'Yes, it is Imama,' Akif confirmed.
Salar sank to his knees on the floor. Akif was puzzled. 'What's wrong, what's wrong?' Salar, holding his head, was on the ground. He was the first man to prostrate himself before a prostitute. Akif, sitting on his haunches, was shaking Salar's shoulder, who, in prostration, was crying like a child.
'Water....Water, shall I get some water?' Sanober exclaimed with concern. Swiftly, she fetched a glassful from the jug next the bed, and sat down besides Salar.
'Salar Sahib! Have some water.'
Salar suddenly sat up, as though a current had passed through him. His face was wet with tears. Without saying a word, he flushed his wallet from his jeans and started laying the banknotes from it before her. In a few moments, his wallet was empty, save for his credit card. Then, without a word, he stood up and shot out of the room, tripping in the doorway. Akif, dumbfounded, went after him.
'Salar! Salar! What's wrong? What happened? Where are you going?'
He tried to hold Salar by the shoulder, but he fought back madly.
'Leave me alone, don't touch me; just let me go!' he shouted, crying hysterically.
'You'd come to meet Imama,' Akif tried to remind him.
'She is not Imama, she's not Imama Has him!'
'That's alright, but you have to go with me.'
'I'll go, I'll go myself. I don't need you.' He wrenched himself free and fled from the room. Akif mumbled something. He was upset. He turned back to Sanober who, even now, was looking in amazement at the pile of notes.
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The stairs were even now dark, but given the mental condition he was in, he needed no wall for support, nor any light. He fled down the dark stairs blindly and fell badly. If the stairs were straight, he would have fallen right down to the bottom, but the winding stairs had broken his fall. He again stood up in the dark. Ignoring the pain in his knees and ankles, he tried to run down the stairs again. After a few minutes of descent, his leap had landed him on the ground. This time, he hurt his head also against the wall. He was lucky not to have broken any bones. If there were still a lot of stairs to go down, he might have, perhaps, again tried to run down the stairs, but his second fall had brought him to the stairs below. He could see the street light ahead. He got down from the stairs, but could go no further. However, he took a few steps and sat down on the low wall outside the house. He was feeling bilious. Holding his head, he felt the vomit swell up inexorably within him and he bent over. He was crying uncontrollably as he vomited repeatedly. For the passers-by in the street this was nothing new. Here, those who had had too much to drink or those who had over-drugged themselves would be in this state. Only his dress and appearance were lending him some respectability, and his tears and lamentation were, perhaps, in response to his rejection by his lover up there. There, it was commonplace to see apparently respectable men crying their hearts out. The prostitute's den is not favorable for everybody. The passers-by would smirk as they went. Nobody had come to him. In this bazaar, there was no tradition of enquiring after another's well being. Akif had not come down. If he had, he might have stopped by. Imama Hashim was not there. Sanober was not Imama Hashim. What a burden had been lifted off him, what torment he had been spared. Revelation had not been granted to him through pain, but rather through its awareness. Not finding her there, had brought him to this state. What if he had seen her there? He was feeling afraid of God, terribly afraid. He was Omnipotent, what could He not do? How Merciful He was, what blessings did He withhold? He knew how to keep man human - sometimes through retribution, sometimes through benevolence. He knew how to keep him confined to his humanness.
Salar, never before had felt as remorseful, as regretful, as he was feeling now about this dark chapter of his life. 'Why? Why ? Why did I come here? Why did I buy these women ? Why didn't I awaken to the awareness of sin?' he lamented, sitting by the roadside, holding his head. And now now, when I've left all this, so why why now this pain, why am I feeling it now? I know that I have to answer for all my deeds But Oh! God, please don't hold me accountable here not in this manner. Don't render to this bazaar the woman I love.'
He stopped crying—the revelation dawned on him and that too, where, and how!
