'I sought help from my cousin. He is a doctor and has been working in this city for a long time. I don't know how he located you. I had only given him your name and some other information,' replied Salar. 'Lunch?' asked Jalal, very formally. He had brought over his own lunch tray to the table.
Salar declined with thanks. Jalal shrugged and proceeded with his lunch.
'What did you want to talk to me about?'
'I wanted to make you aware of some facts.'
'Facts?' Jalal raised his eyebrows, quizzically.
'I wanted to tell you that I had lied to you. I was not Imama's friend; she was my friend's sister—my next-door neighbor...'
Jalal continued eating.
'I had only a fleeting acquaintance with her. And that too, because once she had given me first aid and saved my life. She did not like me, neither did I like her, and that's why I made out to you that she was my great friend. I wanted to create misunderstandings between you two.'
Jalal was earnestly listening to him, eating his lunch.
'After this, when Imama left home and wanted to come to you, I lied to her about your marriage.'
At this, Jalal stopped eating. 'I told her that you had already married.
That is why she did not come to you. I later realized that I had done something inappropriate, but by then it was too late. I had no contact with Imama, but it is by chance that I was able to contact you. I want to apologize to you.'
'I accept your apology, but I do not think that it is because of you that any misunderstanding occurred between me and Imama. I had already decided not to marry her,' Jalal stated plainly.
'She loved you very much,' Salar said in a hushed tone.
'Yes, I know, but in a marriage, love is not the only criterion. There are many other things,' Jalal was saying realistically.
'Jalal! Isn't it possible for you to marry her?'
'Firstly, I have no contact with her. Secondly, if I were in contact with her, I could not have married her.'
'She needs your support,' Salar replied.
'I don't think she needs my support as a long time has passed and by now she must have found someone.' Jalal spoke complacently.
'It's possible she has not done so. She may still be waiting for you.'
'I'm not given to wondering about such possibilities. I have told you that marriage at this stage of my career is out of the question—and that too with her...'
'Why?'
'I see no need to answer this query—why. You have nothing to do with any of this business...why I don't want to marry her. I had already told her why and after all this time, you turn up, wanting to open this
Pandora's Box again!' Jalal was quite angry now.
'I'm just trying to make amends for the damage I've caused you both,'
Salar explained gently.
'No damage has been done to me and nor to Imama, I think. You are just being over-sensitive.'
Jalal popped a few morsels of salad into his mouth. Salar kept looking at him, wondering how to get his point across.
'I could help you find her,' he said a little later.
'But I don't want to find her. When I don't intend to marry her, then what's the point in looking for her?'
Salar sighed deeply. 'Do you know what the cause of her leaving home was?'
'Certainly, she didn't do it for me,' Jalal interjected.
'Very well, not for you, but the reason why she did so...as a Muslim were you not bound to help her, especially when you knew that she loved you deeply? She was inspired by you.'
'I am not the only Muslim in the world and nor am I duty-bound that I should help her. I have just one life to live and I'm not going to mess it up for someone else's sake. You're a Muslim too—why don't you marry her? I had told you then too, and you do have a soft spot for her, anyway.' Jalal spoke sharply.
Salar looked at him in silence: he could not disclose that he had married her.
'Marriage? She doesn't like me,' he said plaintively.
'I can talk to her and convince her; just get me in touch with her and I'll get her to agree. You're a good man, after all, and from a good family too, I suppose. A year and a half ago, you had a pretty fancy car—which means that you're quite well off. By the way, why are you here?'
'Studying for an MBA.'
'Then there's no problem: you'll find a decent job and you do have the money. What more do girls want? And Imama knows you, in any case.'
Jalal had solved the problem in a flash.
'The problem is with her knowing me—she knows me too well,' thought Salar as he looked at Jalal.
'She loves you,' Salar reminded him.
'That's not my fault. Girls tend to be too emotional in such matters,' he replied, now losing interest.
'This couldn't have been a one-sided affair—you must have been involved to some extent,' said Salar seriously.
'Yes, some what... but a person's priorities change with time and the situation.'
