The Cabinet Room
She felt that the meeting in the Cabinet Room should concentrate on Ved Nagar and my Svarūpé Avasthānam only.
On what Evelyn Carter should give to me and expect to receive in return.
Yes, she isn’t certain I’ve attained my Svarūpé Avasthānam.
Neither she is certain there is any stage in human evolution that’s called Svarūpé Avasthānam, Self Synchronization, at all.
There’s only one human society, Hinduism that claims, there exists such a stage in human evolution.
HVSI explains its every meteoric miraculous incredible rise using this extremely incredulous theory.
Evelyn Carter doesn’t believe it’s true.
Well, Lily Turner herself doesn’t believe it.
“You know I can’t.” Lily Turner said almost incensed due to her helplessness.
With this concentration on the immediate subject of concern, there was no need to be burdened by the secretary of agriculture, the secretary of commerce, the secretary of transportation, the attorney general, and other members of President’s staff.
Entering the Cabinet Room, Lily Turner could see at a glance that the necessary officers had been alerted.
They were already on hand.
Lily Turner greeted Dr. Åārifah Mustafā, Secretary to Secretary of State, Cyrus Vance, Dr. Shāhidah Ashraf, the recommended Chief of Staff of White House, the secretary of defense and the three officers of the National Security Council.
Then she took the leather chair next to Evelyn Carter’s vacant one.
Åāliyah Muħammad Åbbās watched me gravely.
“I asked was there any ice to break?” I repeated my question.
“It depends on how you look at it.”
“You went to the table to get acquainted with Nadīm Iqbāl Muħammad?”
“If the court please,” Waħīd Murād, the Public Prosecutor, said, “I must insist that the counsel is renowned, infamous rather I must say, to be biased in favor of Musalmān Beauties whosoever she may be. Yet he is surprisingly manifestly unfair to this witness. He is browbeating this witness constantly and trying to put her in a false light before the jury. I want to remind the court, as well as to the defense counsel this woman is a widow. She has been bereaved by the crime of murder committed by―”
“Just a minute, your honor,” I interrupted, smiling, “Mr. Public Prosecutor is arguing the case. There isn’t any question before the court for the Public Prosecutor to argue the case at this time.”
Waħīd Murād was quite angry.
“Nevertheless,” he shouted as if, “I object to having this woman held up in front of this jury as a strumpet, a harlot, a prostitute.”
I smiled patronizing, yet sophisticated.
“And I object, your honor, to having Mrs. Åāliyah Muħammad Åbbās held up as a mealymouthed, deceptive, persecuted, bereaved widow simply so the prosecutor can play on the sympathies of the jury. It isn’t a theater; neither are we staging a theatrical drama here. It’s a temple of justice and we are fighting here for the life of humankind. One person already has been murdered and we are fighting here to save the life of another.”
Judge Keyser frowned.
“At present there isn’t any question before the court. Therefore, there isn’t any reason whatsoever to make an objection. The jurors are called upon to see the witnesses, to watch their demeanor, their behavior, their conduct on the stand, to form their own opinions as to thefacts.
The prosecutor has one theory of the case and the defense has another. Please try to avoid personalities, gentlemen. You may proceed, Mr. Durgesh.”
By this time, all vestiges, all hints of the fragile, delicate, helpless, bereaved widow had left the witness Åāliyah Muħammad Åbbās.
However, her guts were appreciable.
Åāliyah Muħammad Åbbās was still sitting on the witness chair, slightly forward, still sad, and feigning a widow being intimidated unreasonably.
“Now then,” I attacked her once again, “you saw this letter in your husband’s pocket?”
“It wasn’t a letter, your honor,” she looked at Judge Keyser, “everyone can understand that it was a blackmail demand.”
“Blackmail demand on Nadīm Iqbāl Muħammad?” I asked.
“The letter was sent to him.”
“Isn’t it a fact that your third husband, Akram Sultan, had also received a blackmail demand?” I thundered at her.
“I can’t help it.”
“Isn’t it a fact that your second husband, Muħammad Qāsim Ayyūbī, had also received a blackmail demand?” I smiled at her meaningfully.
“I can’t help it.” Åāliyah Muħammad Åbbās repeated her answer.
“Isn’t it a fact that your first husband, Zāhid Rashīd, had also received a blackmail demand?” I smiled at her once again.
“I can’t help it.” She again repeated.
