Pir-E-Kamil: The Perfect Mentor

by Umera Ahmed

  He would be up all night making schemes and plans such as for efficient distribution of food, what improvements were possible, where more aid was required, and what projects were required where. Sometimes he would work straight forty eight hours without sleep. His proposals and reports were so technically sound and thorough that it was not possible to find fault with them. These qualities were enhancing his reputation and stature. He felt that if Allah had blessed him with a better brain and with greater capabilities than others, he should use those capabilities for the benefit of others - to make life easier and better for them. As he worked, he thought of nothing else but this.

  Whilst working for UNICEF, he thought of doing M Phil and got admission in the programme. Joining evening classes, he did not doubt for a moment that he was overstretching himself once again, but there was other way open to him. Work had become a passion for him; perhaps, even more: a mission.

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  Salar's first meeting with Furqan was on a flight from the US to Pakistan. He was seated next to Salar. He was returning after attending a medical conference in the US; Salar was on his way for his sister Anita's wedding. On this long flight, they began with exchanging pleasantries and then their conversation continued throughout. Furqan was older than Salar—he was thirty-five—and after specialization in London, he had come back to Pakistan where he worked in a hospital.

  He was married and had two children.

  After talking for a few hours, Furqan and he set about retiring. Salar, out of routine, took out his sleeping pills from his brief case and downed one with some water.

  Furqan watched all this in silence. When he shut the brief case and put it away, Furqan said, 'Most people can't sleep on a flight without a sedative.'

  Salar turning, looked at him and said, 'I cannot sleep without one, whether I'm on a flight or not—it's the same for me.'

  'Have difficulty in sleeping?' Furqan was suddenly mystified.

  'Difficulty?' Salar smiled. 'I just can't sleep. I take a pill and get three or four hours of sleep.'

  'Insomnia?' Furqan asked.

  'Perhaps. I haven't been to a doctor but I suppose it is that,' Salar said somewhat casually.

  'You should have had it checked up. Insomnia at this age? It isn't a sign of good health. I think you've become mad about your work and have upset your normal sleeping routine.'

  Furqan was now speaking like a doctor. Salar smiled and listened to him He could not tell him that if he did not work night and day he could not stay alive with his guilt-laden conscience. He could also not tell him that if he tried sleeping without the pills, he would keep thinking about Imama—so badly that his head would burst with pain

  'How many hours a day do you work?' Furqan was now investigating.

  'Eighteen hours, sometimes twenty.'

  'My God! Since when?'

  'Since the last two or three years.'

  'And since then you must have had the sleep problem. I had thought as much. You have spoilt your own routine, otherwise for a person working such long hours, the mental fatigue itself would provide a long and peaceful sleep,' Furqan observed.

  'It doesn't happen with me,' Salar said softly.

  'You must try to find out why it doesn't happen with you.'

  Salar could not tell him that he knew the reason. After some time of silence, Furqan said, 'If I were to tell you of some ayats to be recited before going to sleep, would you be able to do it ?'

  'Why wouldn't I be able to recite them?' Salar asked, turning towards him.

  'No, the thing is that people like you and me who have studied a lot and that too in the West do not believe in such things or else do not consider them practical,' Furqan explained.

  'Furqan, I'm a Hafiz-e-Quran,' Salar disclosed calmly whilst reclining in his seat.

  Furqan was taken aback.

  'Every night, I recite a sipara before I sleep; with me, there is no problem of lack of belief or confidence,' Salar continued.

  'I'm also a Hafiz-e-Quran,' Furqan informed him. Salar, turning, smiled at him. This was, indeed, a pleasant coincidence. Even though Furqan had a beard, it had not occurred to Salar that he might also be a Hafiz-e-Quran.

  'Then you shouldn't have this kind of a problem. A person, who recites the Holy Book before retiring, and has problems falling asleep, appears strange to me.'

  Salar heard Furqan babbling. Now, he was involuntarily slipping into sleep, and he closed his eyes.

  'Do you have a problem?' he heard Furqan ask. If he had not been under the influence of the sedative he would have smiled and shrugged off the question, but he could not do so in his state of mind.

  'Yes, I have a lot of worries. I do not have peace of mind, I feel as though I'm constantly traveling in a desert, and I'm relentlessly pursued by remorse and guilt. I'm in search of a savior, the perfect mentor, who would release me from this misery, who would show me the road to salvation.'

  Furqan was watching his countenance. Even though Salar's eyes were closed, yet he could see the moisture escape from the corners of his eyes.

  He was somewhat incoherent and his voice faltered; he was speaking involuntarily under the influence of sleeping pills.

  He had become quiet and Furqan did not question him further. His very regular breathing indicated that he had slipped into the realm of sleep.

