But his brother stopped him, grabbing his bag with all his strength.
‗No—tell me now.' He flung Moiz's bag down. Flushed with anger,
Moiz picked up his brother's bag and hurled it away. Without a pause,
his brother landed a sharp blow on Moiz's leg. Moiz lunged at him,
punching his face, and his nose began to bleed. Despite that, there was
no sound from the younger boy. He grabbed Moiz's tie and tried to
choke him. Moiz retaliated by grabbing his collar—there was a tearing
sound as the shirt ripped. With all his force, Moiz hit his brother on his
midriff so as to make him lose his grip on him.
‗Now I'll show you! I'll break your hand!' Shouting and abusing, Moiz
picked up the tennis racquet that was lying in corner of the lounge. The
next thing he knew was that the racquet was in his brother's hand and
was swung with such force that Moiz could not save himself. Blows
rained down on him, on his back and legs.
Their older brother came into the lounge in a fit of rage.
‗What is your problem? You create an upheaval as soon as you get
home!' At the sound of his voice, the younger brother first lowered and
then raised the racquet again.
‗And you—aren't you ashamed of yourself for raising your hand at
your older brother?' The eldest brother looked at the hand holding the
racquet.
‗No,' he retorted without any remorse. He threw the racquet down,
picked up his bag and walked away.
‗You will have to pay for this,' Moiz called out after him, rubbing his
sore leg.
‗Sure, why not!' He gave Moiz a weird smile. ‗Get a bat the next time. It
was no fun hitting you with a tennis racquet—no bones are broken.'
‗Check out your nose—it's broken for sure.' Furious, Moiz looked
towards the staircase where his brother had been standing just a while
ago.
--------------------------
For the fourth time, Mrs. Samantha Richards stared at the boy sitting
on the first chair in the second row by the window. With complete
disregard for the class, he was busy staring out of the window. From
time to time he would look at Mrs. Richards, and then turn back to the
view from the window.
This was her first day as biology teacher at one of the international
schools in Islamabad. She was a diplomat's wife and a teacher by
profession. They had recently arrived in Islamabad. At all her
husband's postings, she had taken up teaching assignments in the
schools attached to the embassy.
Continuing the syllabus and teaching schedule of her predecessor Ms.
Mariam, after a brief introduction to the class Mrs Richards began
explaining the function of the heart and the circulation system and drew
a diagram on the board.
She looked at the student who was looking distractedly out of the
window and, using a time-worn technique, she fixed her gaze on him
and stopped speaking. A hush fell over the class. The boy turned back to
the class. Meeting his gaze, Mrs. Richards smiled and resumed her
lecture. For a while she continued to keep her gaze on the boy who was
now busy writing in his notebook. Then she turned her attention to the
class.
She believed the boy was embarrassed enough not to let his attention
wander, but just a couple of minutes later she found him looking out of
the window again. Once more, she stopped her lecture, and he turned to
look at her. This time she did not smile. She continued addressing the
class. As she turned to the writing board, the student again turned to
the window. A look of annoyance crossed her face and as she fell silent
again, the boy looked at her with a frown, and looked away—beyond
the window.
His attitude was so insulting that Mrs. Samantha Richards's face
flushed. ‗Salar, what are you looking at?' she asked sternly.
‗Nothing,' came the one word reply. He gave her a piercing look.
‗Do you know what I am teaching?'
‗Hope so.' His tone was so rude that Samantha Richards capped the
marker she had in her hand and slapped it down on the table.
‗If that is so, then come up here and draw and label this diagram.'
She erased the figure on the board. The boy's face changed a myriad
colors. She saw the students in the class exchange glances. The boy
stared coldly at Samantha Richards. As she cleaned the last trace of her
diagram from the board, he left his seat. Moving swiftly, he picked up
the marker from the table and with lightning speed—in exactly two
minutes and fifty-seven seconds—he had drawn and labeled the
diagram. Replacing the cap on the marker, he slapped it down on the
table just as Mrs. Richards had done, and, without looking at her,
returned to his seat.
Mrs. Richards did not see him tossing down the marker or walking
back to his seat. She was looking in disbelief at the diagram—which had
taken her ten minutes to make—and which he had completed in less
than three minutes. It was far better than her work: she could not find
even a minor flaw in it. Somewhat embarrassed, she turned to look at
the boy. Once again he was looking out of the window.
