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Peer-e-Kamil

Welcome to Isagenix! Isagenix is your opportunity for health, wealth and happiness. Faizan Akbar is certainly an asset to our school as an orator. Neither I nor anyone else can compete with him He stopped again and looked at Faizan, who looked around with a proud smile. But the rest of Salars sentence wiped the smile off his face.

If it were only a matter of spinning yarns. Sounds of giggling filled the hall. Salar maintained a serious attitude. But theres a great difference between an orator and a head boy: The hall echoed with the applause of Salars supporters.

I do not have the eloquence of Faizan Akbar, he continued. I have my name and my record to speak for me. I do not need a stream of words where just a few would do. He stopped again. Trust me and vote for me. He thanked the audience and switched off the mike.

Thunderous applause filled the air. Salar had spoken for one minute and forty seconds, in his typical measured style and calculated words, and in that brief time he had overturned Faizans ambitions. After this preliminary introduction, there was a question and answer session. Salar responded in his customary brief manner; his longest response was not more than four sentences. On the other hand, Faizans shortest response was not less than four sentences.

Faizans eloquence and way with words, which were his strength, now appeared bombastic compared to Salars short and sharp responses on stage, and Faizan was all too aware of this. If Salar gave a one-line reply to a question, Faizan, out of sheer habit, went on with a monologue.

Whatever Salar had said about Faizan seemed to be proving true to the audiencethat an orator can only speak, not act. Why should Salar Sikandar be the head boy? Because you should elect the best person for the job, he replied. Wouldnt you call this arrogance? No, it is confidence and awareness. The objection was refuted. What is the difference between arrogance and confidence? The same as the difference between Faizan Akbar and Salar Sikandar, he replied in a serious tone.

What difference will it make if you are not appointed head boy? It will make a difference to you, not to me. If the best person is not appointed as the leader, it affects the community, not the best person.

Again, you are referring to yourself as the best person. Once again, there was an objection. Is there anyone in this hall whod equate himself with someone bad? Perhaps there is Then Id like to meet him.

Sounds of amusement rose from the audience. Tell us about the changes Salar Sikandar will bring about as head boy. Changes are not talked about, they are demonstrated and I cannot do this before I become head boy. A few more questions were asked and answered and then the compere. A Sri Lankan boy stood up with a naughty smile.

If you answer this question of mine, then I and my entire group will vote for you. Salar smiled, Before I reply, Id like to know how many people there are in your group. Six, the boy replied. Salar nodded in assent and asked, Okay, whats your question?

You have to calculate and tell me that if is added to and then is subtracted from the total and is added to the sum, he read slowly from a paper, then the figure is multiplied by six and divided by two and is added to the final figure, what would be one-fourth of it?

The boy could barely complete his words when Salars response to this silly question came with lightning speed. The boy glanced at the paper in his hand and, shaking his head in disbelief, began clapping. Faizan Akbar at that point felt that he was merely an actor; the hall was filled with applauseFaizan saw this entire programme as nothing more that a joke. An hour later, coming down the stage ahead of Salar, Faizan knew that he had lost the competition to him even before it had begun.

He had never felt as envious of this IQ scorer as he did now. Imama Apa, when are you going to Lahore? She looked up from her notes with a start. Saad was slowly cycling around her. Why do you ask? She shut her file. When you go away, I miss you a lot, he said. Because I like you very much andyou get toys for me and you take me out for drives andyou play with me, he answered in detail. Cant you take me to Lahore with you? Imama was not sure whether this was a suggestion or a question.

How can I take you with me? I live in a hostel myself, so where will you live? He pondered this over as he cycled round. Then you should come more often.

Very well.

Ill come more often. She smiled at him.

You can talk to me on the phone. Ill call you. Yesthat sounds good. Saad liked this idea. He began to race his bicycle round the lawn. Imama looked at him absent-mindedly. Saad was not her brother: She did not know where he had come fromand was not concerned but she knew why he had been brought in. He was ten years old now and had settled in with the family.

He was closest to Imama. She often felt very sorry for him, not because he was an orphan, but it was his future that she felt sad about. Her paternal uncles had also adopted orphans and their future too was a cause for concern for Imama. Book in hand, she continued to look at Saad cycling the garden. Watching him, she was often troubled by such thoughts, but she had no answersthere was nothing that she could do for him.

All four of them were in Heera Mandi, the red-light district of Lahore. They were between eighteen and nineteen years of age and their appearance gave away their upper class background; but out here neither age nor social background meant anything, because young boys often frequented the area and the elite were among the most regular customers.

The boys made their way through the narrow lanes of the bazaar. Three of them were lost in conversation but the fourth looked around with interest and a sense of mystery. It seemed that this was his first venture into this domain, and a later exchange with his friends confirmed this.

