Pir-E-Kamil: The Perfect Mentor

by Umera Ahmed

  '(not) the path of those on whom Your wrath falls, and who go astray.' He was in the last row: very quietly, he let down his arms and stepped out of line.

  'I can't do this. I cannot pray.' He was making a confession. He backed out slowly, unnoticeably as the others went into the ruku, and very swiftly, he came out of the room. Picking up his joggers, he stood absentmindedly on the stairs, looking right and left. Shoes and socks in hand, he came down the stairs to the back wall of the building. There was another flight of stairs, covered by snow and another door. It was dark as there was no light anywhere around. Bending down, he brushed the snow off a step, sat down and put on his shoes, then sat back against the door. His jacket hood was pulled over his head and his hands tucked into his pockets. On the road across, the traffic was thin.

  Salar sat there watching the random cars and few pedestrians on the road. Sitting out there in the cold, foggy, night air he felt more at peace than he was in the warm and cosy prayer room. Pulling a lighter out of his pocket, he lit it, trying to melt the snow on the steps. This entertained him for a while but then he got bored and put the lighter away. As he straightened up he realized there was a woman standing before him; he had not noticed her presence as he had been looking down. Even in the dark, he could see the smile playing on her face. She was wearing a fur coat which had been left artfully open to reveal a miniskirt and a skimpy blouse. Hands thrust in her coat pockets, she stood before Salar very seductively. He surveyed her from head to toe. Her long, shapely legs were bare, the cold notwithstanding. He kept staring at her legs, highlighted by the neon lights behind her. She was wearing high-heeled boots and Salar wondered how she could manage them on these snowed down streets.

  'I charge fifty dollars an hour,' she said very chummily in a very familiar way. Salar looked up from her legs to her face, then back at her legs. This was the first time ever that he had felt sorry for a prostitute, wondering what had compelled her to parade half naked in such snowbound weather when he had felt himself freezing despite his thick warm jeans.

  'OK, forty dollars,' she said, when he did not reply. She thought he found the rate too high so reduced her price. Salar knew that forty was too much—on this street, he could get a girl for twenty dollars. This woman was around thirty-five or forty years, and she looked around cautiously as she spoke to him. Salar knew she was on the look out for the police.

  'OK, thirty—no more bargaining. Take it or leave it.'

  She further reduced her rates, in view of Salar's silence. Without a word, he fished out some notes from his pocket—he wasn't carrying a wallet— and held them out towards her. She snatched them: here was a client who was, for the first time, giving her advance payment and that too fifty dollars, when she had quoted less.

  'Will you come with me or do you want me to accompany you?' she asked very casually.

  'Neither will I accompany you nor will you come with me. You can leave now,' Salar declared, looking beyond her at the shops across the road.

  The woman looked at him uncertainly. 'Really?'

  'Yes,' he replied, unmoved.

  'Then why did you give this?' She held out the notes, still in her hand.

  'So that you move out of my sight. I want to look at those shops and you're in the way.' He spoke coldly.

  She burst out laughing. 'You do joke, don't you? You really want me to go?'

  'Yes.'

  She kept looking at him for a few moments. 'OK, thank you.' Salar saw her turn and cross the road, and without much interest, saw her walk to the other side. A man was standing there.

  Salar started looking at the shops once more. It began to snow again, but he kept sitting there as the snow fell over him. He stayed there till the lights in the shops shut down, one by one. Then, dusting the snow off his clothes, he got up. If he hadn't been moving his legs from time to time, he would not have been able to stand on his feet. It was half past two in the morning. Pushing his hands into his pockets, and flexing his legs, he began to walk home. He knew that Saad must have searched for him and not finding him around must have gone home too.

  'Where did you go off?' Saad shouted seeing Salar who walked in without saying a word.

  'I'm asking you something,' Saad remonstrated. He shut the door behind him and came after Salar.

  'I didn't go anywhere,' replied Salar, taking off his jacket.

  'Do you know how long I searched for you—calling up God knows where and who. I was worried sick and was about to call the police...where did you disappear leaving the prayer midway?'