'If you intended to change your priorities according to the times and the situation, then you should have told her before getting involved. At least, then she would not have depended on you nor expected any help. I am hoping that you're not going to say that you had made any commitment about getting married to her.'
Jalal said nothing but glared at him angrily. Then, a few moments later, he brusquely asked, 'Just what are you trying to imply or tell me?'
'When she first gave me your number and asked me to call you, she told me to ask you if you had spoken to your parents about getting married to her. I gave her my cell phone so that she could speak to you herself.
Certainly, before coming to Islamabad you must have told her that you'd speak to your parents about marrying her. You must certainly have expressed affection for her and then proposed.'
Jalal interrupted somewhat harshly. 'I did not propose to her. It was she who proposed to me.'
'Agreed that she did...so what did you do? Did you refuse?' Salar seemed to be challenging Jalal.
'I may have declined.'
Salar gave a strange smile. 'She told me that you recite naats beautifully and you have great love for Hazrat Muhammad (PBUH). She must have told you too why she loved you, but meeting you and getting to know you has been quite a disappointment. You must recite naats with passion but as far as the love of the Prophet (PBUH) is concerned, I don't think you have any. I'm not a very good being myself and don't know much about love, but I do know that one who professes love of Allah and His Prophet (PBUH) or gives such an impression to others cannot turn away from a hand stretched out for help; nor can he deceive others.' Salar stood up. 'And all I'm asking for is to help her: perhaps, she did too, a year and a half ago. However, if you insist on refusing, I can't compel you. But I'm very disappointed after meeting you and talking to you.'
Salar held out his hand to say goodbye, but Jalal ignored him. He kept glaring balefully at Salar, his eyes filled with hatred.
Khuda Hafiz,' said Salar, withdrawing his hand. Jalal just watched him walk out and mumbled to himself, 'It's an idiot's world out there.' Once again, he turned to his lunch tray. He was in a foul mood.
After the meeting with Jalal Ansar, he was finding it difficult to define his own sentiments. Should he stop being remorseful? Because Jalal had said that even if Salar had not interfered, he would not have married Imama, and after speaking to Jalal Ansar, he realized that Jalal did not feel deeply towards Imama. But this was giving rise to new questions. He had met Jalal today. Had he spoken to Jalal like this a year and a half back, the effect may have been different. Then, his feelings for Imama may have been different, and, maybe, he would not have shown such indifference towards her, as he had done today. Salar's mind alternated between relief and remorse.
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The second year of MBA passed off very peacefully. Apart from studies, he did little else. He would only talk about sports or discuss other topics with his class fellows, or else spend time with them on gr
oup projects. He would spend the rest of the time in the library. His only activity at the weekend was to go to the Islamic Centre, where he would learn to recite the Holy Quran from an Arab and repeat his lessons; eventually, he started to learn the Arabic language from him. Khalid Abdul Rehman, the Arab, was basically a medical technician and was attached to a hospital. At the weekends, he took classes of Arabic language and the Holy Quran at the Islamic Centre. He took no remuneration for his services and, in fact, he and his relatives had donated a large number of books to the library of the Islamic Centre. One day, during one of these Quran classes, he asked Salar, 'Why don't you memorize the Quran?' At this unexpected suggestion Salar stared at him in amazement.
'I How can I do it?'
'Why....why can't you do it?' Khalid counter-questioned him. 'It is very difficult, and for a person like me; no, no I can't do it,' Salar said after a few moments.
'You've got a good brain. In fact, I would say that in my whole life I have not come across a more intelligent person than you. In the short time, the speed with which you have learnt short and long surahs, nobody else has been able to do it. And I am also amazed at the speed at which you are learning Arabic. When the mind is so fertile, and when there is a yearning to learn and retain things, then why not the Holy Quran. Allah also has a right over your capabilities,' Khalid said. 'You have not understood me. I have no objection against learning it, but it is very difficult. I cannot do it at this age,' Salar explained. 'But I think memorizing the Quran will be easy for you. You start it, and though I won't vouch for anyone else, but for you I can say with guarantee that you'll not only do it easily but in a very short time '
Salar did not speak further on the subject that day.
