Salar completed the recitation of Surah Rehman. For a few minutes, he paused and then he prostrated himself. Rising, he was about to stand up, but he stopped. Imama was sitting with her eyes closed, both hands spread out in supplication. He sat down again waiting for her to finish.
Imama finished her prayers. Salar wanted to get up but could not do so.
Imama took hold of his right hand. He looked at her in astonishment.
At this late hour of the night, with a face wet with tears but beaming with happiness, Imama said to Salar 'It is said that one doesn't get the person one loves—do you know why that happens? It is because there has to be sincerity in love; in the absence of sincerity there is no love. When I fell in love with Jalal, nine years ago, there was complete honesty in my love for him. I prayed and did everything I could to make my dream come true...and yet I did not achieve my desire.'
She was sitting on her haunches. Salar's hand, held lightly in her own, rested on her knee. 'Do you know why that happened? Because by then you had already begun to love me and your love was truer than mine.'
Salar looked at his hand. Her tears were rolling down on to his hands. He looked at Imama.
'I now feel that God created me with great care. He did not wish to give me to someone who would not acknowledge or appreciate me; who would not respect me. And that is what would have happened with Jalal. He would never have respected me. In these nine years, God has shown me these realities. He has revealed the good and bad in all men in these nine years, and then He gave me in marriage to Salar Sikander, knowing that he alone loves me truly. Who else would have brought me here except you? You were right when you said that your love for me was pure and true.'
Salar looked at Imama silently. Imama took Salar's hand in hers and softly kissing it, she put the hand up to her eyes.
'To what extent I will love you, I do not know. That is a matter of the heart and I have no control over my heart. But this I do know that as long as we are together, I will be faithful and obedient to you. That is within my purview. I will be with you at every difficult point in our lives; no matter what life throws at us, I will be there with you as your support. I have become a part of your life in good times; if things change and we face adversity I will be by your side.' She let go of his hand as gently as she had held it. Her head was bowed and she passed her hands over her face.
Without a word Salar stood up. He looked at the doors of the Khana-e-Kaaba. He had indeed been blessed with one of the most righteous and wonderful women created, for a wife—the woman for whom he had prayed, fervently, for nine years that he may find again. Was there any blessing that he had not been given by God? As she stood with him, he realized what an enormous responsibility he had been given: to provide for this woman—this woman who in her goodness and piety was far ahead of him.
Imama stood up. Salar too got up and held her hand. They were ready to leave. He had been given the responsibility to protect this woman who, unlike him, had made a conscious choice to avoid a life of transgression and sin. Who, despite her physical and emotional frailties, unlike him, did not allow the desires of the self to overcome her body and soul. Holding her hand and slowly moving through the crowds, Salar, for the first time in his life, comprehended the meaning of piety and virtue. She was a few feet behind him as they made their way through the crowds milling around this holy site. It was as if he was watching his whole life roll by as if on a screen and he felt a tremendous fear within himself. Despite a life of sin and wrongdoings, he had only seen the blessings of Allah and yet no one was more afraid of His displeasure as he was now. He whose IQ level was 150+; he who had been blessed with a photographic memory had now realized that even with these gifts one could completely be stumbling in the dark. He too had stumbled, many times...and in many ways...and his inherent skills had then been of no use to him—not his high IQ; not his photographic memory. This woman walking next to him had neither of these two advantages. Instead she had in her palm a tiny firefly of guidance, and in the burst of its light, she had made her way through every dark alley of life without ever stumbling.
THE END
Umera Ahmed, Pir-E-Kamil: The Perfect Mentor
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