Peer e Kamil novel PDf download is a very valuable and amazing Urdu Novel Pir -e-Kamil pdf read online download complete novel peer e Kamil pdf. Read the life-transforming best-selling Urdu book "Peer e Kamil" by famous writer Umera Ahmed. App Features: Smooth User Interface (UX) -FullScreen. Peer e Kamil is the name of a very popular Urdu Novel by Umaira Ahmad. It was published in the last decade. Its second part is also about to go public.
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Pir-e-Kamil – By Umaira Ahmad PDF Download. Urdu StoriesGreat NovelsUrdu NovelsFree ReadingReading OnlinePakistanPdf. More information. Saved by. Peer e Kamil Novel by Umera Ahmed Download Pdf. Peer-E-Kamil (PBUH) by Umera Ahmad English PDF - Ebook download as PDF File .pdf), Text File .txt) or read book online. In this book there is a story of a girl.
But his brother stopped him, grabbing his bag with all his strength. Notell me now. He flung Moizs bag down. Flushed with anger, Moiz picked up his brothers bag and hurled it away. Without a pause, his brother landed a sharp blow on Moizs leg.
Moiz lunged at him, punching his face, and his nose began to bleed. Despite that, there was no sound from the younger boy. He grabbed Moizs tie and tried to choke him. Moiz retaliated by grabbing his collarthere was a tearing sound as the shirt ripped.
With all his force, Moiz hit his brother on his midriff so as to make him lose his grip on him. Now I'll show you! Ill break your hand! Shouting and abusing, Moiz picked up the tennis racquet that was lying in corner of the lounge. The next thing he knew was that the racquet was in his brothers hand and was swung with such force that Moiz could not save himself. Blows rained down on him, on his back and legs. Their older brother came into the lounge in a fit of rage.
What is your problem? You create an upheaval as soon as you get home! At the sound of his voice, the younger brother first lowered and then raised the racquet again. And youarent you ashamed of yourself for raising your hand at your older brother? The eldest brother looked at the hand holding the racquet.
No, he retorted without any remorse. He threw the racquet down, picked up his bag and walked away. You will have to pay for this, Moiz called out after him, rubbing his sore leg. Sure, why not! He gave Moiz a weird smile. Get a bat the next time.
It was no fun hitting you with a tennis racquetno bones are broken. Check out your noseits broken for sure. Furious, Moiz looked towards the staircase where his brother had been standing just a while ago. For the fourth time, Mrs.
Samantha Richards stared at the boy sitting on the first chair in the second row by the window. With complete disregard for the class, he was busy staring out of the window. From time to time he would look at Mrs. Richards, and then turn back to the view from the window. This was her first day as biology teacher at one of the international schools in Islamabad. She was a diplomats wife and a teacher by. They had recently arrived in Islamabad.
At all her husbands postings, she had taken up teaching assignments in the schools attached to the embassy. Continuing the syllabus and teaching schedule of her predecessor Ms.
Mariam, after a brief introduction to the class Mrs Richards began explaining the function of the heart and the circulation system and drew a diagram on the board. She looked at the student who was looking distractedly out of the window and, using a time-worn technique, she fixed her gaze on him and stopped speaking. A hush fell over the class.
The boy turned back to the class. Meeting his gaze, Mrs. Richards smiled and resumed her lecture. For a while she continued to keep her gaze on the boy who was now busy writing in his notebook. Then she turned her attention to the class. She believed the boy was embarrassed enough not to let his attention wander, but just a couple of minutes later she found him looking out of the window again.
Once more, she stopped her lecture, and he turned to look at her. This time she did not smile. She continued addressing the class. As she turned to the writing board, the student again turned to the window. A look of annoyance crossed her face and as she fell silent again, the boy looked at her with a frown, and looked awaybeyond the window.
His attitude was so insulting that Mrs. Samantha Richardss face flushed. Salar, what are you looking at? Nothing, came the one word reply. He gave her a piercing look. Do you know what I am teaching? Hope so. His tone was so rude that Samantha Richards capped the marker she had in her hand and slapped it down on the table. If that is so, then come up here and draw and label this diagram. She erased the figure on the board. The boys face changed a myriad colors.
