'By whom?'
'Your country needs you.'
Salar smiled, spontaneously. 'I'm not a patriot like you—things are quite well here without me. A doctor is a different thing, but a finance manager cannot heal the sick or save lives.'
'The service you're rendering there can be given here. Whatever you're teaching in your lectures in universities there can be taught in the universities here.'
He felt like telling Furqan that he would be incapable of teaching anything here, were he to return, but he kept listening to him quietly. 'You've seen poverty, hunger and disease in Africa, but you'll be shocked to see the poverty, hunger and disease in your own country.' 'The situation is not as bad here, as it is in those countries, Furqan! This place is not that backward.'
'Living where you've grown up in Islamabad, you cannot judge the conditions in the areas around the city. Just go to any village outside Islamabad, and you'll see just how comfortably off the people are.' 'Furqan, I want to contribute something to your project,' Salar abruptly changed the topic.
'Salar, my project doesn't need any funding right now. If you want to do something for development, why don't you start a project of your own? You won't have a problem with funds.'
'I don't have the time. I can't manage this while working in America. If you want to set up a school in another village, I'll support you, but I cannot give this personal time and attention.'
Furqan did not reply. Perhaps he had realized that his insistence was irking Salar. The conversation turned to Furqan's village, once again. It was most certainly, one of the most memorable days of Salar's life. He was very impressed by the village school, and more so by the clinic. It would be more appropriate to call it a small hospital. Despite there being no full-time doctor, it was very organized and orderly. Furqan's visit was expected and there was a large number of patients waiting to be seen—all sorts of people, young and old, men and women, adults and infants.
Unconsciously, Salar began to pace up and down the compound. Some people, taking him for a doctor, approached him. Salar began talking to them. He had never before seen a cancer specialist fulfill the role of a physician, checking up people, writing out prescriptions. He had to admit that he had hardly seen a doctor better than Furqan: he was very professional and gentle with his patients; the quiet smile rarely left his face. A little while later, Furqan arranged for someone to accompany Salar to the school. There, he met Furqan's parents. They already knew of his arrival: quite likely, Furqan had called them up and informed them. They took him around the school. Contrary to his expectations, the school building was very spacious and well-constructed. He was also surprised by the number of students there. After spending a few hours at the school, he went with Furqan's parents to the haveli. As he entered the gates, a sudden rush of joy raced through him—he had not expected to see such a beautiful garden in this village. It was abloom with myriad colors in well laid out flowerbeds.
'A beautiful garden, very artistic!' he could not help express his admiration.
'This is Shakeel Sahib's passion,' said Furqan's mother.
'Mine and Nosheen's,' added his father.
'Nosheen?' Salar asked.
'Furqan's wife: the artistic touch is hers,' his father smiled.
'Ah yes! Furqan told me his family's in Lahore,' Salar seemed to remember.
'Yes, they live in Lahore, but when Furqan comes here, he brings his family along. These slides in the garden are for his children. Nosheen's a doctor too but she's not practicing as the children are too young. She also goes to the village clinic with him, but she's not here now as her brother's getting married.'
Salar looked around as he listened to his host. He had come to the haveli for lunch and was hoping that Furqan would join them. When lunch was served, he asked about Furqan and was told that he did not take a break. His mother said that he had only a sandwich and a cup of tea, in the least time possible, as there was a crowd of people to be examined and treated—quite often, this would go on till the evening.
They continued to converse as they ate. Furqan's father was in the Finance Division and had retired at Grade 20. When he learnt that Salar's professional interest was also finance, he became quite animated. Talking to him, Salar did not notice the passage of time. He spoke to him about the school.
'We really don't need anything for the school right now. One of Furqan's friends is getting a new block built—you may have seen it, it's almost ready. But if you want to contribute, you can do something for the clinic. We need a full-time/permanent doctor and we've approached the Ministry of Health several times; Furqan has also used his contacts, but no doctor is willing to come out and serve here. We desperately need a doctor—you must have seen the number of patients. There's a dispensary in a neighboring village but there too, the doctor goes on leave without waiting for the replacement to arrive.'