'Love?' he mumbled, unbelieving, gazing at the passers-by. 'Do I do I love her?' He had trembled. 'Am I feeling this pain only because Is it remorse, or something else....?' he had debated. He felt as though he would never be able to get up from there. 'So it isn't remorse, it is love, which I'm chasing.' He felt almost lifeless. 'Was Imama a thorn in my heart or an obsession?' The tears were still flowing down his cheeks. 'And looking for this woman in this bazaar, my feet had trembled because in the recesses of my heart I had placed her on a very high pedestal - a place, so high, that I couldn't find her myself. Check mate!'
The man with the 150+ IQ had been flung face-down to the ground. He began to sob again uncontrollably. What wound was it that had been reopened? What pain was it that was suffocating him? What had his conscience given him, what had it taken away from him? He got up and started to walk, sobbing all the while. He had no control over himself. He did not care about the looks being given by the passers-by. Never had he despised his very existence as he was doing then. That Red Light Area was the darkest chapter of his life. So dark that he had been unable to scrape it off his life. It had come back and re-positioned itself in his life. The nights that he had spent there several years ago had ominously engulfed him; he was unable to escape from them, and the fear which had now engulfed him
'If What if Imama had, indeed, come into this bazaar ? Sanober is not Imama Hashim, but someone else ' A wave of pain arose in his head. The migraine was getting worse. He was beginning to lose his mind and was unable to see the road clearly. His head was bursting with pain and he had sat down somewhere. The lights and honking of the traffic had made his head ache worse, and then his mind had descended to some dark depths.
Somebody laughed lightly and then said something another voice replied. Ever so slowly, Salar Sikandar was coming back to his senses. He was pitifully tired, but could recognize voices. Very slowly, he opened his eyes. He was not surprised. He had to be where he was: on the bed of a hospital or clinic, a very soft and comfortable bed. At some distance, Furqan was talking softly to a doctor. Salar took a deep breath. Furqan and the other doctor, whilst talking, turned, looked at him and then approached him.
Salar shut his eyes again. He had difficulty in keeping his eyes open. Furqan came and patted his chest lightly. 'How are you feeling now, Salar?'
Salar opened his eyes. He made no effort to smile. He only stared at him absent-mindedly for a few moments.
'Fine ,' he replied.
The other doctor was busy checking his pulse.
Salar closed his eyes once again. Furqan and the other doctor resumed their conversation. He had no interest in this; in fact, at that moment, he had no interest in anything. The rest had not changed: his guilt, his remorse, Akif, Sanober.... Imama the Red Light Area—everything had remained the same. He wished that he had not regained consciousness for some more time.
'So, Salar Sahib, Shall we talk in some detail?' Hearing Furqan's voice, he opened his eyes. Furqan was sitting on a stool next to the bed. The other doctor had left the room. Salar tried to draw his legs together. A pained cry escaped him. His ankles and knees hurt badly. His legs were covered by a blanket and he could not see them, but he was aware that his knees were bandaged. He was not in his own clothes, but in hospital clothes.
'What happened?' Salar moaned as he straightened his leg.
'You have a sprained ankle, both the knees and calves are bruised and swollen, but, luckily, there is no fracture. The arms and elbows are also bruised, and again, luckily, no fracture. There is a small cut at the back of the head on the left side with some bleeding, but, according to the CT scan, no serious injury. On the chest also, due to abrasion, there are some slight scratches. But, as to your question about what happened, only
you can tell,' Furqan said, speaking like a skilled doctor. Salar looked at him quietly.
'At first, I thought that that the migraine attack was so severe that you had passed out, but after checking you up, I realized that it wasn't so.
Did someone attack you?' he had asked with concern.
Salar took a deep breath and shook his head in denial.
'How did you get to me? Or rather, how did I get here?'
'I was calling you on your mobile, but instead of you someone else picked up the phone. He was on the footpath with you. A good man—he was trying to revive you. He told me about your condition so I told him to take you in a taxi to a nearby hospital, which he did. Then I got there and brought you here.'
'What time is it now?'
'It's about six in the morning. Sameer had given you painkillers last night, that's why you were asleep till now.'
As he spoke, Furqan realized that Salar was not interested in what he was saying. He felt a cool detachment in Salar's eyes, as if he was telling him about a third person.