  'I told you—nowhere.' Salar was taking off his joggers.

  'Then where were you all along?' Saad was standing before him.

  'Just there, on the footpath behind the mosque.'

  'What? You sat there all these hours, in the snow?' Saad couldn't believe it.

  'Yes.'

  'You are totally senseless!' Saad was exasperated.

  Salar was stretched out on the bed. 'Yes—really senseless,' he agreed.

  Saad enquired if Salar had eaten and asked him if he'd like to, but he refused saying he wasn't hungry. Salar just lay there, staring at the ceiling. Saad came and sat beside him.

  'What ever is the problem? Can you tell me?'

  Salar turned his neck to look at Saad. 'Nothing; no problem,' he said flatly.

  'I thought you had gone back to your apartment. I kept calling there, but got no response,' Saad was complaining, but Salar kept his gaze on the ceiling. 'It would have been better if I hadn't asked you to come along for prayers. Don't accompany me next time.'

  Saad was really annoyed. He got up and wrapped up his work; then switching off the night lamp, he lay down on his bed. A little while later, just as he was drifting off to sleep, he heard Salar call him.

  'What is it?' Saad looked at him.

  'What is the sirat-e mustaqim?'

  This simple question nonplussed Saad. He turned to look at Salar who lay flat on the bed to his left.

  'Sirat-e-mustaqeem ...it is the straight path.'

  'I know, but what is the straight path?' Another question.

  'The straight path means the path to goodness.'

  'What is goodness?' The tone was till flat, unmoved.

  'Goodness is good deeds.'

  'What are good deeds?'

  'Actions which are done for others...like helping someone, doing someone a favour. These are good deeds and every good deed is goodness.'

  'A few hours ago, I gave fifty dollars to a hooker on that footpath, though she was asking for just thirty dollars. Does this mean it was a good deed? Goodness?'

  Saad felt like punching him in the face: he was a weird guy. 'Shut up and go to sleep, and let me sleep!' He pulled up his blanket.

  'So this was not an act of goodness?' Salar was astonished at Saad's annoyance.

  'I told you, didn't I? Just shut up and go to sleep.' Saad screamed at him.

  'There's no need to get so worked up. I asked you a very ordinary question.' Salar spoke with great patience.

  Saad flared up. He switched on the lamp and sat up in bed. 'How can I explain to someone like you what is meant by sirat-e-mustaqeem? Are crazy or ignorant? Or a non-Muslim? What are you...or nothing at all? You should know what this means! But how can a person who was out halfway through his prayers, know what this means.'

  'I left halfway through the prayers because you say that it brings serenity, and I felt no sense of peace or calm—so I left.' Salar's comments, delivered in a calm and composed tone further incensed Saad.

  'You did not find peace because your place is not in the mosque. For you, peace is to be found in cinema halls, theatres, bars and night clubs. The mosque is not for you so how could you find peace there? And you want me to tell you what the straight path is!'

  Salar kept looking fixedly at Saad.

  'A person like you who runs away from prayer, who drinks and indulges in fornication, can neither understand the sirat-e-mustaqeem nor tread that path.'

  'Do you mean tha
t those who imbibe alcohol and fornicate but do not turn away from prayer—that they also pray—understand sirat-e-mustaqeem and are on the straight path?'

  Saad was speechless as he knew what Salar was referring to. Salar fixed his gaze on his friend.

  'You cannot understand these things, Salar,' Saad replied after a while.

  Another voice echoed in Salar's ears, jolting him. 'Yes, indeed—I cannot understand. Turn off the light; I'm sleepy.' Without another word, Salar turned and closed his eyes. about 6 months ago

  Umera Ahmed Official

  'I expected to find you here. You've deliberately left the answering machine on. 'Why did you run away from my place?' Saad expressed his displeasure. He was at Salar's apartment the next morning. Salar sleepily opened the door.

  'I did not run away—you were asleep and I did not think it was right to disturb you.' Salar rubbed his eyes.

  'When did you leave?'

