BREAKTHROUGH

 

There are many nights I lie awake tossing and turning in bed asking myself:

        Is Irfan a saint or a madman?

        Has he experienced spiritual awakening or has he indeed lost his mind?

        I am quite aware that I am neither a psychologist nor a mystic; the human mind has always been a mystery to me; nor do I know to what great depths spirituality can take a man. Maybe that's why I keep quiet when my friends ask me "What went wrong?"

        I have nothing to say to them. My face becomes flushed and I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes. It takes every last drop of strength in me to fight back the tears. But, I do. I keep them inside for I know that what I fear most is that my tears will not stop. They will become a river... salty, tepid, then cold at the heart of the ocean where they end their journey.

        My situation rings with irony. Until last year I would have never dreamt that my life would be what it has now become, I would have never thought that people could change so much at our stage in life. I believed Irfan and I had a happy family life. I used to believe that I knew him better than he knew himself but then something tragic happened. He changed so drastically that it became very painful to live with him. It has come to the point that I wonder whether it would be better to leave him before I start hating him. I would like to leave with fond memories of our twenty-eight years of marriage, not the pain of the last few months.

        It is ironic that I still love the man, and I believe that he is still affectionate and caring in his own bizarre way. It's this constant pain that I can't stand any more. There is an aching feeling in my heart, a coldness from the depths of the ocean that has been contaminated with toxic wastes; it is as if Irfan's thoughts are contaminated and he is being led down the river of despair. If I did not care or if I did not love him it may be easier. I wonder if all this would have happened if we never came to Canada?

 

~  *  ~

 

        I remember the day Saadia received her letter of acceptance from McMaster University to medical school. She called her father at the University of Toronto to share the good news. Irfan was thrilled. It was uncharacteristic of Irfan to leave work early, but that day he found it inconceivable to stay. He was in a mood to celebrate. On the way home he stopped at the liquor store to buy a bottle of champagne. He rushed through the door, gave Saadia an affectionate hug, and reached for the champagne bottle. The cork separated from the neck of the bottle and squealed as if it too shared the excitement of the day. The champagne seemed happy to be finally released from its confinement and bubbled over onto Irfan's hand, then down his arm. We giggled with surprise and Irfan said:  "I am so very proud of you Saadia. Today I feel as if I am the luckiest man in Canada. Let's throw a big party before you leave. Call Adeel in California and we shall begin our preparations."

        Saadia was flushed and overwhelmed with excitement. She had never before seen her father in such ecstasy. She rushed to the phone to call her brother. "Come as soon as you can. You should see our father. He is going through a metamorphosis before my very eyes." Adeel called back the next day and said that his girlfriend Joanne wanted to join us for this special occasion. Irfan and I were thrilled because we had heard so much about Joanne but we had not yet met her. I asked Saadia if she wanted to invite her boyfriend Manmohan to the party because we had never met him either. He lived in Hamilton and did not have a car so Saadia used to drive to Hamilton to meet him and that was one reason Saadia had applied to McMaster University so that they both could be at the same campus. Manmohan was a student of political science.

        That evening Irfan shared something unusual with me:  for many years a painting of a dancing peacock hung on the wall in his office. His father had given him the painting when we left Pakistan. He hung it there to remind him of his father, but he had never appreciated the painting. After Saadia's call he felt a sense of euphoria. He started dancing around the office, singing Urdu songs, telling jokes to his students and colleagues and when he came back to his office he looked up and saw the familiar painting. He looked at it now in a different light. He realized the peacock with his cute head, long neck and beautifully spread wings was dancing as if it was in a trance like a sufi or intoxicated with passion like a lover. Irfan was so excited that afternoon that finally his secretary sent him home saying "I have never seen you so happy. Today is not a day for work. You should be at home. Go home and celebrate."

        Irfan told me that while he was driving home to Whitby from the University of Toronto that afternoon in his black Jaguar he was reminiscing about his eighteen years in Canada. He saw himself as a very lucky man and was thankful for the blessings he had been given:  a charming and faithful wife, beautiful children, a big house with a swimming pool and a tennis court, a beautiful boat which he named `Noah's Ark' and a cottage he called `Irfan Mahal'. What he felt most fortunate about was that both of their children were accepted to universities and were ensured to have the best education they could afford. It made Irfan think about some of his Asian acquaintances who had worked so hard to obtain university degrees but remained unemployed because their degrees were not accepted by the Canadian authorities, and those other friends who were feeling unhappy and miserable because of their family problems.

        Irfan told me how much he appreciated my support and recog­nized the sacrifices I had made for the sake of the children and the family. He told me he felt proud of our companionship and the love we shared.

        I was really surprised at how sentimental Irfan had become that evening. I knew that he cared for his family but I had never realized the intensity of it. When he kissed me on my forehead and said "Janum! My sweetheart! I would not have been able to do it without you." I had tears in my eyes.

 

~  *  ~

 

        Now that I look back I realize that Irfan was euphoric that day; he was as hyperactive as a four year old child, but at that time I thought he was just excited about his daughter's future. It hadn't even crossed my mind that he may be feeling a sense of loss, a sense of sadness that his younger child was leaving the nest, and was therefore trying to cover up his true feelings. For the next two weeks we made preparations for the party. We made lists of dishes we would serve, desserts and guests that would be invited. Saadia promised to make vegetable dishes, I prepared all the desserts and Irfan did the preparation for a "Bihari" and "Chappal" kebabs, the kebabs that his students, colleagues and friends loved so much.