'I'll do whatever I can in this regard, but I also want to do something for the school. When I get back, I'll try to arrange an annual grant from UNESCO, through some NGO.'
'But we don't need this. Whatever you've seen here, we've done it ourselves: our family, relatives, family friends, my acquaintances, friends of my children. We never needed any grant from the government or from any international agency. Till when should UNESCO be expected to come and end the hunger, ignorance, and disease of our people? Whatever we can do on our own, we should.'
'All I had wanted was that this project be further expanded.' Salar tried to explain.
'It will expand hugely. When you come here 20 years hence, you'll find it a different village. The poverty that you've seen today will not be there then. Their "tomorrow" will be different from their present,'
Furqan's father said with great conviction. Salar watched him silently.
In the afternoon, Furqan phoned him from the dispensary. After some small talk, he told Salar, 'Now you should be leaving for Islamabad. I'd wanted to go drop you myself, but there's a lot of rush here. If I don't attend to the people who have come from the other village, they'll suffer. That's why I'm sending my helper. He'll drop you back in the car to Islamabad.' He fixed the programme.
'OK,' replied Salar.
'Before you leave, come and see me at the dispensary,' Furqan said, putting down the phone.
Salar had tea with Furqan's parents. By then the car had arrived and he drove to Furqan's. The morning rush had decreased, and now there were only twenty-five to thirty people left. Furqan was examining an old man. Seeing Salar, he smiled.
'I'll see him off, and be with you in a couple of minutes,' Furqan said to his patient and got up. He walked with Salar to the waiting car outside.
'How long will you be in Pakistan?' he asked Salar.
'A week and a half.'
'Then, we'll not be able to meet again, because I'll not be able to make it to Islamabad and here till next month. But I'll call you—when is your flight?'
Salar, ignoring his comment, counter-questioned, 'Why can't we meet?
I can come to Lahore—that is, if you invite me.'
Furqan gave him a surprised smile. They shook hands and Salar got into the car.
Salar was not aware of what it was that brought him so close to Furqan or why he liked him so much—it was beyond him. Four days later, he went to Lahore for a day. He had informed Furqan who offered to pick him up from the airport. But Salar declined.
As agreed, he reached Furqan's place at 4 p.m. Furqan lived on the ground floor of a well-appointed apartment block. Salar rang the doorbell and waited. There was the sound of a child running up to the door; a five year old girl, held back by the security chain in the door, peeped out.
'Who do you want to meet?' she queried. Salar gave her a friendly smile but the child did not respond—she was very serious.
'Child, I want to meet your Papa.'
The little girl bore such a strong resemblance to Furqan that there was no doubt of her being his daughter.
'Papa doesn't meet anyone at this time,' she inf
ormed him.
'He'll meet me,' said Salar, enjoying this encounter.
'Why will he meet you?' came the reply.
'Because I am his friend. If you go and tell him that Salar Uncle's here, he'll come and meet me.' He smiled gently, but she was not impressed.
'But you're not my uncle.'
Salar burst out laughing. 'Don't laugh,' she said, obviously upset.
Salar sat back on his haunches facing her and, looking at her, said, 'You look very nice in this frock.' His compliments did not affect the mood or reaction of the little madam on the other side.
'But I don't like you.' More than her words, Salar was enjoying her attitude and reactions. He could also hear someone else approaching the door.
'Why don't you like me?' he asked patiently.
'Just like that,' she retorted, tossing her head.
'And what's your name?'
She looked at him for a while and said, 'Imama!'
The smile vanished from Salar's countenance. Then, through that crack in the entrance, he saw Furqan emerge behind Imama. He picked up the child and opened the door.