  'Perhaps at 4:00 or 5:00.'

  'That was no time to leave,' Saad told him testily. 'And why did you sneak out like this?'

  Salar, instead of replying, went and lay face down on the sofa in the living room.

  'Probably, you took offence at what I said. That's why I've come to apologize,' Saad said, as he sat on the other sofa.

  'What did you say to me?' Salar asked, turning to look at him.

  'All that I said to you in annoyance last night,' Saad was apologetic.

  'Oh no, I don't take offence at such small things. You said no such thing for which you needed to come and apologize,' Salar replied nonchalantly.

  'Then when did you take off so suddenly?' Saad insisted.

  'It's just that I felt depressed so I came back here; and since I wanted to sleep, I left the answering machine on,' Salar explained calmly.

  'Even so, I shouldn't have spoken to you like that. I've been regretting it very much since the morning.'

  'Oh, let it be,' Salar said, keeping his face still buried in the sofa.

  'Salar, what is the problem with you these days?'

  'Nothing.'

  'No, something is amiss; you are behaving rather strangely.'

  Salar suddenly turned around and, looking at Saad, asked him, 'For example, what is strange about me?'

  'Many things....you have become rather quiet; you get worked up about trivial things. Ibad was telling me that you've stopped attending the university. And the most important is that you've started taking an interest in religion.'

  The last observation brought a frown to Salar's face.

  'Interest in religion? You must be mistaken. I am not trying to get interested in religion; I am trying to find peace of mind because I am very depressed these days. Never in my life have I felt so low as I do now. It was to rid myself of this depression that I went to the mosque with you.' Salar was acerbic.

  'Why are you depressed?' Saad inquired.

  'If I knew, I wouldn't be depressed—I'd have done something about it.'

  'Still, there must be a reason—one doesn't feel dejected just like that,' Saad remarked.

  Salar knew that Saad's words made sense, but he was not going to give Saad the chance to laugh at him by revealing the cause of his distress.

  'I don't know about others, but it does happen to me without reason,' he tried to avoid the issue.

  'Try an anti-depressant,' Saad advised.

  'I've had loads—they make no difference.'

  'Then see a psychiatrist.'

  'That I'll never do. I'm sick of seeing them and I'm not going to do so now,' Salar blurted out.

  Saad was surprised to hear this. His curiosity was aroused and he asked, 'Why did you see them before?'

  'There were many reasons—let it be now.' Salar lay on his back, staring at the ceiling.

  'Then you should pray regularly.'

  'I tried, but I found no comfort in prayer. Besides, I didn't know what I was reading in the prayer or understand why I was doing it.'

  'Then make an effort to find out...'

  Salar cut him short. 'Let's not start last night's argument about the straight path—it will make you angry again.'

  'No, it won't make me angry.'

  'When I do not know what the straight path is, how can I pray?'

  'Start praying and you'll get to know what it is.'

  'How?'

  'You'll avoid wrongdoing; you'll turn to good deeds, yourself,' Saad tried to explain.

  'But I do not do anything that's wrong, nor do I have any desire to do good. My life is quite normal.'

  'You cannot gauge which of your actions is right and which is not until...'

  Salar interrupted him again. 'Right and wrong actions are not my concern. It's just that I am disturbed and that has nothing to do with my deeds.'

  'You indulge in all those things that make a person's life distressed.'

  'Such as?' Salar asked sarcastically.

  'You eat pork.'

  'Oh come on! What's pork got to do with it?' Salar got up and sat by Saad. 'Tell me—you pray regularly and a lot—what change has prayer brought about in you?'

  'I am not restless.'

  'Although by your formula you should be, because you also indulge in much wrongdoing,' Salar retorted.

  'What wrongdoings? Give an example.'

  'You know very well. I don't need to repeat myself.'

  'No, I don't...so please repeat it,' Saad was challenging him.

  Salar kept looking at him for some time, then he replied. 'I don't believe, Saad, that any major changes can be brought about in life just by praying. Good deeds and a good character are not because of prayer alone.'