“All the four envelopes had the return address in the upper left hand corner and the name A. M. Åbbās?”
“How do you know it was blackmail?”
“There was a demand for money in the letter. What do you think; it was an invitation to dance?”
“I can’t answer that question. I’d rather leave it to the jury to draw their own conclusion.”
Åāliyah Muħammad Åbbās watched me gravely.
“That’s your privilege.”
“What’s your full name?”
“Will you please abbreviate it?”
“A. M. Åbbās.” She said curtly, “I understand your implication. But I never blackmailed anyone in my life. Neither have I sent any blackmail letter to anyone. Anyone can use my name as a return address to implicate me.”
“Is there a newsstand at the corner by your residence?”
“Yes, there is.”
“Are you familiar with the person who runs it?”*
Lily Turner repeated her question.
“I asked how did your pre-briefing go with Evelyn Carter?”
“It means lousy, useless, worthless, crummy, horrible. Our potential candidate for next President of USA, Ms. Evelyn Carter, didn’t give a damn about Ved Nagar, Svarūpé Avasthānam and Durgesh himself. She only wanted to speak of sex championship contest in Washington D.C. between
“Then our work’s cut out for us.”
“You are forgetting the resources CIA has. Fortunately or unfortunately, I’m somewhat in a position to use those entire resources for the benefits of USA. Even the President of USA himself has given us the permission, let alone the Director of CIA. I never believe anyone of my Musalmān women friends too, as the President of USA has instructed us, rather has imposed the condition on us, without investigating about them thoroughly.”
“I agree with Lily Turner.” Dr. Åārifah Mustafā, Secretary to Secretary of State, Cyrus Vance, said severely, “That’s why I cancelled everyone else. Ved Nagar is the dream city of Vedic Monotheist Hindus. Durgesh has succeeded in their dreams getting true. He is a Parahuman and Ved Nagar is full of Posthumans.”
“Nonsense.” Evelyn Carter said.
“You must be crazy, Lily.” Evelyn Carter said tersely, “I know Durgesh more than you. He and his adroit followers Vedic Monotheist Hindus are number one liars, number one rumor spreaders. They believe that spreading rumors is Dharm Yuddh, the holy war, a Crusade.”*
Lily Turner smiled.
“I wanted to concentrate on what’s waiting for you at lunch.”
Evelyn Carter controlled herself.
Now she appeared suddenly surprisingly to be in good humor.
She brushed back her hair, grinned at the assemblage, and watched all of them impishly deliberately.
Lily Turner realized her strategy.
She reminded Evelyn Carter gravely.
“We have been discussing your lunch with Durgesh.”
“Is it going to be a long lunch?” Evelyn Carter asked delinquently.
“It doesn’t have to be.” Dr. Åārifah Mustafā, Secretary to Secretary of State, Cyrus Vance, assured her, “After some filling gap talk with the ever richest person in the entire history of humankind, you can wind up lunch and we’ll move into the Yellow Oval Room. The President would be busy elsewhere with Valéry Giscard d’Estaing, the President of France. He has instructed us already to be there in Yellow Oval Room.”
“That can be strictly business?”
“That can be strictly business.” Dr. Åārifah Mustafā said.
“I just wanted to know because I didn’t want to miss the big contest.” Evelyn Carter explained.
“You’ll have plenty of time for that,” Lily Turner promised, “This lunch and meeting with the former head of Hindu Vishv Underground is scheduled to last one and a half hours. Then Miss USA, Margaret Kennedy, is scheduled to accompany Durgesh to the opening of the Ashvinatam Museum expecting Durgesh to say a few words, maybe five minutes’ worth, about an important fund raiser. That’ll give you plenty of time to get back for the contest.”
Evelyn Carter surveyed the Cabinet Room.
“I see a lot of our friends are missing. You’ve brought in only the big brass.”
“Deliberate,” said Lily Turner simply, “Since you are going to be bargaining with the ever sexiest Vedic Monotheist Hindu, we wanted our full concentration to be devoted to a treaty with Ved Nagar/Trantor.”*
“Fair enough.” She said.
“The fact you have to remember is not that Durgesh is the Mayor of Ved Nagar/Trantor now. He was the democratic head of Hindu Vishv Underground too. Hindu Vishv Underground was an underground organization of revolutionaries who were actually behind the independence of India.”