-----------------------
Waseem knocked on the door for the third time; this time he could hear
Imama inside.
‗Who is it?'
‗Imama it's me. Open the door,' said Waseem standing back. There was
silence on the other side.
A little later, the lock clicked and Waseem turned the door knob to
enter. Imama moved towards her bed, with her back to Waseem.
‗What brings you here at this time?'
‗Why did you turn in so early? It's only ten now,' replied Waseem as he
walked in.
‗I was sleepy.' She sat down on the bed. Waseem was alarmed to see
her.
‗Have you been crying?' It was a spontaneous remark. Imama's eyes
were red and swollen and she was trying to look away.
‗No—no, I wasn't crying. Just a bad headache.' She tried to smile.
Waseem, sitting down beside her, held her hand, trying to check her
temperature. ‗Any fever?' he asked with some concern. Then he let go
of her hand. ‗You don't have fever. Perhaps you should take a tablet for
your headache.'
‗I have.'
‗Good. Go to sleep then. I had come to talk to you but you're in no
state…' Waseem turned to leave the room. Imama made no effort to
stop him. She followed him to the door and shut it behind him.
Flinging herself on the bed, she buried her face in the pillow—she was
sobbing again.
-------------------------
The thirteen-year-old boy was engrossed in a music show on TV when
Tyyaba peeped in. She looked at her son somewhat uncertainly, and
entered the room, irritated.
‗What's going on?'
‗I'm watching TV,' he replied without looking at her.
‗Watching TV. For God's sake! Are you aware that your exams have
started?' Tyyaba asked, standing in front of him.
‗So what?' he said, annoyed.
‗So what? You should be in your room with your books, not sitting here
watching this vulgar show,' Tyyaba scolded him.
‗I have studied as much as I need to. Now please move out of my way.'
His tone reflected his irritation.
‗All the same go in and study.' Tyyaba stood her ground.
‗No. I will not get up, nor will I go in and study. My studies and my
papers are my concern, not yours.'
‗If you were concerned about your studies, would you be sitting here?'
‗Step aside.' He ignored Tyyaba's comment and rudely shooed her
away.
‗I'm going to talk to your father today.' Tyyaba tried a threat.
‗You can talk to him for all I care. What will happen? What is he going
to do? I've told you that I've already prepared for my exams, so then
what's your problem?'
‗This is your final examination. You should be concerned about it.'
Tyyaba softened her tone.
‗I am not a four-year-old who you need to nag. I have a better
understanding of my responsibilities than you so don't pester me with
your silly advice.'
‗Your exams are on. Pay attention to your studies. You should be in
your room. I will have a word with your father!'
‗What rubbish!' Standing up, he flung the remote control at the wall
and stomping his feet, left the room. Tyyaba, helpless and humiliated,
watched him go.
---------------------------
It was New Year's Eve: thirty minutes to go before the New Year began.
A group of ten or so teenagers were roaring around the city streets on
their motorbikes, doing all kinds of stunts. Some of them wore shiny
headbands to celebrate the coming year. An hour ago they were in one
of the uptown supermarkets, teasing girls with whistles. They had
firecrackers too which they let off to celebrate. At a quarter to twelve
they reached the parking lot of the Gymkhana Club where a New
Year's party was in full swing. The boys also had invitations to the
party and their parents were already there.
When they got in, it was five to midnight. In a few moments, the lights
in the hall and the dance floor would be switched off and then with a
display of fireworks on the lawns, the New Year would be heralded in.
The partying would be on all night—dancing, drinking—all the
festivities especially organized for the occasion by the Gymkhana
management. ‗Lights off' meant a display of complete abandon—that
was what the crowds came for.
One of the teenagers who had joined the party was on the dance floor,
rocking to the beat and impressing all with his performance. At ten
seconds to twelve the lights went off. Voices and laughter filled the hall
as people counted the seconds to the New Year, and this rose to a pitch
as the clock struck midnight and the hall lit up again. The teenagers
were now out in the parking lot, their car horns blaring away. Beer can
in hand, the youth who was on the dance floor got on the roof of a car.
He pulled out another beer can from his jacket and pitched it at the
windscreen of a parked car, which shattered with an explosion as the
full can hit it. He stood on the car, calmly drinking from the can of beer
in his hand.
------------------------------
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.
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 quick-
witted 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.'