Salar stood up. Furqan had just stepped out of the shower and water dripped from his disheveled hair. Salar made a feeble attempt to smile, and held out his hand.
'Come, I was waiting for you,' said Furqan, leading him in. Imama was in her father's arms, constantly trying to whisper something into his ear and being ignored by him.
'Have you met Uncle Salar?' he asked instead.
'I don't like him,' she said candidly.
'That's not nice, Imama—one doesn't say such things about guests,' he chided gently. 'Now go and shake hands with him.' He put her down and instead of going towards Salar, she ran out of the room.
'That's strange—her not liking you. She's very friendly with all my friends. She seems to be a little out of sorts today,' he clarified with a smile.
'It's her name,' thought Salar. 'I'd have been surprised if she'd liked me.'
They talked over tea and Salar disclosed, by the way, 'In a couple of weeks, there will be a doctor at your clinic'
'That's a very good news,' Furqan perked up
'And this time, the doctor will live there. If he doesn't, then let me know.'
'I don't know how to thank you—procuring a doctor for the dispensary has been a major problem.'
'You don't need to.' He paused, then continued, 'before going there, I had not expected to see work being done at this scale and in such an organized manner—I've really been very impressed by your work. My offer is still open: to help however I can with your project.' Salar was serious.
'Salar, I've told you earlier too that you should start a similar project in another village. You have more resources and contacts than we do and you can run it very successfully.'
'You know my problem is scarcity of time—I cannot give as much time as you do, and besides, I cannot stay in Pakistan. Unlike your family, mine will not be very helpful in any such venture,' Salar revealed.
'Anyway, we'll talk about this later. Finish your tea and then come with me,' said Furqan, changing the topic.
'Where?'
'I'll tell you on the way,' replied Furqan with a secretive smile.
'What will I do there?' Salar asked Furqan, getting into the car. 'The same as I do,' he said, stopping the car at the signal. 'And what do you do there?' 'You can see that when you get there.'
Furqan was taking him to one Dr. Syed Sibt-e-Ali, whom he used to meet himself. He was a religious scholar and Salar was not interested in religious scholars. In the last few years he had seen so many of them, and in their true colors, that he did not wish to waste his time on them. 'Frankly speaking, Furqan, I'm not the type you're imagining me to be.' He spoke after remaining silent for some time. 'What type?' Furqan turned and faced him. 'The same, of spiritual leaders and followers or oaths of loyalty etc....or whatever you make of it.' He spoke very candidly.
'That's why I'm taking you there. You need help.' Salar shot him a look of surprise, but he was looking at the road.
'What kind of help?'
'If a Hafiz-e-Quran, after reciting a sipara at night is unable to fall asleep without the aid of sleeping pills, then there is, indeed, something wrong somewhere. Several years ago, I had also gone into deep depression. My mind was a morass. Then, someone took me to doctor sahib and I've been going to him for the last eight to ten years. Meeting you, I realized that, like me, you also needed help - guidance,' Furqan said softly.
'Why do you want to help me?'
'Because my faith tells me that you are my brother,' he said turning the corner. Salar turned his head away from him and looked ahead. He had nothing more to say to him.
He was not interested in religious scholars. Every scholar was a genius in portraying his own sect as the loftiest. Every scholar was proud of his knowledge. Every scholar felt that only he was good and the others were bad. I am all-knowing and the others are wanting. Looking at every scholar, one felt that he had not acquired knowledge from books, but directly through divine revelation, where there was no possibility of error. To date, he had not come across a scholar who could tolerate criticism.
Salar himself belonged to the Sunni Sect, but the last thing he wanted to discuss with anyone was schools of thought and sects, and these were the first things that these religious scholars would discuss. Going to these religious scholars, he had gradually grown averse to them. Their only asset was knowledge, not its application. They would give a very long lecture on 'Slander: a Sin', give references of Quranic verses and ahadis, and in the very next breath mention a fellow religious scholar by name, make fun of him, and try to prove his ignorance in matters of religion.
