My life's dearest desire?' She fell into deep thought, the pen between
her lips. Then drawing a deep breath, she gave a wan smile, ‗Hard to
say…'
‗Why is it hard?' Javeria asked her.
‗Because I desire so many things, and each one of them is so important
for me,' she replied, shaking her head.
They were both sitting at the farther end of the auditorium, their backs
to the wall. It was their eighth day at the F.Sc. classes and they spent
their free period there. Nibbling salted peanuts one by one, Javeria
repeated her question. ‗What's your life's dearest wish, Imama?'
Imama looked at her with some surprise and pondered over the
question. Then parrying the question with a demand, she said, ‗You tell
me first what you desire most.'
‗I asked you first, so you should reply first,' retorted Javeria.
‗Very well…let me think,' Imama conceded defeat. ‗My life's dearest
desire…' she mumbled to herself.
‗Well, one wish is to live long…very long,' she said.
‗Why?' laughed Javeria.
‗Fifty or sixty years are too short for me. One should live to be at least a
hundred. And then there is so much I wish to do. Should I die early, all
my wishes would remain unfulfilled.' She popped a peanut into her
mouth.
‗What else?' said Javeria.
‗I want to be the most outstanding doctor in the country—the best eye
specialist, so that when the history of eye surgery in Pakistan is
compiled, my name will be at the very top of the list.' She looked up
with a smile.
‗And what if you cannot become a doctor? After all, that depends both
on merit and luck,' Javeria stated.
‗That is out of the question. I am working so hard to make it to the
merit list. Besides my parents can afford to send me abroad if I don't
get into a medical college here.'
‗But still, what if you cannot be a doctor?'
‗That's impossible. It's my life's dearest desire: I can sacrifice
everything for it. This has been my lifelong dream, and how can one just
ignore or forget one's dreams? Impossible!' Imama shook her head
decisively as she picked another peanut off her palm and nibbled on it.
‗Nothing is impossible in life—anything can happen at any time.
Suppose your wish does not come true, how would you react?'
Imama fell into thought again. ‗To begin with, I'll weep a lot…a great
deal…for many days—and then I'll die.'
Javeria burst out laughing. ‗You just said you wanted a very long life,
and now you want to die.'
‗Obviously. What's the point of living then? All my plans are built
around my career in medicine and if that is not to be a part of my life,
then what remains?'
‗So you mean this one dream of your life will wipe out all other
dreams?'
‗Yes, think of it that way.'
‗Your most important desire is to be a doctor, not to live long?'
‗You could say so.'
‗Very well—so, if you can't become a doctor, then how would you choose to die? Would you choose: suicide or a natural death?'
‗A natural death of course. I can't kill myself,' Imama replied casually.
‗And if you do not die naturally, then what? I mean, if you do not die
soon, despite not being a doctor, you would go on living.'
‗No. I know that I'll die very soon if I can't be a doctor. I will be so
heart-broken that I will not survive,' she replied decisively.
‗It is difficult to believe that a cheerful person like you can be so
despairing as to cry yourself to death. And that too just because you
were unable to pursue a medical career. Sounds funny,' mocked
Javeria.
‗Stop talking about me. Tell me about yourself. What is your heart's
greatest desire?' Imama changed the subject.
‗Let it go…'
‗Why let it go? Come on tell me…'
‗You will be offended if I say it.' Javeria spoke hesitatingly.
Imama turned around in surprise to look at her. ‗Why would I be
offended?'
Javeria was quiet.
‗What is it that I will mind?' Imama repeated her question.
‗You will…' Javeria murmured.
‗Why should your life's greatest wish so affect my life that I would get
upset?' Imama was quite irritated. ‗Is it your wish that I not become a
doctor?' Imama seemed to suddenly remember.
‗Oh, no!' laughed Javeria. ‗There is more to life than being a doctor,'
she stated philosophically.
‗Stop talking in riddles and answer me,' Imama said firmly. ‗I promise I
will not mind anything you say.' She held out her hand in a gesture of
peace.
‗Regardless of your promise you are going to be very angry when you
hear what I have to say. Let's talk of something else,' Javeria replied.
‗All right—let me guess. Your decision is linked to something of great
value to me, right?' queried Imama after a thoughtful pause.
Javeria nodded her head.
‗The question is: what is so important to me that I should…' she
stopped in mid-sentence. ‗But unless I know the nature of your wish, I
cannot come to a conclusion. Javeria, tell me please. The suspense is too
much for me,' she pleaded.
Javeria was lost in thought. Imama studied her face. Javeria looked up
at her after a while.
‗Other than my career, there is only one thing I value most in my life,'
Imama addressed her, ‗and if you want to say something in that context,
then say so. I won't mind.' Imama was serious.
Javeria was taken aback. Imama was looking at the ring on her hand. A
smile crossed Javeria's face.
‗My life's dearest wish is that you….' Javeria revealed her thoughts.
Imama's face went white with shock. Javeria could not guess the impact
her words had on Imama, but the expression on her face showed that
the reaction was much more intense than she had expected.
‗I did tell you that you would be offended,' Javeria tried to redeem the
situation, but Imama stared back without a word.
Moiz was howling with pain, doubled up and holding on to his stomach.
The twelve-year-old boy facing him wiped the blood off his nose on the
sleeve of his torn shirt, and swung the tennis racquet in his hand to hit
Moiz on the leg.
Moiz let out another scream and straightened up. With disbelief he
looked at his brother—younger by two years—who was hitting him with
the same racquet that Moiz had brought there.
This was the third time they had fought this week, and every time it was
his younger brother who started the fight. He and Moiz had never had a
good relationship and had fought since childhood. But their quarrels
had been mostly verbal and included threats, but of late they had
become physical.
This is what happened today. They had come back from school
together. When they got down from the car, the younger brother
roughly dragged his bag out of the boot as Moiz was picking up his
school bag. In the process, he bruised Moiz's hand, making him wince
with pain.
‗Have you gone blind?' Moiz cried out as his brother walked off
nonchalantly. He heard Moiz, turned round, looked at him, then opened
the front door, and walked into the lounge. Incensed, Moiz followed on
his heels.
‗The next time you do anything like that I'll break your hand!' Moiz
shouted.
The younger boy took his bag off his shoulder, put it down, and with
hands on his hips, defiantly faced Moiz.
‗I will—so what will you do? Break my hand? Have you the guts?'
‗You'll find out if you repeat what you did today.' Moiz headed toward his room.
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.
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