He remembered Imama again. He always remembered her. At first, he remembered her when he was alone, then he would see her in the crowd. He had misunderstood love - he had, all along, thought it was remorse.
She is beyond me, but my love is pure, not base desire -
To her alone I belonged, I belong - even if mine she may not be.
Salar suddenly got up from the sofa and made towards the windows. Standing on the seventh floor, he could still feel the darkness in spite of the lights. Strange was the wilderness beyond, strange was his state within.
The decision, let it be known here; save it not for the final day, Let the blow that will strike me then, be my fate here and now.
Standing there, looking at the lights blinking in the dark beyond the window pane, Salar tried descending the depths within him.
'Me? And love some girl? The question doesn't arise!' He recalled his oft-repeated statement of several years ago. The darkness outside intensified, as did the torment within he bowed his head in defeat, and after a few moments, looked up again and gazed out of the window. Where does one's right to take matters in one's own hands begin, and where does it end? Another bout of depression - the blinking lights of the night were dying out.
The heart that so yearns for a glimpse, Naseer, will surely succeed Regardless of her secrecy, however veiled my love may be.
Salar turned to look at the screen: the singer was rapturously repeating the last line. Like an automaton, Salar moved to the sofa and sat down. Pulling the brief case on the table towards him, he took out his laptop.
The heart that so yearns for a glimpse, Naseer, will surely succeed Regardless of her secrecy, however veiled my love may be.
The singer was repeating the closing couplet of the ghazal. Salar's fingers flew across the keyboard as he typed out his resignation. The sound of music in the room died down. Every line of his resignation letter seemed to thaw his spirit that was ice, as it were. It was as if he was stepping out of a magic circle, as if some spell was working to free him.
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'Only you can take an idiotic decision like this at this stage of your career.'
He listened to Usman Sikandar in silence. 'Why on earth are you leaving such a good position and that too so suddenly? And if you have decided to leave this job, then come and join a business venture—what's the great idea of joining a bank?'
Usman Sikandar was very critical of Salar's decision.
'I want to work and live in Pakistan, that's why I've left this job.
Business I cannot do; besides, I've had this offer from the bank for quite some time now. They're ready to post me in Pakistan, which is why I've accepted the offer.' Salar answered all his father's questions in one go.
'Then don't join the bank—come and work with me.'
'I can't do that, Papa—please don't force me!'
'Then stay where you are. Why return?'
'I'm unable to stay on...'
'A fit of patriotism?'
'No.'
'Then?'
'I want to be with you all.' He changed the track.
'Anyway I am sure this decision is not solely on our behalf.' His father's tone had softened a bit.
Salar did not replay. His father too was quiet for a while.
'You've made up your mind so there's not much I can do about it. You might as well come back if you want to. See how it works out in the bank, but my desire is that you should join me in looking after the family business.' Usman Sikandar seemed to accept his son's decision.
Then he remembered something. 'You wanted to complete your Ph. D— what became of that?' he queried.
'I don't want to do further studies at present. Perhaps, I'll go back to it a few years later—or maybe not at all,' Salar replied in a low voice.
'Are you coming back because of the school?' Usman Sikandar suddenly asked.
'Maybe...' Salar did not refute the statement. If his father believed that the school was the reason for his return, there was no harm in letting him do so.
'Reconsider your decision, Salar!' His father could not resist saying it.
'Very few people get the kind of professional start that you did—are you there?'
'Jee,' he replied in a monosyllable.
'You're mature enough and can decide for yourself,' his father concluded the conversation.
Salar put the telephone down and looked around his apartment. Eighteen days later, he had to relinquish it forever.
END OF CHAPTER SIX
Chapter 7
His life entered a new phase on his return from Paris. Initially, he continued to work for the Islamabad branch of the foreign bank. After some time, they posted him at their new branch in Lahore. He had the option of going to Karachi, but he opted for Lahore as it also gave him the opportunity to spend time with Dr Sibt-e-Ali.
The nature of his activities changed with his work in Pakistan, but in no way were they any less than before. Here too he was busy day and night. His reputation as an exceptional economic expert traveled with him wherever he went. His name was not new in government circles, but on his return to Pakistan, he was frequently invited by the ministry of Finance for lectures to officers under training. This business of lectures was not new for him either as after completion of his studies at Yale, he had been teaching various classes there, and this continued even after he had moved to New York. He continued to participate at the seminars on human development at the Columbia University, where his attention turned to economics once again.
In Pakistan too he soon became involved in similar seminars organized at IBA, LUMS and FAST. Economics and Human Development were two topics from which he could not abstain in silence—they were close to his heart and the feedback on his lectures at these seminars was always exceptional.
He used to spend one weekend every month at his school in the village and living there introduced him to a new dimension of life.
'We have concealed our poverty in our rural areas, just like people brush dirt under the carpet.' Furqan had said this once while the school was still under construction. The days now spent in the village bore out the horror of this reality. It was not that he was unaware of the poverty in Pakistan: working with UNESCO and UNICEF in Asian countries, he had read many reports on Pakistan. But he was seeing for himself, the first time, people who lived below the poverty line.
