'You're unable to make any sense of anything right now—and you won't be able to, either. There'll come a time when everything will be clear to you and you'll understand it all. In every life, there's a time when everything becomes clear—when there's no more mystery. I am passing through that stage,' she had said, 'but that stage will come upon you at some future point. Then remember to check if it doesn't amuse you.'
Salar retched again. He felt his eyes streaming.
'In life, at sometime or another we come to a point where all relationships cease—where there is only us and Allah. There are no parents, brother or sister, or any friend. Then we realise that there is no earth under us nor is there sky above, but only Allah who is supporting us in this emptiness. Then we realise our worth - it is not more than a grain of sand or the leaf of a plant. Then we realise our existence is only confined to our being. Our demise makes not a whit of difference to the world around us, nor to the scheme of things.'
Salar was feeling an unusual pain in his chest. He licked the water flowing down his face and he retched again.
His thoughts continued. 'We come to our senses; we understand our utter insignificance.'
He was trying to rid the voice from his mind. He wondered why he remembered her now.
He splashed water on his face, wiped it, opened the bottle of after-shave and applied it to the wounds on his cheek. For the first time, he felt the pain.
Coming out of the bathroom, he realized that his hands were trembling even now.
'I must go to the doctor.' He clenched his fists. 'I need help. I must get myself checked up.'
He did not know this feeling of wild fear. He was suffocating. He felt as though someone was slowly squeezing the life out of him.
'Is it possible that my people would forget me, forget me this way '
He took out clean clothes from his wardrobe and started to put them on. He wanted to get to the doctor fast. Suddenly, the apartment became a frightening place.
That night, on returning home, he had been awake almost the whole night. He was in a strange state: he could not accept that he had been forgotten. He had always been well looked after by his parents. Considering the way he was, Sikandar Usman and Tayyaba had handled him cautiously. They always worried for him, but now he felt that for the last few days he was completely out of everyone's lives—his parents, brothers and sister, friends. If, as a result of his illness, he had died in his apartment, probably no one would have known. Maybe till his corpse had begun to rot, and in this weather how much time would that take?
That night, he checked the phone's answering service every hour. In a state of disbelief, he spent all of the next week waiting for someone to call, but no one called.
'Have they all forgotten me?'
He panicked. After waiting a whole week, like a fool, for someone to call, he himself tried contacting his folks.
He wanted to tell them what had happened to him and what he had been through.
He wanted to share his woes with them. But, for the first time, he felt as though nobody was really interested in him. Everybody had details of their own activities.
Sikandar and Tayyaba kept telling him of their holiday in Australia and how much they were enjoying it. He heard them absentmindedly.
'Are you enjoying your holidays?' After a long conversation, Tayyaba enquired about him.
'Me? Yes, very....' He could utter only just these three words. He did not really know what to tell Tayyaba, what to disclose to her.
Speaking to every one that he called, he faced this situation for the first time: he realized that they were primarily interested in their own lives. Maybe, if he had told them what he had been through, they would have expressed shock, and maybe they would have got worried. But this would happen after he had told them. What place did he have in their lives? Was anyone interested to know what had occurred?
Perhaps then he pondered for the first time that if his life were to end why would it affect anyone else. What change would it bring to the world? What would his family feel? Nothing... nothing, except grief for a few days. As for the rest of the world, it would not be affected even momentarily.
If Salar Sikandar were to vanish would it make any difference to anybody? He tried to banish such dark thoughts, but the despair and his state of mind overcame him. 'What's come over me? Of what consequence is it if people were to forget me temporarily? Several times I have myself lost contact with a lot of people. Then, why bother if this has happened with me.'
'But why did this happen to me? And if I had really not regained consciousness If my fever had not subsided, if the pain in my chest and stomach not abated '
He tried to rid his mind of these troubling thoughts, but could not. He was more in fear than in pain. 'Maybe, I'm becoming too sensitive, otherwise why should I let mere temporary unconsciousness get to me so.' He fretted.
'At least now I've recovered, but why am I thinking of death? After all, I've fallen ill before also. Tried to commit suicide without cause, but now, why am I being assailed by these fears?' His agony increased.
'Nor do I remember the misery of the fever. It was, perhaps, only a dream or somewhat like a coma. I can't recall more.' He tried to smile.
'What is bothering me? What disease? Or is it the realization that nobody needed me, nobody thought of me, not even my loved ones, my own family, my friends '
*****************************
'Oh, my God, what's happened to you, Salar!' Sandra exclaimed, seeing him on the first day of the new semester.
'Nothing really.' Salar tried to smile.
'Have you been ill?' she asked concernedly.
'Yes, a little.'
'But it appears to me that you have been quite ill. You've lost weight and have got dark rings around your eyes. What were you ill with?'
'Nothing much. Just a little fever and food poisoning, I suppose ' he smiled.
'Were you away in Pakistan?'
'No, I was here.'
'I phoned you several times before leaving for New York. Each time the answering service responded. You should have recorded that you'd left for Pakistan.'
'Just stop it!' he exploded. 'You're bombarding me with questions.'
