and bull story that he, the innocent soul that he is, had been robbed. It would have been better if indeed he had been robbed and been thrown down the hill, so that my problems were over.'