'Step out of the ten or fifteen large cities, and you realize that people in smaller towns live not in the Third World but perhaps in the Tenth or Twelfth World—they have neither employment nor facilities. They spend half their lives yearning and half in despair. What sort of ethics advocates that a man should begin his day with a piece of dry stale bread and end it with starvation? And here we are—instead of putting an end to hunger and want; we go on building mosques—grand, expensive mosques, with walls and floor made of the best marble and with embellished ceilings. You'll find maybe ten mosques on one road—mosques empty of worshippers.' Furqan used to say bitterly.
There are so many mosques in this country that if the entire population of Pakistan were to come out and pray in them, half of them would still be empty. I don't believe in building mosques in a country where people commit suicide out of hunger and where generations of some social levels are lost in ignorance. You need schools, not mosques in such places so that education and awareness will provide opportunities for employment— only then will people thank God, otherwise they'll only complain.'
He used to listen to Furqan quietly. When he began going to the village regularly, he realized Furqan was right. Poverty had driven people to denial of faith. The most trivial of their needs would be on their nerves and they would be slaves to whoever could fulfill their needs. The weekend he would visit the village, people would line up to meet him for the most ordinary things. Sometimes, there would be endless queues.
'Get my son a job in the factory...even a thousand rupees per month will add to our income.'
'If I could have twen
ty thousand rupees, I'll get my daughter married off...'
'The rains have ruined our crops. I have no money to buy seed for the next season. Lend me some money, please; I'll repay you when the crop's harvested.'
'The police have my son in custody—they won't give any reason. They say they'll hold him as long s they want—please talk to the SHO.'
'The patwari is fighting with me over my land—he wants to allot it to someone else...he says my papers are forged.'
'My son works in the neighboring village; he has to walk eight miles back and forth...if only you could get him a bicycle.'
'We need to install a hand pump in our house for water. Please help.'
Salar used to hear their requests in amazement—were such simple things such an insurmountable challenge that people should waste their years trying to overcome them? When he made his monthly visits to the village, he would carry ten to fifteen thousand rupees with him. That money distributed in small amounts would meet their simple—but to them, important—needs. It would bring some ease to their lives. The few lines he wrote or the few calls he made to some bigwig on their behalf would lift their burdens and cut away the invisible shackles off their feet—perhaps, even Salar was not aware of how this worked.
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During his stay in Lahore, he visited Dr Sibt-e-Ali with regularity. Every evening after isha prayers, people would gather there and Dr Ali would speak on a topic of interest, sometimes of his own choice and sometimes one of his visitors would ask a question which then became the topic of discussion. Unlike most speakers, Dr Sibt-e-Ali did not believe in a captive audience that only listened. His lectures were interactive and he threw questions at them to encourage discourse. He valued their opinion and took criticism in a mature and positive manner. Salar Sikandar was the only one perhaps who had not yet raised any queries nor tried to answer those asked by Dr Sibt-e-Ali. He did not join those who offered opinions nor those who criticized.
Often he would accompany Furqan and if Furqan was not there, then he'd come alone and take up his usual place, at the far end of the room. He'd listen quietly to Dr Ali and the discussions that went on. Sometimes, on being asked, he'd introduce himself briefly, 'I'm Salar Sikandar; I work with a bank.'
As long as he was in the USA, he used to call up Dr Sibt-e-Ali once a week, but his conversation with him was very brief and always the same. He would call; Dr Ali would receive the call and always ask him just one question.
The first time he heard the query, he was taken aback. He had landed in America a few days ago and Dr Ali was asking him about his return—to Pakistan. Salar was surprised.
'Not soon...'he had replied, not understanding the nature of the question.
Later on, it did not strike him as odd because unconsciously he seemed to know what Dr Ali meant. The last time he asked Salar about this was when he had gone to the Red Light Area in search of Imama. After returning to Paris, he called Dr Ali the next week, as always, and as always, the dialogue ended on the same question: 'When are you coming back to Pakistan?'
Suddenly Salar felt he had had enough—it took him a while to regain his composure.
'Next month: I am resigning from this job and will work for a bank in Pakistan.'
'Very well. Then we'll meet next month,' said Dr Ali.
'Pray for me, please,' Salar finally said.
'I will. Anything else?'
'No, nothing more. Allah hafiz,' he said.
Dr Ali replied likewise and these conversations ended on the same note till Salar's arrival in Pakistan.
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Visiting Dr Sibt-e-Ali gave Salar a sense of peace. That was the only time when he felt the depression lift off him completely. Sitting silently before him, Salar sometimes felt like unburdening himself, telling him all that he had kept within himself and which corroded him like a poison. The guilt and remorse, the restlessness, the helplessness and sense of shame, the regret—everything. Then the fear of Dr Ali's reaction—what he would think—would break his resolve.
Dr Sibt-e-Ali was an expert in removing ambiguities. Salar sat in his company, silent, listening, understanding, absorbing, coming to conclusions—there was a veil that was being lowered and s view that was becoming clear. The questions that had burdened his mind all these years were being answered by Dr Ali.