Sandra looked at him in amazement.
'You're interrogating me as if you were my wife.'
'Salar, what happened?'
'Nothing happened. Now, you stop all this talk of what-where- how-why rubbish.'
Sandra could not speak for a few moments. She had no inkling that he would react so.
Sandra was not the only one to have expressed such concern to Salar. All his other friends and acquaintances had reacted similarly on seeing Salar.
By the end of the day Salar was thoroughly rattled and had become somewhat aggressive. He had not gone to the university to be interrogated. The concern of his friends repeatedly reminded him that something really awful had happened to him, and he wanted release from this realization.
'Would you like to go to the movies this weekend?' Danish, who was visiting Salar, asked.
'Yes, I would,' Salar agreed.
'Then be ready. I'll pick you up.' Danish confirmed the arrangement.
Danish picked up Salar as arranged. Salar had gone to the movies after several weeks and he was looking forward to an enjoyable evening, but ten minutes after the movie began he suddenly felt an acute and inexplicable fear. The characters on the screen ahead appeared to him like puppets that he could not understand. He quietly got up and left. He sat on the bonnet of Danish's car in the parking lot for a long time, then hailed a taxi and returned to his apartment.
Professor Robinson had started his lecture. Salar noted on the paper in front of him the date and the topic. He was speaking on the economic recession. As always, his eyes were fixed on the professor but his mind was elsewhere. This had happened the first time in his life that he did not know where he was mentally. His mind flitted from one image to another, and then onto another. From one scene to another, and then onto anothe
r. He heard one voice, then another and yet another. He had no idea where his journey started or where he was.
'Salar, shall we not leave?' Sandra asked, shaking his shoulder.
He was startled. The classroom was empty and only Sandra was besides him. He looked in bewilderment at the empty classroom, the wall clock and then at his wrist watch.
'Where's Prof. Robinson?' he blurted out.
'The class is over and he has left.' Sandra replied, looking at him somewhat amazed.
'The class is over?' he doubtingly asked.
'Yes'. Salar rubbed his eyes vigorously and leaned back. The only thing he remembered of Prof. Robinson's lecture was the topic and nothing else. He did not know what the professor had said.
'You're looking a bit upset?' Sandra enquired.
'Nothing, really nothing. I want to sit here alone for sometime.'
'O.K.' Sandra said looking at him, and picked up her things and left.
He crossed his arms across his chest and started staring at the blackboard ahead. This was the third such occurrence of the day. He had thought that on rejoining the university everything would fall back to normal and that he would come out of his depression. But that did not happen. At the university too he continued to be a complete victim of his mental turmoil. Also, for the first time, he was losing interest in his studies: everything appeared artificial to him. For the first time in his life, he had gone into deep depression. Studies, university, friends, club, parties, restaurants, outings and the like had become meaningless for him. He had stopped meeting friends. His phone often had a recorded message that he was not home. On the insistence of his friends, he would relent to go out with them, but at the last moment drop out. Even if he did go, he would suddenly leave without saying a word. He was doing the same thing at the university. He would attend one day and absent himself the next two. One class he would attend and forego the next two.
Sometimes, he would spend the whole day in bed in his apartment. He would start watching a film but after a couple of minutes, he'd have no clue as to what he was watching. It was the same when he'd be flicking through the TV channels. His appetite had disappeared—he'd begin to eat but halfway, he'd leave the food and some days, he'd go without it. All he did was to down endless cups of coffee.
He wasn't a chain-smoker, but he had become one now. He was an organised and tidy person by nature but now his apartment was the picture of chaos and dirt. He wasn't bothered by the sight of stuff strewn around the place. His contact with his parents and siblings had decreased and his conversation with them reduced to a minimum. They would keep talking and he would listen, hardly responding. He had nothing more to tell them or share with them—it had all come to an end, and he had no idea why this had happened.
But he knew that all these events, these thoughts were related to Imama Hashim: had she not come into his life, all this would not have happened. First he disliked her; now he hated her. The slight sense of regret he had earlier disappeared altogether.
'Whatever happened to her was justified. Whatever I did to her was right. That is what she deserved,' he kept telling himself. He loathed every word, every line that she had uttered. The memory of Imama's conversations would drive away his sleep and peace of mind: he'd be engulfed by strange desperation. All that he had scoffed at now haunted him.
'Am I going mad? Slowly losing my mind? Am I becoming schizophrenic?' strange fears would grip him unexpectedly.
The lack of meaning and purpose in everything was becoming increasingly apparent. Who was he? What was he and why? Where was he and why was he there? Such questions had begun to bother him all the time. 'What happens when I get an MBA from Yale? I land a very good job, set up a factory, then what? Was this the reason for which I was created...with an IQ of 150+ so that I acquire some more degrees, run a successful business, get married, have children, enjoy luxuries, then die...that's it?'
He had experimented with death four times in his life, just to satisfy his curiosity; but now, despite severe depression, he did not try to end his life. In spite of thinking about death all the time, he did not want to approach it. However, if someone were to ask him if he wanted to live on, he would hesitate to answer in the positive.
