Ecstasy

Chapter 6

Imama , when are you going to Lahore?‘
She looked up from her notes with a start. Saad was slowly cycling
around her. ‗Tomorrow. Why do you ask?‘ She shut her file.
‗When you go away, I miss you a lot,‘ he said.
‗Why?‘ she asked with a smile.
‗Because I like you very much and…you get toys for me and you take
me out for drives and…you play with me,‘ he answered in detail. ‗Can‘t
you take me to Lahore with you?‘
Imama was not sure whether this was a suggestion or a question.
‗How can I take you with me? I live in a hostel myself, so where will you
live?‘ she asked.
He pondered this over as he cycled round. ‗Then you should come more
often.‘
‗Very well. I‘ll come more often.‘ She smiled at him. ‗You can talk to me
on the phone. I‘ll call you.‘
‗Yes—that sounds good.‘ Saad liked this idea. He began to race his
bicycle round the lawn. Imama looked at him absent-mindedly.
Saad was not her brother: he had come to their house five years ago.
She did not know where he had come from—and was not concerned—
but she knew why he had been brought in. He was ten years old now
and had settled in with the family. He was closest to Imama. She often
felt very sorry for him, not because he was an orphan, but it was his
future that she felt sad about. Her paternal uncles had also adopted
orphans and their future too was a cause for concern for Imama.
Book in hand, she continued to look at Saad cycling the garden.
Watching him, she was often troubled by such thoughts, but she had no
answers—there was nothing that she could do for him.
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All four of them were in HOOKER'S BAR, the red-light district of Lahore.
They were between eighteen and nineteen years of age and their
appearance gave away their upper class background; but out here
neither age nor social background meant anything, because young boys
often frequented the area and the elite were among the most regular
customers.
The boys made their way through the narrow lanes of the bazaar. Three
of them were lost in conversation but the fourth looked around with
interest and a sense of mystery. It seemed that this was his first venture
into this domain, and a later exchange with his friends confirmed this.
On both sides of the lane, in open doorways, stood women of every age,
shape, size and complexion—fair and dark, beautiful and plain—all
heavily made up and dressed in a revealing way. And men of all ages
also passed through the lane. The boy observed everything very
carefully.
‗How often have you been here?‘ He addressed the boy to his right who
laughed and repeated the words.
‗How often? I don‘t remember now—I haven‘t kept count! I come here
quite often,‘ he said proudly.
‗I don‘t find these women very attractive…nothing special about them,‘
the boy shrugged his shoulders. ‗If one has to spend a night somewhere
at least the environment should be pleasant—this is such a filthy place,‘
he said looking distastefully at the potholes and the piles of garbage in
the lane. ‗Besides, what‘s the point of coming here when you have
girlfriends?‘
‗This place has its own charm and there‘s no comparison between these women and our girlfriends. Girlfriends can‘t dance like the women
here,‘ the other boy said with a laugh. ‗And today one of Pakistan‘s top
actresses is going to perform—just wait till you see her.‘
‗But you had taken me to see her dance,‘ the first boy interrupted.
‗Oh that was nothing—just a ―mujra‖ at my brother‘s wedding. But
here it‘s a different story.‘
‗But that actress lives in a very posh locality; why would she want to
come here?‘ His tone was somewhat suspicious.
‗Ask her yourself today, if you want. I don‘t ask such questions.‘ The
other boys laughed at this remark, but the first one looked at him
askance.
They finally reached their destination at the end of the lane. From a
shop near the entrance, they bought garlands of motia which they
wound round their wrists, and also on the wrist of the boy who was
objecting to being there. Then they bought paan laced with tobacco and
also offered one to him—he had probably never had paan before. They
went up the stairs.
He looked around critically and a look of satisfaction crossed his face
when he saw that the place was not only clean but well decorated too.
