Ecstasy

chapter 7

He emptied the entire contents of the paper bag into the grinder and
turned it on. The cook entered just then.
‗Sir, let me help you,‘ he offered but was waved away.
‗No, I can manage. But get me a glass of milk.‘ He turned off the
grinder. The cook got him the milk. To half a glass of milk he added the
contents of the grinder, stirred briskly, and gulped it down.
‗What have you cooked today?‘ he asked the cook, who started to tell
him what he had cooked. A look of displeasure crossed his face. ‗I won‘t
have anything. I‘m going up to sleep; don‘t disturb me,‘ he said harshly
and left the kitchen.
He looked unkempt with a stubble, and except for one or two buttons in
place, his shirt front was open. Dragging his slippers on the floor, he
went into his room and locked the door behind him. Then he walked
over to the huge music system and began to play Bolton‘s ‗When a man
loves a woman‘ at full volume. He flung himself face down on the bed,
remote in hand, and feet swinging to the music.
Except for him and his bed, everything in his room was in order. There
was not a speck of dust anywhere. The audio-video cassettes were neatly arranged on a shelf by the music system and on a shelf on the wall.
Another shelf was filled with books and the computer table in the
corner reflected his organized nature. Posters of Hollywood actresses
and various bands adorned the walls, while the bathroom door and a
few windowpanes were decorated with cut-outs of nudes from Playboy.
Anyone entering the room for the first time would be startled because
the nude pinups in the windows were life-size and lifelike and placed in
special order. Along with the audio system, there was a keyboard, and a
guitar, a piccolo and an oboe hung on the walls. It was obvious that the
occupant of the room had great interest in music. In front of the bed
was a television cabinet on the shelves of which were several shields and
trophies. In another corner of the room cricket bats and racquets were
artfully slung across posters of sports stars. It looked as if a tennis
racquet was in Gabriela Sabatini‘s hand, while the other was held by
Rodney Martin, and the squash racquet was in Jehangir Khan‘s hand.
The double bed where he was lying on the crumpled silken sheets was a
mess. A few pornographic magazines, mostly Playboy, lay scattered
about with a paper-cutter and snippets—evidence that he had been
cutting out pictures. Chewing gum wrappers, an empty coffee mug, a
packet of Dunhill‘s and a lighter, an ashtray and scattered ash littered
the white silk sheet that had holes burnt through. Somewhere there was
a wristwatch and a tie, and a cell phone by the pillow where the young
man lay face downward, perhaps half asleep as his hand mechanically
but unsuccessfully searched the bed when the phone rang. The beeping
went unheard and the remote in his hand fell to the floor as his grip
relaxed. Michael Bolton‘s voice continued to fill the room with the lyrics
of "When a man loves a woman‘—the knocking on the door became
persistent and louder, but he lay motionless on the bed.
………………………………………………..

‗Don‘t tell me! Imama, are you really engaged?‘ Zainab appeared
jolted by Javeria‘s disclosure. Imama cast an accusing glance at Javeria
who looked at her shamefacedly.
‗Don‘t look at her—look at me and tell me if it‘s true that you‘re
engaged,‘ Zainab addressed Imama sharply.
‗Yes, but it is not something extraordinary or amazing that you should
react like this,‘ Imama replied with composure. They were all sitting in
the library and trying their best to talk in low tones.
‗But at least you should have told us. What was the big secret?‘ This was Rabia.
‗There‘s no secret and neither is it so important. Besides, we have
become friendly only recently and the engagement took place years
ago,‘ explained Imama.
‗What do you mean by ―years ago‖?‘
‗I mean two or three years ago.‘
‗But still you should have told us…‘ Zainab persisted.
Imama smiled at her. ‗When I get engaged again, I‘ll definitely tell
you—whether or not I tell anyone else.‘
‗Very funny.‘ Zainab glared at her.
‗At least show us a photograph of him… Who is he? What‘s his name?
What does he do?‘ As usual, Rabia‘s questions came pouring out in one
breath.
‗He‘s my first cousin…his name‘s Asjad,‘ The words came slowly and
Imama paused thoughtfully. ‗He has completed his MBA and runs his
own business.‘
‗What does he look like?‘ asked Zainab. Imama looked at her closely.
‗He‘s all right.‘
‗All right? I‘m asking you is he tall, dark, and handsome?‘
Imama smiled at Zainab without a word. Javeria replied on her behalf.
‗This is Imama‘s choice...he‘s quite good-looking.‘
‗Yes, we should have known—after all he‘s Imama‘s first cousin. Now
Imama, your next task is to show us his photograph,‘ ordered Zainab.
‗No, her first duty is to take us out for a treat,‘ interjected Rabia.
‗But now let‘s leave; I have to go to the hostel.‘ Imama got up and they
all left together.
‗By the way, Javeria, why didn‘t you tell us about this earlier?‘ Zainab
asked her.
‗Listen, Imama did not want it—that‘s why I never brought it up,‘ said
Javeria. Imama turned around and gave Javeria a warning look.
‗Why wouldn‘t Imama want it? If I had been engaged and that too to a
boy of my choice, then I would have screamed it out from the rooftops,‘
Zainab declared loudly.
Imama chose to ignore her.

