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

husband like everyone else? Why couldn’t they have a normal conversation without blaming the government, without uttering blasphemies? Why couldn’t they do normal family things?

She looked at her watch again. Where was Noor? Probably at the Sindh Club, binging on imported liquor either with his Parsi clients or his good-for-nothing Shaitan friends. He never disclosed his plans to Farhat, and it was generally understood that if he did not come back home by eight at night, he could be found hanging out at the Sindh Club. Both Mansoor and Farhat dreaded those nights when he came home drunk, unable to walk without someone supporting him, mumbling incoherent sentences. But that night, Mansoor’s mind was not on his father’s whereabouts. Instead, it was the picture of that immolated lizard, the burnt smell afterwards, Joseph and Mehrun’s victory song, and Mehrun calling him a djinn, that kept playing in his mind. As he slowly chewed on the chicken tikka, he asked his mother, ‘Amma, what are djinns made of?’

His mother, still worried about her husband, snapped, ‘Why for Allah’s sake are you thinking about djinns at this godforsaken hour, and who told you about them? It was that churail Mehrun, wasn’t it?’

‘No, it wasn’t Mehrun. I heard about them at school,’ Mansoor lied.

‘How many times have I told you to not play with those two?’

‘You shouldn’t talk about djinn mamoo, especially at night,’ Sarwat interjected.

‘Mamoo? Why did you call a djinn your mamoo? Djinns are not our uncles, are they?’ Mansoor asked.

‘No, silly. We call djinns our uncles out of respect, so that they don’t harm us. Not all djinns are evil, son. Muslim djinns are good, but the kafir djinns who still haven’t converted to Islam, they are evil.’

‘But why can’t we see them?’

‘Because they are invisible, and that is why you can’t even see their smoke!’

‘But why are they invisible?’

‘Okay, that’s enough about djinns!’ Sarwat became irritated. ‘And one more thing, Khaleel told me that you call him names and take his money.’

‘No, I don’t. He—’

‘Why would he take Khaleel’s money? He is not poor,’ Farhat interrupted, coming to her son’s rescue.

That only poor people steal was something Mansoor was not going to think about at that moment. His mind was still on the mysteries surrounding djinns, their make-up, their invisibility.

After a long, distended pause, Farhat said, ‘I don’t know when he will return tonight.’ Lowering her head, she gently massaged her temples to relieve the tension headache that was building up.

‘Maybe he is still at work?’ The elder sister tried to calm her fear.

Sarwat herself was no stranger to fear, having been physically abused by her husband repeatedly.

‘Farhat, you are fortunate. At least he doesn’t beat you up.’

But lately, the beatings had actually stopped. It was not that Nawab Khan had suddenly realized his errors and was making amends. It was just that he had found a new fascination. As Karachi’s brothels began to be raided with increasing frequency, all on the orders of the newly installed military government, he switched to raising pigeons. They became his latest obsession. His days were now spent visiting his elaborate pigeon coop on the rooftop of his flat and flying them in flocks while he controlled their flight with high-pitched whistles and calls. His evenings were devoted to meeting with people who bred pigeons, and his nights to planning how to make a fortune selling them.

Nawab Khan had frittered away his modest inheritance, buying land and shops in the commercial area, only to eventually lose them to gambling and whoring. Now with no property or shops to his name, and with little money left, he often forced Sarwat to borrow from Farhat. Sarwat was a good seamstress and she made decent money from sewing children’s clothes; that, however, was not enough to feed her five recalcitrant children and a demanding husband.

‘It seems to me that your husband’s you-know-what has increased,’ Sarwat said, avoiding the word ‘drinking’.

‘I have tried to stop him, but what can I do? He . . .’

Realizing that Mansoor was listening, Farhat stopped and quickly changed the subject to their brother, Zahid; but Mansoor was no fool. He knew they had been talking about his father’s drinking habit. He had heard Farhat’s wailing supplications to Allah to bring Noor to the righteous path. He was aware of her frequent calls to his father’s office to find out where he was, and he was familiar with her face that could not hide the shame when people inquired about him.

Dinner ended without Noor showing up. Sarwat went home, and Farhat took Mansoor to her bedroom. She felt guilty for snapping at him at the dinner table.

‘Amma, why do you forbid me from playing with Mehrun and Joseph?’ Mansoor asked matter-of-factly.

‘It’s complicated. It’s like . . . you should play with children like you.’

‘What do you mean?’

Farhat paused for a while and began explaining the complexities of class differences and the convolutions of social ranks, but when she saw Mansoor beginning to look increasingly confused, she changed her strategy.

‘You should play with the boys.’

‘Joseph is a boy.’

Exasperated by Mansoor’s relentless questions, she thundered, ‘Both Joseph and Mehrun are kamzaat. Should I say more?’

‘What is kamzaat?’

‘Low caste!’

‘But Maulvi Sahib told me there is no caste in Islam, only Hindus have caste.’

‘It has nothing to do with caste, Mansoor. You will understand when you’re older. Now shut up and go to sleep.’

To Farhat, Mehrun was a bastard child born to a harlot—a stinking mishmash of harami and churail—the dirty whore who stole Jumman’s seed and spawned this evil. The story that had endured all these years was that Kaneez and Jumman had never married. Nobody had witnessed it, and they couldn’t provide any solid proof of their matrimony. Certificates never existed in their world, whether it was birth, marriage, or death.

Mansoor had heard the word ‘harami’ attached to Mehrun’s name often enough, but he did not understand its exact meaning.

‘Can we get a dog, Amma?’ he asked as his mind wandered.

‘No . . .