She saw the students in the class exchange glances. The boy stared coldly at Samantha Richards. As she cleaned the last trace of her diagram from the board, he left his seat. Moving swiftly, he picked up the marker from the table and with lightning speedin exactly two minutes and fifty-seven secondshe had drawn and labeled the diagram.
Replacing the cap on the marker, he slapped it down on the table just as Mrs. Richards had done, and, without looking at her, returned to his seat. Richards did not see him tossing down the marker or walking back to his seat.
She was looking in disbelief at the diagramwhich had. It was far better than her work: Somewhat embarrassed, she turned to look at the boy. Once again he was looking out of the window. Waseem knocked on the door for the third time; this time he could hear Imama inside. Who is it? Imama its me. Open the door, said Waseem standing back. There was silence on the other side. A little later, the lock clicked and Waseem turned the door knob to enter. Imama moved towards her bed, with her back to Waseem.
What brings you here at this time? Why did you turn in so early? Its only ten now, replied Waseem as he walked in. I was sleepy. She sat down on the bed. Waseem was alarmed to see her. Have you been crying? It was a spontaneous remark. Imamas eyes were red and swollen and she was trying to look away. Nono, I wasnt crying. Just a bad headache. She tried to smile. Waseem, sitting down beside her, held her hand, trying to check her temperature. Any fever? Then he let go of her hand.
You dont have fever. Perhaps you should take a tablet for your headache. I have. Go to sleep then. I had come to talk to you but youre in no state Waseem turned to leave the room. Imama made no effort to stop him. She followed him to the door and shut it behind him.
Flinging herself on the bed, she buried her face in the pillowshe was sobbing again. The thirteen-year-old boy was engrossed in a music show on TV when Tyyaba peeped in. She looked at her son somewhat uncertainly, and entered the room, irritated. Whats going on? Im watching TV, he replied without looking at her. Watching TV.
For Gods sake! Are you aware that your exams have started? Tyyaba asked, standing in front of him. So what? You should be in your room with your books, not sitting here watching this vulgar show, Tyyaba scolded him.
I have studied as much as I need to. Now please move out of my way. His tone reflected his irritation. All the same go in and study. Tyyaba stood her ground. I will not get up, nor will I go in and study.
My studies and my papers are my concern, not yours. If you were concerned about your studies, would you be sitting here? Step aside. He ignored Tyyabas comment and rudely shooed her away. Im going to talk to your father today. Tyyaba tried a threat.
You can talk to him for all I care. What will happen? What is he going to do? Ive told you that Ive already prepared for my exams, so then whats your problem? This is your final examination. You should be concerned about it. Tyyaba softened her tone. I am not a four-year-old who you need to nag.
I have a better understanding of my responsibilities than you so dont pester me with your silly advice. Your exams are on. Pay attention to your studies. You should be in your room. I will have a word with your father! What rubbish! Standing up, he flung the remote control at the wall and stomping his feet, left the room.
Tyyaba, helpless and humiliated, watched him go. It was New Years Eve: A group of ten or so teenagers were roaring around the city streets on their motorbikes, doing all kinds of stunts. Some of them wore shiny headbands to celebrate the coming year.
An hour ago they were in one of the uptown supermarkets, teasing girls with whistles. They had firecrackers too which they let off to celebrate. At a quarter to twelve they reached the parking lot of the Gymkhana Club where a New Years party was in full swing.
The boys also had invitations to the party and their parents were already there. When they got in, it was five to midnight. In a few moments, the lights in the hall and the dance floor would be switched off and then with a display of fireworks on the lawns, the New Year would be heralded in. The partying would be on all nightdancing, drinkingall the festivities especially organized for the occasion by the Gymkhana.
Lights off meant a display of complete abandonthat was what the crowds came for. One of the teenagers who had joined the party was on the dance floor, rocking to the beat and impressing all with his performance.
At ten seconds to twelve the lights went off. Voices and laughter filled the hall as people counted the seconds to the New Year, and this rose to a pitch as the clock struck midnight and the hall lit up again. The teenagers were now out in the parking lot, their car horns blaring away.
