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 Tayyaba 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?" Tayyaba 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," Tayyaba 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." Tayyaba 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 Tayyaba's comment and rudely shooed her away.
"I'm going to talk to your father today." Tayyaba 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." Tayyaba 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. Tayyaba, 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 Saalar 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 aspeed 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."
"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.
......................................