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For the last half hour Salar had been watching Kamran trying to master the video game: the score remained the same, probably because Kamran was trying to maneuver a difficult track. Salar was also in the lounge, busy writing notes. From time to time, he would look at the TV screen as Kamran struggled to win more points. Half an hour later, Salar put his notebook away, stifled a yawn, stretched his legs out on the table and crossing his hands behind his head, looked at the TV screen as Kamran started a new game, having lost the previous round. 'What's the problem, Kamran?'
'Nothing...I got this new game but it is really tough to score,' Kamran said in a tired tone.
'Let me see.' Salar got up from the sofa and took the remote control. Kamran watched silently: in the opening seconds Salar was racing at a speed that Kamran had never reached. The track that had challenged Kamran was like child's play for Salar—it was hard for Kamran to keep his eyes on the car that was racing at a fantastic speed in the first minute, and yet Salar had complete control over it. Three minutes later, Kamran saw the car swerve, go off the track and explode into smithereens. Kamran turned to Salar with a smile—he realized why the car had been destroyed: Laying the remote control down on the table Salar picked up his notebook. 'It's a very boring game,' he remarked as he jumped over Kamran's legs and went out. Kamran clenched his teeth as he saw the seven digit score on the screen. He looked at the door as Salar left.
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They were both quiet once again. Asjad was beginning to worry: Imama had not always been as withdrawn as she was now. One could have counted the words she had spoken in the last half hour. He had known her since childhood; she was a lively girl. In the first year after their engagement, Asjad had felt happy in her company—she was so quickwitted and vivacious. But in the last few years, she had changed, the transformation having become more pronounced since she started medical school. Asjad felt that she had something on her mind. At times, she would appear to be worried and sometimes she was distinctly cold and distant as though she wanted to end their meeting and leave as soon as possible. This time too he had the same feeling. 'I often think that it is I who insists on our meeting—perhaps it makes little difference to you whether we meet or not,' he said despondently. She was sitting on a garden chair across from him, looking at the creepers on the boundary wall. At Asjad's remark, she fixed her gaze on him. He cast an inquiring glance, but she was silent, so he rephrased his words.
'My coming here makes no difference to you. Imama...am I right?' 'What can I say?'
'At least you can say "No, you're mistaken", that...' 'No, you're mistaken,' Imama cut him short. Her tone was as cold and her expression as indifferent as before. Asjad sighed in despair.
'Yes, I wish and pray that it may be so, that I may indeed be mistaken. However, talking to you I feel you do not care.' 'What makes you think so?' Asjad detected a note of annoyance in her tone.
'Many things—for one you never respond properly to anything I say.' 'I do make every effort to reply properly to whatever you say. What can I do if you do not like what I have to say?' Asjad felt that she was more annoyed.
'I did not mean that I did not like what you say: it's that you only say "yes" or "no" in response. Sometimes, I feel as if I'm talking to myself.' 'When you ask me if I am well, I say "yes" or "no"—what else can I say? If you want to hear a spiel in response to a simple question then tell me what you would like to hear and I'll say it.' She was serious. 'You could add something to that "yes" or "no". If nothing else, ask me how I am.' 'Ask you how are you are? You are sitting here across me, talking to me—obviously you are quite well. Otherwise, you'd be at home, in bed, sick.'
'Imama, these are formalities...'
'And you know very well that I do not believe in formalities. There's no need for you to ask me how I am; I will not mind it at all.'
Asjad was speechless. 'Fine. Formalities aside, one can talk of other things, discuss something. Talk to each other about what interests us, what keeps us busy.'
'Asjad, what can I discuss with you? You're a businessman, I am a medical student, What should I ask you? About the stock market position? Was the trend bullish or bearish? By how many points did the index rise? Or where you are sending the next consignment? How much rebate did the government give you this time?' she went on coldly. 'Or shall I discuss anatomy with you? What affects the function of the liver? hat new techniques have been used for bypass surgery this year? What should be the voltage of electric shocks given to restore a failing heart? These are our spheres of work, so what points of discussion can we have about these that will help us to achieve love and familiarity? I fail to understand.'
The color of Asjad's face deepened. He was cursing the moment that he had complained to Imama.
'There are other interests too in a person's life,' he said weakly.
'No, besides my studies there's no other interest in my life,' Imama said decisively, shaking her head for emphasis.
'After all, we shared interests earlier on.'
'Forget about what happened earlier,' Imama interjected. 'I cannot afford to waste time now. What surprises me is that despite being a businessman you are so immature and emotional; you should be more practical.'
Asjad was silent.
'We know our relationship. If you think my practical approach to our relationship shows a lack of interest or indifference then I cannot do much about it. That I am here with you means that I value this relationship, otherwise I would not be sitting here having tea with a stranger.' She paused a moment, then continued, 'And whether you coming here or not makes any difference to me, the answer is that we are both very busy people. We are the products of a modern age. I am no Heer who waits upon you with delicacies while you play the flute, nor are you Ranjha who will indulge me for hours. The truth is that it really makes no difference whether or not we meet or talk. Our relationship, as it is today, will continue. Or do you feel it will change?'
