He parked the car some distance away from the bridge across the canal.
He opened the boot and took out a sack and a length of rope and moved
towards the bridge, dragging the sack behind him. Some passersby saw
him but they did not stop. Once on the bridge, he pulled off his shirt and
flung it into the water—in a few moments the shirt was swept away by
the flow. His tall, athletic frame, clad in dark blue jeans, was a
handsome sight.
His eyes were inscrutable. He could have been anywhere between 19 to
29 years of age, but his height and appearance made him look much
older. Holding on to one end of the rope, he threw it over the bridge till
it hit the water. Then he started tightly winding and knotting the rope in
his hand around the mouth of the sack till he had used it all up. Now, he
pulled back the length of the rope, leaving aside about three feet;
standing with his feet together, he firmly tied them with this length.
Next, he made two loops with the remaining rope and hopped on to the
railing of the bridge, and then passing his hands through the loops
behind his back, he pulled the knots and tied up his hands too.
A smile of satisfaction hovered on his lips. Taking a deep breath, he
threw himself backwards over the bridge. His head hit the water
sharply and he was submerged to the waist, head down and hands tied
behind his back, dangling from the rope tied to the weighted sack above.
He held his breath and tried to keep his eyes open underwater, but the
canal was murky and the silt stung his eyes. He felt as if his lungs would
burst and when he breathed in, the water entered his body through his
nose and mouth. He began to flap about helplessly—he tried but couldnot use his arms to raise himself up from the water. Gradually, his
movements slowed.
Some people who had seen him jump off the bridge, ran to the railing,
shouting. The rope was still shaking. They did not know what to do—
there was no visible movement under the water; his legs appeared to be
still. A crowd gathered, looking with fear at the lifeless body: the water
swung him like a pendulum, back and forth…back and forth…back
and forth.
--------------------------
‗Imama, get ready quickly!' called Rabia, taking her clothes from the
closet and flinging them on the bed.
‗Get ready? What for?' Imama looked at her, surprised.
‗We're going shopping. Come with us.' Rabia moved fast as she ironed
her clothes.
‗No, thanks. I don't want to go anywhere.' Imama lay back on her
pillow, her forearm shielding her eyes.
‗What do you mean by ―I don't want to go anywhere‖? Who's asking
you, anyway? I'm telling you,' Rabia continued in the same tone.
‗And I'm telling you that I am not going,' replied Imama without
moving.
‗Zainab's coming too—the whole group is going—and we'll go to the
movies when we are done shopping.'
Imama looked up. ‗Zainab's coming along?'
‗Yes, we'll pick her up on the way.' Imama became thoughtful.
‗You are getting duller by the day, Imama!' Rabia's tone was piqued.
‗You've stopped going out with us; what on earth is happening to you?'
‗Nothing. I am just too tired today and want to sleep,' Imama said,
looking at Rabia.
After a while Javeria came in and she too tried to persuade Imama, but
there was just one refrain from her: ‗I am too tired, I want to sleep.'
Unable to coax Imama outdoors, the girls grumbled as they left her
behind.
As they picked up Zainab on the way, Javeria realized that she had left
her wallet behind in the hostel. ‗We'll have to go back for my wallet,'
said Javeria. When they got to the hostel they were shocked to find the
room locked.
‗Where's Imama?' Rabia was surprised.
‗Don't know…where could she have gone, locking up the room like
this? She'd said she wanted to sleep,' said Javeria.‗Could she be in someone else's room?' wondered Rabia. For the next
few minutes, they looked for Imama in their friends' rooms, but there
was no sign of her.
‗Could she have gone out?' A sudden thought struck Rabia.
‗Let's check with the warden,' said Javeria, and they went to see him.
‗Yes, Imama went out a while ago,' the warden confirmed. Rabia and
Javeria exchanged looks, speechless. ‗She said she'd return by the
evening,' the warden informed them.
They came out of the warden's room. ‗Where could she have gone? She
refused to accompany us saying she was tired…she wanted to sleep…
was unwell…and then she goes off like this.' Rabia was really annoyed.
It was quite late at night when they returned. Imama was in the room
and welcomed them back, smiling.