But that night after going back to his apartment he thought only of his conversation with Khalid Abdul Rehman. He had thought that Khalid would not again broach the subject, but he again posed the same question the following week.
Salar looked at him quietly for a long time and, then in a low voice, said to Khalid, 'I feel frightened.'
'Of what? Of memorizing the Quran?' Khalid asked with some amazement.
Salar nodded affirmatively.
'Why....?'
He was silent for a long time. Then he ran his finger over the carpet and looking at the lines that he had drawn, said to Khalid, 'I have sinned a lot. So many sins, that it is difficult for me to count them - small sins, big sins, every sin that one can imagine. I cannot even think of saving this book in my breast or my mind. My breast and mind are not pure.
People like me people like me are not worthy of memorizing it. I cannot even think of it,' he uttered, overcome with emotion.
Khalid was silent for a while. Then he asked, 'Do you still sin?' Salar shook his head in denial.
'Then, what is there to be afraid of? If you can recite the Quran, in spite of all your sins, you can memorize it also, and you have stopped sinning.
This is sufficient. If Allah does not want you to memorize it, you will not be able to, no matter how hard you tried; but if you are fortunate, you will,' Khalid seemed to have fixed the problem in a trice.
Salar kept awake that night. After half the night was over, he opened the first chapter—trembling—and began to memorize it. As he did so, he realized that Khalid Abdul Rehman's words were true. He already knew a lot of the Quran by heart. The fear that he felt in the beginning, when he started, did not remain with him for long. His heart found strength and support from an unknown source—from where? His tongue rolled out the words with lucidity—who was helping him? Who had stopped the trembling of his hands? Why?
Sometime before the morning prayers, he broke into tears—an outpouring—when, for the first time, he was able to completely recite what he had memorized in the last five hours. He had faltered nowhere, nor had he forgotten anything, nor had he committed any errors of diction. Reciting the last few lines, though, his tongue faltered—his sobs made it difficult for him to recite fluently.
'If Allah wills, and you are fortunate, you will memorize the Holy Quran, otherwise no matter however hard you may try you will not be able to,' he was recalling Khalid Abdul Rehman's words.
After saying the morning prayers, he had recorded on a cassette the first memorization of his life. Once again, he had felt no difficulty. In fact, there was greater fluency of recital and his tone was eloquent.
This was a novelty in his life: he had been blessed again but his depression had not gone. At night, he could not imagine going to sleep without sleeping pills, and in spite of the sedative, he could not put off the lights in his room. He was afraid of the dark.
Then, it was Khalid who had said it to him one day. He was reciting the lesson from the Quran, which he had memorized, and Khalid intently kept watching his face. When he had finished, he picked up the glass of water and put it to his lips.
He heard Khalid say, 'Last night, in my dream, I saw you performing Haj.'
Salar could not swallow the water in his mouth. Putting the glass down, he stared at Khalid.
'This year, your MBA will be over; you can perform the Haj next year.'
Khalid's tone was very formal. Salar absentmindedly swallowed the water in his mouth. He could not question his proposal that day. In fact, he had no question.
He had memorized the Holy Quran two weeks before the start of the final semester of his MBA. Four weeks after the final semester, at the age of twenty-three and a half years, he had performed the first Haj of his life. Whilst going there or coming back, he had no notions of superiority, pride, envy or anything else in his heart and mind. The people with him in the Pakistani camp were, perhaps, those who were fortunate. They were called to the pilgrimage because of their good deeds. But he was aware of his misdeeds and had been called to explain his actions. If he had not been memorizing the Quran, it would not have even occurred to him to perform Haj. The person who did not have had the courage to face Allah when distant from Haram Shareef, and was ready to go off anywhere else, could hardly be expected to face the Almighty at the Kaaba.
But at Khalid Abdul Rehman's suggestion just once, he had docilely acquiesced and had submitted his papers for going for Haj. Others got the chance to go for Haj when they not only had no surfeit of sins, but also had loads of good deeds. But Salar Sikandar got to go when he had nothing but his sins to present.
