'If that's the case, then just dare step out of this house—I'll kill you but I will not let you leave this house! As for that lawyer, I'll take good care of him too. If you think that any court can take you away from my custody, you are grossly mistaken. I will never let you go anywhere. I'll move you before the bailiff gets here—I'll see how you do not change your decision then. And if I do not find the man you have married, I will marry you to Asjad, regardless of whether or not your nikah has taken place. I refuse to accept this nikah—your wedding will only be by my wishes or not at all.' Saying this in a state of agitation and anger, he walked out with Salma. Imama stood silent, confused and frightened, staring at the door. The very purpose for which she had married was now disintegrating before her. She had gained nothing from it. Hashim Mubeen was like a rock in his determination.
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'Poor Imama Bibi!' exclaimed Nasira as she cleaned Salar's room. Salar was organizing the papers, etc. on his writing table; he turned around to look at her.
'She got a really bad beating last night,' added Nasira, noticing his attention.
'Who got a beating?' Salar asked, arranging his books.
'Imama Bibi, who else...' Salar stopped to look at Nasira. She continued that her daughter had informed her that Hashim Mubeen had been very violent with Imama.
Salar appeared amused. 'Really? Very nice.'
Nasira couldn't fathom his remarks which were in English. Salar inquired about the reason behind this episode. The maid was surprised by his reaction and his sardonic smile—she did not expect this reaction. According to her understanding of the relationship between them, Salar should have been saddened but the situation was quite the opposite.
'If poor Imama Bibi found out that Salar Saab was smiling at her plight, she'll die of shock,' she thought.
'Why else would her father be so furious,' she said aloud. 'She refused to marry Asjad Saab because she wanted to marry another boy.' Nasira stressed on the last word and looked meaningfully at Salar.
'That's all?' he remarked casually.
'It's not an ordinary thing, sir. Their household is in an upheaval. The wedding dates have been fixed, invitations sent out, and now Imama Bibi is refusing stubbornly—so her father beat her up.'
'That's no reason for such punishment,' he commented.
'You may think so, but for them it is a very serious matter. I feel very sorry for Imama Bibi—such a nice, polite girl and now she's in such a mess. Hashim Saab has locked her up at home. My daughter tells me that she's in poor shape.'
Nasira went on about Imama's sad condition in the hope that, believing her to be a sympathizer, Salar may reveal some secret. But he was no one's fool and nor was he interested in Nasira's so-called sympathy. He was not concerned about Imama's hardships and punishments but he did find it amusing that in this day and age, there were people who would raise their hand against grown-up offspring for defying them—and that too people of Hashim Mubeen's status, rich, affluent. It was a revelation. Many conflicting thoughts crossed his mind.
Nasira went on talking as she went about her work but Salar took no notice of her words so she finally quietened down, rather disappointed. She had never seen such indifference between lovers. 'His reaction is so peculiar—no distress, no anxiety, even after listening to all that Imama has gone through. Perhaps she may also feel amused if he were to suffer a similar fate,' Nasira wondered as she dusted a picture and put it back on the shelf.
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The decision to leave home was the most difficult and most painful decision of Imama's life, but she had no choice. She had no clue as to where her father would take her or how he would dissolve her marriage to get her married to Asjad. All she knew was the reality that once Hashim Mubeen took her away somewhere else, she had no way out: he would never kill her, but she preferred death to the kind of life she knew would be her fate if she stayed on.
When her father left the room, Imama wept for a long time. Then, for the first time, she took stock of her life, her situation. She had to get out of the house before morning and find herself a safe place. 'Safe place?' the question arose in her mind and she thought of Jalal Ansar again. To her, he was the only one who could give her that security in the real sense of the word. 'Perhaps, if he sees me in person, he may change his mind, his attitude...perhaps, he'll be compelled to review his decision and give me support and protection...perhaps his parents will have pity on me.'
