by Umera Ahmed
His cousin, Kamran, would be away at college all day and would be busy with his assignments when he got home. Salar, on the other hand, was cooped up in the apartment, either watching movies or flipping television channels. When he tired of this, he would simply roam around town to entertain himself. During those days in New York, Salar had thoroughly explored the environs where Kamran lived. In the city, there was not a night club, discotheque, pub, bar, theatre, cinema, museum or art gallery that Salar had not been to.
His academic record was such that all three Ivy League universities he had applied to for admission had issued acceptance letters without even waiting for his BBA results. These universities were those where none of his relatives were enrolled, nor any other friend, and Salar had deliberately applied to them to be away from constant scrutiny. There was no one he knew there who would be sending back reports to Sikandar Usman whose other children had not been given admission to an Ivy League institution.
Sikandar Usman should have been proud of Salar's achievement; instead he and his wife were more apprehensive about being unable to tag Salar, who had opted to join Yale. In fact, none of Sikandar Usman's friends or relatives were in New Haven.
Salar's accademic record also earned him a merit scholarship at the university. Unlike his brothers, who had taken lodging at hostels, Salar insisted on living in an apartment. Sikandar was not in favor of this move, but the scholarship left Salar with enough funds to rent an apartment. As for his educational expenses, Sikandar had already transferred a handsome amount to Salar's account. Although his youngest son was also availing of a scholarship, yet Sikandar obliged Salar's demands. It seemed that he was destined to do for Salar all that he had not done for anyone else, and that Salar was destined to try his father and test his patience in every way possible. If the other children went east, Salar would go west; whatever the others did, he would do the opposite, and adamantly. And Sikandar Usman could do nothing except work himself up into a state.
Before Salar left for New Haven, Sikandar and Tayyaba flew over from Pakistan especially to spend time with him. For days, they counseled him, and reasoned with him: he heard them out, but did not pay any attention. He had become used to these sermons and advice and now all counseling was like water off a duck's back, as far as he was concerned. As for Sikandar and Tayyaba, they were not only very worried but actually feared for Salar as they flew for Pakistan.
Salar had selected Finance as his major for MBA. Shortly after joining classes at Yale, his extraordinary abilities began to be noticed. No doubt that the institutions he had attended in Pakistan were the topmost in academic terms, but the education offered there was a piece of cake for him. At Yale, however, the competition was tough; the presence of the cream of bright students was a challenge. But there too, Salar made his presence felt.
He was exceptionally gifted intellectually, but his attitude also contributed to his profile. The typical Asian warmth and friendliness were noticeably absent, as were courtesy and affability, in his personality. He was not overawed by the environment, as Asian students tend to be by American or European universities. He had studied in the best institutions since childhood and had no complexes about his background. He had been taught mostly by foreign teachers, and he knew that their knowledge was not unlimited. If Yale had given him a scholarship, it was not doing him a special favor. The other Ivy League universities he had applied to would also have offered him a scholarship - and even if that did not happen, his parents could afford to send him to the best institution of his choice. Besides, despite his family background and social status, Salar had a bitter side to his withdrawn nature, and he made no effort to put on an affable front to please people. The image was completed by his intimidating IQ level.
He managed to draw the attention of his colleagues and professors in the first few weeks. This was nothing new-he had been doing this since his early years in school. He did not waste time indulging in pointless arguments with his teachers, but his questions were such that the teachers were often at a loss for an immediate response. If the answer was unsatisfactory, he would not argue, but accept it quietly without voicing his opinion. He debated only with those professors from whom he knew he could learn something, or else those whose knowledge was neither traditional nor academic.
Salar did not find studies difficult at Yale, nor did he spend all his time with his books. Though it was not as easy as before, but he did find time to pursue his interests.
Nor was he a victim of homesickness and did not mope and yearn for Pakistan all the time. He made no special effort to search for Pakistanis in the community there, and neither did he miss the home culture and activities. But, as time passed, he got to interact with a number of Pakistanis present there. He also had membership to various societies, clubs and associations in the university.
After class, he would often spend, rather squander, time aimlessly, especially on the weekends. His life was divided, it seemed, between clubs, discotheques, cinema, and theatre. He missed no new film, play, concert or instrumental performance, and he had all the details about every new restaurant-big or small, pricey or cheap.
And in the midst of all this activity was the adventure which had been the cause of his being in the US now. Salar did not attempt to find out how, or when, or from whom Sikandar had learnt about the secret marriage; but he made some guesses as to how it had happened. He did not suspect his friend Hasan or the maid Nasira. It must have been Imama herself who revealed all the detail—which was why she did not contact Salar again. It must be after speaking to Imama that Salar rummaged through Salar's room and found the nikah papers.
But when did all this happen? This question bothered Salar as he was unable to find a logical answer to it.
Thinking back on this chain of events also evoked a feeling of regret: 'Why did I help her? When she contacted me, I should have called up Waseem, or his parents, or my own parents and informed them about it. Or, I should have told them about Jalal, or else, not listened to her at all, nor married her, nor helped her run away from home.'