        The party was a big hit. It extended over the entire weekend and everyone had a good time. They played tennis, swam in the pool and enjoyed the barbecue. Our guests complimented us for the wonderful party we had arranged. Now that I think about that weekend I remember a few things that I had not previously paid any attention to. 

        I remember the Saturday night dinner:  Irfan was sitting at one end of the table and I at the other end. Saadia and her boyfriend Manmohan were seated on Irfan's right side and Adeel and his girlfriend Joanne on his left side. That was a special occasion for us because that was the first time that the whole family got together for dinner since Adeel had gone to university. It was also the first time that Irfan and I had met Manmohan and Joanne. Irfan welcomed them warmly and thanked them for making the occasion special for all of us.

        The dinner started with warmth and affection. We shared jokes and progressed to the discussion of the relationship between creativity and insanity. Joanne shared with us that she and Adeel were actively involved in library research and interviewing writers, painters and musicians who suffered from mental illness. She was also planning to interview the family members of many artists and mentally ill people; she believed that there was a genetic link between creativity and insanity. She had found a study done in Iceland that proved the number of creative people in the families of mentally ill people were two to three times more than the average population. Joanne shared with us that her parents were musicians. Saadia told her that she could interview our family because Irfan's brother was a famous writer and his uncle had suffered a nervous breakdown. Irfan enjoyed the discussion and even jokingly added "Our family is blessed with divine madmen."

        But as the dinner continued and Manmohan started talking about his family, Irfan became more anxious. Manmohan told us that his father was a Hindu and his mother a Muslim. Each of them wanted to give their children traditional names:  they came to an agreement that the male children would be given Hindi names and the girls Muslim names. So it came to be that Manmohan's full name was Manmohan Sharma and his sister was Saima Begum. Everyone seemed amused by Manmohan's story except Irfan, who looked puzzled and somewhat irritated. When Manmohan shared that his father was a close friend of Maulana Abul Kalam Azad and was quite impressed by Azad's predictions of Pakistan's political future, Irfan seemed all the more distressed. He got up before the dinner ended and went to the washroom. He returned for a brief period, only to excuse himself for the evening, and went to his bedroom.

        The next day Irfan was his usual cheerful and polite self. He welcomed all his friends and played tennis while wearing his special T-shirt that said "For tennis players, love means nothing"; but he seemed to avoid contact with Manmohan. He introduced Joanne to many of his friends but did not include Manmohan in these introductions which was totally out of character for him. I could see what Irfan was doing, I didn't know for sure whether is was intentional or an oversight, and made my best efforts to introduce Manmohan to any new guests that dropped by. After the party was over and everybody left I gently confronted Irfan and asked, "Why is it that you don't like Manmohan?" Irfan did not deny it. He just said, "He makes me uncomfortable." I asked Irfan to elaborate but he could not say what it was about Manmohan that bothered him and acknowledged that the young man was respectful and polite towards him. 

        Irfan did not talk about Manmohan again nor did I bring up the subject, hoping that in time Irfan would develop a fondness for Manmohan. Perhaps if he met with Manmohan a few more times, he would get used to the idea that Saadia had a Hindu boyfriend. He might even start to like Manmohan, who I found to be a decent and charming young man, and Manmohan certainly seemed to care a lot about Joanne. 

        The day we went to McMaster University to drop Saadia at the hostel, Manmohan received us and approached Irfan with open arms, wanting to give him a hug. Irfan stepped back and instead of reciprocating the hug, offered Manmohan his hand. Irfan became stiff and maintained a polite but formal distance and made the meeting as brief as possible.

        On our drive back Irfan was quiet for the longest time. Finally I asked, "What is it that is making you so sad? The thought of losing your daughter to the university or losing her to Manmohan?" 

        Irfan hesitated and then replied, "I don't trust him."

        "What is it about him that you don't trust?"

        "There is nothing concrete, it is just my gut reaction. Call it my instinct if you will."

        "Come on Irfan!" I tried to lighten the mood. "It is not your instinct, it is your prejudice and double standards. You don't like him because he is not a Muslim and you are scared that your dear and only daughter might marry him. You might think that you are an atheist and a liberal man but deep down you are quite religious and traditional. You seemed quite pleased and proud to meet Joanne because she was Adeel's girlfriend. How would you feel if Joanne's parents were prejudiced against Adeel the way you are against Manmohan?"

        Irfan stopped the car in front of the donut shop to have a cup of tea and during the conversation said, "Janum! Whatever you are saying makes sense intellectually but emotionally it bothers me and one cannot reason with emotions. I have not been sleeping well lately worrying about it." That was the first time as far as I can remember that Irfan had acknowledged that he had spent a few sleepless nights. Even then I thought it was a passing phase and he would be okay in a few weeks. I believed he was grieving his daughter's loss and experiencing the early signs of the Empty Nest Syndrome.