A faint hope arose in her heart. Even if his parents did not help them, at least she would be free to live her life the way she wanted to. 'But the question is how am I going to get out of here and where will I go?' She was agitated and then she thought of Salar: if she could reach his house in some way, he could help her out.
She called Salar on his mobile. It was switched off. She tried several times but couldn't get through. She put down her mobile, and she put some clothes and other things in a bag.
She had some jewelry and some money, which she also put in the bag. Then she collected all her other valuables which she could easily carry and which could fetch her ready cash. Finally, she shut her bag, changed her clothes and prayed two nwafil.
Her heart was heavy and her whole being was engulfed in sadness and despair. Even her tears did not provide her relief. After offering the nwafil, she recited all the ayaat and surahs she could remember.
Imama took the bag, switched off the light and tiptoed out of her room. Except for one light in the lounge, all the lights were off and it was quite dark. She cautiously descended the stairs to the ground floor and made for the kitchen, where it was pitch dark. Feeling her way in the kitchen, she got to its door which opened on to the lawn where, at the rear end, some vegetables were grown—the kitchen door was the only exit that was not locked but just bolted. The door was not locked that night also. She quietly opened it and exited. At some distance were the servants' quarters; very cautiously, she walked across the lawn to the boundary wall separating her house from Salar's. She quietly tossed her bag over the wall and, after some effort, managed to scale the wall and get to the other side.
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The sound of a knock entered the subconscious of Salar who was in deep sleep. This turned into a tapping—intermittent but persistent. He was lying prone, fast asleep, but the sound awakened him.
He sat up in bed and, in the darkness, tried to look around. A shiver of fright raced through him. The faint tapping sound was coming from the windows. Perhaps someone was trying to open them. Salar's first reaction was that it may be a burglar trying to get in because these were just sliding windows and, unfortunately, there was no grill. But it was not felt necessary to provide an iron grill because the glass was high quality, imported, and could not be easily broken and, further, the windows could only be opened from the inside. Besides, the lawn surrounding the house was patrolled by three guards and dogs. But, in spite of these precautions, there was somebody in the small verandah on the other side of the window trying to open it.
Salar got up and moved silently towards the opposite end of the window; he lifted the curtain carefully and peeked out. He was shocked to see the figure standing outside, visible in the light of the garden lamps.
'She's crazy,' he said involuntarily. If their ferocious pedigreed dogs had seen her, they would rip her apart even before Salar or anyone else got to her and if the guards saw someone moving suspiciously, they would shoot instead of wasting time questioning the suspect. But she stood there safely—certainly, she had jumped over the wall, Salar thought.
Teeth clenched, Salar switched on the bedroom light. The knocking stopped. The dogs had started barking. He drew the curtain and slid the window open.
'Come in quickly!' he told Imama. She entered somewhat nervously, bag in hand. Salar closed the curtains and turned to her. 'For God's sake, Imama—you're insane!'
Saying nothing, she put the bag at her feet.
'You crossed over the wall? If the d
ogs or the guards had seen you, you'd have been history; your body would be lying out there.'
'I called so many times, but your mobile was switched off. I had no choice.'
For the first time, Salar observed her face. Her eyes were swollen and her face drawn. She was wrapped in a wide, white chadar which, along with her clothes, had stains on it.
'Can you give me a ride to Lahore?' she asked him.
'At this hour?' Salar was taken aback.
'Yes, right now—I have no time.'
Salar looked at the wall clock in surprise. 'The lawyer had called at your house...didn't that solve your problem?'
Imama shook her head. 'No. they're planning to send me away somewhere. That's why I was calling you so desperately to tell the lawyer to get a bailiff and secure my release. It could not wait till the next day as they would have moved me to some unknown place.'
Salar yawned: he was sleepy. 'Sit down,' he said as she was still standing.
'If you can't take me to Lahore, then drop me off at the bus stand—I'll make my way to Lahore.'
He was about to tell her that they would leave in the morning, but she interrupted him. 'No, not in the morning. I want to get out of here before that. If I can't catch the bus to Lahore, I'll go to some other town and take the Lahore bus from there.'