At times, Salar felt he had let himself be used by her, like a helpless child-why this obsequious surrender, this obedience, he wondered, especially when there was no bond between them, nor was he obliged to help her.
More than an adventure, this whole business seemed to be sheer foolhardiness. Like a psychiatrist, he tried to psychoanalyze his attitude towards Imama.
'With the passage of time, she'll be out of my system, completely. And even if she isn't, what difference will it make,' he consoled himself.
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As the days passed, Salar's circle of friends widened and among them was a boy named Saad. He was from Karachi and, like Salar, he came from an affluent family; but unlike Salar, Saad's family was quite religious. This was Salar's perception. Saad had a fantastic sense of humor and was also very handsome. A friend in New Haven had introduced them and Saad was the first to extend the hand of friendship. Salar, however, was reluctant initially, as he felt they had little in common.
Saad was enrolled in the M.Phil, programme and was also working his way through university. His appearance—sporting a luxuriant beard— reflected his emotional attachment to his faith. He was also very knowledgeable about religion. For the first time in his life, Salar had befriended someone who was inclined towards religion.
Saad prayed regularly and would also exhort others to do likewise. He had membership in several clubs and organizations, where he was quite active. Unlike Salar, Saad had no relatives in the US except for a distant uncle who lived in another state. Maybe, it was to dispel his solitude that he was so social. Saad was the youngest among his siblings; perhaps it was the special affection for the youngest that persuaded his parents to send him abroad for higher education. Otherwise, he too would have joined the family business after graduation, as his brothers had done.
Saad also lived in a rented apartment, but not alone-he shared it with four others. There were two
Arabs, a Bangladeshi and a Pakistani, besides himself. They were all students.
Saad became quite friendly with Salar soon after their first encounter. When Salar's friend Jeff told Saad about Salar's academic achievements, he couldn't help but be impressed. Looking at Saad, especially at his bearded face, Salar was always reminded of Jalal. There seemed to be striking resemblance between them. Like his other friends, Saad would also be at Salar's over the weekend.
'You're a Muslim, but you don't have clue about religion,' he once told Salar.
'And you're too religious,' retorted Salar.
'What do you mean?'
'The way you pray five times a day and keep talking about Islam-it's overdoing it, you know.' Salar was very candid. 'Don't you get tired of praying all the time?'
'It's mandatory. Allah commands us to worship Him, to remember Him,' Saad said emphatically. Salar yawned lazily. 'You should pray too; after all, you're a Muslim.' 'I know, I know. Does my not praying make me a non-
Muslim?' Salar's tone was sarcastic.
'A Muslim only in name - is that the way you want to be?'
'Saad, please don't get into this senseless argument. I know you're into religion, but I'm not. So it is better we respect each other's views and feelings instead of forcing them down each other's throats. I'm not asking you to give up namaz, so don't insist on my praying.' Salar spoke so bluntly that he silenced Saad.
A few days later Saad visited Salar at his apartment. Salar went to the kitchen to get something for him. Saad followed and casually opened the fridge as they were conversing. He happened to see a burger that Salar had picked up the night before from a fast food outlet, and took it out.
'Put it back-you can't have that,' Salar reacted.
'Why not?' Saad was going to put it in the microwave.
'Because it has pork in it,' said Salar quite casually.
Saad stopped in his tracks. 'Don't be funny.'
'What's so funny?' Salar said, surprised, as Saad almost flung the plate on the counter.
'You eat pork?'
'I don't eat pork. I eat this burger as I like it,' he replied, lighting the burner.
'Do you know it's forbidden-haram?'
'Yes.'
'And yet you eat it?'
'Don't start off with your preaching. I eat not only pork but all kinds of meat, he replied,' in a devil-may-care tone.
'I can't believe it.'
'Well-what's so unbelievable about it? It's something to be eaten,' said Salar as he took the milk bottle from the fridge.
Saad was incensed. 'Everything is not meant to be eaten. OK, so you're not very religious, but you are a Muslim and Muslims know that pork is forbidden for Muslims.'
Salar listened quietly as he went about his work
'Don't make anything for me~l won't have it,' Saad told him as he left the kitchen.
'Why? What happened?' Salar looked at Saad with some surprise, as he was washing his hands vigorously.
Saad did not reply, but continued to wash his hands as he recited the kalima. Salar, teeth clenched angrily, gave him a piercing look.
'I cannot eat anything kept in your fridge. In fact, I cannot eat out of your plates if you eat pork and God knows what else. Let's go out somewhere for a bite.'
'That's very insulting.' Salar was really annoyed.
'No - there's nothing insulting. It's just that I do not want to eat haram stuff, and you are not used to being careful about such matters,' Saad said very calmly.
'I didn't try to make you eat pork. I know you don't eat it so I told you not to have that burger. But you have some sort of phobia, it seems—you're reacting as if I keep pet pigs in my apartment and live with them.'
'Come, let's go out.' Saad tried to pacify him.
'If we eat out, I'm not going to foot the bill-you will,' said Salar.
'Fine, I'll pay. No problem.' Saad was somewhat relieved.