They would get to know the bio-data of everyone who came to them, and if the details were of interest to them, then a whole spate of demands and requests for favors would follow. And they would use the bio-data to impress others, to tell them what important person had come to them and when; who had benefited from their audience and how; which important person was for ever fawning over them; who had invited them home and how respectful and how deferential they had been. The scholars he had been to till now, he had never visited again, and here Furqan was dragging him to another such person. They had traveled to one of the good areas of the city. The locality was respectable but not posh. There were already a lot of cars parked on that street. Furqan parked the car at a suitable place by the curb and got down. Salar also got down. After walking for three or four minutes along the row of houses, they reached a comparatively modest but impressive house. 'Dr. Syed Sibt-e-Ali' was written on the name plate. Furqan, without hesitating, entered the house. Salar followed suit. A gardener was busy at work on the small lawn inside the bungalow. Furqan exchanged greetings with a retainer in the porch and walked on till he came to a door, where he took off his shoes. There were already lots of other pairs. Voices could be heard from inside. Salar also took off his shoes, and entering the room a step behind, in one sweeping glance, took in the whole scenario. He was in a spacious room, carpeted, and strewn with floor cushions. The room was very sparsely furnished and the walls bore calligraphies of Quranic ayats. There were some twenty to twenty-five men who were busy talking. Furqan, as he entered the room, greeted all loudly, exchanged pleasantries with a few, and went and sat in a vacant corner.
'Where is Dr. Sibt-e-Ali?' Salar asked in a low voice as he sat down close by.
'He'll enter exactly at eight, it's only seven-twenty-five now,' Furqan informed him.
Salar began to look around and observe the people. There people of all ages - some teenage boys, some his own age, people of Furqan's age, some middle-aged, and some of advanced years also. Furqan was engrossed in conversation with someone sitting on his right. At the stroke of eight, Salar saw a man, 60 to 65 years of age, enter the room through an inner door. Contrary to his expectations, no one in the room stood up to greet him. The entrant began by offering salutations and everyone responded. Salar noticed the change in th
e mode of the audience's seating—they had straightened up in respect to the scholar. They became alert and careful.
The man who came was none other than Dr Sibt-e-Ali. He took up his usual place against the wall, which had probably been set aside for him. He was dressed in a white shalwar qameez; he had a fair complexion, and in his youth, he must have been handsome. His beard was not very long but was thick, well-trimmed and grizzled, much like his hair. His graying hair and beard gave him a mature, dignified look. He turned to enquire the welfare of a man to his right who had probably been ill.
Salar took in his appearance in a quick glance. He was sitting with Furqan at the rear end of the room.
Dr Sibt-e-Ali commenced his lecture. He spoke eloquently in a well-modulated voice. There was complete silence in the room; the audience did not even stir. From the introductory sentences of Dr Ali's speech, Salar realized that he was in the presence of an extraordinary scholar. 'A human being passes through several ups and downs in his life. From the peaks of achievement to the depths of failure, all his life he moves on a path between these two limits. That path can be one of gratitude or thanklessness. Some are fortunate that whether they may succeed or fail, their path is that of gratitude. Some on the other hand, despite their achievements or their failures, tread the path of ingratitude. And there are those who walk both paths: grateful when they succeed and ungrateful when they do not. Humanity is just one of Allah's innumerable creations: the best of His creation yet just a creation. They have no rights over their Creator, only duties. Man has not been sent to this world with a track record that entitles him to any right or demand of his Creator. Yet Allah's bounties on man began with his very presence in Eden and have continued boundless ever since. In return, all that is asked of us is gratitude. What do you feel about this? When you do anyone a favor, do you expect him to overlook it and remind you of the times when you did not favor him instead of acknowledging your kindness? Or that your kindness is not enough, that you could have done this or that in a better way? What would your reaction be to such a person? Far from being kind to him, you would not want to have anything to do with him.