Pir-E-Kamil: The Perfect Mentor Read Online Free PDF Page A

scorer as he did now.

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    'Imama Apa, when are you going to Lahore?' She looked up from her notes with a start. Saad was slowly cycling around her. 'Tomorrow. Why do you ask?' She shut her file. 'When you go away, I miss you a lot,' he said. 'Why?' she asked with a smile.
    'Because I like you very much and...you get toys for me and you take me out for drives and...you play with me,' he answered in detail. 'Can't you take me to Lahore with you?'
    Imama was not sure whether this was a suggestion or a question. 'How can I take you with me? I live in a hostel myself, so where will you live?' she asked.
    He pondered this over as he cycled round. 'Then you should come more often.'
    'Very well. I'll come more often.' She smiled at him. 'You can talk to me on the phone. I'll call you.'
    'Yes—that sounds good.' Saad liked this idea. He began to race his bicycle round the lawn. Imama looked at him absent-mindedly. Saad was not her brother: he had come to their house five years ago. She did not know where he had come from—and was not concerned— but she knew why he had been brought in. He was ten years old now and had settled in with the family. He was closest to Imama. She often felt very sorry for him, not because he was an orphan, but it was his future that she felt sad about. Her paternal uncles had also adopted orphans and their future too was a cause for concern for Imama. Book in hand, she continued to look at Saad cycling the garden. Watching him, she was often troubled by such thoughts, but she had no answers—there was nothing that she could do for him.

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    All four of them were in Heera Mandi, the red-light district of Lahore. They were between eighteen and nineteen years of age and their appearance gave away their upper class background; but out here neither age nor social background meant anything, because young boys often frequented the area and the elite were among the most regular customers.
    The boys made their way through the narrow lanes of the bazaar. Three of them were lost in conversation but the fourth looked around with interest and a sense of mystery. It seemed that this was his first venture into this domain, and a later exchange with his friends confirmed this.
    On both sides of the lane, in open doorways, stood women of every age, shape, size and complexion—fair and dark, beautiful and plain—all heavily made up and dressed in a revealing way. And men of all ages also passed through the lane. The boy observed everything very carefully.
    'How often have you been here?' He addressed the boy to his right who laughed and repeated the words.
    'How often? I don't remember now—I haven't kept count! I come here quite often,' he said proudly.
    'I don't find these women very attractive...nothing special about them,' the boy shrugged his shoulders. 'If one has to spend a night somewhere at least the environment should be pleasant—this is such a filthy place,' he said looking distastefully at the potholes and the piles of garbage in the lane. 'Besides, what's the point of coming here when you have girlfriends?'
    'This place has its own charm and there's no comparison between these women and our girlfriends. Girlfriends can't dance like the women here,' the other boy said with a laugh. 'And today one of Pakistan's top actresses is going to perform—just wait till you see her.' 'But you had taken me to see her dance,' the first boy interrupted. 'Oh that was nothing—just a "mujra" at my brother's wedding. But here it's a different story.'
    'But that actress lives in a very posh locality; why would she want to come here?' His tone was somewhat suspicious. 'Ask her yourself today, if you want. I don't ask such questions.' The other boys laughed at this remark, but the first one looked at him askance.
    They finally reached their destination at the end of the lane. From a shop near the entrance, they bought garlands of motia which they wound round their wrists,