Beer can in hand, the youth who was on the dance floor got on the roof of a car. He pulled out another beer can from his jacket and pitched it at the windscreen of a parked car, which shattered with an explosion as the full can hit it.
He stood on the car, calmly drinking from the can of beer in his hand. For the last half hour Salar had been watching Kamran trying to master the video game: Salar was also in the lounge, busy writing notes. From time to time, he would look at the TV screen as Kamran struggled to win more points. Half an hour later, Salar put his notebook away, stifled a yawn, stretched his legs out on the table and crossing his hands behind his head, looked at the TV screen as Kamran started a new game, having lost the previous round.
Whats the problem, Kamran? NothingI got this new game but it is really tough to score, Kamran said in a tired tone. Let me see. Salar got up from the sofa and took the remote control.
Kamran watched silently: The track that had challenged Kamran was like childs play for Salarit was hard for Kamran to keep his eyes on the car that was racing at a fantastic speed in the first minute, and yet Salar had complete control over it. Three minutes later, Kamran saw the car swerve, go off the track and explode into smithereens.
Kamran turned to Salar with a smilehe realized why the car had been destroyed: Laying the remote control down on the table Salar picked up his notebook. Its a very boring game, he remarked as he jumped over Kamrans legs and went out. Kamran clenched his teeth as he saw the seven digit score on the screen. He looked at the door as Salar left. They were both quiet once again. Asjad was beginning to worry: Imama had not always been as withdrawn as she was now.
One could have counted the words she had spoken in the last half hour. He had known her since childhood; she was a lively girl. In the first year after their engagement, Asjad had felt happy in her companyshe was so quickwitted and vivacious. But in the last few years, she had changed, the transformation having become more pronounced since she started medical school.
Asjad felt that she had something on her mind. At times, she would appear to be worried and sometimes she was distinctly cold and distant as though she wanted to end their meeting and leave as soon as possible. This time too he had the same feeling. I often think that it is I who insists on our meetingperhaps it makes little difference to you whether we meet or not, he said despondently. She was sitting on a garden chair across from him, looking at the creepers on the boundary wall.
At Asjads remark, she fixed her gaze on him. He cast an inquiring glance, but she was silent, so he rephrased his words. My coming here makes no difference to you. Imamaam I right? What can I say?
At least you can say No, youre mistaken, that No, youre mistaken, Imama cut him short. Her tone was as cold and her expression as indifferent as before. Asjad sighed in despair. Yes, I wish and pray that it may be so, that I may indeed be mistaken. However, talking to you I feel you do not care. What makes you think so? Asjad detected a note of annoyance in her tone. Many thingsfor one you never respond properly to anything I say.
I do make every effort to reply properly to whatever you say. What can I do if you do not like what I have to say? Asjad felt that she was more annoyed. I did not mean that I did not like what you say: Sometimes, I feel as if Im talking to myself. When you ask me if I am well, I say yes or nowhat else can I say? If you want to hear a spiel in response to a simple question then tell me what you would like to hear and Ill say it. She was serious.
You could add something to that yes or no. If nothing else, ask me how I am. Ask you how are you are? You are sitting here across me, talking to. Otherwise, youd be at home, in bed, sick. Imama, these are formalities And you know very well that I do not believe in formalities. Theres no need for you to ask me how I am; I will not mind it at all. Asjad was speechless. Formalities aside, one can talk of other things, discuss something. Talk to each other about what interests us, what keeps us busy.
Asjad, what can I discuss with you? Youre a businessman, I am a medical student, What should I ask you? About the stock market position? Was the trend bullish or bearish? By how many points did the index rise?
Or where you are sending the next consignment? How much rebate did the government give you this time?
Or shall I discuss anatomy with you? What affects the function of the liver? What new techniques have been used for bypass surgery this year? What should be the voltage of electric shocks given to restore a failing heart? These are our spheres of work, so what points of discussion can we have about these that will help us to achieve love and familiarity? I fail to understand. The color of Asjads face deepened. He was cursing the moment that he had complained to Imama.
There are other interests too in a persons life, he said weakly. No, besides my studies theres no other interest in my life, Imama said decisively, shaking her head for emphasis.