--------------------

‗Your son is amongst those 2.5 percent of the world‘s population who
have an IQ of more than 150. With this level of intelligence, whatever he
does may be extraordinary, but not unexpected. Salar had been at the
International School for only a week when Sikandar Usman and his wife had been called over by the school administration. The school
psychologist had informed them about Salar‘s various IQ tests in which
his performance and score had amazed his teachers and also the
psychologist. He was the only child in the school with such a high IQ
and very soon he became the focus of everyone‘s attention.
During his meeting with Mr and Mrs Usman, the psychologist got
another opportunity to dig out more information about Salar‘s
childhood. He had been studying Salar‘s case with much interest which
was personal rather than professional—it was the first time he had
come across such an IQ level.
Sikandar Usman remembered well that when Salar was just two years
old, he was remarkably fluent in his speech, unlike other boys of his age,
and very often he came up with things that left him and his wife
wondering.
One day he was speaking to his brother on the phone while watching
TV, and Salar was playing nearby. After the call ended, Sikandar saw
Salar pick up the phone and say, ‗Hello, Uncle, this is Salar.‘
Sikandar watched him as he happily chatted away. ‗I am well. How are
you?‘ Sikandar thought he was play-acting. The next sentence made
him sit up. ‗Baba is right here, watching TV. No, he did not call—I
called you.‘
‗Salar, who are you talking to?‘ asked Sikandar.
‗Uncle Shahnawaz,‘ he replied. Sikandar took the phone from him. He
thought Salar may have dialed at random or else pressed the redial
button.
‗Salar has dialed the number, I‘m sorry,‘ he apologized to his brother.
‗How could he do that? Isn‘t he too young?‘ His brother was surprised.
‗He probably pressed the redial button accidentally.‘ Sikandar switched
off the phone and put it back in place.
Salar, who was quietly listening to this conversation, went and picked
up the phone again—Sikandar looked at him as he expertly dialed
Shahnawaz‘s number, just as an adult would. He was shocked—he did
not expect a two-year-old to do this, He reached out to disconnect the
call.
‗Salar, do you know Shahnawaz‘s number?‘ he asked.
‗Yes,‘ came the calm reply.
‗What is it?‘
Salar rattled it off. Sikandar stared at him—he did not think Salar
knew how to count, let alone remember a string of digits. ‗Who taught
you this number? ‗I learnt it myself.‘
‗How?‘
‗You just dialed it.‘ Salar looked at him.
‗Do you know how to count?‘
‗Yes.‘
‗How far can you count?‘
‗Till a hundred.‘
‗Show me how.‘
Like a machine, Salar counted from one to one hundred, in one breath.
Sikandar could feel knots in his stomach. ‗I am going to dial a number
now, and when I disconnect you call the same number,‘ he said.
‗OK.‘ Salar was enjoying this game. Sikandar dialed a number then
switched off the phone. Salar immediately took the receiver and dialed
the same number as confidently as his father had. Sikandar‘s head was
spinning. Salar could remember any numbers that he dialed, and could
then dial them accurately. He had a photographic memory.
Sikandar called his wife. ‗I haven‘t taught him numbers,‘ she said.
Yesterday I just said out the numbers one to hundred. But I did get him
some books a few days ago.‘
Sikandar asked Salar to count to a hundred—this he did while his
mother watched in amazement. Convinced that the child was far ahead
in intelligence for his age, they enrolled him in school much earlier than
they had his siblings. He excelled in school.
‗This child needs your special attention, because compared to children
of average intelligence, such children have a more sensitive and
complicated nature. If he has a good upbringing, he will be an asset to
your family—indeed to the country.‘ Sikandar Usman and his wife
listened with pride to the psychologist who was a foreigner. They began
to give Salar preferential treatment at home: he became the most
beloved and favorite child and they were very proud of his
achievements.
At school, he was promoted to the next class after just one term, and
then again at the end of the term he was promoted yet again. Sikandar
was perturbed—he did not want Salar to be sitting for his O levels and
A levels at the age of eight and ten. Considering the speed of his
progress, this seemed quite likely.
‗I would like you to let my son spend a full year in class before he is
promoted to the next level. I do not want him to race through his
academic career in school at this abnormal speed. You can increase his
subjects and activities, but let him progress normally towards promotion.‘
So, Salar was not moved up mid-term; his talents and energy were
channeled into sports and other extra-curricular activities. Chess,
tennis, golf and music interested him the most, and he took an active
part in whatever happened in school—if he did not participate in
something it was only because he did not find it challenging enough.