'At least sit down,' Salar gestured. She hesitated, then took a seat on the sofa. Salar sat at the foot of the bed, facing her. 'Where will you go in Lahore?'
To Jalal's.'
'But he has refused to marry you.'
'I'll go all the same. He loves me—he can't leave me in the lurch, and ditch me this way. I'll request him and his family; I know they'll listen to me, they'll understand my situation.'
'But you are now married to me.'
Shocked, Imama looked at him. 'But that's only a paper marriage. I made it clear that the nikah was only out of necessity—it's not a real marriage.'
He gave her an unblinking look. 'Do you know that I've been to Lahore today to meet Jalal?'
Color paled from Imama's face. 'Did you tell him about my problem, my circumstances?'
'No.' Salar shook his head.
'Why not?'
'Jalal got married.' He spoke casually. Imama's breath caught in her throat as she stared at him. 'It's been three days now,' he continued. 'He's going to the Northern Areas with his bride in a couple of days. He told me all this even before I could say anything—perhaps because he didn't want to hear any more about you. His wife is a doctor too.' Salar paused. 'I think his family rushed through the wedding because of your relationship with him.' Salar went on lying effortlessly.
'I cannot believe this.' Her voice seemed to float in from space.
'Yes, I couldn't believe it either, nor I did not expect you to believe it—but it's true. You can ring him up and discuss this with him if you want to,' Salar said with apparent unconcern.
Imam found herself in a dark void. That ray of hope she had followed to this stage had suddenly been extinguished. Let alone find a way out, she could not find her own being.
'It's up to you now—what will you do in Lahore? He cannot marry you now, nor can his family provide you any shelter. It's better for you to return home before your family finds out.'
Imama felt as if his voice was coming from a great distance. She looked at him, blankly and muttered, 'Drop me off to Lahore.'
'You'll go to Jalal?'
'No...I won't go there. But I cannot go home anymore.' She suddenly stood up. Salar looked at her with concern and took a deep breath. 'Or walk me to your gate—I'll find my way. Tell your chowkidar to let me out.' She picked up her bag.
'Have you any idea how far the bus stand is? Can you find the way on your own in this fog and cold?'
'When I have nothing left, then what do the cold or fog mean?' Salar saw her smile wanly, eyes brimming with tears as she wiped them away with the back of her hand. He had no intention of going anywhere with her, let alone to Lahore. He was very sleepy and he did not like this girl who stood before him.
'Wait—I'll come with you.' He didn't know why or how these words were spoken. Imama saw him go towards his dressing room. He emerged a while later, having changed from his pajamas to jeans and a pullover. He picked up his key chain, watch and wallet from his bedside table. Coming to Imama, he put out his hand to take her bag.
'No, thank you, I can carry it.'
'Let me,' he said and slung it over his shoulder. They walked down in single file to the porch. Salar put her bag on the back seat and opened the front door for her. As the car approached, the chowkidar opened the gate for them. Passing by, Salar noticed the amazement in the man's eyes when he saw the passenger in the front seat; he must certainly wonder what she was doing in the house at this hour and how she got in.
'Will you drop me at the bus stand?' asked Imama as the car approached the main road.
Salar turned to glance at her. 'No. I'm taking you to Lahore.' His eyes were fixed on the road ahead.
END OF CHAPTER THREE
Chapter 4
The car was racing down the wide, almost empty road. There was hardly any traffic. He had his right hand on the steering wheel whilst stifling a yawn with his left and trying to beat the sleep. On the adjoining seat,
Imama sat quietly crying, of which Salar was aware. From time to time she would wipe her tears and blow her nose, and continue weeping as she stared at the road through the wind screen.
Salar, from time to time, glanced at Imama. He did not try to console her.
He thought she would herself settle down but, when even after half an hour she didn't quieten down, Salar began to tire.