“That doesn’t exist now?” Evelyn Carter smiled sarcastically.
“CIA suspects that it does exist now as Ved Nagar/Trantor instead of its said dissolution into Vyom, interspace.” Lily Turner said curtly. “Our former station head at Ved Nagar/Trantor, Della Turner, and our present station head, Akhilésh M. Āgnéý there, both have reported the importance of Ved Nagar/Trantor. We suspect it isn’t only a city in India. It’s actually Hindu Vishv Underground in its new present supreme developed form.”
Evelyn Carter smiled.
“Any evidence that our suspicion may be true?”
“That’s what you have to find out.” Lily Turner said.
She was twenty-one.
“The fact,” Lily Turner said, “that your younger sister, Rukħsānah Carter, is also in the same university as Kħadījah Muħammad was in, will give you something in common to talk about before you settle down to the nitty-gritty. Durgesh loves Kħadījah Muħammad even more than his duly married wife, Saiyadah Fātimah PhD.”
Now, Evelyn Carter too nodded.
“Alright, what’s the nitty-gritty?”
She tore it loose and came around the table to Evelyn Carter.
“Nellie Adams, take my seat and give me yours. This will make it easier for me to explain a map of Indian sub continent and beyond that I’ve been drawing.”
The exchange was made.
“That’s the reason I called you in today. You are the one closest to Salīm Jalāluddīn Muħammad. I have naturally to discuss the problem with you.” Dr. Āsiyah Mustafā cleared her throat and looked into Nūrjahān Ghayās Beg’s beautiful Iranian Shiå Musalmān eys, “I saw Salīm Jalāluddīn Muħammad late yesterday. I outlined one final time what had to be done. He approved, approved of the surgery. This morning, first thing, he telephoned me. He has changed his mind. He is turning down the operation.”
“He is what? Salīm won’t go through it? I didn’t talk to him this morning. He was still asleep. I haven’t heard about it naturally. It makes no sense. Are you sure, Doctor? We had agreed surgery was his only chance.”
“Apparently, Salīm now doesn’t think so. He now thinks there’s a better course. Have you seen this morning’s paper?”
Nūrjahān surveyed the front page.
She was more bewildered than ever.
“There’s just some headline about Madīnah Munawwarah.”
Turn to page three. Read the full story.”
Nūrjahān Ghayās Beg opened the paper.
The headline hit her.
The story that followed was bylined by great Bābarah Åālamgīr.
It was datelined Paris.
Nūrjahān Ghayās Beg calmly, patiently, read the news story.
When she was through, she folded the paper patiently, neatly, and put it on the desk.
She met the beautiful eyes of Dr. Āsiyah Mustafā.
Nūrjahān Ghayās Beg was aghast, stunned, as the full import of what was happening struck her.
“Yes, that’s the news.” Dr. Āsiyah Mustafā said.
“News? Hell. The hallucination of some crazy uneducated/under educated Musalmīn. It might be some deliberate political strategy of Pseudo Musalmīn too to compensate the anti Musalmīn anti Islam trend, propelled by Dr. Ali Sina and his co authors. Are you telling me Salīm Jalāluddīn Muħammad has read it and believes in this nonsense?”
“Yes.” Dr. Āsiyah Mustafā admitted.
Evelyn Carter watched it.
“A crude drawing of the Indian Sub Continent. It highlights our major Eīshān Vaigyānic bases that help us contain any overenthusiasm that may occur in India, Pakistan, Shri Lanka, nd Afghanistan.” Using her pen as a pointer on the map, Dr. Åārifah Mustafā resumed, “As you can see, our potential Presidential candidate for the next term, this Eīshān Vaigyānic base of ours there in Pakistan has three major wings: Sunnī, Shiå and Aħmadī. Dr. Āsiyah Mustafā is the Commander of our Sunnī Eīshān Vaigyānic base. It is unfortunate that Dr. Āsiyah Mustafā doesn’t have even the citizenship of Pakistan. She is still a Turk Musalmān Beauty. Nūrjahān Ghayās Beg is the Commander of our Shiå Eīshān Vaigyānic base. What a tragedy it is that as Dr. Āsiyah Mustafā, Nūrjahān Ghayās Beg too isn’t a Pakistani citizen. Nūrjahān Ghayās Beg is still a proud Iranian. We have only an Aħmadī Musalmān Beauty as our Aħmadī Eīshān Vaigyānic base at Pakistan that’s a citizen of Pakistan.”