'Very well, if I have sinned without any fear, then I should not be afraid of standing before my Maker and begging forgiveness for my sins— except that I will not be able to lift up my head, to raise my eyes...the only word on my lips will be the plea for forgiveness. I accept this punishment, for I deserve worse humiliation and scorn. Each year, there must be one such person who brings no offering except his misdeeds—if this year I, Salar Sikandar, am to be that person, then so be it,' he thought.
The meaning of the term 'burden of one's sins' and how on the Day of Judgment a person would want to cast it off his back and flee from it or shove it onto someone else's back, became clear to Salar when he reached the Haram Shareef. Standing there, had he tried to trade in his sins for all the wealth he had in his present and future life, he would have found no buyer. If only one could trade in one's vices for money and buy someone else's virtues. In that horde of thousands, all clad in two simple white sheets, who knew who Salar Sikandar was or cared how brilliant his mind was? Or what he had studied and from where? The academic records he had set and broken and the challenges he would overcome with his intelligence in various fields made no difference here. Should he trip and fall and be trampled in a stampede, no one there would pause to think what an intellectual loss it would be. He became acutely aware of his insignificance, and if even a shred of doubt had remained it was dispelled.
Every remaining bit of pride, ego, self-importance, and envy had been shot out of his system. He had gone there to have these very pollutants removed.
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The excellent result of his MBA surprised nobody, as his department was well aware of
his capabilities. His projects and his assignments were so much better than those of his class fellows that his professors had no reservations accepting his astounding success. He was way ahead of his peers, and in the second year of his MBA he had forged even further ahead.
He had done his internship with a UN agency. Even before the completion of his MBA, he had offers from seven multinational companies, apart from this UN agency.
On learning of his MBA result, Sikander Usman called him close and asked him, 'Now, what do you want to do?'
'I'm going back to the States as I want to work with the United Nations only.'
'But I want you to start your own business or join me in mine,'
Sikander Usman had told him.
'Papa, I cannot go into business as I don't have the temperament for it.
I want to do a job and I don't want to live in Pakistan.'
Sikandar Usman was surprised. 'You had never before said that you did not want to live in Pakistan. You want to settle permanently in America?'
'Before, I hadn't considered settling in America, but now I want to.'
'Why?'
He did not want to tell him that his depression increased in Pakistan. He would constantly think of Imama, and everything here reminded him of her. Here, he was more aware of having done wrong and was more remorseful.
'I cannot adjust here.'
Sikander Usman considered him for some time. 'But I think you can adjust back here.'
Salar knew what he was hinting at, but he remained silent.
'You want to do a job? It's alright. You work there for a few years, but later come back to look after my business. I am establishing all this for you people, not for others.'
He tried for sometime to win him over and Salar listened to him quietly.
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After a week, he was back in America and within a few weeks he had started on a job with UNICEF. He had moved from New Haven to New York. It was the beginning of a new life, but within a few weeks he realized that nowhere could he get away from his past. Even there, he could not forget her. His guilty conscience would not let him be. He began to work 16 to 18 hour days and did not sleep more than three to four hours. This intense regimen had, to a great extent, helped to restore him to normality. On the one hand, his great preoccupation with his work had helped lower his depression, and on the other, he had begun to be considered as one of the most prominent workers of his organization. He began to visit countries in Asia, Africa, and Latin America in connection with the various projects of UNICEF. He was looking, for the first time with his own eyes, at poverty and disease from such close quarters. There is a world of difference between reports and the facts published in newspapers and the horrendous reality witnessed with one's own eyes. He came to understand this difference in his job. There were millions who went hungry to bed every night. There were millions also who over ate. He realized what a great blessing it was to have three meals a day, a roof over your head, and clothes to wear. Traveling with the UNICEF team on chartered aircraft, he would think about his life. He would wonder what great deeds he had done in life that he was so privileged, and what sins had they committed that they were deprived of the basic necessities of life, and, just to remain alive, had to run after packets of food.