 

~  *  ~

 

        For the next few weeks Irfan remained quiet and distant. He kept himself busy with work and rarely joked around. I was feeling lonely too. I called Saadia every day because I missed her so much. To keep myself occupied I developed a keen interest in gardening and bought quite a few plants. I even bought a couple of gardening books so I could learn more about plants and their habits. I loved spending time in the garden and it always felt good to dig into the soil with my bare hands.

        And then something terrible happened. We received a call from Pakistan that Irfan's father passed away unexpectedly. We were in shock. Irfan became even more reserved and retreated into his shell. He stopped eating and did not go to work for three days. He did not shave or take a shower, which was unusual for him, a man who prided himself on meticulous grooming. I wanted to be supportive but he pushed me away. I knew he was very close to his father and felt bad that he could not see his father in his last days.

        A few more days passed and then Irfan started to talk. He was reminiscing about his childhood and teenage years. One evening after dinner he started talking about his father and their relationship; I sat quietly and listened, allowing him to express his grief. He said:

        "My dad was a man of principle. He had his own values and his own philosophy and he followed them religiously. I remember when I was in high school I wanted to participate in the elections. I was hopeful that I would win the presidential election because I was quite popular not only in my own class but in the whole school as well. My close friends encouraged and supported me.

        "So I got the application forms and filled them but before I could submit them to the elections office I had to get them signed by my father. I thought my dad would be pleased. I was hoping he would be proud of me. Instead, he refused to sign the papers. I was shocked. He asked me,

        `Do you want to become the president of the student union?'

        `Yes, I do.'

        `Then, you don't deserve to be.'

        `Why not?'

        `Anyone who wants to be the president should be disqualified. There is a danger he will abuse his power. In a genuinely honest and democratic system people ask and request a person to be their leader while the person asked refuses it because he thinks it is a lot of responsibility. He reluctantly accepts it. I am not signing the papers.'

        "At that time I was angry and disappointed in my father. It took me a long time to understand and appreciate his philosophy.

        "I also heard that in the last few months of his life my father had become a saint, a mystic, a darvesh. It is unfortunate that I could not spend much time with him.

        "A few weeks before he died he wrote me a letter and shared his wisdom and insights into life. That letter was simple but quite profound. I wished I had discussed it with him. I will cherish that letter for the rest of my life."

        "What did he write in the letter?" I asked.

        "He wrote, `There are three paths open to man to discover the ultimate truth:

        The path of intellect — scientists follow that path.

        The path of intuition — mystics follow that path, and

        The path of aesthetics — artists follow that path. So there should be no conflict between genuine scientists, mystics and artists. They complement rather than contradict each other.'

        "Dad was such a wise man."

        Irfan started to cry. I put my hand on his shoulder to console him.

        The first day he went back to work I was surprised to see him going to work in jeans. He did not even shave.

        That evening he told me that he looked at the painting of the dancing peacock on the wall and saw his ugly feet and remembered that his father had told him that although the peacock was the most beautiful animal in the jungle, nature had given him ugly feet so that he does not become too arrogant and does not lose his humility.

        When I asked Irfan to fly to Pakistan to attend his father's funeral he replied that he could not go:  his three Ph.D. students were defending their theses in the next few weeks and he was one of the examiners. He said he would prefer to go on Chehlum, the ceremony held on the fortieth day after death. Regrettably he could not do that because Saadia needed money to go to a conference. Without discussing his plans to go to Pakistan he gave his airfare to Saadia. I felt bad. When I asked him the reason for not going he shrugged it off, saying it was one of the prices immigrants must pay to live in a distant land.

 

~  *  ~

 

        Time seemed to pass slowly as Irfan spent most of his days pensively and quietly. Then one day Irfan came home telling me he had become friends with Saleem who was a professor of Islamic History. Saleem had a keen interest in human spirituality. He gave Irfan a number of booklets to read. I remember seeing him reading a book about the lives of sufis.

        One day Irfan told me that he was going to Eid prayers with Saleem, and I could not resist asking,

        "Why now? In the eighteen years we have been in Canada, I have never seen you go for Eid prayers. Furthermore, I didn't think you believed in God, prophets or the holy scriptures."

        Irfan said that Saeed wanted him to attend the ceremony for social and cultural reasons rather than religious ones.

        Now that I look back, those Eid prayers and the khutba seemed to be a turning point for Irfan. When he came back it was as if he were star-struck. He spoke as if he were in a trance. The man I had lived with for so many years was not easily impressed, and he was very much impressed by the speaker that day. It seemed to make a significant change in his life. 

        For the next few weeks Irfan kept on talking about the speaker and his message. Irfan remembered half of that speech by heart. I don't remember the details myself but I do remember Irfan talking about Eric Fromm's book which the speaker had quoted. He highlighted that there were two kinds of people in the world having two kinds of personalities, lifestyles and personal philosophies. The speaker said,

        "In the first group there are people who want to have things, to own houses, boats, cars, cottages, hoping that those things will make them happy. But unfortunately they are never happy because they are greedy. Once they become millionaires they want to become multimillionaires. Once they have a house for themselves they want more for their children and grandchildren. They always focus on that part of the glass that is half empty.

        "In the second group there are people who want to be, who want to develop themselves, who want to grow. Such people are happy in life because their emphasis in life is not greed, but contentment. They value their personal and spiritual qualities and emphasize the same for their children. Such people, instead of being greedy, are usually quite generous. They focus on that part of the glass that is half full."