Evelyn Carter smiled.
“How the hell you think Durgesh can help us in improving it?”
“He can permit us to have similar three Eīshān Vaigyānic bases in Ved Nagar: Sunnī Eīshān Vaigyānic base, Shiå Eīshān Vaigyānic base and Aħmadī Eīshān Vaigyānic base. He is the Mayor of the dream city Ved Nagar.”
“Do you really believe in Eīshān Vigyān?”
“Allah,” Dr. Åārifah Mustafā looked at her entirely disgruntled. “Don’t tell us you don’t deserve the post we are preparing you for.”
“Shame on you, Evelyn Carter,” Lily Turner said curtly, “you are more interested in the sex championship contest between Musalmān Beauties and Christian Beauties, than you are interested in your preparation for what we want you to be.”
“Go to hell your Nafīsah Salmān and you both. I say Nafīsah Salmān has succeeded in getting Durgesh. Her ambition has been attained. She is living now in your so-called dream city, Ved Nagar/Trantor. If it’s really a dream city as you claim it to be, why the hell Nafīsah Salmān would risk her golden fortune by helping us, instead of working for HVSI? Durgesh is her Live in Relationship Partner now. Nafīsah Salmān isn’t a fool to risk the golden opportunity of her life. No one would. Even I wouldn’t if I were in her shoes.”
“So this is the reason you are not interested in the strategies we are suggesting?” Lily Turner was furious now.
“Well, why should I?”
Evelyn Carter stared at the map.
“An area, a large area you’ve colored in green and saffron, and two small ones.”
“And you want one there?”
“Don’t you?” now it was Nellie Adams, the secretary to the secretary of defense.
Moreover, Nellie Adams was furious.
“Nellie Adams, the secretary to the secretary of defense,” Evelyn Carter laughed sarcastically, “Don’t pretend to be righteous enough to be more interested in anything else instead in sex with Durgesh. Didn’t you yourself rape Durgesh because he wasn’t leaving Dr. Åārifah Mustafā?”
“I raped him because he was deliberately ignoring me.” Nellie Adams shouted, “It doesn’t mean I’m as disinterested in my country and in Christianity as the hell you are. I am ashamed of you, Evelyn Carter.”
4. On History
6. On Hinduism
7. On Islam
Durgesh Nūrjahān Ghayās Beg
Salīm Jalāluddīn Muħammad
It was a blustery, a stormy night.
Kħadījah Muħammad was lying on her back.
Kħadījah Muħammad smiled.
“Stop it Naåīmah, it’s enough now.”
Naåīmah Muħammad Ħasan teased her.
The rain was pelting against the windows at intervals.
Wind howled around the cornices and fought its way through the narrow openings in the windows to billow, to swell, the lace curtains of our bedroom into weird shapes.
It alternately blossomed into white ghosts, collapsed, and dropped limply back against the casements.
My thrusts into Kħadījah Muħammad’s still amazingly ever tight Panjvaqtah Namāzī Saůūdī Årab Wahābī Musalmān Cunt were as wild as there was some competition between the storm outside and my penetrations inside.
Kħadījah Muħammad groped for the ringing telephone.
The instrument momentarily eluded her passion intoxicated fingers.
Kħadījah Muħammad advanced the receiver to me as she was unable to attend the phone due to passion.
“Hello, Durgesh here.”
It was a man’s voice that answered me questioning,
“Yes, who is it?”
“It’s Salīm Jalāluddīn Muħammad.”
“Yes, Mr. Salīm Jalāluddīn Muħammad, what can I do for you?”
“It’s a matter of life and death. Can you see us immediately?”
“Yes, my wife is also with me.”
“You are sure it’s a matter of life and death?”
“Of course, man. Why have otherwise I called you in this rainy and stormy night?”*
They were also listening to the conversation.
The phone was on its loudspeaker now.
“Can you tell me something more, Salīm Jalāluddīn Muħammad?”
“Sorry, I’d prefer to give you any information about it when we are face to face, not on phone.”
“Well, you know there are so many communal Musalmīn who can do anything to kill me. I fuck their Musalmān houseladies under my Durgesh Åāýéshah Siddīqah Social Service, DurgeshFarīdah Jalāl SheikħSex Therapy , or Naåīmah Muħammad Ħasan’s five movements: Cuckold Your Musalmān husband Hindu Lund Muslim Choot International Club Ashvinātam Gangbang Club Al Jihād fil Durgesh fī sabīlillāh JetMusalmān BeautiesSquad. How can I differentiate my enemies from you?”
