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

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.

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    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 floor, 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