        Irfan felt that people in the West, being part of a capitalistic consumer society, have become the "TO HAVEs" while people in the East because of their religious and spiritual traditions are the "TO BEs". Unfortunately those people who immigrate from East to West might become financially well off after a few years of hard work, but the price they pay is that they lose their contentment of heart and peace of mind.

        Irfan also shared with me a story he heard in that speech, of a king who went to the jungle hunting with some of his companions. When he saw a beautiful deer he asked his companions to stay behind and he followed the deer on his own. After a couple of hours not only did he not hunt the deer, he also lost his companions. For the next twenty-four hours he wandered around in fear, fear of being killed by wild animals and the fear that accompanies feeling like a lost soul. 

        He was so thirsty that he could hardly speak. Finally he saw a tent outside which a darvesh, a saint, a Holy Man was meditating. The king approached the darvesh and asked for a glass of water. The darvesh recognized the king, smiled and said,

        "There is a price for everything in the world."

        "How much?"

        "Half of your kingdom" and offered him a paper and a pencil. The king hesitated for a few seconds and then offered half of his kingdom in writing to the darvesh. The darvesh offered him a glass of water from his pitcher.

        After the king left the darvesh, he went again looking for his companions - not only could he not find them, he also developed abdominal pain from not being able to pass water. After twenty-four hours of agony he returned to the darvesh again, begging for his help.

        "Sure I can help," the darvesh said, "but everything has a price."

        "How much?"

        "Half of your kingdom," and offered the king the paper and the pencil again.

        Once more the king hesitated. Then he offered the remaining half of his kingdom in writing to the darvesh.

        Darvesh offered him some wild herbs and a glass of water and asked him to lie down for a few minutes. Those herbs were quite effective and the king passed the water and felt relieved.

        The king thanked the darvesh and went on his way. As he was leaving, he looked back and saw the darvesh standing outside his tent, tearing the pieces of paper which now were deed to the king's entire kingdom, and throwing them into the open fire. The king ran back and asked the darvesh, "Why have you done this? Do you know what you are doing?"

        "Are you surprised?"

        "That paper gives you ownership to my whole kingdom."

        "Yes, and it seems that your whole kingdom is worth but a glass of water" the darvesh said, smiling.

 

~ * ~

 

        One morning Irfan came downstairs and told me that he did not sleep well. He tossed and turned in bed, he was restless. He felt it had something to do with the speech, and was surprised that it had affected him so much. The speaker's words "cross-roads," "soul-searching" and "spiritual bankruptcy" had pierced his heart like draggers and he felt as if he was bleeding inside. He was becoming painfully aware that he had a spiritual vacuum in his life. He was blessed with a lovely family and all the comforts of the materialistic world but cursed because he did not enjoy an inner peace. That night he realized that coming to Canada was not more than buying an illusion or following a mirage.

        Irfan tossed and turned in bed yet another night. He was kept from sleep with the words that haunted his mind like a tormented spirit:  I should resign from my job, I don't deserve it. These thoughts had never before crossed his mind. 

        When he could not sleep he remembered his last visit with his mother and the gift she had given him:  the Holy Quran. He got out of bed and looked for his copy of the Quran.

        "Who is it?" I called out loudly, knowing my voice cracked with the fear that my body felt.

        "It's me."

        "What are you doing? I heard noises and I thought there was a burglar in the house."

        "I'm looking for my copy of Holy Quran in the old trunk."

        "It isn't there. You haven't touched it in years so I put it away in storage in the basement."

        Irfan came back to bed and said, "Honey, I want to resign from my job."

        "Are you crazy? Why are you mentioning it at this ungodly hour of the night. Maybe you have nothing better to think about. Go to sleep. An empty mind is a devil's workshop."

        I rolled over and fell asleep again but Irfan remained restless. "Devil's workshop - maybe that's it. Maybe I have been a devil and did not even know it," he thought to himself.

        Finally exhaustion hit and Irfan fell asleep for a couple of hours; when he woke he found that he had had a wet dream. In his dream he was making love to one of his students, a beautiful charming French girl, a student that many male students wanted to date. She was so attractive that many professors felt jealous that she was in Irfan's class, and not one of their own.

        Irfan went to the bathroom to take a shower. He felt guilty that he had a wet dream while sleeping next to me with whom he had not made love to for months:  when he went to bed after watching the midnight news on TV or reading his books, it was so late that I had already gone to sleep.

        The guilt that Irfan felt was compounded by a memory of his teenage years. He had frequent wet dreams then, which meant that he should take a bath early in the morning, known as a "ghusl." If he did take the ghusl, it was like announcing to the entire family that he had a wet dream. He couldn't stand the humiliation; but, he was supposed to attend morning prayers with his father, and to recite the prayers without taking a bath first was considered blasphemous. It was a sensitive age; he remembered feeling guilty quite frequently.

        The next day Irfan started his usual morning ritual with a shower. He usually felt refreshed and invigorated, but this morning Irfan still felt an overwhelming sense of fatigue. So much so that he picked up the phone and called the school to inform them he would not be in. I had never seen him take a sick day in the entire time he had been working at the university. I knew then that he was in grave shape. 

