‗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?
What 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.
The 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 weresprawled 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. Reachinginto 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.
------------------------
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.