'Give me something again ' Salar started, realizing that Furqan had stopped speaking. He shut his eyes, and then broke off, trying hard to remember. 'Yes, give me some tranquilizer. I want to sleep for a long time.'
'Of course, you must sleep, but tell me what happened.'
'Nothing.' Salar brushed aside the question. 'Migraine as you have already guessed - and I fell on the footpath and hurt myself.'
Furqan looked at him intently. 'Have something to eat...'
Salar interrupted him. 'No...I'm... I'm not hungry. Give me...some tablet, some injection, anything...I'm very tired.'
'Your people in Islamabad...'
Salar would not let him complete the sentence. 'No, don't inform them.
When I've rested, I'll go to Islamabad myself.'
'In this condition?'
'You said that I'm alright.'
'You are alright, but not all that good. Rest for a few days, here in Lahore. Then you can go.'
'OK; but don't inform Papa and Mummy.'
Furqan looked at him, somewhat puzzled. 'Any thing else?' he frowned.
'Tranquilizer '
Furqan looked at him thoughtfully. 'Shall I stay with you....?' 'What's the use? I'll go to sleep shortly. You go. I'll call you when I wake up.'
He put his arm across his eyes. His brusque manner and cold demeanor increased Furqan's concern. Salar's behavior was very abnormal. 'I'll speak to Sameer, but if you want a tranquilizer, you'll have to eat something first,' Furqan told him in a no-nonsense tone, whilst getting up. Salar did not remove his arm from his face. When he awoke, it was almost evening. The room was empty. No one else was there. Physically, he was feeling even more tired than he had felt in the morning. He threw off the blanket from his legs and, ignoring the searing pain in his left ankle and knees, pulled up his legs. He was feeling strangely suffocated, as though someone was gripping his chest. He was staring at the ceiling when a thought struck him.
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He had come back to the hotel and was packing his things, when Furqan knocked on the door. Salar opened it. He was surprised to see Furqan. He had not thought that Furqan would come after him so soon.
'You're a strange fellow, Salar ,' Furqan started berating him straight away.
'Without telling a soul, you slipped out of Sameer's clinic. You got me worried, and to crown it, you've kept the mobile switched off.'
Salar did not speak. He limped back to his bag, in which he was packing his things.
'You're leaving?' Furqan exclaimed, seeing the bag.
'Yes....!' Salar gave a monosyllabic reply.
'Where....?'
Salar zipped up the bag and sat on the bed.
'Islamabad?' Furqan came and sat opposite him on the sofa.
'No,' Salar replied, looking at him.
'Then....?'
'I'm going to Karachi.'
'What for?' Furqan asked in amazement.
'I have a flight.'
'For Paris?'
'Yes...!'
'Your flight is after four days, what will you do there, going now?'
Furqan started looking at him. Sameer had read him rightly. His expression was really very strange, unusual.
'I have work there.'
'What work?'
Instead of replying, he sat on the bed unblinking, staring at him. Furqan was not a psychologist, but he had no difficulty reading the eyes of the person opposite him. Salar's eyes were vacant. They were just cold, as though he did not know a soul, even him and his own self. He was in depression. Furqan had no doubt about it, but he did not know where his depression was taking him.
'What is your problem, Salar?' he could not help asking him. After a moment, Salar shrugged, 'I have no problem.' 'Then....' Salar interrupted Furqan.
'You know that I have migraine, and once in a while this sort of a thing happens to me.'
'I am a doctor, Salar!' Furqan said earnestly. 'Nobody knows migraine better than me. All this was not solely because of migraine.' 'So, you tell me what other reason there could be,' Salar counter-questioned.
'Is there a problem with some girl?' Salar was taken aback by Furqan's perception.
'Yes....' He did not know why he was unable to deny it. 'Are you involved with somebody?' 'Yes...'
Furqan, for a long while, sat there quietly watching him in disbelief. 'Who are you involved with?' 'You don't know her.' 'You couldn't marry her?'