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  Their exchange of views continued after he woke up sometime later. Furqan did not refer to Salar's words spoken as he had drifted off into sleep. Salar himself was not aware of having said anything before falling asleep, and if he had, he did not know what it was. Before journey's end, they exchanged contact numbers and addresses. Then Salar invited him to Anita's wedding. Furqan promised he would come but Salar was not sure that he would. Their flight was till Karachi; then Salar had to catch the flight to Islamabad, and Furqan to Lahore. At the airport, Furqan very effusively shook his hand in farewell.

  Anita's wedding was three days later and Salar had a lot of work to do in those three days, some wedding-related and some his own.

  The next evening, he was surprised to receive a call from Furqan. They talked for ten to fifteen minutes and, before putting the phone down, Salar once again reminded him of Anita's wedding

  'You needn't remind me, I remember it very well. Besides, I'm going to be in Islamabad this weekend. I have to go look at my school in the village. The school building is being added to, and in this connection So this time my stay in Islamabad will be somewhat long.'

  Salar heard him with interest. 'Village school what do you mean?'

  'I'm running a school there, in my village.' Furqan mentioned one of the rural areas near Islamabad. 'In fact, I've been running this school for several years.'

  'What for?'

  'What for?' The question surprised Furqan. 'To help people. Why else?'

  'Is it charity work?'

  'No, it is not charity work. It is my duty. I'm not doing anybody a favor.' Furqan changed the topic. No more was said about the school, and the call ended.

  Furqan did come for Anita's wedding. He stayed there for quite some time, but Salar became aware that he appeared surprised. 'Your family is quite westernized.'

  Salar immediately understood the cause his discomfiture and surprise. 'I had thought that your family would be somewhat conservative because you'd told me that you were a Hafiz-e-Quran and your life style appeared humble, but coming here, I'm surprised. There's a lot of difference between you and your family. I think you're the odd one out.' He himself was rather amused at his last observation. They were now near Furqan's car.

  'I memorized the Quran only two years ago. And I've become the odd one out only since the last two or three years. Before that, I was even more westernized than my family,' Salar clarified.

  'You memorized the Quran only two years ago? During your studies in America? I can't believe it!' Furqan shook his head in disbelief.

  'How long did it take you?'

&nb
sp; 'About eight months.'

  Furqan was speechless for quite sometime and kept looking at him in disbelief. Then he took a deep breath and his attitude softened. 'Allah has been exceptionally kind to you, because, from what you've told me, it is not easy work. On the flight also, I was much impressed by your achievements, because the position you are holding in UNESCO at your young age, nobody else can.'

  He again very warmly shook Salar's hand. For a few moments, Salar's face changed color. 'Allah's exceptional kindness! If I were to tell him what I've been doing all my life, he would ' Salar thought shaking hands with him. 'The other day you were speaking about some school,' Salar intentionally changed the topic. 'You don't live in Islamabad?' 'I do live in Islamabad, but I have a village, my ancestral village. There we have some land, we had a house also,' Furqan started giving him the details. 'Several years ago, my parents had shifted to Islamabad. My father, after retirement from federal service, constructed a school on his lands. There was no school in that village. He had built a primary school. I've been looking after it for the last seven or eight years. Now, it has progressed to the secondary level. Four years ago, I also had a dispensary built there. You'll be surprised at this dispensary. It has the latest equipment. A friend of mine has gifted an ambulance also. And now, not only people from my village but people from the surrounding villages are benefiting from the school and dispensary.' Salar was listening to him earnestly.

  'But why are you doing all this? You are a surgeon, how can you do all this, and then you need a lot of money for it'

  'Why am I doing it? This is something I've never asked myself. There was so much poverty in my village that this question did not ever occur to me. During our childhood, we would once in a while go to our village. This was our outing. Except for our haveli, there were only mud houses, and there was absolutely no road either. It was as though we'd entered a jungle. If we were animals, it wouldn't have made any difference to us. As in the city, we'd roam around, lording it over the others, believing ourselves to be way above these villagers. But as a sensitive being, it is difficult to ignore the fact that others are compelled to live like animals. Maybe some get comfort from the knowledge that they have been blessed far more than others who are deprived, but we're not in that category.

