Of Smokeless Fire A.A. Jafri (books to read to improve english TXT) 📖

and he was disgusted with Joseph’s horrid taste. He turned on the radio and tuned into a station which was playing something that people could slow-dance to—Peaches and Cream’s ‘Reunited’. Mansoor held Lisa in his arms and began to dance. Everyone followed suit. Someone dimmed the lights, providing a perfect romantic atmosphere, but no sooner had that happened than the doorbell rang again. Mansoor saw Joseph going to get the door with a Heineken in his hand. When he opened the door, he saw Zakir Hassan and Sher Khan, dressed in their traditional shalwar-kameez, standing outside. Not knowing what to say or do, Joseph invited them to come in. But Zakir looked at the bottle in his hand, then at the scene within the apartment and turned livid. With his swelled-up carotid artery and his dilated nostrils, he erupted.

‘I thought you had invited me to come and bless your restaurant! I thought you had converted to Islam! Shame on you for wasting my time. Curse be on you and your djinn friend Mansoor ul Haq.’ And with that, he stormed away, Sher Khan following him.

‘Fuck you too!’ Joseph shouted. He saw Zakir turning back in anger, but Sher Khan whisked him away, perhaps realizing that getting into a brawl with Joseph would be the last thing they should do. Mansoor saw and heard everything, and when Joseph closed the door, he went up to him and asked, ‘Do you think he will be there to inaugurate your restaurant tomorrow?’

‘I sure hope so!’ Joseph laughed. ‘But if he’s not there, you can substitute for him!’

And in the deepest recess of his mind, Mansoor heard the reverberating voice of Haider Rizvi chant:

Twelfth man . . . on the pitch . . . in he comes to serve;

Zero talent . . . zero knack, has a lot of . . . nerve

He then heard Zakir calling him: ‘Mansoor ul Haq, the djinn! Mansoor ul Haq, the djinn!’

Mansoor wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol muddling his brain or if he was hallucinating.

*

As the clock struck twelve, Joseph welcomed the new year, ululating. Arriving in the guise of drunken revelry, it heralded the end of his centuries-old untouchability. It broke the economic barriers, the social impediments and the psychological blockades of time immemorial. He knew that his progeny would never ever have to suffer the same contempt; his descendants would never again experience the humiliation of a hereditary bhangi-hood. His quotidian existence was finally over, his mangled life was now straight. He had finally matriculated. Exuberant, he first hugged and kissed Mansoor, then Lisa and finally Cheryl. Then, calling all the revellers to attention, in a booming, emotional and intoxicated voice, he declared, ‘My friends, I want to introduce to you my brother for life, Mansoor ul Haq. He and his late father, Noor ul Haq, the big barrister sahib, they gave me and my family sustenance when death took away my father. He and his late father gave me and my family a roof when floods swallowed our home. He and his late father gave me hope with their money when others shoved insults at me. And most of all, my brother Mansoor, I call him Mansoor Babu, he gave me the best gift of all—a lifelong friendship.’

With tears freely flowing down his cheeks, Joseph hugged his childhood friend again and again, shaking his hand. Despite the stoned atmosphere, Joseph’s speech had touched many a heart. Mansoor, who had been unaware of the deep respect and loyalty that Joseph felt for his father, was overwhelmed by emotions too. Putting his arms around Lisa and Mansoor, an extremely drunk and emotional Joseph said to Lisa, ‘Marry this man, because he will make you happy for life, just like he made me happy.’

Both Lisa and Mansoor were embarrassed at being put on the spot. But Mansoor had already been entertaining the thought of marrying Lisa, although he knew it would be impossible to convince his mother to bless their union. Mansoor remembered the awkward conversation that he had had with his father just before he left for America. Noor had told him that his mother would be deeply hurt if he married a white woman. Or was it an American woman? But then Lisa was half African American. He was sure her race would make it even more difficult for his mother to accept her. It did not matter that Aunt Sarwat was probably darker than Lisa. The word ‘African’ was all his mother would care about.

*

Around three in the morning all the guests left, and Joseph went to bed shortly afterwards, but Mansoor and Lisa stayed awake in the living room until the early hours of the morning. Snuggled on the sofa together, Lisa at last revved up enough courage to ask Mansoor what had been percolating in her mind for a long time.

‘Mansoor, I have to know where I stand . . .’ she said.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked. Although Mansoor was starting to feel the beginning of a massive hangover from all the mixed drinks he had guzzled, he knew very well what Lisa meant.

‘I mean, where do I fit in your life? Where is our relationship going?’

‘Do you have to know about it now?’

‘Yes, because we never talk about these things. And I have to know so I can plan my life. I will finish my degree next May and I have to make some decisions.’

‘Can’t it wait till we are back home?’

‘No, it can’t. What you can tell me in four days, you can tell me now.’ Lisa was determined to get some answers.

With shakiness of purpose, Mansoor said, ‘I want to marry you, Lisa, but my life is too messed up at this stage for me to give you any certainties . . .’

Lisa didn’t say anything. Mansoor had made love to her many times, but much to her dismay, he had never actually told her that he loved her. The social conditioning of his mind prevented him