Imama rubbed her eyes once again. The man whom Dr Sibt-e-Ali was now greeting had his back to her. Before embracing Dr Sibt-e-Ali, he put a bouquet and a parcel he was carrying on the centre table. Having greeted Dr Ali, he now sat down on the sofa. Imama got her first good look at Salar.
The gaudy look with the shirt open down to the waist, chains hanging from his neck, hair tied back in a ponytail, bands and bracelets dangling from his wrists, tight jeans—all was gone. He was clad in a simple cream colored shalwar kameez and waistcoat.
'Yes he has undoubtedly undergone a change—at least as far his outer appearance goes,' Imama thought. 'Nobody would believe that this man...' her thoughts were interrupted. Salar was talking to Dr Sibt-e-Ali who congratulated him on his marriage. She could hear them clearly from her room. On Dr Ali's firm persuasion, Salar was telling him all about his earlier marriage and the circumstances in which it had transpired. He spoke of his regret at his treatment of Imama, how he had lied to her about Jalal Ansar's marriage and how he had tricked her into believing that he had not granted her the right to file for divorce.
'When I think about how I treated her I am filled with remorse,' he was saying in a low tone. 'I cannot even express how sorry I am about my behavior; I can't get her out of my mind. For long I was in a state of anguish. She had asked me to help her in the name of our beloved Prophet (PBUH). She trusted me because I am a Muslim and I believe in the finality of the Prophet. And look at me—I betrayed her; despite the fact I knew it was her love for our beloved Prophet (PBUH) that caused her to leave her home and all its comfort. Instead of helping her, I just made fun of her; I thought she was crazy and told her so. The night I dropped her to Lahore she said that one day the other side of life would be clear to me and then only would I learn humility.' He laughed bitterly. 'She was right; I have learnt much. In all these years, I have begged God for forgiveness over and over again....' he had stopped speaking. Imama watched him as he ran his finger over the edge of the centre table. She knew he was trying to suppress his tears. 'At times I felt that God had accepted my prayers and had forgiven me...' he stopped again.
'But that day when I signed the papers solemnizing my marriage to Amina, I realized my worthlessness. Had my prayers been accepted I would have been marrying Imama not Amina. God grants desires that seem as if only a miracle could make them come true. What was my desire? What had I prayed for? A girl who loves someone else, who thinks I am the scum of the earth, a girl who I have been searching for the last nine years but whom I have not been able to trace.'
Salar continued to speak, 'As for me...I live life in the hope I will find her. As though I will be able to live the rest of my life with her; as though she will agree to live with me; that she will have forgotten her love for Jalal Ansar. Had I been capable of praying with the fervor and devotion of those whom
God favors, perhaps my prayers would have been heard and God would have created a miracle for me...for a sinner like me. People go to the Khana-e-Kaaba and pray for the forgiveness of their sins; I went there and prayed that I may be reunited with Imama. Perhaps that is what God did not like.' Imama felt a shiver run up her spine as she heard Salar's voice and recalled her dream.
'Oh God!' She put both her hands to her lips. In a state of disbelief she stared at Salar. In the dream she had not seen the face of the man. Was it possible...? Was that the same man as this who sits before me? Then she had thought the man in her dream was Jalal; but Jalal was not tall—the man in her dream had been tall and Salar was tall. Her hands began to tremble. Jalal was dark complexioned. The man in her dream was fair—Salar was fair. There was one more detail of her dream that she recalled—the man had a strange mark on his shoulder. That mark...She covered her face with trembling hands. In the room Salar was talking about miracles not happening. Dr Sibt-e-Ali sat quietly listening. Why was he so quiet? Only he and Imama knew the answer to that question; Salar had no inkling. Imama rubbed her eyes and uncovered her face. With tears streaming down her face she looked at the man on the sofa. He was no saint, nor was he a holy man; he was just an ordinary man who had repented sincerely for his sins. Looking at him, for the first time she realized what it was that stood between her and Jalal Ansar; the reason why her prayers for Jalal were not realized; what it was that turned Fahd away from her at the last moment. There must be something in the man that God accepted his prayers and not hers; and that at every twist in her fortunes she had been turned towards him.