After all, we shared interests earlier on. Forget about what happened earlier, Imama interjected. I cannot afford to waste time now. What surprises me is that despite being a businessman you are so immature and emotional; you should be more practical. Asjad was silent. We know our relationship. If you think my practical approach to our relationship shows a lack of interest or indifference then I cannot do much about it.
That I am here with you means that I value this relationship, otherwise I would not be sitting here having tea with a stranger. She paused a moment, then continued, And whether you coming here or not makes any difference to me, the answer is that we are both very busy people. We are the products of a modern age.
I am no Heer who waits upon you with delicacies while you play the flute, nor are you Ranjha who will indulge me for hours. The truth is that it really makes no difference whether or not we meet or talk.
Our relationship,. Or do you feel it will change? If Asjads brow did not sweat, it was simply because it was the month of December. There was a difference of eight years in their ages, but for the first time Asjad felt it was not eight but eighteenand she was the older one. Just two weeks ago, she had turned nineteen, but to him it seemed as if she had raced overnight from teenage to middle age and he had regressed to his pre-teens!
She sat across him, legs crossed and eyes fixed on his face, impassively waiting for his response. Asjad looked at the engagement ring on her finger and cleared his throat.
Youre rightI just thought we should chat more because it would help develop some understanding between us. Asjad, I know and understand you very well. I am disappointed to learn that you think we still need to develop an understanding between us. I thought there already was a good deal of understanding. Asjad had to accept that it wasnt his day. And if you think that talking about business and anatomy will improve the situation, then very wellwell do that in the future.
There was an element of disinterest in Imamas tone. Youre not happy with what I said? Why should I be unhappy? This embarrassed him further. Perhaps I said the wrong thingnot perhaps, but certainly I said the wrong thing. He repeated the last phrase with emphasis. You know how important this relationship is for me. I have many dreams for the future He took a deep breath. She continued to stare, expressionless, at the creeper along the wall.
Perhaps that is why I am so sensitive about it. I have no fears about us. This engagement took place with our consent. His gaze was fixed on her and he spoke with emotion, but suddenly, he felt once more that she was not there, that he was talking to himself. The music from the annex behind the huge bungalow could be heard on the lawn in front of the house.
Anyone would have been amazed at the level of endurance of those inside. But one look inside, and one would know the reason behind this level of endurance. The room was full of swirling smoke and a strange smell. Empty cartons of food from a popular restaurant, disposable plates and spoons, bottles of soft drinks, and scraps of leftovers were strewn all over the carpet which was stained by ketchup.
The seven boys in the room were. This was not allthey had been entertaining themselves with drugs too. This was the third time in the last two months that the boys had gathered here for an adventure of this kind. So far they had experimented with four different drugs. The first time it was a drug that one of them had found in his fathers closet. The next time it was a drug which a schoolmate had bought from a club in Islamabad.
Then it was something acquired from an Afghan in a Rawalpindi market. Every time they had combined drugs with alcohol, procuring which was no problem. Each time this happened six of the seven boys ended up completely stoned. Even now it was only the seventh boy who was in his senses. His face was covered with acne, and he was dressed in a dark blue shirt with its collar turned up Elvis Presley style, and hideous grey jeans which had Madonnas face adorning each knee.
He opened his eyes to glance at the others around him. His eyes were red but not because he was in a stupor like them. A little later he straightened up and shaking the remaining drug from the little container out into a cone, he pulled out a straw and began sniffing it.
Then he threw away the straw and taking some of the drug on a fingertip, tasted it very cautiously. Almost instantly, he spat it out. The stuff was of excellent quality, but his expression showed that he had not enjoyed the experience. He swallowed some beer as if to clear the taste of the drug from his mouth. The other boys lay around on the carpet, totally intoxicated and unaware of themselves: His eyes, though swollen, were bright enough.
The drug had not knocked him out fully. This had happened the last three times too. Though his friends had been knocked senseless after taking drugs, the effect on him was not so pronounced. The first two times he had left them in their stupor and had driven home, late in the night. This time too he wanted to get away: He stumbled as he tried to stand up. He straightened up and picking his key and wallet off the floor, he turned off the stereo.