'If you study Islam with understanding, you'll realize its scope—how open it is. It is not a faith subscribing to narrow-mindedness and meanness; there's no place for these in Islam. It begins with I and moves on to we— from the individual to the community. Islam does not expect you to sit on a prayer mat all day, a cap on your head and a rosary in your hands, doing nothing but praying and preaching. In fact, it asks you to make your life an example of fair dealing, devotion, honesty and diligence. It asks for sincerity and steadfastness. A good Muslim convinces others not by his words but his deeds.'
Salar recorded Dr Sibt-e-Ali's talks and listened to them later at home. He had been in search of a mentor and had found one in Dr Sibt-e-Ali.
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'Salar, come on! Come, please...how much more do you want me to beg you!' Anita dragged him by the arm; she was getting annoyed.
He had come to Islamabad, on three days' leave, for Ammar's wedding, although his family had insisted he join them for a week. The wedding functions had begun several days ago. He was well aware of the 'importance' and 'nature' of these events; hence despite their insistence, he planned to stay no more than three days. And here he was at Ammar's mehndi being celebrated jointly by both the bride's and groom's families. Both Ammar's and Asra's friends and relatives were dancing away to Indian film songs and pop music. It was an atmosphere of wild abandon— sleeveless dresses, baring necklines, clothes clinging to the bodies, sheer dresses and silk and chiffon saris with net blouses—the women of his family were in the same kind of attire as everyone else.
It was a mixed gathering and, before all this singing and dancing started, he found himself a seat where people from the corporate and banking circles or those who knew his father and brothers were sitting. But then the mehndi ceremony began and Anita dragged him off to the stage. Ammar and Asra were there, chatting away. He was meeting Asra for the first time. Ammar introduced them. Salar tried to get away once the ceremony was over but Tayyaba stopped him.
'It's your brother's mehndi and you're sitting away in some corner! You ought to be here,' she admonished him. So he stayed back, with Kamran and his wife. One of his cousins came up and tried to put a mehndi sash around his neck that all the others had. Salar shook him off once again, expressing annoyance. In the next few minutes, the dance music began and along with Ammar all his siblings and cousins were dancing. Anita pulled him towards the dance floor.
'No, Anita, I can't dance. I don't know how to.' He tried to disengage himself and excuse himself from participating. But instead of listening to him, Ammar and Anita brought him into the heart of the melee. At Kamran's and Moiz' weddings, he too had danced like this, but that was seven years ago. And in these seven years he had traveled a long way—a journey of the mind and soul. At Ammar's wedding, standing there in that crowd, he found it difficult even to raise his arms. Quite lost and helpless he just stood there in their midst.
Bending down, he whispered into Anita's ear, 'I've forgotten how to dance—please let me go.'
'Just begin—it'll come back,' replied Anita, putting her hand reassuringly on his shoulder.
'I can't. You all carry one, I'm enjoying the event. Let me go.'
Meanwhile, Asra had also joined the crowd and her arrival gave Salar a chance to slip away.
'To reach the zenith is the dream of every nation, every generation; and then those communities, who have received divine revelation, consider it their right to achieve pinnacles of glory. But they do not qualify just because they have been blessed with a divine messenger and scripture; not until they prove themselves through their actions are they entitled to a status o
r a special dispensation or quality. The same situation has arisen in the past with the Muslims and continues to afflict them. Their problem is that their upper classes are the victims of ostentatious indulgence and egoism— these things are like an epidemic, spreading from one to another to another, endlessly.' Standing there, watching the dancing men and women, Dr Sibt-e-Ali's words sprang to Salar's mind.
'A momin—a true believer—is never profligate: neither when he is one of the populace nor when he is the ruler. His life is not like that of an animal or insect led by base instinct—just eating, sleeping, reproducing and dying. This cannot be a Muslim's way of life.'
A smile came to Salar's lips—here he was amidst a throng of such animals and insects, and the knowledge that he had left their company long ago made him happy. Everyone there was happy, contented and at peace with themselves—rising laughter, glowing faces and shining eyes. Before him was Tayyaba, dancing with Ammar's father in law, and Anita dancing with her eldest brother Kamran.
Salar rubbed his temples—perhaps it was the loud music or his mental agitation that he felt a wave of pain pass through his temples. He took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. Then wearing them again, he tried to find a way out of that chaos and succeeded.
'Where are you going?' Tayyaba's voice followed him through the noise, and she caught hold of his arm. She had just stopped dancing and was out of breath.
I'll be back soon, Mummy, after my prayers.'
'Let it be today...'
Salar smiled but said nothing; he shook his head and gently pulled his arm away. He tried to find a way out.
'He can never be normal. Enjoying life is also an art and this fool will never learn this art,' she thought ruefully as she watched her third son walk away.
Stepping out and away from the noise and clamor, Salar breathed a sigh of relief. As Salar walked out of the gate towards the mosque, the singer was in full form. Salar was the only one from that house who was on his way to the mosque. Going past the lines of parked cars, he constantly thought of Dr Sibt-e-Ali's words, and also of those hundreds in his house at present who were busy having a ball, singing, dancing. There were only fourteen people who came to the mosque for prayers.