“Propose any method that we can follow.”
“Come to Dārussalām itself.”
“No problem, Sir. We need you. You don’t need us.”
“How many adult women you have, sacrificing their sanctity for you, genetically related to you?”
“Enough to cure me, Doctor Farīdah Jalāl Sheikħ has advised me.”
“Your real sisters?”
“Yes, and Chachāzād cousins too. They also have the same genes as I do.”
“Well, does it make any difference?”
“Yes, most of them are married, but not all of them.”
“You are ready to lick our juices after I fuck them?”
“I haven’t another option.”
“Okay. You understand that everyone of your real sisters and Chachāzād cousins would be thoroughly checked by none other than Farīdah Jalāl Sheikħ herself to verify she doesn’t have any sexual disease whatsoever?”
“Sure. Dr. Farīdah Jalāl Sheikħ has told me so.”
It was not so always, however, for Naåīmah Muħammad Ħasan.
She was born in Makkah Mukarramah but she was taken to Palestine not even so many days after it.
In the life of Årabs, whether males or females, the repetition of stories was a way of life.
It was unusual in an Årab Society for a female child to be entitled to her Ammī’s breasts as long as she wanted to.
It was only a privilege reserved mostly for male children.
It seems very unjust, but how could a backward society that still refused to understand that the world had gone too far ahead from the circumstances that occurred 1400 years ago, could understand the children of both the sex have equal needs for their growth?
Not everyone could be Ħuzūrs.
Hes fought for the fundamental rights of women too.
The equal rights to suck her mother’s breasts was too farfetched, the female children were denied even their fundamental right of survival when Ħuzūrs came as Muħsin-e-Insāniyat.
Hes stopped the burial of female children of Årabs alive.
Yes, hes was Muħsin-e-Insāniyats, but hes was Muħsin-e-Niswān more.
The present day Musalmīn had absolutely forgotten now this revolutionary work of their Nabī Ākħiruzzamāns.
They remembered only the aħādīs-e-Muqaddasāt of their own relevance.
Wasn’t it a dominant human nature whether male or female?
Yet, Naåīmah Muħammad Ħasan was the extraordinary lucky girl.
She was not weaned until her fifth birthday.
Usually it signalled, even for a boy, that he was coming out of the kitchen.
Naåīmah Muħammad Ħasan behaved as if she was a boy.
Instead being angry her Abbū Imām Muħammad Ħasan laughed at her boyish activities.
He enjoyed them very much.
Even Nafīsah Salmān was surprised.
Imām Muħammad Ħasan never allowed others to break any custom of the clan.
Yet, the little she devil, Naåīmah Muħammad Ħasan, was an exception.
Wasn’t it surprising?*
Yes, he was Mukħtār of Tabah, Palestine.
But he was already defeating the other Mukħtārs in Palestine, in popularity and knowledge both.
He was the highest educated man among all the Mukħtārs.
Nafīsah Salmān had great breasts.
Not only were they filled with milk, but they gave Naåīmah Muħammad Ħasan a place too where she could nestle and feel an enormous comfort.
Naåīmah Muħammad Ħasan managed to learn many things even in that age about the world of men.
She was eight years old only.
One day, Naåīmah Muħammad Ħasan could not find her Ammī.
Being a girl of only eight years, Naåīmah Muħammad Ħasan‘s only chore was fetching water.
She used to fetch water with her Ammī every day.
Now, her Ammī had gone, Naåīmah Muħammad Ħasan was greeted with taunts.
The women all cackled and laughed at Naåīmah Muħammad Ħasan.
The women told her that her father was going to take a second wife.
“Nonsense,” Naåīmah Muħammad Ħasan had protested, “Abbū will never do such a thing.”
“The foolish child thinks Imām Muħammad Ħasan can be something else than a typical Årab Palestinian Mukhtar.” One of the women smiled at the rest of the women, “No education can change the bloody Årabs. They are stubbornly backward and they want to remain so.”
“Why education only?” Sāliħah Ħanīf said tartly, “even Allah Subħān Wa tålā has ordered:
‘‘Wa in kħiftum allā tuqsitū filyatāmā fa inkiħū mā tāb lakumminannisāi masnā wa sulās wa rubāå.