        "What's wrong Irfan?"

        "I feel guilty."

        "About what?" I wasn't sure whether he felt guilty because he was not going to work, had been rude to me the night before, or there was still another reason.

        "I want to resign from my job."

        "What are you talking about? Resign and do what? Lead a retired life. Both of our children are in university and need our help financially right now."

        I left the room. I did not want to discuss the issue any further. Having lived with Irfan for twenty-seven years, I had learnt that every so often he got preoccupied with crazy ideas, the ideas that were fantasies rather than realities. I remembered when Irfan was obsessed for a few weeks with the idea of going to South America and then living there permanently; but then he realized that without knowing Spanish he would have great difficulty.

        I also remember when Irfan talked day and night about learning to fly and someday buying a small plane so that he could fly all over Canada and the United States on the weekends. But when he realized that even after spending thousands of dollars and months of training the tiny Cesna plane was not any faster than his Jaguar and even more dependent upon the weather conditions he gave up the idea.

        There were times when I called him "Sheikh Chilli" a mythological character who counted chickens even before the eggs were laid. I thought it was another fantasy, another whim, another day dream. The only thing that surprised me was that in the past his fantasies made him happy, excited and euphoric, but this time he was puzzled, confused and even perturbed. I felt uneasy around him. He was surrounded by a disturbing aura.

        When Irfan did not feel better even after a couple of days and started reading the Holy Quran excessively, I got worried. I also realized that he had built a wall around him. He was in his shell and I could not reason with him. Finally I suggested that we go away to the cottage for a long weekend because in the past whenever Irfan was stressed with his job we went to the cottage and a few days of relaxing, long walks by the lakeside and reading books made him feel better. There was no T.V. or telephone, no distractions from the real world. 

        Irfan agreed to the idea and said, "It will give me some time to meditate and do some soul-searching." So we both went to the cottage in Lindsay, an hour's drive north of Whitby, where we lived.

 

~  *  ~

 

        It was now as if the preceding few days had been an omen for what was to follow. The trip to the cottage proved to be the burial ground of Irfan's past, the life we had known with him. The first day he tried to relax but couldn't. The next day it got worse. I remember sitting in front of the fireplace in the cottage quite worried about Irfan, who had gone for a long walk. I had sensed that "something was not right" for the last few months but I had not taken it seriously. I had not heeded to my instincts. I blamed the changes in Irfan on the grief he felt for his father's death. I was concerned about Irfan's newly diagnosed hypertension and remember the doctor's suggestion that he must go on a low cholesterol diet. Irfan was told he must not eat eggs, fatty and greasy foods and red meat. I knew how much Irfan loved beef and lamb because he used to say, "I am glad I am born in a Muslim family and not a Hindu family because I enjoy the taste of red meat." More recently I felt there was more to his condition than I could comprehend. I was concerned because he was becoming irrational.

        When Irfan returned from his long walk at night, he came in the door in a flurry. He shouted my name "Rafeeqa." It made me feel nervous. Irfan had never spoken so loudly and never called me by my real name. We used to call each other "Janum," "Honey" or "My Love."

        "Come on in," I said to the shadow in the darkness. As he approached his face became clearer. I was astonished. He was flushed, his body glistened with sweat and his whole being was shaking tremulously. 

        "Are you okay Janum?" I asked in a gentle tone.

        "I am cursed. The devil has paralysed my left side" and he started pacing back and forth in the living room even without taking off his overcoat.

        "You are not paralysed Janum." I tried to reassure him.

        But he kept on saying "I am a sinner. The devil has captured my soul. I am forever cursed."

        There was a large mirror in one end of the room. Irfan kept on pacing back and forth mumbling to himself and watching himself in the mirror.

        I watched him pace with tears in my eyes. I was sitting on the sofa. The fire in the fireplace was getting cold.

        I was nervous and scared. I was no longer in doubt that he was affected mentally as I could not talk to him rationally. I was also cursing myself for having suggested we come to the cottage in the middle of winter. There was nobody else in the neighbourhood at that time of the year and the closest convenience store and pay phone were two miles away. I felt I could not risk leaving Irfan alone while he was in that condition, even for a brief time. 

        After an hour of pacing in the room he stopped, drank a couple of glasses of water and then started to pace again. I asked him to go to bed but he did not stop. He mumbled "I am burning. Burning in hell. I need water to cool me off."

        That night I remained awake and yet it was if I were asleep and having the worst nightmare of my life. I realized what a dilemma it was to live in a foreign land, what pain one must suffer as an immigrant. "It's only when one faces a crisis that one realizes the importance of the extended family" I thought.

        Finally around 5:00 a.m. Irfan was beginning to waiver. He became sluggish and I gently coaxed him to the sofa. He was exhausted and he finally fell asleep, still wearing his overcoat and boots. I sneaked out without concern for locking the doors behind me. The keys were in Irfan's overcoat pocket and I couldn't take the risk of waking him. As soon as I was out the door I quickened my pace. I began to run to the nearest phone to call the operator. I told the operator and the police were I was. Within a few minutes the police and the ambulance arrived.

        When the female police officer approached me I was so overwhelmed I could hardly speak. I mumbled "Husband ... sick" and then broke down in tears. The officer took me into her cruiser and reassured me. When I felt a little better I brought them to the cottage.