If Asjad's brow did not sweat, it was simply because it was the month of December. There was a difference of eight years in their ages, but for the first time Asjad felt it was not eight but eighteen—and she was the older one. Just two weeks ago, she had turned nineteen, but to him it seemed as if she had raced overnight from teenage to middle age and he had regressed to his pre-teens! She sat across him, legs crossed and eyes fixed on his face, impassively waiting for his response. Asjad looked at the engagement ring on her finger and cleared his throat.
'You're right...I just thought we should chat more because it would help develop some understanding between us.'
'Asjad, I know and understand you very well. I am disappointed to learn that you think we still need to develop an understanding between us. I thought there already was a good deal of understanding.'
Asjad had to accept that it wasn't his day.
'And if you think that talking about business and anatomy will improve the situation, then very well—we'll do that in the future.' There was an element of disinterest in Imama's tone.
'You're not happy with what I said?'
'Why should I be unhappy?' This embarrassed him further.
'Perhaps I said the wrong thing...not perhaps, but certainly I said the wrong thing.' He repeated the last phrase with emphasis. 'You know how important this relationship is for me. I have many dreams for the future...'
He took a deep breath. She continued to stare, expressionless, at the creeper along the wall. 'Perhaps that is why I am so sensitive about it. I have no fears about us. This engagement took place with our consent.'
His gaze was fixed on her and he spoke with emotion, but suddenly, he felt once more that she was not there, that he was talking to himself.
The music from the annex behind the huge bungalow could be heard on the lawn in front of the house. Anyone would have been amazed at the level of endurance of those inside. But one look inside, and one would know the reason behind this level of endurance.
Th
e room was full of swirling smoke and a strange smell. Empty cartons of food from a popular restaurant, disposable plates and spoons, bottles of soft drinks, and scraps of leftovers were strewn all over the carpet which was stained by ketchup. The seven boys in the room were sprawled on the carpet; empty beer cans were scattered around. This was not all—they had been entertaining themselves with drugs too. This was the third time in the last two months that the boys had gathered here for an adventure of this kind. So far they had experimented with four different drugs. The first time it was a drug that one of them had found in his father's closet. The next time it was a drug which a schoolmate had bought from a club in Islamabad. Then it was something acquired from an Afghan in a Rawalpindi market. Every time they had combined drugs with alcohol, procuring which was no problem. Each time this happened six of the seven boys ended up completely stoned.
Even now it was only the seventh boy who was in his senses. His face was covered with acne, and he was dressed in a dark blue shirt with its collar turned up Elvis Presley style, and hideous grey jeans which had Madonna's face adorning each knee. He opened his eyes to glance at the others around him. His eyes were red but not because he was in a stupor like them. A little later he straightened up and shaking the remaining drug from the little container out into a cone, he pulled out a straw and began sniffing it. Then he threw away the straw and taking some of the drug on a fingertip, tasted it very cautiously. Almost instantly, he spat it out. The stuff was of excellent quality, but his expression showed that he had not enjoyed the experience. He swallowed some beer as if to clear the taste of the drug from his mouth. The other boys lay around on the carpet, totally intoxicated and unaware of themselves: he looked at them thoughtfully as he drank from the beer can. His eyes, though swollen, were bright enough. The drug had not knocked him out fully. This had happened the last three times too. Though his friends had been knocked senseless after taking drugs, the effect on him was not so pronounced. The first two times he had left them in their stupor and had driven home, late in the night. This time too he wanted to get away: the odor of the drugs in the room repulsed him. He stumbled as he tried to stand up. He straightened up and picking his key and wallet off the floor, he turned off the stereo. He looked around the room as if trying to remember something. Then he turned towards the door and sitting down again, put on his joggers, tying their laces around his ankles. Finally, unlocking the door, he went out into the dark corridor. Groping his way, he went past the main door out onto the lawn. As he was coming down the stairs, he felt his nose was running and when he touched his upper lip, he felt a sticky liquid on his hands. He switched on the light in the entrance and saw blood on his fingertips. Reaching into his pocket for his handkerchief, he wiped the blood off his fingers and nose. There was a strange sharp sensation in his throat which he tried to clear, but he felt he was suffocating. He took a few deep breaths to ease the constriction and spat two or three times. Suddenly he felt a tingling in his nose. He doubled over as blood began gushing out of his nose pouring down the marble stairs like a stream.
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The prize distribution ceremony was underway at the Golf Club. Salar Sikandar was to receive the first prize in the Under-Sixteen competition for his seven under par score.
Applauding when Salar's name was called out, Sikandar Usman thought he would have to do something about the cabinet where the trophies were displayed. The trophies and shields Salar would bring home this year would be as many as he had in the past year. All of Sikandar's children excelled in their studies, but Salar was different from the rest. In winning awards, he was far ahead of them. It was not just difficult to beat this boy who had an IQ score of 150, it was impossible.
Clapping proudly, Sikandar turned to his wife and whispered, 'This is Salar's thirteenth trophy and the fourth one this year.'
'You keep a record of everything, don't you?' she replied, smiling at her husband whose gaze was fixed on Salar as he received the trophy from the chief guest.