With tearful eyes she looked at Salar. Dr Sibt-e-Ali was speaking now; he was calling Salar a 'righteous man'. She knew why he used those words. It was not to comfort Salar but for Imama to hear. It did not matter, however. Even if Dr Sibt-e-Ali had not used those words she was compelled to admit that Salar was a 'righteous man'.
She needed no witness to testify to the fact; the witness she had was greater than any witness that man could provide. She needed no proof for the proof that she had for it was greater than any proof that could be given by man. What she had been 'told', what she had been brought to 'understand', she knew...only she could know.
The tea was laid out. Afterwards Dr Sibt-e-Ali took Salar to the mosque for the late evening prayer.
Imama washed her face and hands and went to the kitchen and with the help of the staff, laid out the dinner before Dr Sibt-e-Ali and Salar returned from the mosque. After having dinner Salar left. When Dr Sibt-e-Ali came into the kitchen, Imama was seated at the table having her dinner. Her eyes were moist with unshed tears but her face reflected tranquility.
'I have not spoken to Salar about you but I am sure you would like to meet him,' Dr Sibt-e-Ali said.
Imama put down the glass of water she had been about to drink. 'There is no need for that. God has chosen him for me and who am I to reject what God has chosen for me. He says he has repented of his sins. Had he not done so, had he been the same man he had been before, I would still have accepted him had I known this is what God wants of me.' She picked up the glass of water again. 'Tell him I am ready to go with him'
By the time Salar came back from the late evening prayers, Imama with the help of Furqan's wife, Nausheen, had laid the table. Despite Nausheen objecting to her doing any work, Amina had insisted that she help with the dinner.
When Salar returned Nausheen was ready to leave for her apartment. 'The children will be waiting for dinner,' was the excuse she gave.
'Bring them over they can have dinner with us,' Salar said
'That is too much trouble. And you know my daughter Imama, she will refuse to leave once she is here,' Nausheen was insistent on leaving. 'Salar loves Imama very much,' Nausheen told Imama by way of explanation.
For an instant Salar and Imama's eyes met; Salar quickly turned away and poured himself a glass of water from the jug lying on the table. Nausheen looked with wonder at Imama's reddening face; she could not understand why her innocent remark should have caused such discomfiture.
'You guys go ahead and have dinner; don't do anything for sehri; I will be sending it,' she said as she left the room.
Salar shut the door behind her. He came back to the dining table and pulling out a chair sat down. He did not address Imama nor did he start eating.
Imama hesitated for a few minutes and then she too pulled out a chair and sat down. Only then did Salar put some rice onto his plate. She watched him quietly as he took a spoon in his right hand and began to eat. He knew she was watching him but he did not look towards her nor did he speak to her. The dinner went on in silence—a silence that was now beginning to irk Imama.
After all why would he not talk to her?
'Is he really shocked to see me or is it something else?' she wondered. Her appetite had disappeared; she was finding it difficult to finish the food on her plate. Salar on the other hand was eating heartily. By the time dinner was over the call for the night prayer was sounding from the mosque. Without waiting for Imama to finish, Salar got up from the table and went into the bedroom. Imama pushed her plate aside, her dinner hal
f-eaten. She started clearing the table. Salar came out of the bedroom having changed his clothes; still not speaking to Imama, he left the apartment to go to the mosque. Imama put the leftover food in the fridge; she picked up all the dishes and piled them in the sink preparatory to washing and having wiped the table clean, laid out the prayer mat and began her prayers.