Aw mā malkat aymānukum
Zālik adnā allā tåūlū.’
‘And if you fear that you cannot act equitably towards orphans, then marry such women as seem good to you, two and three and four;
But if you fear that you will not do justice then (marry) only one or what your right hands possess.
This is more proper, that you may not deviate from the right course.’
-̶ Al Qur’ān Al Karīm: 4 An Nisā: 3”
Raziyah Waħīd smiled skeptically.
“The Årab bastards don’t see other words in this Āyat-e-Karīmah except ‘fa inkiħū…rubāå’ ‘then marry four’.”
All of them laughed.
Some of them even threw stones at Naåīmah Muħammad Ħasan.
They were jealous of her.
However, most of them enjoyed a Hindu lover, either clandestinely or else.
It was owned by him and his younger brother, Muħammad Åbbās Yåqūb.
Imām Muħammad Ħasan spent most of his day there.
He brushed Naåīmah Muħammad Ħasan aside, walking on.
He used to hide his love for Naåīmah Muħammad Ħasan so that the other Årabs don’t ridicule him.
Now, Naåīmah Muħammad Ħasan wondered how she thought it was normal.
What a rotten society actually it was where even a loving father couldn’t express his love for his daughter.
Naåīmah Muħammad Ħasan had marched to his Abbū, even then, and tugged at his coat.
It was a tug barely strong enough to demand his attention.
Imām Muħammad Ħasan turned to her quite surprised.
“You? Naåīmah ? What are you doing here? Go to the home.”
“I want to see you at work. Ammī says you are the most important man here.”
Imām Muħammad Ħasan was suddenly proud of himself.
He had also thought of the opposition of the local illiterate, or at least, almost illiterate Årabs.
He had anticipated their opposition.
Yet, he had vowed to go on despite it.
Why not Imām Muħammad Ħasan too?
He smiled at his daughter.
“Okay. Come with your Abbū.”
Originally, he had decided to grab Naåīmah Muħammad Ħasan by her arm and shake her so violently that she would even think she might faint.
Then he would toss Naåīmah Muħammad Ħasan like garbage so that she would land in the open sewer that ran down from the top of the town.
It was a half block’s walk from the parking lot.
Dr. Āsiyah Mustafā’s twenty fifth-floor suite of offices was now not far away.
It was just across the elevated railway.
The drizzle was light this morning.
Even then, it was enough to saturate Nūrjahān Gayās Beg’s jaunty green rain hat and similarly green raincoat.
Nūrjahān Gayās Beg removed her soggy rain gear in the hall, going toward Dr. Āsiyah Mustafā’s suite.
She paused briefly at the ladies room to see if the hat had messed her neat bobbed brown hair.
It had, indeed.
Nūrjahān Gayās Beg patted her hair into place.
She took off her tinted green-rimmed prescription glasses she used for driving.
Nūrjahān Gayās Beg wiped them dry.
She tucked them into her bag and headed for her appointment with Salīm Jalāluddīn Muħammad’s absolutely competent physician.
The reception room was tastefull.
The fabrics on the furniture were all a restful pale green.
Once inside, Nūrjahān Gayās Beg hung her hat and coat on the wooden coatrack.
She went directly to the red haired receptionist behind the counter.
Nūrjahān Gayās Beg smiled.
She knew once a Tanzānian girl was appointed in her staff.
Dr. Āsiyah Mustafā almost immediately transferred her to her Tanzanian Branch office.
“Right on time, I hope.”
“Oh, yes. But I’m afraid the doctor is running a few minutes behind. She’ll be with you shortly. I know she is eager to see you. If you don’t mind taking a seat―”
“Not at all.”
“By the way, how is Mr. Salīm Jalāluddīn Muħammad?”
“Still somewhat weak, but well enough to go to the office every morning and work a half day.”
“I’m glad to hear that. He is such a wonderful young man. One of the most charming perhaps I’ve ever met. We wish Mr. Salīm Jalāluddīn Muħammad the best, Miss Beg.”
Receptionist Zohrah Maħmūd Pasha smiled.
Nūrjahān Gayās Beg was really majestic.
Receptionist Zohrah Maħmūd Pasha had flattered about Salīm Jalāluddīn Muħammad.