'Only for golf and you know the reason very well. I bet that even if Salar had been playing this tournament with professional players, he would have still won the trophy,' he claimed proudly.
Salar was shaking hands with the other winners seated around him.
Sikandar's wife was not surprised by his claim about Salar. She knew that it was not an expression of paternal sentiment: it was the truth—Salar was indeed extraordinary.
She recalled when he had played 18 holes at this golf course with her brother Zubair for the first time. The way he had brought a ball that had accidentally fallen into the rough, out onto the green, was a display of expertise. Zubair was amazed. 'I can't believe it!' He had repeated this statement endlessly till the end of the game.
If the shot from the rough had amazed Zubair, then Salar's putters had floored him. As the ball rolled towards the hole, he leaned against his club and turned around to gauge the distance between Salar and his target. Shaking his head in disbelief, he looked at Salar.
'Salar Sahib is not playing well today,' muttered the caddie standing by the golf cart behind Zubair, who turned around in surprise.
'So he's not playing well?' He looked at the caddie. Was this a joke?
'Yes, sir, otherwise the ball would not have gone into the rough,' the caddie said. 'You have played here today for the first time, but Salar Sahib has been playing here for the last three years. That's why I say he's not playing well,' he added. Zubair looked at his sister who was smiling benignly.
'Next time, I will be fully prepared when I come here, and I will also select the site for the game.' Zubair was somewhat miffed as they walked across towards Salar.
'Any time, any place,' she confidently challenged her brother on her son's behalf.
'I want to invite you to Karachi this weekend, with all expenses paid,' Zubair said casually as he approached Salar.
'Why?'
'To play on my behalf against the president of the Karachi Chamber of Commerce. I lost the election to him, but if he loses a golf match, and that too to a child, he'll have a heart attack. So let's settle the score.'
Salar's mother laughed at her brother's words, but a frown creased Salar's brow.
'Child?' He repeated with emphasis the only objectionable word in Zubair's comment. 'Uncle, I think I'll have to play another 18 holes against you tomorrow.'
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Asjad opened the door and entered his mother's room.
'Ami, I need to discuss something important with you.'
'Yes...what is it?'
Asjad sat down on the sofa. 'Have you been to Hashim Uncle's lately?'
'No...is there anything special?'
'Imama is over for this weekend.'
'Very well, we'll go this evening. Have you been there?' Shakeela smiled at him.
'Yes...'
'How is she? She's come home after a long time,' Shakeela remarked.
'Yes, after two months.'
Shakeela sensed Asjad was upset. 'Is there a problem?'
'Ami, I find Imama a little changed,' Asjad said with a sigh.
'Changed? What do you mean?'
'I cannot explain what I mean. It's just that her attitude towards me is rather strange.' Asjad shrugged his shoulders. 'Today she took offence to something quite minor. She's not the way she was before. I am not able to figure out the reason for this change.'
'It's your imagination, Asjad. Why would her attitude change? You are thinking too emotionally.'
'No, Ami. Initially, I thought I was being oversensitive, but after today I don't think I am imagining things. She treats me in a very off-hand manner.'
'What do you think is the reason for this change in her attitude?' she asked as she put the brush back on the table.
'I have no idea...'
'Did you ask her?'
'Not just once, but several times.'
'And?'
'Like you, she always says that I am mistaken.' He shrugged again.
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'Sometimes, she says it's because of her studies, sometimes, she says it is because she has matured now...'
'It's not so far-fetched; perhaps, that is the reason,' Shakeela replied pensively.
'Ami, it's not a question of her becoming serious! I think she's moving away from me,' said Asjad.
'You're being silly, Asjad. I don't believe there's any such issue. You have both known each other since childhood. You know your temperaments.'
Shakeela felt her son's fears were meaningless. 'Obviously, changes do take place as the years pass: you're no longer children. Stop worrying over trivialities,' she tried to reason with her son. 'In any case, Hashim Bhai wants the two of you to get married next year. Imama can continue and complete her education afterwards. He wants to fulfill his responsibility,' Shakeela revealed.
'When did he say this?' Shakeela was taken by surprise.
'Many times. In fact, I think they may have started the preparations.'
Asjad breathed a sigh of relief.
'Maybe that is why Imama is agitated.'
'Yes, possibly. The wedding should take place next year,' Asjad replied with some satisfaction.
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He was a tall, thin lad of sixteen or seventeen. He had a fuzzy growth on his face and had an innocent look about him. He was dressed in sports shorts and a baggy shirt, and had on cotton socks and joggers. He was in the middle of a crowded road, on a heavy duty motorcycle which he was racing recklessly without any consideration for traffic lights or oncoming traffic. Zigzagging his bike through the traffic, he periodically lifted both his feet off the pedals performing wheelies. Then, without breaking speed, he turned and changed lanes going the wrong way through the oncoming traffic. Suddenly he braked with a sharp screech. He raised his hands from the handlebars and the motorcycle slammed full speed into an approaching car. He was flung into the air and thrown down. He had no idea of what had happened...his mind plunged into a dark abyss.