‗Looks like you've done loads of shopping,' she said, looking at their
bags and parcels. They did not reply—putting down their shopping,
they stared at her.
‗Where were you?' asked Javeria. Imama got a jolt. ‗I came back to get
my wallet and you weren't here. The room was locked.'
‗I went after you both.'
‗What do you mean?'
‗I changed my mind when you left, so I went to Zainab's as you were
going to pick her up. But her chowkidar said that she had left with you,
so I came back. I just stopped on the way to get some books,' explained
Imama.
‗See—we'd told you to come along but you refused. Then, like a fool,
you traipse behind us. We were getting suspicious about you,' said
Rabia as she took her purchases out of their bags. She seemed relieved.
Imama did not reply: she just smiled at them when they showed her
their shopping.
......
‗Your name?'
‗I don't know.'
‗What did your parents name you?'
‗Go ask my parents.' Silence.
‗What do people call you?'
‗Boys or girls?'
‗Boys.'
‗They call me by many names.'‗Mostly what?'
‗Daredevil.' More silence.
‗And girls?'
‗They too have many names for me.'
‗What name do they usually call you?'
‗I can't tell you that…it's too personal.' Silence and then a deep breath
and…silence again.
‗Can I give you a suggestion?'
‗What?'
‗Why don't you try to find out something about me that neither you nor
I knew before? That white file on the table to your right has all my
particulars. Why are you wasting your time?'
By the light of his table lamp, the psychoanalyst observed the young
man lying on the couch. He kept moving his feet from left to right. His
face was calm and he wore an expression that seemed to say that the
session with the psychoanalyst was a waste of time. The room was cool
and dark, and as the boy spoke, he looked around the room. He was a
dilemma for the psychoanalyst; he had a photographic memory, his IQ
level was 150, he had an outstanding academic record throughout, he
had won the President's Gold Medal for golf for the third time
running...and this was his third attempt at suicide. His desperately
worried parents had brought him to the psychoanalyst.
The boy belonged to one of the few prestigious and extremely wealthy
families of the country. He was the fourth of five siblings—four brothers
and a sister; two brothers and his sister were older than him. His
parents doted on him because of his intelligence and capabilities—yet in
the last three years he had tried to kill himself three times.
The first time was when he was speeding on his bike in the wrong
direction on a one-way road and had lifted his hands off the handlebar.
The cop behind him had seen him doing this. He was lucky that when he
crashed into a car, he was thrown over another and landed on the other
side of the road. He suffered a few broken ribs, and a fractured arm and
leg. Even though the police officer had seen this happening, his parents
believed it was an accident. He had told them that he had mistakenly
entered the one-way street.
The next time—a full year later—he had tied himself up and jumped
into the canal. People on the bridge had saved him by pulling him up by
the rope he had used. This time there were several witnesses but his
parents still could not believe that he had attempted suicide. Salar
claimed that some boys had stopped his car near the bridge, tied him up
and thrown him over, and the way he was tied, it did seem as if someone
else had done it. For the next few weeks, the police kept searching for
boys whose appearance matched the description given by Salar. Usman
Sikandar hired a guard to be with Salar, day and night.
But the third time he could not deceive his parents. He ground a large
quantity of sedatives and swallowed them. The effect was such that even
after a stomach wash, it took him a long time to recover. This time,
there was no mistaking what Salar had done—the cook had witnessed
him grinding the pills, adding them to a glass of milk, and gulping down
the whole.
Tyyaba and Sikandar were in a state of shock—they thought of the
previous two incidents and regretted that they had believed his stories.
The entire household was upset and the news spread to the school, in
their neighborhood and to the whole family. He could no longer deny
that he had attempted suicide, but he was not willing to explain why—
neither to his brothers and sister and nor to his parents.
Sikandar had intended to send Salar abroad after his A levels, as he had
his other two sons. He knew that getting admission was not a problem
for Salar: he would even be able to get a scholarship. But all his plans
seemed to have gone up in smoke. And, on the advice of his friend, he
sent Salar to a psychoanalyst.
‗Very well, Salar, we'll keep our discussion to the point. Why do you
want to die?'