The floor was covered with white sheets and there were bolsters to
recline on. Curtains fluttered softly on the doors and windows. Some
people had already arrived but the performance had not yet started. A
woman with a lovely but fake smile swiftly made her way to them. As
she spoke to them, the first boy took in her appearance. She was middle-
aged, plastered with make-up and sported masses of rose and motia
garlands in her hair. She was dressed in a screaming red chiffon sari
and her blouse seemed to have been made not to cover but to reveal her
body. She led the boys to a corner of the room and seated them.
As soon as he sat down, the first boy immediately spat the paan out into
a spittoon nearby. It was hard for him to talk with his mouth full of
paan; besides he did not quite like its feel or flavor. The other three
boys were speaking in low tones. He looked around at the other men in
the room who reclined against the cushions with wads of notes and
bottles of alcohol in front of them. Most of the older men were dressed
in starched white clothes; it was the first time he had seen so many
people dressed in white other than at Eid congregations. He himself was
dressed casually in black jeans and a black T-shirt like his friends and
the younger crowd.
A little later, another woman in garish clothes entered the hall and,
seating herself in the centre, began to sing a ghazal. Musicians accompanied her. After a few songs, she collected the money that had
been showered on her and left. Then the famous actress for whom they
had all been waiting entered the hall and everyone‘s eyes were riveted
on her. She twirled around and welcomed her admirers with a gracious
nod.
The musicians did not play this time and loud recordings of raucous
songs filled the room. The performer began to dance. The silence that
had preceded her performance was broken by applause as the men
noisily appreciated her dancing and drinks went around. Some of the
more intoxicated men got up and began to dance with her.
The only one who sat still watching the performance was the first boy.
His face was impassive, but if one looked closely it was obvious that he
was enjoying himself. When the actress came to the end of her dance
about two hours later, most of the men in the hall had passed out. Going
home was not a problem for them as they had not come with the
intention of going back any time soon—they were there for the night.
The four boys also spent the night there.
The next day, on their way back, one of the boys turned to the first one
who was looking out of the car.
‗So, how was the experience?‘
‗All right,‘ he replied casually.
‗All right? That‘s all? Honestly…‘ Annoyed, he broke off in mid-
sentence.
‗It‘s a good place to visit occasionally. What more can I say? But it did
not have that ―something special‖ touch about it. My girlfriend is better
than the woman I spent last night with,‘ he retorted.
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Hashim Mubeen‘s entire family was present at the dining table. They
were chatting amiably as they ate. Imama was the subject of their
conversation.
‗Baba, have you noticed that Imama is becoming more serious with each
passing day?‘ observed Waseem as he looked at her provokingly.
‗Yes…I‘ve noticed this over the past few months,‘ Hashim Mubeen
replied, his eyes searching Imama‘s face.
Imama stared at Waseem as she took a spoonful of rice.
‗Imama, is there a problem?‘
‗Baba, he talks nonsense and you fall into his trap. I‘m serious and busy
because of my studies—after all, not everyone is as useless as Waseem,‘
she said with some annoyance. He was sitting next to her and she rapped his shoulder lightly.
‗Baba, what will become of her when she qualifies as a doctor if this is
what she is like in the early years of her studies,‘ joked Waseem. ‗It‘ll be
years before Miss Imama Hashim smiles…‘
Everyone smiled around the table: this type of sparring always went on
between these two. It was seldom that Imama and Waseem did not
argue with each other. But Waseem was also Imama‘s best friend—
probably their being the siblings closest in age lay at the heart of their
friendship.
‗And just imagine that Imama…‘ but she did not let him finish this
time. She turned around and landed a fist on his shoulder with all her
might. It made no difference to him.
‗What else can we have at home but a doctor with a ―healing touch‖?
You‘ve just seen a demonstration and you can guess how doctors treat
their patients these days. One of the reasons for the rising death rate in
our country…‘
‗Baba, please stop him!‖ Imama conceded defeat as she implored
Hashim Mubeen.
‗Waseem!‘ He suppressed a smile as he turned to his son who dutifully
kept quiet.
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