He looked around the room as if trying to remember something. Then he turned towards the door and sitting down again, put on his joggers, tying their laces around his ankles.
Finally, unlocking the door, he went out into the dark corridor. Groping his way, he went past the main door out onto the lawn. As he was coming down the stairs, he felt his nose was running and when he touched his upper lip, he felt a sticky liquid on his hands.
He switched on the light in the entrance and saw blood on his fingertips. There was a strange sharp sensation in his throat which he tried to clear, but he felt he was suffocating. He took a few deep breaths to ease the constriction and spat two or three times. Suddenly he felt a tingling in his nose. He doubled over as blood began gushing out of his nose pouring down the marble stairs like a stream. The prize distribution ceremony was underway at the Golf Club.
Salar Sikandar was to receive the first prize in the Under-Sixteen competition for his seven under par score. Applauding when Salars name was called out, Sikandar Usman thought he would have to do something about the cabinet where the trophies were displayed. The trophies and shields Salar would bring home this year would be as many as he had in the past year. All of Sikandars children excelled in their studies, but Salar was different from the rest.
In winning awards, he was far ahead of them. It was not just difficult to beat this boy who had an IQ score of , it was impossible. Clapping proudly, Sikandar turned to his wife and whispered, This is Salars thirteenth trophy and the fourth one this year.
You keep a record of everything, dont you? Only for golf and you know the reason very well. I bet that even if Salar had been playing this tournament with professional players, he would have still won the trophy, he claimed proudly.
Salar was shaking hands with the other winners seated around him. Sikandars wife was not surprised by his claim about Salar.
She knew that it was not an expression of paternal sentiment: She recalled when he had played 18 holes at this golf course with her brother Zubair for the first time. The way he had brought a ball that had accidentally fallen into the rough, out onto the green, was a display of expertise.
Zubair was amazed. I cant believe it! He had repeated this statement endlessly till the end of the game. If the shot from the rough had amazed Zubair, then Salars putters had floored him. As the ball rolled towards the hole, he leaned against his club and turned around to gauge the distance between Salar and his target. Shaking his head in disbelief, he looked at Salar. Salar Sahib is not playing well today, muttered the caddie standing by the golf cart behind Zubair, who turned around in surprise.
So hes not playing well? He looked at the caddie. Was this a joke? Yes, sir, otherwise the ball would not have gone into the rough, the caddie said. You have played here today for the first time, but Salar Sahib has been playing here for the last three years.
Thats why I say hes not playing well, he added. Zubair looked at his sister who was smiling benignly. Next time, I will be fully prepared when I come here, and I will also select the site for the game. Zubair was somewhat miffed as they walked across towards Salar. Any time, any place, she confidently challenged her brother on her sons behalf. I want to invite you to Karachi this weekend, with all expenses paid, Zubair said casually as he approached Salar. To play on my behalf against the president of the Karachi Chamber of Commerce.
I lost the election to him, but if he loses a golf match, and that too to a child, hell have a heart attack. So lets settle the score. Salars mother laughed at her brothers words, but a frown creased Salars brow. He repeated with emphasis the only objectionable word in Zubairs comment.
Uncle, I think Ill have to play another 18 holes against you tomorrow. Asjad opened the door and entered his mothers room. Ami, I need to discuss something important with you. Yeswhat is it? Asjad sat down on the sofa. Have you been to Hashim Uncles lately? Nois there anything special? Imama is over for this weekend. Very well, well go this evening. Have you been there?
Shakeela smiled at him. How is she? Shes come home after a long time, Shakeela remarked. Yes, after two months. Shakeela sensed Asjad was upset. Is there a problem?
Ami, I find Imama a little changed, Asjad said with a sigh. What do you mean? I cannot explain what I mean. Its just that her attitude towards me is rather strange. Asjad shrugged his shoulders. Today she took offence to something quite minor. Shes not the way she was before. I am not able to figure out the reason for this change.
Its your imagination, Asjad. Why would her attitude change? You are thinking too emotionally. No, Ami. Initially, I thought I was being oversensitive, but after today I dont think I am imagining things. She treats me in a very offhand manner. What do you think is the reason for this change in her attitude? I have no idea Did you ask her?