'If you are so upset at running away from home, you shouldn't have done so,' Salar said, breaking the silence. Imama did not reply. A little while later,
he suggested "There is still time: most probably no one has yet noticed your absence.'
'I have no regrets,' replied Imama, after some time, in a choked but firm voice.
Then why are you weeping?' he shot back.
'There's no point in telling you.' she wiped her eyes again. Salar turned around and looked at her curiously, then turned away again.
'Where will you go in Lahore?'
'Don't know.'
Salar was quite surprised by her response. 'What do you mean? Don't you know where you're going?'
'Not now...'
'Then why are you going to Lahore?'
'Where else can I go?'
'You may as well have stayed in Islamabad.'
'Where in Islamabad? With whom?'
'There's no one in Lahore either who could put you up permanently...other than Jalal.' Salar stressed the last three words and tried to see her reaction. 'So you're going to him,' he said in a cutting tone.
'No. Jalal is out of my life. How could I go to him?' Salar couldn't fathom if there was more disappointment in her tone or more sadness.
'Then where will you go?' He was intrigued.
'That I can say only when I reach Lahore—where I go and to whose place.'
Salar looked at her doubtfully: did she really not know or did she not want to tell him? There was silence in the car once again.
'Your fiance—what's his name? Oh yes, Asjad—he's a very nice person,
very handsome,' Salar broke the silence again. 'And this other fellow, Jalal, is nothing compared to Asjad. Haven't you been unfair with Asjad?' Imama did not reply, but stared at the road ahead. Salar turned towards her awaiting her response, and then realized that she did not want to reply. 'I haven't been able to understand you...or what you're doing. Your actions are weird and you're even more so,' he said after a pause. This time, Imama turned to look at him.
'Am I stranger than you and are my actions stranger than yours?' Imama spoke in a soft but firm tone. Her words left Salar speechless.
'What's strange about me and which action of mine did you find odd?' he asked after a spell of silence.
'You know which actions were strange,' she repli
ed looking straight ahead.
'You're referring to my suicide attempts, surely.' He answered his own question. 'Although I do not want to kill myself, I'm only trying to—I'm just experimenting.'
'What sort of experiment?'
'I've always asked people this question but no one has been able to give me a satisfactory answer. So I'm trying to find the answer myself,' he continued.
'What is your question?'
'A very simple question, but everyone finds it hard to answer. What is next to ecstasy?' he asked Imama.
She looked at him for a while, then said, 'Pain.'
'And what is next to pain?' he shot another question at her.
'Nothingness.'
'What is next to nothingness?' he asked in his typical style.
'Hell,' she replied.
'What is next to hell?' Imama watched him in silence. 'What is next to hell?'
he repeated.
'Aren't you afraid?' He heard her query in an unfamiliar tone.
'Afraid of what?' he was surprised.
'Of hell—the place which has nothing ahead...everything is left behind.
What remains after being condemned and destroyed that is worth your knowing?' she asked sadly.
'I fail to understand your argument—it's gone over my head,' Salar declared.
'Don't worry: there'll come a time when all this will make sense to you.
Then your laughter will end to be replaced by fear—fear of death, of hell too. Allah will make it all clear to you...and you'll never ask anyone what is next to ecstasy,' Imama said with composure.
'Is this your prophecy?' Salar responded sarcastically to her remarks. 'No,' she retorted in the same tone.
'Experiment? Yes, I suppose so, because you too have tried to end your life. I did it my way and you've done it in your way,' he said coldly. Imama's eyes filled with tears again. She looked at Salar. 'I've not done anything to end my life.'
'To leave home for any man is tantamount to suicide for a woman and that too for someone who is not ready to wed her. Look here, I'm a broad-minded, very liberal man, and don't see anything wrong with a girl running away from home for a civil marriage with a man of her choice—but at least the man should stand by her. To leave home for a married man...tsk, tsk! I can't figure that and that too at your age—it's utter stupidity.' 'I haven't left home for any man.' 'Jalal Ansar,' he reminded her.