On both sides of the lane, in open doorways, stood women of every age, shape, size and complexionfair and dark, beautiful and plainall heavily made up and dressed in a revealing way.

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And men of all ages also passed through the lane. The boy observed everything very carefully. How often have you been here? He addressed the boy to his right who laughed and repeated the words. How often? I dont remember nowI havent kept count! I come here quite often, he said proudly. I dont find these women very attractivenothing special about them, the boy shrugged his shoulders.

If one has to spend a night somewhere at least the environment should be pleasantthis is such a filthy place, he said looking distastefully at the potholes and the piles of garbage in the lane. Besides, whats the point of coming here when you have girlfriends? This place has its own charm and theres no comparison between these. Girlfriends cant dance like the women here, the other boy said with a laugh.

And today one of Pakistans top actresses is going to performjust wait till you see her. But you had taken me to see her dance, the first boy interrupted. Oh that was nothingjust a mujra at my brothers wedding. But here its a different story.

But that actress lives in a very posh locality; why would she want to come here? His tone was somewhat suspicious. Ask her yourself today, if you want. I dont ask such questions. The other boys laughed at this remark, but the first one looked at him askance. They finally reached their destination at the end of the lane. From a shop near the entrance, they bought garlands of motia which they wound round their wrists, and also on the wrist of the boy who was objecting to being there.

Then they bought paan laced with tobacco and also offered one to himhe had probably never had paan before. They went up the stairs. He looked around critically and a look of satisfaction crossed his face when he saw that the place was not only clean but well decorated too.

The floor was covered with white sheets and there were bolsters to recline on. Curtains fluttered softly on the doors and windows. Some people had already arrived but the performance had not yet started. A woman with a lovely but fake smile swiftly made her way to them. As she spoke to them, the first boy took in her appearance. She was middleaged, plastered with make-up and sported masses of rose and motia garlands in her hair. She was dressed in a screaming red chiffon sari and her blouse seemed to have been made not to cover but to reveal her body.

She led the boys to a corner of the room and seated them. As soon as he sat down, the first boy immediately spat the paan out into a spittoon nearby. It was hard for him to talk with his mouth full of paan; besides he did not quite like its feel or flavor. The other three boys were speaking in low tones. He looked around at the other men in the room who reclined against the cushions with wads of notes and bottles of alcohol in front of them.

Most of the older men were dressed in starched white clothes; it was the first time he had seen so many people dressed in white other than at Eid congregations. He himself was dressed casually in black jeans and a black T-shirt like his friends and the younger crowd. A little later, another woman in garish clothes entered the hall and, seating herself in the centre, began to sing a ghazal.

After a few songs, she collected the money that had been showered on her and left. Then the famous actress for whom they had all been waiting entered the hall and everyones eyes were riveted on her. She twirled around and welcomed her admirers with a gracious nod.

The musicians did not play this time and loud recordings of raucous songs filled the room. The performer began to dance. The silence that had preceded her performance was broken by applause as the men noisily appreciated her dancing and drinks went around. Some of the more intoxicated men got up and began to dance with her. The only one who sat still watching the performance was the first boy.

His face was impassive, but if one looked closely it was obvious that he was enjoying himself. When the actress came to the end of her dance about two hours later, most of the men in the hall had passed out. Going home was not a problem for them as they had not come with the intention of going back any time soonthey were there for the night. The four boys also spent the night there.

The next day, on their way back, one of the boys turned to the first one who was looking out of the car. So, how was the experience? All right, he replied casually. All right? Thats all? Honestly Annoyed, he broke off in midsentence. Its a good place to visit occasionally. What more can I say? But it did not have that something special touch about it.

My girlfriend is better than the woman I spent last night with, he retorted. Hashim Mubeens entire family was present at the dining table. They were chatting amiably as they ate. Imama was the subject of their conversation. Baba, have you noticed that Imama is becoming more serious with each passing day?

YesIve noticed this over the past few months, Hashim Mubeen replied, his eyes searching Imamas face. Imama stared at Waseem as she took a spoonful of rice.

Imama, is there a problem? Baba, he talks nonsense and you fall into his trap. Im serious and busy because of my studiesafter all, not everyone is as useless as Waseem, she said with some annoyance. He was sitting next to her and she. Baba, what will become of her when she qualifies as a doctor if this is what she is like in the early years of her studies, joked Waseem. Itll be years before Miss Imama Hashim smiles Everyone smiled around the table: It was seldom that Imama and Waseem did not argue with each other.

But Waseem was also Imamas best friend probably their being the siblings closest in age lay at the heart of their friendship. And just imagine that Imama but she did not let him finish this time. She turned around and landed a fist on his shoulder with all her might.

