peer e Kamil : the perfect mentor

Hashim Mubeen's entire family was present at the dining table. They were chatting amiably as they ate. Imama was the subject of their conversation.

Baba, have you noticed that Imama is becoming more serious with each passing day?" observed Waseem as he looked at her provokingly.

"Yes...I've noticed this over the past few months, Hashim Mubeen replied, his eyes searching Imama's face.

Imama stared at Waseem as she took a spoonful of rice.

Imama, is there a problem?"

"Baba, he talks nonsense and you fall into his trap. I'm serious and busy because of my studies after all, not everyone is as useless as Waseem,' she said with some annoyance. He was sitting next to her and she rapped his shoulder lightly.

"Baba, what will become of her when she qualifies as a doctor if this is what she is like in the early years of her studies,' joked Waseem. "It'll be years before Miss Imama Hashim smiles..."

Everyone smiled around the table: this type of sparring always went on between these two. It was seldom that Imama and Waseem did not argue with each other. But Waseem was also Imama's best friend-probably their being the siblings closest in age lay at the heart of their friendship.

And just imagine that Imama...' but she did not let him finish this time. She turned around and landed a fist on his shoulder with all her might. It made no difference to him.

What else can we have at home but a doctor with a "healing touch"? You've just seen a demonstration and you can guess how doctors treat their patients these days. One of the reasons for the rising death rate in our country...

Baba, please stop him!" Imama conceded defeat as she implored Hashim Mubeen.

"Waseem!" He suppressed a smile as he turned to his son who dutifully kept quiet.

He emptied the entire contents of the paper bag into the grinder and turned it on. The cook entered just then.

Chote Saab, let me help you, he offered but was waved away. No, I can manage. But get me a glass of milk. He turned off the grinder. The cook got him the milk. To half a glass of milk he added the contents of the grinder, stirred briskly, and gulped it down.

What have you cooked today?" he asked the cook, who started to tell him what he had cooked. A look of displeasure crossed his face. "I won't have anything. I'm going up to sleep; don't disturb me," he said harshly and left the kitchen.

He looked unkempt with a stubble, and except for one or two buttons in place, his shirt front was open. Dragging his slippers on the floог, he went into his room and locked the door behind him. Then he walked over to the huge music system and began to play Bolton's 'When a man loves a woman' at full volume. He flung himself face down on the bed, remote in hand, and feet swinging to the music.

Except for him and his bed, everything in his room was in order. There was not a speck of dust anywhere. The audio-video cassettes were neatly arranged on a shelf by the music system and on a shelf on the wall. Another shelf was filled with books and the computer table in the corner reflected his organized nature. Posters of Hollywood actresses and various bands adorned the walls, while the bathroom door and a few windowpanes were decorated with cut-outs of nudes from Playboy.

Anyone entering the room for the first time would be startled because the nude pinups in the windows were life-size and lifelike and placed in special order. Along with the audio system, there was a keyboard, and a guitar, a piccolo and an oboe hung on the walls. It was obvious that the occupant of the room had great interest in music. In front of the bed was a television cabinet on the shelves of which were several shields and trophies. In another corner of the room cricket bats and racquets were artfully slung across posters of sports stars. It looked as if a tennis racquet was in Gabriela Sabatini's hand, while the other was held by Rodney Martin, and the squash racquet was in Jehangir Khan's hand. The double bed where he was lying on the crumpled silken sheets was a mess. A few pornographic magazines, mostly Playboy, lay scattered about with a paper-cutter and snippets evidence that he had been cutting out pictures. Chewing gum wrappers, an empty coffee mug, a packet of Dunhill's and a lighter, an ashtray and scattered ash littered the white silk sheet that had holes burnt through. Somewhere there was a wristwatch and a tie, and a cell phone by the pillow where the young man lay face downward, perhaps half asleep as his hand mechanically but unsuccessfully searched the bed when the phone rang. The beeping went unheard and the remote in his hand fell to the floor as his grip relaxed. Michael Bolton's voice continued to fill the room with the lyrics of "When a man loves a woman' the knocking on the door became persistent and louder, but he lay motionless on the bed.

"Don't tell me! Imama, are you really engaged?" Zainab appeared jolted by Javeria's disclosure. Imama cast an accusing glance at Javeria who looked at her shamefacedly.

'Don't look at her look at me and tell me if it's true that you're engaged, Zainab addressed Imama sharply.

"Yes, but it is not something extraordinary or amazing that you should react like this, Imama replied with composure. They were all sitting in the library and trying their best to talk in low tones.

But at least you should have told us. What was the big secret?" This was Rabia.

"There's no secret and neither is it so important. Besides, we have become friendly only recently and the engagement took place years ago, explained Imama.

What do you mean by "years ago"?"

"I mean two or three years ago.

But still you should have told us... Zainab persisted. Imama smiled at her. 'When I get engaged again, I'll definitely tell

you whether or not 1 tell anyone else.' "Very funny. Zainab glared at her.

At least show us a photograph of him... Who is he? What's his name?

What does he do?" As usual, Rabia's questions came pouring out in one breath.

'He's my first cousin...his name's Asjad, The words came slowly and Imama paused thoughtfully. 'He has completed his MBA and runs his own business."

What does he look like?" asked Zainab. Imama looked at her closely. 'He's all right."

"All right? I'm asking you is he tall, dark, and handsome?"

Imama smiled at Zainab without a word. Javeria replied on her behalf. "This is Imama's choice...he's quite good-looking."

"Yes, we should have known-after all he's Imama's first cousin. Now

Imama, your next task is to show us his photograph,' ordered Zainab. No, her first duty is to take us out for a treat, interjected Rabia. "But now let's leave; I have to go to the hostel. Imama got up and they all left together.

"By the way, Javeria, why didn't you tell us about this earlier?" Zainab asked her.

'Listen, Imama did not want it-that's why I never brought it up," said Javeria. Imama turned around and gave Javeria a warning look. 'Why wouldn't Imama want it? If I had been engaged and that too to a boy of my choice, then I would have screamed it out from the rooftops,' Zainab declared loudly. Imama chose to ignore her.