'And next time you visit me, bring your own food.' Salar was piqued.
'Will do,' replied Saad.
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That weekend he was by the lake where many people like him were strolling around or sitting on the benches by the shore. Mindlessly, he looked around as he took a bite of ice cream. His attention was caught by a three-year-old kicking and chasing a football. The child's mother, in hijab , stood there watching him fondly. Salar, without realizing it, was staring at her. The boy was moving towards Salar, following the ball which landed at Salar's feet. Salar stopped it with his foot, but held it there. The boy came running up and stopped short: Salar didn't let go of the ball—he looked at the boy's mother, expecting her to come up. She did, somewhat puzzled by Salar's reaction.
'Let go of the football.' She spoke in a polite but firm tone. Salar gave the ball a strong kick, sending it flying into the distance. He then looked at her very calmly. Her face had an angry blush; she said something under her breath and turned round, following her son who had run after the ball. Salar didn't hear what she said, but it couldn't have been very complimentary.
Salar was not very proud of his behavior but he soon realized the reason behind it—the girl looked very much like Imama. She was tall and slim, wearing a long black coat and a black hijab. Her build, her pale complexion and dark eyes were just like Imama's. Imama did not wear a hijab though— she would swathe herself in a voluminous chadar. Looking at this girl, he was reminded of Imama and in an involuntary way, by disregarding her he was not doing her bidding and it made him feel good—but she wasn't Imama.
'What's the matter with me? To be doing this...' he thought. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lit it and putting it to his lips he fixed his gaze on that girl once again. He was oblivious to everything else but her.
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That night he thought about Imama for a long time—about her and Jalal. He as convinced that they were married by now because, on getting the divorce papers from Sikandar. Even though Salar knew that despite his persuading him, Jalal was not willing to marry Imama, nevertheless, he thought that once Imama turned up at his threshold, Jalal would not be able to refuse her. She would have coaxed and cajoled him into it.
Imama was really beautiful: Jalal was no match for her. Her family was among the richest and most powerful families in the country. It would have to be a fool who despite his status, like Jalal, would reject such a profitable proposition. Or perhaps, he really was in love with her. Whatever it was, Salar was certain that they had got married and were in hiding somewhere, away from Hashim Mubeen's clutches—or perhaps, he had managed to track them down.
'I really should find out about her,' he thought, but the very next minute, he was chiding himself. 'For God's sake Salar—what the hell! What difference does it make if her father has reached her or not?'
But his sense of curiosity did not abate and he wondered why he had made no effort to find out if Imama's whereabouts had been discovered by her father.
'I'm Venus Edward,' said the girl, extending her hand. She approached him as he was taking a book from the library shelf.
'Salar Sikandar,' he replied, shaking hands with her.
I know—you don't need to introduce yourself,' she replied warmly.
Salar didn't say that she didn't need to introduce herself: he knew all of his fifty classmates by name and by face. Moreover, he could recount a brief bio-data of each one of them without making a mistake. He could have stunned Venus by telling her that she was from New Jersey where she had worked in a beverage company for two years, and that she had a degree in marketing. She was at Yale for a second degree and she was at least five to six years older than Salar. Though he looked older because of his height and physique, but in reality he was the youngest in the class, and he was the only one who was studying for his MBA degree without having any work experience. All the others had some years of job experience, but divulging all this to Venus at this point was tantamount to raising her expectations.
'If I should invite you for a c
up of coffee?' asked Venus.
Then I would accept your invitation,' he replied.
She laughed. 'Then let's go.' Salar shrugged and replacing the book, followed her out.
They sat in the cafeteria and talked for nearly half an hour. That was the beginning of his acquaintance with Venus. Developing a relationship with any girl was no problem for Salar—he had been doing this very smoothly and this time it was made easier by Venus' making the first move.
Just after three or four meetings, he had invited Venus to spend the night at his flat and she readily agreed. They spent much time together wandering about after class and returned to his apartment in the late hours. Salar was in the kitchen fixing drinks for them; Venus was casually inspecting the apartment. Then she came and stood by the counter.
'I'd thought that since you live alone, the place would be a mess. I must say, you've kept it very well. Is this the norm or have you tidied up the place especially for me?'
Salar placed her glass before her and replied, 'This is how I live, in orderly style.' He took a sip and putting down his glass moved up to her. She smiled at him as he put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her close. Then he froze as he caught sight of a pearl swinging on a gold chain round her neck. She always wore this but he had not seen it before as she was always clad in high-necked warm clothes because of the cold weather. That day she wore a deep-necked dress and a long coat which she took off inside the flat.
Salar's expression changed as that pearl jolted him back to another pearl, around someone else's neck, somewhere far in the past. To hands that were performing the ablutions and to fingers that moved from wrists to elbows...over the face, from eyes to the forehead and from the forehead to fingers sliding over the dark hair under the chadar.
The chain around Imama's neck was short so that the pearl on it rested in the hollow of her throat; had the chain been longer, he wouldn't have been able to see the pearl. That night she was wearing a close-necked qameez and a cardigan too but a chance look at that pearl seemed to have paralyzed him for a moment.