PEER E KAMIL

Untitled Part 36

This was the beginning of a new journey for Imama. She went to Sabiha
regularly and participation in these gatherings reaffirmed her decision and
dispelled her doubts. Change of faith was a grave decision for Imama, one
that impacted every aspect of her life. She could no longer marry Asjad as he
was not a Muslim; she had to distance herself from her family, sooner or later,
as she could not live in an environment where the truths and principles of
Islam were being blatantly distorted. She began to have doubts about the
source of the funds that paid for her education, and that she received for her
expenses. That life that had seemed like a fairy tale now appeared to be
nightmare though she herself had chosen this path. She was amazed at her
decision to convert: she had prayed to the Almighty for courage and
steadfastness and He had rewarded her but she was still young enough to fall
prey to fears and suspicions.
̳Imama, do not disclose your faith to your parents as yet. You should be able  to survive on your own—then you can refuse to marry Asjad and tell yourfamily about your conversion,' advised Sabiha, when they discussed Imama's
dilemma.
̳I do not want to spend the money my father gives me, especially when I know
that he has acquired his wealth by propagating a false religion. It would not
be right to use such funds.'
̳That's right, but you have no option. It's better that you should complete
your education so that you're no longer dependent on your father then.' Even
if Sabiha had not shown her a way out, Imama had no choice: she did not
have the courage to give up her dream.
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It was 10 p.m. when he came out of the cinema hall and walked on, munching
on leftover popcorn. Half an hour later, he rang the bell of a huge mansion.
̳Shall I serve dinner, Sir?' the servant inquired.
̳No.'
̳Milk?'
̳No.' He walked to his room and shut the door. Switching on the light, he
aimlessly turned over the books and papers scattered around. Then he went
into the bathroom and taking a new razor blade from the shaving kit, he came
and sat on his bed. He turned on the bedside lamp and switched off the main
lights. Very carefully, he unwrapped the blade and then with a swift sharp
move, sliced across his right wrist. A whimper escaped him but he clenched
his lips. He tried to keep his eyes open as his right arm drooped over the edge,
blood flowing in a steady stream onto the carpet.
His mind seemed to fall into a vortex from which sudden explosions jolted
him. The noise increased and he opened his eyes, but he could not make any
sense of it.
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She was rudely awakened from sleep. ̳Imama! Imama!' It was Waseem,
shouting out her name and loudly banging on the door.
̳What is it? Why are you shouting?' She opened the door to find Waseem in a
state of panic.
̳Do you have a First Aid kit?'
̳Yes. Why?' She felt the ground slipping away.
̳Just get it and come with me. Choo-Choo has tried to kill himself again—he
slashed his wrist. Their servant is downstairs...come on!'
Imama suddenly sighed in relief. ̳Your friend belongs in a mental hospital,
considering his behavior,' she said with annoyance as she picked up her  dupatta and followed Waseem. ̳I've just seen him—he's still conscious,' said Waseem as they came down the
stairs.
̳You should have taken him straight to the hospital.'
̳That I'll do, but at least bandage his wrist so that the bleeding stops.'
̳I can't do very much, Waseem. God knows what he used to cut his wrist,
Anyway, where's his family?' Imama asked.
̳No one's at home except for the servants. They came to tell him about a
phone call and finding no response, they broke down the door.'
Imama tried to say something about Salar, but Waseem turned around
angrily. ̳For God's sake, can't you stop your comments? His condition is
serious and you go on maligning him!'
̳I have no sympathy for people who do such things.' They were now in Salar's
house and, shortly, entered his room. Imama stopped in the doorway,
shocked. The entire room was plastered with life-size posters of half-nude
models—almost as if they were actually there. She blushed and the injured
young man on the bed fell further in her opinion. The posters reflected the
shallowness of his character and were a source of embarrassment for Imama
because of the presence of other people in the room.
She quickly moved to the bed where Salar Sikandar lay. Waseem tightly held
his wrist, covered with a corner of the bed sheet, to staunch the bleeding while
Salar, half-conscious, tried to wrest himself free and at the same time
attempted to talk to Waseem and the servants.
̳Look at his wound,' Waseem said, as he held out Salar's wrist. Imama sat
down and removed the sheet—the cut was long and deep. Salar again yanked
his arm but Imama's grip was firm.
̳Waseem, get me the bandage from the kit. The wound is too deep—we can't
do anything here, he needs to be taken to the hospital. I'll bandage his wrist to
control the bleeding,' she said.