        When I entered the cottage Irfan was no longer lying on the sofa. He was taking a shower. I called to him and asked him to get dressed. Luckily he did. Then I told him that the ambulance was there to take him to the hospital. The moment Irfan saw the police officer he screamed like a wild animal.

        "Go away. Go away." he shouted. "I am cursed. I am a sinner. I need to wash my sins. Go away." I felt helpless as I could not convince him to go to the hospital voluntarily. Finally the police had to restrain and handcuff him to take him to the nearest hospital, in Lindsay. The duty doctor admitted Irfan after listening to my story, and gave him an injection of Chlorpromazine to calm him down.

        Irfan was transferred to a separate room so that he could be under constant nursing supervision. I thanked the police officer and ambulance driver and they left to resume their routine duties.

 

~  *  ~

 

        When I informed Saadia and Adeel they came to the hospital as soon as they could. Saadia drove from Hamilton while Adeel took the next flight from California. They were surprised to see their father in a hospital bed and shocked by his physical appearance; he was quite confused and required constant nursing observation. The doctor felt strongly that Irfan was experiencing a nervous breakdown and was making arrangements to send him to the psychiatric hospital for assessment and treatment. I was terrified with the thought of a "mental hospital." I was scared that a Canadian doctor would not understand him and will not discharge him.

        I discussed the issue with my family in Pakistan on the phone and with Irfan's friend Saqib. I decided to take Irfan to Pakistan rather than transfer him to a mental hospital. Saqib volunteered to fly with us to Pakistan to ensure that Irfan took his medications on the plane and I did not have to deal with an unexpected incident. Adeel and Saadia did not agree with me but they were respectful of my wishes. They felt their father would get better care in Canada than in Pakistan. When I told Irfan the plans, he did not object.

        While Saqib stayed with Irfan in the hospital for a couple of days I came to Whitby to make arrangements to fly to Pakistan. After I finished the packing I went to my bedroom. Adeel and Saadia were sitting in the living room talking. Because it was so quiet I could overhear their conversation. They thought I had gone to sleep; I was really surprised at what I heard them say.

        Adeel said, "Saadia! You know our mom and dad had an arranged marriage which was the tradition in those days so I can't completely blame them for their poor choices. I sometimes wonder though whose idea it was to bring them together in a matrimonial relationship. I am quite sure now that the relatives and friends who brought them together were quite short-sighted. Maybe they thought that just because both of them belonged to Kashmiri families they would get along fine. They did not pay attention to their individual personalities. Other than their eating habits, clothing styles and language they had nothing in common. I don't think one needed to be a psychoanalyst to see that those two families were and still are worlds apart. Mom's folks are pragmatic, down to earth, conservative and family oriented while dad's family is creative, imaginative, philosophical, well educated and individualistic. None of mom's siblings have a degree while all of Dad's siblings are university graduates. Dad's family members are not only eccentric but even a little crazy."

        Saadia responded, "One other interesting thing about them was that mom was the oldest of the four sisters and was used to being the caretaker. She was a serious, reserved and pragmatic person. She was not only responsible and dependable but also iron-willed. On the other hand dad was the baby in the family, the youngest of the four children. He was a carefree man who enjoyed telling jokes, playing cards and tennis. Dad's older sister, Aunty Zubaida was also a strong woman. In the beginning when Mom moved in with Dad's family there was a lot of tension between mom and aunty but after dad passed his Ph.D. exam and decided to move to Canada the tension subsided.

        "It was as if dad and mom came from two different planets. They had two different philosophies. The only thing that kept them together, like many other Asian marriages, were the children. We were the crazy glue for their relationship and since we left, the marriage is falling apart.

        "Adeel, do you feel that having a nervous breakdown is a more graceful way of ending the marriage."

        "It is more acceptable than having an affair."

        I was feeling sleepy but it was an eye-opener to overhear my children's dialogue.

 

~  *  ~

 

Dear Adeel and Saadia:

        I miss you both so much. Four months have passed since we last saw one another. I think back now and regret not keeping a journal. So much has happened. I feel the need now to share some of the details. I don't know what else to do. I am at the end of the road after having crossed hills and mountains, pebbles and jagged-edged rocks. I was hoping to find the ocean at the end of the path, hoping to refresh myself and find rejuvenation, hoping to swim in the depths of the sea, the waves coming over me and erasing the painful memories of these months, giving back to me my lost youth and the energy and excitement of my relationship with Irfan; instead, my journey has scarred me forever. The path has been poorly lit and slow to travel like walking along a sandy beach wearing heavy boots. I have been suffocating and unable to free myself from the clutches of a thorny bush. I have been fighting against the odds and fear I am losing my strength, the strength and fortitude so characteristic of my heredity. I pray that my family would not see me as weak, having given up. I think of them now and remember why we had come here in the first place.

        Irfan was so restless then, restless from agitation. He seemed to be exploring his inner self but it was the darkness within that he found and I fear it kept him from tranquillity. Irfan would not sleep. He stayed awake day and night, either pacing incessantly or standing as if in a stupor for hours on end. He would not speak. I would approach him to offer him solace but it was as if he was deaf and mute. Nothing penetrated his internal darkness.