It made no difference to him. What else can we have at home but a doctor with a healing touch? Youve just seen a demonstration and you can guess how doctors treat their patients these days. One of the reasons for the rising death rate in our country Baba, please stop him!

Imama conceded defeat as she implored Hashim Mubeen. He suppressed a smile as he turned to his son who dutifully kept quiet. He emptied the entire contents of the paper bag into the grinder and turned it on.

The cook entered just then. Chote Saab, let me help you, he offered but was waved away. No, I can manage. But get me a glass of milk. He turned off the grinder. The cook got him the milk. To half a glass of milk he added the contents of the grinder, stirred briskly, and gulped it down.

Aab e Hayat by Umera Ahmed Complete NOVELSHOSE.com

What have you cooked today? A look of displeasure crossed his face. I wont have anything. Im going up to sleep; dont disturb me, he said harshly and left the kitchen. He looked unkempt with a stubble, and except for one or two buttons in place, his shirt front was open.

Dragging his slippers on the floor, he went into his room and locked the door behind him. Then he walked over to the huge music system and began to play Boltons When a man loves a woman at full volume.

He flung himself face down on the bed, remote in hand, and feet swinging to the music. Except for him and his bed, everything in his room was in order.

There was not a speck of dust anywhere. The audio-video cassettes were neatly. Another shelf was filled with books and the computer table in the corner reflected his organized nature.

Posters of Hollywood actresses and various bands adorned the walls, while the bathroom door and a few windowpanes were decorated with cut-outs of nudes from Playboy.

Anyone entering the room for the first time would be startled because the nude pinups in the windows were life-size and lifelike and placed in special order.

Along with the audio system, there was a keyboard, and a guitar, a piccolo and an oboe hung on the walls. It was obvious that the occupant of the room had great interest in music. In front of the bed was a television cabinet on the shelves of which were several shields and trophies. In another corner of the room cricket bats and racquets were artfully slung across posters of sports stars.

It looked as if a tennis racquet was in Gabriela Sabatinis hand, while the other was held by Rodney Martin, and the squash racquet was in Jehangir Khans hand. The double bed where he was lying on the crumpled silken sheets was a mess. A few pornographic magazines, mostly Playboy, lay scattered about with a paper-cutter and snippetsevidence that he had been cutting out pictures.

Chewing gum wrappers, an empty coffee mug, a packet of Dunhills and a lighter, an ashtray and scattered ash littered the white silk sheet that had holes burnt through. Somewhere there was a wristwatch and a tie, and a cell phone by the pillow where the young man lay face downward, perhaps half asleep as his hand mechanically but unsuccessfully searched the bed when the phone rang.

The beeping went unheard and the remote in his hand fell to the floor as his grip relaxed. Michael Boltons voice continued to fill the room with the lyrics of When a man loves a womanthe knocking on the door became persistent and louder, but he lay motionless on the bed.

Dont tell me!

Imama, are you really engaged? Zainab appeared jolted by Javerias disclosure. Imama cast an accusing glance at Javeria who looked at her shamefacedly. Dont look at herlook at me and tell me if its true that youre engaged, Zainab addressed Imama sharply. Yes, but it is not something extraordinary or amazing that you should react like this, Imama replied with composure. They were all sitting in the library and trying their best to talk in low tones. But at least you should have told us.

What was the big secret? Theres no secret and neither is it so important. Besides, we have become friendly only recently and the engagement took place years ago, explained Imama.

What do you mean by years ago? I mean two or three years ago. But still you should have told us Zainab persisted. Imama smiled at her. When I get engaged again, Ill definitely tell youwhether or not I tell anyone else. Very funny. Zainab glared at her. At least show us a photograph of him Who is he? Whats his name? What does he do? As usual, Rabias questions came pouring out in one breath. Hes my first cousinhis names Asjad, The words came slowly and Imama paused thoughtfully.

He has completed his MBA and runs his own business. What does he look like? Imama looked at her closely. Hes all right. Im asking you is he tall, dark, and handsome? Imama smiled at Zainab without a word. Javeria replied on her behalf. This is Imamas choice Yes, we should have knownafter all hes Imamas first cousin.

Now Imama, your next task is to show us his photograph, ordered Zainab. No, her first duty is to take us out for a treat, interjected Rabia. But now lets leave; I have to go to the hostel. Imama got up and they all left together. By the way, Javeria, why didnt you tell us about this earlier? Zainab asked her. Listen, Imama did not want itthats why I never brought it up, said Javeria. Imama turned around and gave Javeria a warning look.

Why wouldnt Imama want it? If I had been engaged and that too to a boy of my choice, then I would have screamed it out from the rooftops, Zainab declared loudly. Imama chose to ignore her. Your son is amongst those 2. With this level of intelligence, whatever he does may be extraordinary, but not unexpected. Salar had been at the International School for only a week when Sikandar Usman and his.