  'So the question arose: what's to be done? I didn't have a magic wand to wave and fix things overnight nor did I have endless resources. As I told you, my father was a civil servant, an honest civil servant. My brother and I have both studied on scholarships from the very beginning so our parents did not have to spend much on us. They were not spendthrifts either so they had some savings. When my father retired, he thought that instead of spending his life in Islamabad or Lahore, reading the newspaper and going on walks, he should go back to his village and do something to improve lives there.' Furqan and Salar were sitting in the car, talking. 'You cannot imagine the difficulties. In the village, there was no electricity, no potable water, nothing. Baba ran from pillar to post to have all these things sanctioned. When a primary school got eventually constructed, a road emerged, and facilities such as power and water appeared, it suddenly occurred to the government to build a school of its own there. My parents wanted the government to take over their school, to provide their own teachers and, after some time, to upgrade the school. But after only a few meetings with the education department, Baba realized, that should the government take over, all his efforts in setting up the school would come to naught. Baba used to give the children everything: textbooks, exercise books, uniforms and stuff. He had specifically allocated funds for these expenses. You can well imagine the fate of the school once it had been handed over to the government. First of all, the funds would have disappeared and then the rest. That's why Baba himself ran the school.'

  Furqan went on to inform Salar that despite the government's setting up a school, not a single child attended it. Eventually, the authorities shut it down and upgraded his father's school. Some of his father's friends also pitched in and the school progressed. In those days, Furqan was studying in England and he used to save up to send money for the school. The school was being improved and children from the neighboring villages were also enrolled there. Furqan said that on his return to Pakistan he had also set up a proper dispensary there. The village population had increased but poverty was still a part of their lives. However, thanks to education, the youth could now go and earn in the cities, and acquire vocational skills too—the cycle of poverty was being eroded to some extent. 'If not this generation, then at least the next will be able to study in prestigious institutions, like you and me, and acquire degrees—who knows?' said Furqan, hopefully. 'I go there one weekend each month; there are two compounders there but no doctor. The other three weekends we arrange for someone else to go, and every three months, I set up a medical camp there.'

  'And where does the money come from, for all this?' queried Salar.

  'To begin with it was my father's effort—his gratuity, my mother's savings, and some from his friends. Then Mehran and I contributed and some of our friends too. I send a good share of my income to the village every month to help run the dispensary. The doctors there work gratis—its part of their social responsibility. The medical camps also function in the same spirit. The school's funds are in affixed deposit and the returns take care of its expenses, staff salaries, etc. in the future, we're thinking of setting up a technical institute as well.'

  'When are you going there?'

  'I'm leaving tomorrow morning.'

  'If I want to come with you?' asked Salar.

  'Most welcome....but isn't the valima taking place tomorrow? You'll be busy here,' Furqan reminded him.

  'That's at night. I'll be free all day. Will it be hard to get back by the evening?' Salar asked.

  'Not at all: you can get back quite easily. It's just that we have to leave quite early in the morning, if you want to spend time there. Otherwise, you'll be quite tired by the end of the day,' said Furqan.

  'I won't be tired. You've no idea of the kind of trips I've made and the places I've seen with the UNICEF teams. I'll be ready after the fajr prayers, just tell me the time.'

  'Half past five.'

  'OK. Just give me a call on my mobile when you leave home, and buzz the horn a couple of times—I'll be out.'

  Salar then bid him goodbye and went in. The next morning, Furqan was there on the dot. Salar came out at the first call and they were on their way.

  'Why did you return to Pakistan when you could have advanced much in England?' asked Salar, out of the blue. They were half an hour out of the city, speeding along their way to the village.

  'England didn't need me; Pakistan did.' Furqan spoke with composure.

  'The absence of Dr Furqan made no difference there. The presence of Dr Furqan here does make a difference. My services are needed here.'

  Furqan stressed the last part of his statement.

  'But there you could have advanced professionally in all these years, and succeeded financially also to send more funds for your project here.

  After all, you couldn't have had the same level of success in Pakistan,'

  Salar remarked.

  'If you mean success in material and financial terms, then yes—you're right. But if you mean professionally—as a doctor—then I am saving more lives here than I would there. You cannot estimate the satisfaction a doctor derives from seeing his patients get well. Oncologists are in profusion in England, but in Pakistan they can be counted on one's fingers. My sending huge sums of money would not solve the problem of filling the gap for a missing person. I am a person of limited needs, Salar, and so is my family. If I've learnt anything it is to be of use to one's own people. I can't leave my people to die and go around saving lives elsewhere. There's nothing right with Pakistan: there's everything wrong with it. Hospitals are minus facilities, the health system is decrepit beyond description and corrupt as well—whatever ills you can think of, you'll find them here. But I cannot leave this place, I can
not leave these people. If I have been granted the power to heal, then my people have the first right to it.'

  Salar had no words in response. For a long time, there was silence in the car. Then Furqan spoke up.

  'You have asked me why I came back to Pakistan, and I answered you.

  Now I ask you, why don't you return to your country?' he asked with a smile.

  'I can not live here,' Salar shot back.

  'Is it because of finances and facilities?'

  'No—that never was, nor is, a problem. You know my family background.'

  'Then?'

  'Then...then nothing, I just cannot live here,' he replied with finality.

  'You are needed here.'