        We were all so afraid that the whole family, your uncle Mohsin, aunts Haleema and Saleema, and your grandmother Safia, stayed up day and night to look after him. This lasted a week before each one of us became irritable, moody and unable to agree on a solution to the problem. Finally, we decided to take shifts caring for your father. Since there were five of us, we concluded that each shift would be six hours long. One person would sit with your father while the other four rested.

        Your father was unaffected by our meetings, he remained in his catatonic state, eating little, drinking in excess:  a glass of water every half an hour. He mumbled as he reached for the cup, "Must cool down ... feeling hot ... burning up inside ... the fires of hell are scorching my insides." What he was saying made no sense to any of us. Again, when I approached him, softly, warmly, as non-threatening as I could, to ask him the simplest of things like requesting he undress for sleep, he paced the hall or stood motionless. I remember weeping in my room, alone, for hours. I could not be of any help to Irfan in his greatest hour of need. "Through sickness and in health" I remember thinking, and feeling guilty that I was letting him down, and unable to fulfil the responsibilities of my role as his wife.

        Then it seemed I had no more tears to shed; I felt relieved somehow. I sat in silence, the night was beginning to envelope the room. I watched as the darkness of night crept in until I could not longer make out the familiar surroundings of my room, a room I had known for so long. The darkness brought an eerie sense of unfamiliarity and accompanying fear. I knew then what Irfan was feeling. His darkness had made him a stranger in his own home, the physical body he had carried with him for fifty years.

        I knew what had to be done. Irfan needed professional help. I asked my family members to meet with me and discussed a plan with them. Each person had a different suggestion. Haleema had discussed your father with her family doctor, Dr. Saeed, who recommended a specialist in internal medicine. This seemed a safe and satisfying route to take. We all agreed that we would rule out all possibilities of physical illness before jumping to the much feared conclusion that Irfan suffered from mental illness.

        Dr. Mahmood listened to the story, examined Irfan, and performed a few simple tests. We were relieved at his final diagnosis. Irfan suffered from Diabetes Insipidus, hence his insatiated desire for water. His kidneys could not manage the overabundance of water he was drinking and soon became overworked. Dr. Mahmood felt that there was a problem with the pituitary gland as well; it was not producing enough anti-diuretic hormone. He told us the problem could be solved with hormone injections, and the emotional symptoms would resolve once the injections took effect. Until that time Dr. Mahmood prescribed a few minor tranquilizers to help Irfan sleep at night and relax during the day. His only regret was that the injections were not available in Pakistan and they would be very expensive. He did however know of a way to get them from a company in England.

        It seemed our troubles were coming to an end; it was only a matter of time. We felt so empowered by the thought of Irfan's health improving that we were able to think more clearly. A few of our cousins volunteered to share the nursing care when they heard the news. There was a shimmer of hope, it served as light for the darkened room. There was cause now to celebrate but it was not a whole-hearted celebration as yet. Irfan's family members were not there to share our joy. I was surprised and disappointed by their apparent lack of concern. Irfan's brother came to visit for an hour. We shared the situation with him in every detail but he never did return. Irfan's sisters did not even call. I realized then how different our families were and remember the criticism in your voices the night I overheard your conversation. I wondered now if you still felt so critical towards my pragmatic and conservative family. Irfan's family, however well-educated and imaginative, was not able to offer any creative solutions to the problems their brother Irfan faced. The word "individualistic" you used to describe your father's family seemed to fit. They were indeed concerned only for themselves — their individual selves or so it seemed to me then. In spite of my disappointment I refused to be embittered by their apparent lack of concern. Your father would have defended them somehow, saying that "each of us expresses our affection and our concern in unique and different ways". I felt hurt, deeply hurt and emotionally scarred the night I overheard the two of you talking. Today I am glad for the differences between our families — at least I had some help in caring for your father.

        The injections arrived and we gave them as prescribed. Day after day, we watched and waited for signs of improvement in your father's condition. There were subtle changes, the most notable was that Irfan finally slept at night. At first it was for only a few hours a night. During that time he did not drink or need to wake to pass water; we were hopeful that finally the injections were taking effect. Two more weeks passed and some of Irfan's agitation subsided. He was able to speak to me at last, without starring blankly into space. We contacted Dr. Mahmood again, and he re-examined Irfan. He concluded that it was the tranquilizers that were most effective, not the injections. In fact, there had been no noted improvement in the blood work since the injections started.

        The family met again. They were disappointed but did not feel defeated. They were willing to go another step further. I admired their determination. I thought then that it is so true that one does not realize what you have until it is gone. Irfan and I had lived in Canada for eighteen years, building strength from one another and then as the two of you grew, we became four. We stuck together. But there were really no crises, not like the one I have been experiencing this year. It is true that "This has been my aazmaish," my test of strength, spiritually and physically and I am sure that I could not have got this far without the support of my extended family.

        I was now time to try less traditional ways. Aunt Saleema suggested that we consult a hakim she knew. He believed in herbal remedies and was greatly respected by the town folk. He came to our home and listened to the story. I felt as if the secrets of my inner soul had become a public affair. The story got easier to tell, but the embarrassment never vanished. Hakim Sahib prescribed wild herbs for Irfan. These herbs would not be easy to find:  they were available only in the mountains in a place called Abbotabad; our cousins agreed to make the journey and begin their search for Irfan's cure.