Not just once, but several times. Like you, she always says that I am mistaken. He shrugged again. Sometimes, she says its because of her studies, sometimes, she says it is because she has matured now Its not so far-fetched; perhaps, that is the reason, Shakeela replied pensively. Ami, its not a question of her becoming serious! I think shes moving away from me, said Asjad. Youre being silly, Asjad. I dont believe theres any such issue. You have both known each other since childhood.
You know your temperaments. Shakeela felt her sons fears were meaningless. Obviously, changes do take place as the years pass: Stop worrying over trivialities, she tried to reason with her son. In any case, Hashim Bhai wants the two of you to get married next year. Imama can continue and complete her education afterwards.
He wants to fulfill his responsibility, Shakeela revealed. When did he say this? Shakeela was taken by surprise. Many times. In fact, I think they may have started the preparations. Asjad breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe that is why Imama is agitated. Yes, possibly. The wedding should take place next year, Asjad replied with some satisfaction. He was dressed in sports shorts and a baggy shirt, and had on cotton socks and joggers. He was in the middle of a crowded road, on a heavy duty motorcycle which he was racing recklessly without any consideration for traffic lights or oncoming traffic.
Zigzagging his bike through the traffic, he periodically lifted both his feet off the pedals performing wheelies. Then, without breaking speed, he turned and changed lanes going the wrong way through the oncoming traffic. Suddenly he braked with a sharp screech.
He raised his hands from the handlebars and the motorcycle slammed full speed into an approaching car. He was flung into the air and thrown down. He had no idea of what had happenedhis mind plunged into a dark abyss. The boys stood behind the rostrums on the stage, facing each other. They were both canvassing for the post of head boy and this was part of the election programme. One rostrum had a poster saying Vote for Salar pasted on it, while the other had a poster of the other contender, Faizan.
At this point, Faizan was telling his audience what he would do for them if elected. Salar watched him intently. Faizan was the best orator in the school and was impressing the boys with his performance in a clipped British accent which was so popular. The excellent sound system carried his voice very clearly and there was pin-drop silence in the hall which was sporadically broken by the thunderous applause of his supporters.
When Faizan finished half an hour later, the clapping and whistling carried on for several minutes. Salar Sikandar also joined the applause. Faizan looked around triumphantly, and seeing Salar clapping, he nodded in appreciation.
As Faizan knew well, Salar was not an easy opponent, The compere called Salar to begin his speech.
To a roar of applause Salar began. Good morning friends He paused, and then continued. 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. The moment you disappear into shadows, people forget about you. The only thing matters is how good you are as a person, as a human being. How compassionate you are towards those others.
How you can inspire and positively change lives of others. How you can show them the right path. How you can be the light guiding them when they are blinded by the negativity and arrogance. I would recommend every Urdu reader to read this book.
Being one of the most popular Urdu novels to be ever written, Peer-e-Kamil is a journey from a bad extreme to a good extreme. And it is justified. Yes, it gets somewhat unbelievable to ponder over the changes in Salaar, the protagonist, but we know all the reasons. That's the beauty of it all. Set against the backdrops of Islamabad, America, Paris and Lahore; Peer-e-Kamil tells the story of a boy blinded by his own misgivings about life.
It is his journey into a man who is a complete opposite of the boy he was. At first, the subtly persuasive personality of Umaima irritates and amuses Salaar.
But as the time goes on, he cannot understand his obsession with her. All he did was spend a few hours with Umaima, but those few hours and the words that were exchanged between them, haunts him. They come into his mind when he least expects them to, making him question his way of living life.
Ultimately, his thoughts force Salaar headfirst into depression and he finds nothing worth living for. He tries to pray, but fails miserably. Being an extraordinary student, he has always been so far gone heady into the feeling of superiority that he is ever unable to decipher the meaning of 'Siratum Mustaqeem' or the right path. He doesn't know what the right path constitues and why it is for humans led astray.
And of all the people he has ever met in life, he loathes the one who claims to be religious. Those people are the worst because to him they just exaggerate everything about themselves to the hilt. Time goes on and Salaar finds himself changing.