He did not want to live because he did not understand the meaning of life. And he did not want to die because he did not understand death. He was suspended in a vacuum, in limbo, somewhere in between being alive yet dead and dead yet alive...He was reaching the limits of hedonism moment by moment—this man with an exceptionally high IQ, who could not forget anything said or heard in his presence. Swathed in cigarette smoke, swigging beer, dining in plush restaurants, dancing away in nightclubs, spending nights with his girl friend, there was just one question on his mind: is this the purpose of life?
'Riches and luxuries, elegant clothes, excellent food, the best facilities available for a life of sixty or seventy years...and then?' He had no answer to that 'and then?' but this query had upset the pattern of his life. He was gradually becoming an insomniac, and it was during this period that he found himself turning to religion. He had seen many people do this to escape depression and he did the same. He tried to read some books about Islam, but all the books went over his head. No word, no idea in them attracted him. He would force himself to read but put them away after a few pages; a little while later, he would pick them up again and then put them back.
'No—perhaps I should actually start praying; maybe that would help.' Salar tried to reason with himself, and one day when he was with Saad, he expressed this desire.
'I'll come with you,' he told Saad, who was stepping out.
'But I'm going to say the isha prayers,' Saad reminded him.
'I know,' he said, tying up his jogger laces.
'You'll come to the mosque?' Saad was surprised.
'Yes.' Salar stood up.
'To pray?'
'Yes,' he replied. 'And there's no need to give me that look—after all I'm not an unbeliever.'
'No you're not, but...anyway, come on and pray,' said Saad. Then he suddenly shifted the topic. 'I've told you so often before to come along.'
Salar did not reply; he quietly walked out with Saad.
'If you've come to the mosque today, then keep it up. Don't let this be your first and last visit,' Saad continued.
It was snowing when they stepped out. The mosque was a short distance from the residential building; it was in a house belonging to an Egyptian family. They had given the ground floor to be used as a mosque while the upper floor was used as their residence. Sometimes, the number of people praying there would be twenty to twenty-five, but more often there were only ten or fifteen. Saad apprised Salar of all these details till they reached the mosque. Salar walked silently beside him, somewhat unconcerned, but carefully avoiding skidding cars and watching his step on road lined with piles of snow.
After walking for a few minutes, they turned into a side street and opening the door, Saad entered the house. The door was shut but not locked; Saad did not knock nor ask permission before entering—his movements were rather familiar. Salar followed him in.
'Perform your ablutions.' Saad turned to Salar, and led him to the bathroom. The cold water on his hands made him shiver for a while. By the time Salar had reached the last stage of the wuzu under Saad's supervision, the cold water had turned tepid. As he was running his hands over his head, he suddenly stopped. Saad thought that perhaps Salar did not know the right way, so he directed him again. Rather vacantly, Salar obeyed him. As his hands moved towards the nape of his neck, he felt the chain he was wearing and his glance fell on the mirror before him. Once again, his mind was somewhere else—Saad was saying something, but it did not register.
The ten people in the room were standing in two rows. Saad and Salar joined the back row. The imam began the prayer and along with everyone else, Salar also recited the niyat for prayer.
'Does prayer really give you peace?' He had found a young man in debate with Saad over prayer, about two
weeks ago.
'It gives me peace,' Saad had replied.
'I don't mean you, I mean everyone—does it bring peace of mind to everyone?'
'That depends on the degree of involvement people have,' was Saad's response.
Salar stood aside, bored, listening to their argument, without any comment or interruption. He was consciously trying to enthuse himself on this topic.
'Peace? I really want to see what kind of peace it brings,' he thought to himself as he bowed for ruku. Then he prostrated himself for the first sajda. His restlessness and anxiety suddenly increased. The words being intoned by the imam were strange to his ears; the people around him were strangers, unknown; the environment was unnatural, and whatever he was doing there appeared to be sham, an act of hypocrisy.
The burden on his heart and mind grew with each prostration, and he completed the last four stages with great difficulty. As he read the closing salam and turned, he saw tears roll down the face of the middle-aged man to his right. He wanted to just get up and flee from there but he forced himself to stand up for another round of prayer and do this with as much interest as he could.
'This time I'll focus on every ayat that is read,' he thought. 'Perhaps, this way...' but his thoughts dispersed. The niyat was being recited. Salar felt extremely dejected—the pressure on his mind seemed to increase.
The recitation of the opening Surah of the Quran, al-Fateha, began.
'In the name of Allah, the most Compassionate, the most Beneficent. All praise is for the Sustainer/Cherisher of the Universe, the most Compassionate, the most Beneficent.'
Salar tried his best to concentrate.
The Lord of the Day of Judgment...' His attention wandered.
'It is to You that we bow in worship; it is You to whom we turn for help.'
He knew the translation of the Sura al Fateha; he had read it a few days ago.
'Guide us to the straight path'—Sirat al mustaqeem, the straight path, he repeated to himself.
The straight path? He wanted to run away. He made a last attempt to continue with the prayer.
'The path of those whom You bless...' Once again, his mind receded.