  That's why I tell you to take some interest in your religion. Get some knowledge about Islam so that you can shed this misguided philosophy of yours and change your views,' Saad interrupted.

  'My views are not wrong. I haven't seen anyone more false, lying, hypocritical and deceitful than these religious people. I hope you won't mind, but this is the truth. I have come across three such persons who were great stalwarts of Islam, preaching and praying, but all three were fakes,' Salar spoke bitterly.

  'The first was a girl—very pious, purdah-observing, creating a lot of hype about her virtue and devoutness, and carrying on an affair with one boy while engaged to another. She ran away from home to be with her beloved, and when the need arose, she even took help from a person whom she hated—she thought nothing of exploiting him for her own ends. So much for Miss Piety and Devotion!' A mocking smile played across Salar's lips.

  'Then, I met this bearded man with a very religious appearance. He did not lift a finger to help the girl who had been begging him for support. He did not marry the girl who he had been fooling around with in the guise of love. Lately, I met him again, here in the US, and along with his faith, his beard had also vanished.'

  Then Salar laughed out. 'The third one is you. You don't eat pork—that's the one forbidden act you abstain from; the rest is all permissible to you. Lying, drinking alcohol, sex, going to clubs, backbiting, making fun of others—although you're very pious otherwise. You've got a beard and you drive people up the wall with your preaching; you insist on forcing people to pray. You keep quoting Islam at every step—this ayat, that hadith... that ayat, this hadith...that's all you have to say. You can't imagine how unbearable your sermons can be! When I look at your behavior, I'm least impressed. There's not much difference between us—with your religious appearance and ceaseless talk of Islam, you're doing all that I do without a beard and without religion.

  'What great revolution has prayer brought in your life, except the misconception that you're headed for paradise while the rest of us go to hell? If I had not found this anomaly in your words and deeds, I'd never have said this to you. but I do have a request: please do not try to attract people to religion, because I think you don't know much about it either.

  'Now, please do not mind all I have said,' concluded Salar. Saad was practically mute with shock.

  After a while, Saad responded
. 'I agree that I make mistakes. But Allah forgives His beings. I never claimed to be a perfect Muslim or to find a place in paradise. But if I do something good and instruct others towards goodness, then I consider it a divine mission.'

  'Saad, don't burden yourself with the responsibility for others. Try to reform yourself before you set out to reform others, so that you're not called a hypocrite. As far as God's forgiveness is concerned, then if He can forgive you, so can He forgive us. If you think that you can reduce our sins by preaching Islam and gain closeness to God—despite your sins—it's not so. Improve your own track record, and look to yourself instead of worrying about others: Let us be as we are.'

  Salar's words were harsh, but he poured out his thoughts to Saad. When he had finished his speech, Saad got up and left. After that day, he never spoke to Salar on the topic of religion.

  -------------------------

  After a long time, he went to a restaurant for dinner that weekend. The waiter took his order, and then Salar passed the time looking at the road beyond the window. Sitting by the French windows, he felt as if he was actually out on the footpath.

  His attention was diverted by the sound of a woman sobbing. Turning around, he saw a girl and a boy on the table behind him. The girl was sobbing softly and wiping her eyes with a tissue. The boy was patting her hand to console her perhaps. The restaurant was so small and the tables so close that he could have heard their conversation, but that was not his intention and he turned away. A wave of displeasure coursed through him: he disapproved of such carryings on. He had come to this place in search of a peaceful evening and this incident put him in a bad mood.

  The couple behind him was Russian and they were talking in their own language. Salar began looking out of the window again but one ear was cocked towards the muffled sobs and quiet dialogue behind him. He turned towards them once again, and this time the girl caught his eye. Those few moments seemed endless—the girl's swollen eyes and unhappy face brought back the memory of another face and eyes reddened with weeping—Imama Hashim's.

  The waiter brought his order and placed the food before him. Salar took a few sips of water and tried to brush away the memories. He took a few deep breaths and the waiter looked at him curiously—Salar was busy taking in the scene outside the window.