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.*