by Umera Ahmed
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The boys stood behind the rostrums on the stage, facing each other. They were both canvassing for the post of head boy and this was part of the election programme. One rostrum had a poster saying 'Vote for Salar' pasted on it, while the other had a poster of the other contender, Faizan. At this point, Faizan was telling his audience what he would do for them if elected. Salar watched him intently. Faizan was the best orator in the school and was impressing the boys with his performance in a clipped British accent which was so popular. The excellent sound system carried his voice very clearly and there was pin-drop silence in the hall which was sporadically broken by the thunderous applause of his supporters. When Faizan finished half an hour later, the clapping and whistling carried on for several minutes. Salar Sikandar also joined the applause. Faizan looked around triumphantly, and seeing Salar clapping, he nodded in appreciation. As Faizan knew well, Salar was not an easy opponent,
The compere called Salar to begin his speech. To a roar of applause Salar began. 'Good morning friends...' He paused, and then continued. 'Faizan Akbar is certainly an asset to our school as an orator. Neither I nor anyone else can compete with him ...' He stopped again and looked at Faizan, who looked around with a proud smile. But the rest of Salar's sentence wiped the smile off his face. '...If it were only a matter of spinning yarns.'
Sounds of giggling filled the hall. Salar maintained a serious attitude. 'But there's a great difference between an orator and a head boy: an orator has to speak while a head boy has to work.' The hall echoed with the applause of Salar's supporters.
'I do not have the eloquence of Faizan Akbar,' he continued. 'I have my name and my record to speak for me. I do not need a stream of words where just a few would do.' He stopped again.
'Trust me and vote for me.' He thanked the audience and switched off the mike. Thunderous applause filled the air. Salar had spoken for one minute and forty seconds in his typical measured style and calculated words, and in that brief time he had overturned Faizan's ambitions.
After this preliminary introduction, there was a question and answer session. Salar responded in his customary brief manner; his longest response was not more than four sentences. On the other hand, Faizan's shortest response was not less than four sentences. Faizan's eloquence and way with words, which were his strength, now appeared bombastic compared to Salar's short and sharp responses on stage, and Faizan was all too aware of this. If Salar gave a one-line reply to a question, Faizan, out of sheer habit, went on with a monologue. Whatever Salar had said about Faizan seemed to be proving true to the audience—that an orator can only speak, not act.
'Why should Salar Sikandar be the head boy?' came a question.
'Because you should elect the best person for the job,' he replied.
'Wouldn't you call this arrogance?' came the objection.
'No, it is confidence and awareness.' The objection was refuted.
'What is the difference between arrogance and confidence?' another pointed query arose.
'The same as the difference between Faizan Akbar and Salar Sikandar,' he replied in a serious tone.
'What difference will it make if you are not appointed head boy?'
'It will make a difference to you, not to me.'
'How?'
'If the best person is not appointed as the leader, it affects the community, not the best person.'
'Again, you are referring to yourself as the best person.' Once again, there was an objection.
'Is there anyone in this hall who'd equate himself with someone bad?'
'Perhaps there is...'
'Then I'd like to meet him.' Sounds of amusement rose from the audience.
'Tell us about the changes Salar Sikandar will bring about as head boy.'
'Changes are not talked about, they are demonstrated and I cannot do this before I become head boy.'
A few more questions were asked and answered and then the compere called for the last question. A Sri Lankan boy stood up with a naughty smile.
'If you answer this question of mine, then I and my entire group will vote for you.'
Salar smiled, 'Before I reply, I'd like to know how many people there are in your group.'
'Six,' the boy replied.
Salar nodded in assent and asked, 'Okay, what's your question?'
'You have to calculate and tell me that if 952852 is added to 267895 and then 399999 is subtracted from the total and 929292 is added to the sum,' he read slowly from a paper, 'then the figure is multiplied by six and divided by two and 492359 is added to the final figure, what would be one-fourth of it?'
The boy could barely complete his words when Salar's response to this 'silly' question came with lightning speed. '2035618.2.'
The boy glanced at the paper in his hand and, shaking his head in disbelief, began clapping. Faizan Akbar at that point felt that he was merely an actor; the hall was filled with applause—Faizan saw this entire programme as nothing more that a joke. An hour later, coming down the stage ahead of Salar, Faizan knew that he had lost the competition to him even before it had begun. He had never felt as envious of this 150 IQ scorer as he did now.
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'Imama Apa, 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 Heera Mandi, 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—th
is 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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He emptied the entire contents of the paper bag into the grinder and turned it on. The cook entered just then.
'Chote Saab, 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 sca
ttered 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.