Her own sincere observation of Salīm Jalāluddīn Muħammad was that he was a damnfool.
He didn’t deserve Nūrjahān Gayās Beg’s so much attention as he was luckily getting.
Being a receptionist it was her duty to please everyone who came here whether Zohrah Maħmūd Pasha really liked him or her or not.
It was an honor for Zohrah Maħmūd Pasha to work for the world- prominent legendary Dr. Āsiyah Mustafā.
“Thank you.” Nūrjahān Gayās Beg said, taking a magazine from the wall rack, any magazine, in this case a medical magazine.
Sitting, settling back, Nūrjahān Gayās Beg thumbed through it.
Pharmaceutical ads were on every page.
Most of the Musalmīn don’t know why the impotence comes to a man and how it can be defeated.
Consequently, they aren’t aware of it when its symptoms appear.
Neither they are careful to cure it immediately.
Instead, being immensely ashamed of themselves they almost always try to hide it.
It results ultimately in their absolute incurability.
Nūrjahān Gayās Beg had no patience for it.
She kept the periodical open on her lap, but blankly stared through it.
Zohrah Maħmūd Pasha was extremely charming in doing so.
She felt herself cheated.
Sex, sex and sex.
Her lover was crazy to have sex with her.
Nūrjahān Gayās Beg felt very happy first.
But how much she could have after all?
Suddenly Nūrjahān Gayās Beg found she was pregnant.
Her lover proposed a permanent Live in Relationship.
Nūrjahān Gayās Beg was indignant.
She wanted nikāħ.
Her lover didn’t agree.
She ended her affair with her lover permanently.
Yet, she gave birth to a very handsome male child.
Salīm Jalāluddīn Muħammad knew all of it.
Yet he was ready to marry Nūrjahān Gayās Beg even keeping her son with them.
Nūrjahān Gayās Beg at thirty was trim, thanks to her tennis game.
She was comely and fair, brown eyes wide set, a broad tip-tilted nose, a generous rosy mouth, a svelte figure, abundant bosom, shapely legs.
And a brain as fine as it was competent.
Strangers were always surprised to learn that Nūrjahān Ghayās Beg was a well-paid, full time clinical psychologist, dividing her crowded days between carefully limited private practice and an associate professor’s post.
Her interest in psychology had been inspired by reading Alfred Adler at an early age.
Her role model had been the psychoanalyst, Karen Horney.
Psychoanalyst Karen Horney was the greatest woman in the field.
Nūrjahān Ghayās Beg wanted to serve at University of Chicago originally.
The famed John B. Watson had got his PhD at the University of Chicago.
Moreover, Carl Rogers had once been director of the University of Chicago Counseling Centre.
Why shouldn’t she have?
She always remembered her lover.
But her ego had hurt and she always decided not to return to her lover ever.
Yes, he was the father of her son.
But Salīm Jalāluddīn Muħammad had promised to fill his place as efficiently as he could.
She had sex with her lover daily without any exception.
Sometimes even thrice a day.
Salīm Jalāluddīn Muħammad was normal in sex.
Nūrjahān Ghayās Beg was very disappointed but still she was adamant not to return to her lover.
Even if not experienced, Salīm Jalāluddīn Muħammad loved her more considerately than her lover did.
Suddenly, one early evening, in the midst of a handball game, Salīm Jalāluddīn Muħammad collapsed.
His one leg had given way, and he had folded up.
His thigh was causing him unremitting pain.
Nūrjahān Ghayās Beg was furious at her best friend, Sājidah Suhayl Kāzmī when she expressed her doubt,
“Stop it. You idiot, he isn’t even a Muslim.”
“All of them are after his money.” Nūrjahān Ghayās Beg charged every one of them, “Durgesh has money. He has multi zillions. Even his Live in Relationship Partners are millionaires at least. They are purchasing everyone.”
Sājidah Suhayl Kāzmī smiled ironically.
This had been less than six weeks ago.
Finally, the verdict was in.
A sarcoma, a bone cancer.
Nūrjahān Ghayās Beg was startled.
Deterioration of the bone tissue involving the head of the femur, or thigh.
They said gradually the disease would worsen.
Salīm Jalāluddīn Muħammad would lose mobility; require crutches, eventually a wheelchair.
Most likely, the cancer would be fatal.
She was holding the hall door open.
Nūrjahān Ghayās Beg clutched her beg.
She was on her feet and through the door.