Salar jerked his head and tried to open his eyes. Everything was shrouded in a
mist through which he saw a girl holding his arm very firmly. Agitated, he
tried to pull his arm away but a current of pain shot through: he felt almost as
if he would die but the next minute he again tried to free himself.
̳Who the hell are you? Go away! Get lost!' he faltered despite his anger. ̳This
is my room.... how dare you enter it? You're Waseem...get out! Just get
lost...bloody bastard!' he shouted, stumbling over his words.
Imama heard him abuse her brother but did not let go of Salar's arm and in
spite of his thrashing around, managed to bandage his wrist. Through the fog,
Salar felt something gentle around his wrist. Once again, he attempted to
release himself using his left arm to pull away, but he failed. His arm hit the  girl's head, her dupatta slipped away and her hair fell open. She held on to hiswrist with her left hand and her right hand slapped him sharply across his
face. It was such a stinging blow that he came to for a moment to see her face,
red with anger.
̳If you make another move, and I promise that I'll slash your other wrist
too—do you hear me?' she shouted.
Salar heard Waseem say something too, but he couldn't make out his words.
As he lost consciousness, he heard a female voice, ̳Check his blood
pressure...' He suddenly remembered the slap on his face and tried to look
up, he heard the girl's voice again but the words escaped him as he slipped
into darkness.
The next time he came to, he was in a private clinic. He opened his eyes to look
around: a nurse was present in the room, adjusting the drip. Salar saw her
smiling and tried to say something but once again, he faded into the dark.
He could not recall when he regained consciousness the second time, but he
found himself surrounded by familiar faces. His mother came close as he
opened his eyes.
̳How are you feeling?'
̳Just fine,' he replied softly, looking at Sikandar Usman who stood at a
distance. Before she could say more, a doctor in the room came up to check
his pulse. He gave Salar an injection and gave him another drip. Salar
watched the proceedings listlessly and turned his eyes to the ceiling as the
doctor spoke to Sikandar Usman and his wife, Tyaba.
There was absolute silence in the room. Sikandar and Tyaba sat, despondent.
Despite their best efforts and precautions Salar had attempted suicide the
fourth time, and had nearly succeeded. A few minutes delay would have been
the end of him, the doctors said.
Sikandar Usman and his wife had been informed about Salar by the servant
at two in the morning. In their desperation and anxiety, they could hardly
sleep, and Sikandar must have smoked more than a hundred cigarettes till
they caught the morning flight from Karachi to Islamabad.
̳I fail to understand why he does this...all our guidance, our counseling have
had no effect on him. It seems my mind will explode when I think about him.
What have we deprived him of? What have we not given him? All the
luxuries, the best education...I even took him to the best psychiatrist and yet
this is the result. Where did we go wrong that we should be punished so? I'm
the laughing stock of my friends and acquaintances.'
Sikandar was deeply worried. He walked a knife's edge as far as Salar was
concerned and a moment of neglect had ended in this mishap. Tyaba wiped   her tears. Now in the hospital, they were at a loss for words, but Salarrecognized their state of mind and welcomed their silence. However, three
days later they confronted him.
̳Just tell me why you do such things?' Sikandar asked him with equanimity.
̳What is the problem? You had promised not to behave like this. I even got
you a sports car as a reward. Yet you seem to have no regard for us or your
family's position.'
Salar sat unresponsive. ̳If nothing else, at least think about us, your parents,'
pleaded Tyaba. ̳If there's a problem, share it...discuss it, but for God's sake,
don't try to take your life. Have you ever considered what would have
happened to us if you had succeeded?'
Salar listened to them impassively. This was nothing new: it was the usual
dialogue after every failed suicide attempt.
̳Why are you silent? Haven't you understood us?' Tyaba was frustrated and
angry. ̳You seem to get a kick out of humiliating your parents!' They used his
achievements and his potential as an incentive to evoke a response, and Salar
thought, ̳Here they go again.' He yawned.
Finally, he spoke. ̳What can I say when you've said it all? My life is a
personal matter for me and I'd told you earlier that I did not intend to die...'
Sikandar intervened. ̳Whatever you intend, don't do it! Have pity on us!'
̳Just say that you'll not do such things again. Please stop,' Tyaba implored.
̳Very well, I won't,' replied Salar, to free himself of their pleas and despair.
Sikandar and Tyaba were not convinced, but they had little choice. They had
always been so proud of Salar, yet he alone had given them more worries than
all their other children together.
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