        We waited patiently for their return. Irfan ate very little and he continued to drink quite a lot of water. Emotionally, he was a see-saw. When he was feeling down he would not speak. He wandered around aimlessly. Overall it was not as excessive as it had been in the beginning. The new development was his ritual of bath. Two, three, sometimes four times a day he would bathe. He might spend up to an hour in the bathroom. I feared that he may become ill from the cold which would only compound the current problem.

        Once he went into the washroom and did not come out. An hour or more had passed and I could not hear a sound from the other side of the door. I became worried. I could feel my heart pounding inside my chest. I wanted to be respectful of his privacy but I feared for his safety. I asked Uncle Mohsin to check on him, and I followed quickly behind. The noise we created must have startled your father, for he looked up and said, "What's the matter." There he sat, fully dressed, his back against the wall. He had not even taken off his socks. The water had become cold and still after such a long time.

        It was then obvious the herbs were not working either. Irfan was getting worse instead of better.

        We were at a loss for what to do next. Your grandmother suggested we take your father to Babaji, a spiritual healer. This caused a lot of tension in the family. Uncle Mohsin would not agree to it. He is a scientific and rational man who does not believe in peers and faqirs. He felt Babaji was a quack. He wanted Irfan to be treated by qualified doctors. Aunt Saleema agreed with Grandmother. They have faith in spiritual powers. Perhaps they could see that Irfan's troubles were beyond this physical world. The family quarrelled. Your father's illness had gone on longer than any of us had expected. Each of us shared our weariness in a different way — quarrelling, being short tempered, withdrawn. I felt this was a vulnerable time and that I should refrain from speaking out. Then I looked over at your father who sat in the corner of the room, mumbling to himself. He looked so lost. Once a lion with the strength of many, king in his household, admired and respected in the university, I stared at him and thought of what our life had been. How happy we had been. Tears filled my eyes. Finally they asked me what I thought and I said, "I want my husband to get better. I don't care what it takes."

        I went the next morning to Babaji with my mother. Babaji said that Irfan was tormented by evil spirits. It was necessary to make a sacrifice of some sort in order that your father get better. Babaji asked my mother to sacrifice a black lamb and send the meat from the slaughter to Data Darbar, a holy shrine. We agreed to do this. Babaji gave us a few plates inscribed with verses from the Holy Quran; he asked me to fill the plate with holy water once a day and give it to Irfan to drink. We thanked babaji for his time and returned home. 

        Initially Irfan refused to drink the water from the plates that Babaji had given us; then he changed his mind out of respect for my mother. After a few days there was still no improvement so my mother and I returned to Babaji, who said "Irfan must make a bigger sacrifice".

        While we were struggling with different modes of treatment, Dr. Saeed made another visit to our home. He discussed the situation at length with us. He felt that Irfan was having a "nervous breakdown" and might benefit from admission to the psychiatrist hospital. Mohsin and I took Irfan to the hospital to see Dr. Masood. He wanted Irfan to stay as an inpatient and receive therapy. We took a tour of the hospital and I got scared. I realized there were patients in the hospital who had been there for years. It seemed that once they were admitted, they were never released. Their families had given up on them. When Mohsin asked me what I thought, I had to reply "We should do our best not to get him admitted here. I am afraid that he may get worse. If I bring Irfan here, it will seem as if I am abandoning him, and I do not want to give up on him."

        Mohsin and I let Dr. Masood know how we felt. He listened to our concerns and came up with a alternative. He suggested that Irfan be sen as an outpatient and receive shock treatments. He wanted Mohsin to bring Irfan to the hospital twice a week for four weeks. 

        Irfan did go for shock treatment, but he refused to go after the first treatment. Irfan told your uncle Mohsin that he was not a mental patient, he was a sinner. He did not have a mental problem, he had a spiritual problem. 

        And then something interesting happened. Unexpectedly, one evening Irfan's cousin Zakia came to see him. She told me that she wasn't aware of Irfan's condition or she would have come sooner. She told me she knew a hydrotherapist. She had recommended him to many of her friends and they all got better. She had a lot of regard for this therapist.

        "But Irfan refuses to go out. He will not see anyone any more".

        "Don't worry. I'll bring the therapist here." 

        I gave in and said "O.K. That would be nice of you. I have tried everything." What I didn't tell her was that I had lost faith in all therapists; I didn't have the heart to disappoint her, and I didn't want to be rude to her either. The next day Zakia came back with Mr. Shamsi, a tall, middle-aged, grey-haired man who looked very graceful. He had a briefcase with him. Zakia introduced him to me and Irfan.

        Irfan was in a good mood that day. He told Mr. Shamsi that he was experiencing backache especially in the kidney area. Shamsi asked Irfan if he would object trying one of his special oils. Irfan was agreeable. So Mr. Shamsi opened his briefcase, took out one of the oils and asked me to rub it on his back. I rubbed it gently and Irfan felt relief within a few minutes.

        "It is wonderful," Irfan said.

        "I am pleased it worked," Mr. Shamsi responded.

        "How does it work?" Irfan was curious.