Nūrjahān Ghayās Beg went down the short corridor.
She turned into the doctor’s private office.
It seemed a portent of some unhappiness.
Dr. Āsiyah Mustafā half rose from her chair.
“Miss Beg,” she said, and gestured her to a chair across from her desk.
Dr. Āsiyah Mustafā was one of those physicians whose very aspect inspired confidence.
“Miss Beg, I thought it best if we could talk face to face. I want to discuss Salīm’s surgery. I hope this sudden call didn’t inconvenience you.”
“Nothing is more important than Salīm’s surgery.”
“I know he told you about it, that it is the primary option we have.”
“Salīm told me a little. Just that there were no guarantees, but there was a fair chance, and that he was going to go through with it. I was glad he was going ahead. I encouraged it.”
She hesitated somewhat, then asked.
“What are his chances?”
Dr. Āsiyah Mustafā measured her words.
“With surgery, some. Without surgery, none. There is some advance work being done in this field, but I’m afraid it hasn’t come to fruition yet. Some years ago, I read a paper by a Dr. Ānand Siddhārth Mr’tyunjaý in Mumbai. He had evolved a new technique, surgery and implants coupled with genetic engineering. His experiments at that point were fully successful. But they had involved mammals other than human beings. I discussed this with several highly accredited local surgeons. They had also heard of Dr. Ānand Siddhārth Mr’tyunjaý’s progress. But they felt that it was not ready to be applied to human beings as yet. So, since time is of essence, we are left with the only surgery we know and can depend upon, standard bone surgery with replacement of the malignant portion of the femur. Sometimes it works successfully.”
“Sometimes.” Nūrjahān Ghayās Beg echoed dully.
“Let me be more precise.” Dr. Āsiyah Mustafā tried to smile, “, based on case histories of these surgeries. If undertaken right away, before there is more deterioration, Salīm Jalāluddīn Muħammad may have a thirty percent chance of getting rid of his cancer and being restored to normal life. But the fact remains, statistically, that there would also be a seventy percent chance of failure. Nevertheless, I repeat, there is no other choice but to go right ahead.”
“Well, when do we go ahead?”
Dr. Āsiyah Mustafā frowned.
“We don’t.” she said simply, “I had the surgery scheduled for this week, but now the operation has been cancelled.”
Nūrjahān Ghayās Beg was on the edge of her chair.
“For Allah’s sake, whyyyyyyyyyyyyy?”*
Mirzā Ghayās Beg looked at his daughter in perplexity.
“What do you mean?”
“They have ordered to take two American passports from our files without telling anyone.” Nūrjahān Ghayās Beg informed her Abbū tartly.
It was December 1978.
Thirty-three years had passed since, but Nūrjahān Ghayās Beg felt it happened as if yesterday.
She was fifty-two years old now.
Present government of Iran was not then in power.
Mirzā Ghayās Beg sighed.
“So Durgesh has once more anticipated correctly?”
“Abbū,” Nūrjahān Ghayās Beg looked at her Abbū sharply, “He always manages to have inside informations.”
“Yes,” Mirzā Ghayās Beg looked at her just eighteen, extremely beautiful daughter, Nūrjahān Ghayās Beg, “Durgesh always manages to have inside informations. But it’s never detrimental to our Ummat-e-Muslimah.”
“You just eighteen, kamsin kid, Durgesh is completely ten years older than you.”
Mirzā Ghayās Beg wasn’t surprised.
He knew his youngest daughter was not as westernized as her elder sisters were.
He couldn’t understand where he had failed.
All his four wives were highly westernized.
He himself believed in Western education.
He changed the subject.
“Two American passports? Any passports in particular?”
“Paul Chiapparone’s and Bill Gaylord’s.”
Bill was second in command and manager of their biggest project, the contract with the Ministry of Health, Iran.
He couldn’t believe when the exile of Ayatullah Rūħullah Mustafvī Kħomeinī had already turned the foolish uneducated/under educated Iranians against him, Shah Muħammad Rezā Pahalvī could take such a wrong step as to annoy his greatest protector, the President of USA, Jimmy Carter.
He had succeeded in fooling them cunningly.
His adviser, James Bill, believed that Ayatullah Rūħullah Mustafvī Kħomeinī was not a mad Mujāhid. Instead, he was a man of impeccable integrity and honesty.
How wrong James Bill was too.*