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

Nine

Ramadan, the month of fasting, arrived with great anticipation. Everyone in Mansoor’s class fasted, except him, but he pretended otherwise. It was not that his father had prohibited him from doing so, or that Mansoor did not want to fast; it was just his mother who had scared him. ‘Your father will get angry if he learns about it, but if you really want to, you can fast one or two days without telling him. I will cover for you.’

Noor never forbade Mansoor or Farhat from fasting, but somehow, she had assumed that he would get angry with them if they did. As for Mansoor, he had once heard him argue with Haider on that matter.

‘Forcing children to fast at such a tender age is a cruel and unusual punishment.’

That settled things for Mansoor.

After Mansoor recovered from his illness, his tutor came back to continue his lessons. Mansoor reminded Mehrun to ask Zaidi about tutoring her. At first, Mehrun remained steadfastly reluctant; she did not know how to approach Zaidi. Deep down, she felt that Zaidi would turn her down and it would all come to nothing. But when Mansoor kept prodding her, Mehrun finally agreed to do it. He convinced her that she was sharp and intelligent, and that with Zaidi’s help, she could be transformed. Who knew just how many more opportunities might open up if she could read, write and speak even a bit of English? She could get a job as a full-time ayah, or she could perhaps be employed in some capacity in some school. At least she wouldn’t have to wash dirty laundry at other people’s houses like her mother.

When Zaidi came to the Kashana that day, Mehrun hesitantly came and sat near them. Since it was Mehrun’s habit to flit around in the vicinity whenever their lessons where in progress, Zaidi did not even notice her at first. A poker-faced man in his late twenties, the young tutor had an air of inscrutability about him. His body appeared pulled down by the enormity of some unknown burden, but it could be that the fasting had sapped his energy. Whenever he sat on the wicker chair in the verandah, his posture stooped and his shoulders slumped; often, Mansoor found him looking into empty space. But when his attention returned to the lesson of the day, he became an engrossing teacher, expounding thoughtfully on how good literature was equivalent to a book of life that taught self-discovery.

That afternoon, as Zaidi prepared to start the day’s lesson, Mansoor signalled Mehrun with his eyes to approach the tutor. Just then, a wasp flew by and landed on the arm of the chair next to Zaidi’s, making him flinch. He picked up Mansoor’s open textbook and tried to squash the wasp with it. But the wasp flew off towards the rose bush in the garden. The distraction gave Mehrun the perfect opportunity to come as close to Zaidi as possible. But when he noticed her right next to him, his expression changed. What was this lowly interloper doing standing in his face? His bushy eyebrows furrowed as he held his chin with his left hand, and then he looked Mehrun up and down. Mehrun recoiled a bit, wavering in her resolution. Then she looked at Mansoor, who moved his eyes quickly in code language, telling her to put her question to the tutor.

‘Zaidi Sahib, um . . . can you . . . um . . . teach me . . . um . . . English?’

From deep inside his gut, Zaidi sucked up a glob of sputum and spat it out disgustingly into a potted plant behind his chair before he replied, ‘I don’t give lessons to haramis.’

The word impaled Mansoor’s heart; he hoped that Mehrun had not heard the tutor, and that she would just go away, but there she stood firm, unfazed and undeterred, as if the man had said something routine, a fact, a run-of-the mill idiom. And then Mansoor heard her again.

‘My father will pay you.’

‘You filthy insect from a stinking gutter, I don’t need your ill-begotten money!’

From the corner of his eyes, Mansoor saw Mehrun, her face now ignited by the dark flush of rage. She moved away from Zaidi and slowly started to walk back towards the servants’ quarters, but then she stopped, turned back towards him and calmly said, ‘You stupid shit-faced man, your mother is harami; your father is harami; your entire household is harami.’

Mansoor’s face turned ashen. He saw his tutor kick his chair back and lunge towards Mehrun, his jaws snapping, his face trembling with anger. Anticipating the impending assault, Mehrun sprinted towards the servants’ quarters where her father was taking a siesta. Zaidi chased her with full speed and within minutes, caught her shirt from the back, causing it to tear along the side seams. He then pushed her with all his strength. Mansoor saw Mehrun fall flat on the concrete surface and started screaming hysterically. Zaidi pulled her up, turned her around and began slapping and punching her mercilessly. The man was an absolute savage, overtaken by madness. Mansoor thought that he would kill Mehrun, so he started screaming as well. The commotion brought Jumman out of the servants’ quarters. Shocked to see his daughter getting pummelled, he leapt at the tutor, pulled him away from her and began hammering him. The ruckus brought Noor and Farhat out.

‘What’s going on? What’s going on here?’ Noor yelled.

‘Noor Sahib, she gave me a dirty gaali, a dirty swear word, for nothing,’ Zaidi lied.

‘No, Sahib, he called me harami first. Ask Mansoor Babu,’ Mehrun replied, still sobbing, a trickle of blood flowing from her nose.

‘All of you get out of my property and never come back,’ Noor yelled. ‘This is the house of decent people. Don’t you ever use language like that!’

Mehrun got up, wiping her bloodied nose with the back of her hand, her face covered with tears and dirt. In between convulsive