Salar shrugged. ‗Who told you I want to die?'
‗You have made three attempts at suicide.'
‗There's a great difference between trying and dying.'
‗It's a coincidence that you have been saved all three times; otherwise,
you had left nothing to chance.'
‗Look, what you call an attempted suicide is not what I intended—I just
wanted to know the pain of dying…how it feels.' The psychoanalyst
watched his face as he very calmly clarified his purpose.
‗And why do you want to experience the pain of dying?'
‗Just like that…call it curiosity.'
He took a deep breath and looked at this brilliant young man who was
now staring at the ceiling. ‗So your curiosity was not satisfied with one
attempt?'
‗Oh, I passed out then—I was unconscious, so I could feel nothing. The
next time too, and this time too—I could not feel it.' He shook his head.
‗So you'll try again for the fourth time?'
‗Certainly. I want to know how it feels to experience the furthest limitsof pain.'
‗What do you mean?'
‗Like ecstasy is the furthest limit of joy—but I don't understand what
comes after ecstasy. And so it is with pain…there must be some level of
pain beyond which one cannot go.'
‗I don't get it…'
‗Suppose you're watching a striptease—there's loud music, you're
drinking and you've also taken drugs, you're dancing, and slowly you
lose your senses—you're in ecstasy...where are you then? What are you
doing? You don't know…all you know is that you like it very much,
whatever it is. When I go abroad for my vacations, I go to such bars
with my cousins: my problem is that unlike them, I never get wild with
joy, I'm never ecstatic. I don't get turned on like they do—and it makes
me unhappy. I thought that if I cannot cross the limits of happiness then
perhaps I could go to the limits of pain, but I couldn't.' He looked very
disappointed.
‗Why do you waste your time on such things? You have such a fantastic
academic record…'
‗Please, please, do not start harping about my intelligence. I know what
I am.' Salar's tone was one of resignation. ‗I am sick of hearing my
praises.' The psychoanalyst watched him for a while.
‗Why don't you set a goal for yourself?'
‗I have.'
‗What?'
‗I have to try suicide once again.' He was completely serene.
‗Are you depressed about something?'
‗Not at all.'
‗Then why do you want to die?'
‗Shall I start all over again—to tell you that I do not want to die? That I
am trying to do something else?' He was bored sick.
It was back to square one: the psychoanalyst fell quiet for a while. ‗Are
you doing all this because of some girl?'
Salar turned in surprise to look at him. ‗Because of a girl?'
‗Yes…some girl you are very fond of and would like to marry.'
He burst out into loud, uncontrolled laughter. ‗My God! You mean I
would kill myself for some girl?' he laughed. ‗In love with a girl and kill
myself—too funny!'
The psychoanalyst had several such sessions with Salar and the result
was always the same—he had no clue.
‗My advice is that you not send him abroad; instead keep him here andkeep a close eye on him. Perhaps he does this to attract attention.' This
was his suggestion to Salar's parents after several months. As a result,
instead of sending him abroad for higher studies, Usman enrolled Salar
in one of Islamabad's top institutions. He thought that if Salar was kept
close to the family, he would not attempt suicide again.
Salar did not show any reaction to this decision just as he had not shown
any reaction to his earlier decision of sending him abroad.
After the last session with the doctor, Usman Sikandar and Tyyaba sat
Salar down in their bedroom and had a long talk with him. They listed
all the luxuries they had provided for him over the past so many years;
they told him about their expectations of him and their love and
affection for him. He sat before them, expressionless, chewing gum
mechanically and watching his father's distress and his mother's tears.
Frustrated, Usman finally asked him, ‗What is it that you lack? What
more do you want? Tell me.'
Salar thought for a while and said, ‗A sports car.'
‗Very well, I'll import a sports car for you, but don't ever do such a
thing again—okay?' Usman Sikandar felt better.
Salar nodded in affirmation. Tyyaba wiped away her tears and drew a
sigh of relief. When Salar left the room, Usman turned to his wife.
Lighting a cigar, he said, ‗Tyyaba, you will have to cut down on your
activities and keep an eye on him. Try to spend some time with him
daily.' She nodded in assent.
----------------------------------------------------