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On his return from the mosque Salar let himself in with his keys. Passing through the lounge he saw Imama busy in the kitchen, washing dishes at the sink. Her back was to him. She had left her doppatta on the sofa in the lounge. The first time he had seen Imama without a doppatta was in Saeeda Amma's house. He was seeing her again without it. Nine years ago he had watched Imama at her ablutions and had desired to see Imama without her chador. Nine years later, his wish had been granted. In the nine years he had often 'felt' her presence in his house; today when he could actually 'see' her there, he was finding it difficult to believe she was really here. Her hair was tied in a loose chignon, looking extremely attractive against the white sweater she wore.
Signing the marriage contract, Salar had not for a moment suspected that Amina Mubeen daughter of Hashim Mubeen Ahmed could be Imama, or that the father was the same Hashim Mubeen Ahmed. As far as he knew, she was Saeeda Amma's daughter. Had her name been Imama Hashim, he still would not have suspected she was the same Imama. But seeing her standing in the courtyard in Saeeda Amma's house he had no doubt about whom he had married.
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'Do you have any idea Imama, how many days, how many hours, how many minutes there are in nine years?'
The silence had been broken. His voice has a coldness to it that would freeze a body. Clamping her lips together, Imama turned the tap off. He was standing behind her; so close that if she turned she would bump into him. She did not turn. She could feel his soft breath on her neck. He was waiting for an answer. She had no answer. With her hands still gripping the sink, she watched the last droplets of water dripping from the tap.
'Did you, even once, in all these years ever think of me? Of Salar?'
The question was a difficult one; she kept quiet. Without waiting for a reply, he asked the next question, 'What is next to ecstasy? You had said it was
"pain". You were right it is pain.'
Salar was quiet for a moment. 'I have 'seen' you so often in every corner of this house, that now that you really are here, I am finding it difficult to believe it.'
To stop the trembling in her arms, Imama clung more tightly to the corners of the sink.
'I feel I am dreaming; that if I open my eyes...' He stopped. Imama shut her eyes, '...everything will still be here... every thing except you...and if I close my eyes again...'
Imama opened her eyes; her cheeks were wet with tears.
'...I will still not be able to return to my dream. You will not be there. I am too scared to touch you; I feel that if I extend my hand towards you the image will shatter like a reflection in water.' He was so close to her that were he to bend a little, his lips would touch her hair; but he did not bend. He was too scared to see the image disappear. 'And who are you? Imama or Amina? An illusion or a miracle? Should I tell you that I...that I...' he stopped.
The tears flowing from her eyes had drenched Imama's face and were now dripping down her chin. Why he stopped speaking she did not know. But never had she found silence so unwelcome as she did now, at this moment. He was quiet for so long that she was compelled to turn around. Then she knew the reason for his silence. His face too was drenched in tears. For the first time in their lives were they so close to each other; so close that they could see their reflection in the other's eye. Then Salar moved away. Furtively he wiped his face with his hand.
'What will you hide from me Salar? And what can I hide from you? We both know each other so well,' she said softly.
Salar lifted his face. 'I am not hiding anything. I was just wiping away the tears in my eyes so that you do not appear in a mist again.' He was watching the earrings dangling from her ears. Those earrings that had so many years ago tantalized him; they were tantalizing him even today...with every movement they changed from reality to illusion...from illusion to reality.
Imama felt all his concentration on her earrings.
'I could never have imagined that one day I will be so close to you, talking like this,' he said. He smiled, his eyes still moist. Imama saw the dimple in his right cheek—the dimple that had aggravated her so at one time now seemed to attract her to him in a strange way.
'I would never have imagined that I would be so close to you; that I could touch your earring...' He paused and took hold of the earring swinging in her ear, '...and that you...you would not slap me for doing so.'
She looked at him in astonishment. He was in all seriousness. The next moment she had burst out laughing, her face still wet from tears. 'Do you still remember that slap? That was just a reflex action.' She wiped the tears off her face with the back of her hand. He smiled, the dimple deepening in his cheek. Very gently he took both her hands in his.
'Do you want to know where I have been all these years? What I have done?
All about these nine years?'
He shook his head to say 'no' and put both her hands on his chest.
'No, I need to know nothing. Nothing at all. I have no questions for you. That you are before me is enough. That you are here is enough. In any case, what can a man like me ask anyone?'