Salar kept looking at him. His tone was fiery, 'The marriage had taken place.'
'The marriage had taken place?' Furqan asked incredulously. 'Yes...'
'Then ...did you divorce her?' he asked. 'No.' 'Then...?' 'That's it...' 'That's what?'
Salar looked down and, with the forefinger of his left hand, traced the life line in the palm of his right hand. 'What is her name?' Furqan asked him softly.
He again moved his finger across his palm and was quiet for a long, long time. Then he whispered, 'Imama Hashim.' Furqan took a deep breath. Now he understood why he had bought his little daughter loads of presents. Since they had got acquainted and Salar had become a frequent visitor to his house, he had become very fond of Imama—they had become very good friends. Even whilst he was away from Pakistan, he would be constantly sending her gifts. But one thing perplexed Furqan. He would never refer to Imama by her name, nor would he address her so. Sometimes, Furqan had noticed this but he had ignored it. But now, hearing Imama Hashim's name, he realized why Salar would not address the child by her name. He was now haltingly and softly telling Furqan about Imama and himself. Furqan listened to him intently. When, after telling him everything, he fell silent, Furqan was also unable to speak. He did not know what to say: comfort him or say something else....perhaps, some advice.
'Forget her,' he said, breaking the silence. 'Tell yourself that where ever she is, she is well and happy. It's not necessary that something bad happened to her. Probably, she's very safe,' Furqan was telling him. 'You'd helped her to the extent you could. Now, try to stop being remorseful. Allah helps. After you, maybe she found someone better. Why you have such misgivings? I don't think you were the reason for her marriage with Jalal not materializing. Whatever you've told me about Jalal, my own feeling is that he would never have married Imama, whether or not you'd come between them, whether or not you'd tried to drive a wedge between them. As far as your not divorcing Imama is concerned, she should have approached you again. Had she done so, you would certainly have divorced her. If you've done some wrong in the matter, Allah will forgive you, because you are regretting it. You've been asking Allah for forgiveness. This is enough. Then, what's the use of your going into depression. Try to come out of it.' Furqan was trying very sincerely to make him understand. Salar's silence encouraged him to believe him that he was succeeding, but after this long speech when Furqan fell silent, Salar got up and started to open his brief case. 'What are doing?' Furqan asked.
'The time for my flight is approaching.'
He was taking out some papers from his brief case. Furqan did not know what to say.
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He had been coming to Pakistan for the last several years. He was never upset when returning, as he was today. At the time of take-off he had felt a strange emptiness descend within him. He looked out of the window. On that vast spread of earth, there was somewhere a girl by the name of Imama Hashim. If he had been living there, he would have spotted her some time, somewhere. Or, he might have run into somebody who knew her, but where he was heading there was no Imama Hashim. There, chance could not bring them together. He was again going away for a long time, leaving 'possibility' behind. How many times in his life would he leave 'possibility' behind? Ten minutes later, whilst gulping down the tranquilizer with water, he felt that he stood nowhere in life. That he would never be able to find his moorings, that he would never be able to feel the ground under his feet. Entering his seventh floor apartment, he had a feeling that he did not want to go there. He wanted to go some place else. But where? He locked the door of his apartment and switched on the TV in the lounge. CNN was airing its news bulletin. Taking off his shoes and jacket, he flung them aside. Then he took the remote and lay back on the sofa. Absentmindedly, he surfed the channels. The booming voice in Urdu stopped him. An unknown singer was rendering a ghazal.
My life is but a separation, though in my heart she lives
So close, so near to every pulse, yet so distant from my yearning eyes.
He put the remote on his chest. The singer's rendition was beautiful, or perhaps, he was articulating his very sentiments.
This life too will be sacrificed, somehow, some where -Feel free to hang me- if none else.
Poetry, classical music, old films, instrumental music: he had begun to appreciate their worth in the last few years. He had developed a taste for good music, but the Urdu ghazal was alien to him.
Be it the peak of Sinai or the hour of reckoning, I'll endure the wait To meet my beloved somewhere, anywhere, whenever, wherever.