The Lost Pearl (2012) (11 page)

“Sure, I’d love to. My father loved her
ghazals
, and I’ve heard a few. I’ll ask Kavita if she wants to go,” I said nervously, thinking it was imperative to have her come along.

“Yes, sure,” he replied, trying to conceal his disappointment that I would not be his sole companion. “Let me know soon, because I hear the tickets are selling fast.”

We went, and Ahmer insisted he pay for everyone’s tickets. I wore my new purple
shalwar kameez
that Ammi had sent a month before. I changed my lipstick three times to ensure that it was the right shade and applied the mascara that had been sitting untouched for months in the top drawer of my dressing table. I wore my new black shoes and wondered how uncomfortable the long walk from the parking garage to the auditorium was going to be in the high heels I was so unaccustomed to wearing.

If I was willing to sacrifice my comfort for my appearance, I was certainly starting to care how I looked. The week before I had dropped off an enormous carton at Goodwill that was filled to the brim with my worn jeans, slacks, and gray sweatshirts, the latter of which Jennifer had been convincing me to get rid of for the last year. I had gone shopping with Kavita, treating myself to the new pair of stylish black shoes. I was never one to shop, as I seldom felt the need or saw the point of indulging in such extravagance. I had remembered what my father said about material things—that they could never be a source of lasting joy. I was always mindful of the hard-earned money my aunt and uncle sent me. I insisted that my mother not send me anything beyond my college tuition, which was partly covered by what I had inherited from my father; the remainder was being paid
for by my stepfather. His financial contribution to my education continued to bother me at several levels. It made my improper attitude toward him seem less justifiable and the “ungrateful” label appear more befitting. But that day, I selected the exquisite pair of shoes without once looking at the price tag or rummaging through the clearance rack.

I stood before my recently bought full-length mirror, pushed my hair back one last time, rearranged my
dupatta
so it fell gracefully over my shoulders, and felt sure that this was the longest I had ever spent getting ready for something—or someone. It was a wonderful, memorable night. Abida’s talent for enticing the audience with her beautiful poetic songs was unlike anything I had heard before. I knew Sahir would be envious when I told him. I would skip out the details of who accompanied me, of course. Ahmer softly whispered to me that I looked fantastic. “Traditional clothes really suit you; you should wear them more often.” I was grateful for the darkness in the auditorium that hid the scarlet rising in my cheeks.

Abida Parveen continued to sing Parveen Shakir’s beautiful words:

I had a presentation the following morning, and Ahmer, who had been working on healing me of my stage fright, felt that it was ideal to relax the night before, rather than memorizing and rehearsing countless times. He told me the trick was to have everything prepared at least two weeks in advance and then practice it a few times every day.

“The last week, just think of it as something that has become second nature, and the day before, don’t even look at it. Get
a good night’s sleep, have a cup of coffee or tea in the morning, and be ready to go. Dress well, look confident, and be yourself.”

I told him these were all great tips, but what was I supposed to do when I got up there? Facing and addressing the audience was the hardest part for me. He told me to remember one thing: “You may not know everything about everything, but what you are going to discuss you know the best. You have researched it and you have learned it, so nobody in the audience can beat you. Your goal is to make sure no one falls asleep. If the content is good, which I’m sure it always is, and you speak in slightly varying tones, you are guaranteed to keep everyone awake. If you can punctuate it with some humor, that’s even better, but start doing that later, once you’ve mastered the confidence part. Another trick is to pretend you are the only one in the room, but the problem with that one is you don’t connect well with the audience. But nowadays you can because of the whole PowerPoint thing. It’s dark in the room, so no one can really see you; you just have to ensure that the confidence shows through your voice. Talk slowly so everything seems well thought out. Talk clearly so you that you can be heard. Don’t be too soft, but don’t be too loud either, because if what you say is sensible and true, it will be heard without screaming it out.”

“You are so right, Ahmer. These are all great suggestions. I just hope I can get over this fear. What do I do at the end? I’m always scared of getting bombarded with questions, and there are many points to gain or lose in the question-and-answer session.”

“It helps to summarize your talk at the end. Then ask the audience if they have any questions you can answer. They are going to ask questions anyway, and if you set the stage for that in advance, it makes you appear more confident. Just remember that if there are questions and if you have sparked a debate, that’s great. That means they were listening and they care enough to require clarification. Let the questions become your booster rather than your intimidator. Try to predict beforehand what questions
can be asked. You can practice in front of someone else and see what questions they come up with. Answer as best as you can, and don’t get overwhelmed.”

I followed Ahmer’s advice to the fullest, and it worked like magic. I could not believe how well I did the next morning. The speech was titled “America’s Political Achievements and Mistakes.” My heart raced as I walked through the corridors into the presentation room, but my hands did not shake and my voice did not tremble. I walked in as the new, confident me. I had it memorized on my fingertips and I had read around it, after having rehearsed it before Ahmer, and once in front of Kavita. I felt adequately prepared to field questions, especially those around the Vietnam War.