He was still holding her hands, hugging them to his chest. Her hands were cold from having been in the water so long. She knew why he was holding her hands in this way. Subconsciously or otherwise he was warming her hands the way an adult would for a child. Under the sweater, she could feel his heartbeat—irregular, fast, exuberant, telling her something...or trying to tell her something...her hands on his heart had created the link to him...of this she had no doubt.
This man loved her...why? She did not know. This man before her would himself be unable to tell her why he loved her. Salar was standing before her, eyes closed in contentment but even if his eyes had been open, it would not have bothered her. What had been in his glance nine years ago was there no longer. What was in his eyes now had not been there nine years earlier.
'What are we? What is our love? What do we want? What do we get?' Imama felt her eyes filling up with tears again. 'Jalal Ansar and Salar Sikander...the dream and the reality...and reality turned into a dream....Is life much more than this?'
Slowly Imama pulled her hands away. Salar opened his eyes. The emotion in his eyes that flashed for a second only could be deciphered only by her— worry, anxiety, fear—it was a bit of all three. Imama looked at the black sweater and the white collar peeking out of it. She put her arms around his neck and rested her head on his chest. She inhaled the soft cologne he was using—nine years ago he used strong, pungent perfumes...and nine years later?
Salar was absolutely still as if he could not believe what was happening. Then, gently, he embraced her. 'I am honored,' she heard him say. He kissed her softly on the eyes.
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She was in the courtyard of the Khana-e-Kaaba with Salar. He was seated to her right. This was their last night there. They had been here since the last fortnight. They had just finished offering their tahajud prayers. As a rule, they would leave after offering the tahajud. Today they did not do so. They remained seated where they were. There were a great many people between them and the Kaaba. Despite that, they could see the doors of the Kaaba clearly from where they sat.
Sitting there, they each thought of the same dream. They were now seeing that night before them—they were living that dream. Sitting on the floor of the Khana-e-Kaaba, with his legs folded under him, Salar was reciting the Surah Rahman. Instead of sitting next to him, Imama found a place for herself a little to the left and behind him. Still reciting from the Quran, Salar turned to look back and taking her hand motioned to a place besides him. Imama moved forward to sit besides hi
m. Salar let go of her hand. His entire focus was now on the Kaaba. Imama too was looking at the Kaaba, at the same time she was listening to the beautiful recitation from the Quran that her husband was reading in a melodious voice—Then which of the favors of your Lord will ye deny?
Nine years ago Hashim Mubeen had taunted her saying, 'What you are doing Imama you will regret one day...you will have nothing left' Hashim Mubeen had slapped her on the face as he said these words.
'You will have nothing but lamentation and grief, disgrace and humiliation. God punishes girls like you; you will not be fit to show your face to the world' he had slapped her a second time.
Imama's eyes filled with tears. Hashim Mubeen's words rang in her ears. 'There will be a time when you will come back to us. You will beg to be taken back. You will plead and grovel to come home and we shall shun you. Then you will cry to be forgiven; then you will acknowledge that you were wrong...' Imama smiled sorrowfully.
'Baba, my wish is...' she spoke softly to herself, 'that one day I may come before you and you may see that there is no mark of shame on my face, no sign of dishonor. Allah and his beloved Prophet (PBUH) have protected me. They have protected me in this world and I will face no disgrace on the Day of Judgment; and if I am present here today it is only because I am on the right path, and sitting here I once again reaffirm that our holy Prophet (PBUH) is the last in the line of prophethood. There has been no prophet after him nor will there ever be one. I affirm that he is the Perfect Mentor. I confirm that there can never be a man more perfect than our holy Prophet (PBUH). None of his descendants or relations is equal to him nor will there ever be any from his lineage equal to him. I pray to God that I may never equate anyone with him nor ever have the audacity to equate anyone with our beloved Prophet
(PBUH). May God always guide me on the right path. Indeed, I can never deny any of His bounties.'