The school psychologist had informed them about Salars various IQ tests in which his performance and score had amazed his teachers and also the psychologist. He was the only child in the school with such a high IQ and very soon he became the focus of everyones attention. During his meeting with Mr and Mrs Usman, the psychologist got another opportunity to dig out more information about Salars childhood. He had been studying Salars case with much interest which was personal rather than professionalit was the first time he had come across such an IQ level.

Sikandar Usman remembered well that when Salar was just two years old, he was remarkably fluent in his speech, unlike other boys of his age, and very often he came up with things that left him and his wife wondering. One day he was speaking to his brother on the phone while watching TV, and Salar was playing nearby. Sikandar watched him as he happily chatted away.

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I am well. How are you? Sikandar thought he was play-acting. The next sentence made him sit up. Baba is right here, watching TV. No, he did not callI called you. Salar, who are you talking to? Uncle Shahnawaz, he replied. Sikandar took the phone from him.

He thought Salar may have dialed at random or else pressed the redial button. Salar has dialed the number, Im sorry, he apologized to his brother. How could he do that? Isnt he too young? His brother was surprised. He probably pressed the redial button accidentally. Sikandar switched off the phone and put it back in place. Salar, who was quietly listening to this conversation, went and picked up the phone againSikandar looked at him as he expertly dialed Shahnawazs number, just as an adult would.

He was shockedhe did not expect a two-year-old to do this, He reached out to disconnect the call. Salar, do you know Shahnawazs number? Yes, came the calm reply. What is it? Salar rattled it off. Sikandar stared at himhe did not think Salar knew how to count, let alone remember a string of digits. Who taught you this number?

I learnt it myself. You just dialed it.

Salar looked at him. Do you know how to count? How far can you count? Till a hundred. Show me how. Like a machine, Salar counted from one to one hundred, in one breath. Sikandar could feel knots in his stomach. I am going to dial a number now, and when I disconnect you call the same number, he said.

Salar was enjoying this game. Sikandar dialed a number then switched off the phone. Salar immediately took the receiver and dialed the same number as confidently as his father had. Sikandars head was spinning. Salar could remember any numbers that he dialed, and could then dial them accurately. He had a photographic memory. Sikandar called his wife. I havent taught him numbers, she said.

Yesterday I just said out the numbers one to hundred. But I did get him some books a few days ago. Sikandar asked Salar to count to a hundredthis he did while his mother watched in amazement.

Convinced that the child was far ahead in intelligence for his age, they enrolled him in school much earlier than they had his siblings. He excelled in school. This child needs your special attention, because compared to children of average intelligence, such children have a more sensitive and complicated nature.

If he has a good upbringing, he will be an asset to your familyindeed to the country. Sikandar Usman and his wife listened with pride to the psychologist who was a foreigner. They began to give Salar preferential treatment at home: At school, he was promoted to the next class after just one term, and then again at the end of the term he was promoted yet again.

Sikandar was perturbedhe did not want Salar to be sitting for his O levels and A levels at the age of eight and ten.

Considering the speed of his progress, this seemed quite likely. I would like you to let my son spend a full year in class before he is promoted to the next level. I do not want him to race through his academic career in school at this abnormal speed. You can increase his subjects and activities, but let him progress normally towards. So, Salar was not moved up mid-term; his talents and energy were channeled into sports and other extra-curricular activities. Chess, tennis, golf and music interested him the most, and he took an active part in whatever happened in schoolif he did not participate in something it was only because he did not find it challenging enough.

Javeria, give me Professor Imtinans notes, will you? Imama asked Javeria who was studying. Javeria handed her a notebook which she began to leaf through it. Javeria continued with her reading, but suddenly turned to Imama, as if she had remembered something. Why have you stopped taking notes during lectures? Imama looked up. I would if I could understand them. You dont understand Prof.

Imtinans lectures? Javeria was surprised. Hes such a good teacher. Did I say he wasnt? Its just that Imama trailed off, distracted. She turned back to the notebook. Javeria looked at her closely. She got so many fans because of this novel "Peer-e-Kamil".

This novel is one of her most popular novels. She has started her career in She is a famous Urdu novelist from Sialkot, Pakistan. She has also written many Dramas for television channels too. You can free download and read online Peer e Kamil Novel from the blinking buttons below the sample pages.

Please scroll down to download.Furious, Moiz looked towards the staircase where his brother had been standing just a while ago. Javeria was confused. It really portraits the reality of life. Notell me now. D unconfirmed. Now, why should I be at a loss for words?

At all her husbands postings, she had taken up teaching assignments in the schools attached to the embassy. All the same go in and study. Only for golf and you know the reason very well.

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