For the first time, giving a speech was almost enjoyable, rather than being the burdensome chore it once was. I was conscious of the fact that everyone noticed the transformation I had undergone. Afterwards, Professor Davis caught up with me and said that I had earned an A for my presentation. I was ecstatic and ran across the arched corridor with a wide grin on my face, letting the golden sunlight pour generously on my face, permitting the wind to tangle the strands of my hair. I jumped on the squares on the floor, stones that each graduating class had placed since the opening of Stanford in 1891. I raced like a child who had just mastered the art of running, leaping onto each stone: 1995, 1996, 1997. I had taken a semester off initially when I had been overwhelmed, and there were some moments that had raised doubts in my mind about my future. But I had come a long way, and I knew that there would be many more inscriptions, and there would be one for 2001. And for the first time, I felt confident that I would be part of that stone.

I told Ahmer I owed it all to him, and he modestly replied, “It was you up there, Sana, not me. You have every reason to be confident. I am proud of you.”

From that day on, I started enjoying presentations, and they soon became my strength rather than my weakness. I volunteered for the topics that were left unselected and signed up to intern at a local news channel. Was this really me? The hand shaking, voice trembling, timid girl who had feared the audience worse than a head on collision? I could not believe that I was taking on the challenge of facing thousands of people and actually looking forward to it.

Ahmer had changed me in so many ways that I did not feel like the same person. I felt prettier, taller. I felt much happier than before. My life seemed to be unfolding like the undulating notes of a symphony in the midst of a beautiful composition. I enjoyed my internship thoroughly and finalized my decision to pursue a career in broadcasting. It gave me a great appreciation of all the hard work behind the scenes. I learnt that the one-hour newscast was much more than that one-hour, that in fact, it involved a full day of preparation.

One evening, as we were sitting in the quad after another day of hard work, Ahmer showed me a picture of his mother, a young lady in her thirties with a radiant smile and thick, glossy black hair.

“She was beautiful,” I said, a sadness overcoming me as I realized I would never know this woman, who had raised her son so well. “You have her eyes, Ahmer, and her hair was so becoming, so shiny.”

“Yes. She had gorgeous long hair. She would brush it with a special brush and put coconut oil and henna in it. And then the chemotherapy made it all come out. She was a really strong woman who went through a lot of physical and emotional pain and never showed it. But the night her hair came out, she cried for hours, and so did I.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling his pain and wanting to share it, and hoping to dampen it with words of comfort that I could not find. I had always thought that my pain had been so intense
because my father had died so suddenly, leaving me no time to prepare for it. But when I thought of Ahmer’s pain, it did not seem any less, because he had seen his mother dying slowly and painfully.

During one of our many evening conversations, I asked Ahmer why he had chosen law. “Stanford Law School is very tough to get into,” I said. “I heard that the acceptance rate is 9 percent. You must be brilliant.”

“There are many people far more brilliant than me,” he replied modestly. “Some of them are friends and acquaintances, and many of them applied but didn’t get accepted. It’s tough to get in if you are not focused. If you know what you want in life, no goal is far. I knew for a long time that I wanted to be a lawyer, because I believe in finding the truth and fighting for the truth.

That’s all.”

He seemed somewhat pensive for a moment before he asked me, “So why do you want to be a journalist?”

I could not believe we were so alike. “If I tell you my reasons are exactly the same as yours, you won’t believe me, but it’s true. I want to seek the truth as well, mostly because that’s what was so important to my father. His advice about speaking the truth has remained with me. It was the last pearl of wisdom he shared before he died; that’s why I cherish it so much.”

“I think that’s splendid. It’s a great profession, and I have a lot of respect for it.”

Earlier that morning, Professor Reynolds had asked us to read a broad range of books. He had asked us to familiarize ourselves with literature from different eras and varied genres, and if possible, from other languages. “If you want to write, books are your fuel,” he had said. “Remember you will always be a student, because no matter how well you write, there will always be a better version of what you have written. Write with a flow that is smooth so that even if you have written, rewritten, edited, and
cut and pasted countless times, it appears as a consummation of a single thought, as if you never lifted your pen from the paper.”

I asked Ahmer if he had any books in Urdu. The following day he brought me a whole collection of Urdu poetry, mostly the works of Faiz Ahmed Faiz. I thoroughly enjoyed reading them but needed help understanding many of the words. “I only studied Urdu until grade four,” I said sheepishly, somewhat embarrassed at the paucity of my Urdu vocabulary.

“I can help you with some,” he said with a smile.

Over the next few months, we spent considerable time dwelling over ageless poetry written by gifted poets. I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with Ahmer but was not sure how he felt about me. I hoped that my love would not be unrequited, as it often was in the heartfelt poetry we read. I was amazed at discovering what a hidden treasure Urdu poetry was.

“The youth of Pakistan is so engrossed in becoming westernized that they have forgotten to value their own assets,” Ahmer said. When he tried to explain some of the more difficult poetry to me in English, he emphasized that the words lost their essence in translation. He was translating a well-known poem “Gar mujhe is ka yaqeen ho” and said, “I will try, though it’s hard to bring out the meaning and I haven’t studied Urdu at college level either.”

“If you make a mistake, I won’t catch it, so feel free,” I said, eager to understand the poem.

His translation was beautiful: