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

succumbed to the beating and collapsed into a deep coma. Her breathing became difficult, her face became anaemic, but with every feeble breath in her body, she clung to life. The malang collected his money and the supply of food and left abruptly.

Eleven

Kaneez remained comatose for two more days and then died with a final hiccup, her life ending abruptly, bedevilled as it was by fear, superstition and sorcery. Only four mourners—Jumman, Mehrun, Joseph and Mansoor—attended the austere ceremony. Others were frightened away by the report of the exorcism. The sweeper’s son took the barrister’s son on his rickety bicycle, in utter silence. The death rites lasted no more than five minutes, witnessed by wilted trees and the cracked earth.

Noor heard the whole story of Kaneez’s death from Jumman and gave him two hundred rupees to ‘pay for any expense that he may have incurred’. And then, as if it was an act of sequential consequence, he took out his local whisky and resumed his nightly habit.

Mansoor came to his bedroom one night, wanting to converse with his father about death and dying. Kaneez’s death had shaken the whole Kashana. Even Farhat appeared sombre.

‘Abba, what happens after death?’ He had asked Maulvi Nazir the same question a fortnight ago but hadn’t received a satisfactory enough answer.

Noor thought for a while and then shouted for Budhoo, who came running. He ordered him to bring the burnt-out light bulb from the lamp in the men’s quarter, which hadn’t been changed for months, despite Noor’s constant reminders. The servant ran towards the room and came back a few minutes later with the light bulb, nervous and quivering.

‘You can go now,’ Noor said, dismissing Budhoo.

Mansoor sat opposite his father, anxious and confused, with no clue about what was going on. Was his father deliberately avoiding a delicate question? Was he going to throw the light bulb at him for attending the servant’s funeral without permission?

Noor did neither. Instead, he told Mansoor to take out the bulb from the lamp on his bedside table and bring it to him. Mansoor obediently followed his directive. Noor then held the two bulbs in both his hands and asked Mansoor to tell the difference between them.

‘This one works and this one doesn’t,’ Mansoor replied.

‘Look at them closely and tell me again.’

‘The left one has the wire broken, but the right one is still intact.’

‘This wire is called the tungsten filament. Do you know how it works?’

Mansoor shook his head.

‘I don’t know what they teach you in school, but here, let me explain the science behind it.’

Noor then proceeded to tell Mansoor that what he was holding in his hands was an incandescent bulb. ‘It emits light due to heat. When the electric current passes through the tungsten filament, it gets so hot that it glows and emits light.’ Here he paused, took a sip of whisky from his glass and continued, ‘This tungsten filament is like our consciousness. When broken, it emits no light. When we die, the tungsten wire of our consciousness gets broken. This burnt-out bulb will be thrown in a dumpster, and when we die, our bodies will be thrown into a grave. This bulb will be crushed, it will become something else, but it will no longer be a bulb. Son, when we die, our body also changes into something else. We become part of nature. But when we die, that is khatam-shud, the end.’

‘But Maulvi—’ Mansoor stopped, realizing the man’s name was unmentionable before his father, and then continued, ‘But what about heaven and hell?’

Noor laughed and took another sip of the whisky before reciting a famous couplet:

Hum ko maloom hai janat ke haqiqat lekin

Dil ko khoosh rakhney ko Ghalib ye khayal acha hai.

He then asked his son if he understood the words, but Mansoor shrugged his shoulders.

‘Son, this is a profound couplet from Mirza Ghalib, an Urdu poet without equal, not even in the West. It means: “I know the reality of heaven. If it makes your heart happier, Ghalib, then it’s an excellent idea.” Heaven and hell are human concoctions, Sahibzadey.’

*

Haider Rizvi’s book, Representatives of Muslims and the Partition of India, received mixed reviews from the Pakistani critics. The pundits in the press, especially from the rival papers, excoriated him. He had walked a thin line between questioning the tactics of the Muslim leaders during the partition of India and criticizing their motives. His veiled critique of the founder of Pakistan and the first prime minister also did not sit well with sensitive journalists. The criticisms from the government-backed newspapers were even more spiteful, accusing him of treason and calling the government to arrest him.

The political climate continued to deteriorate as the C.O.P.s successfully paralysed the government with daily strikes and lockouts. To ambush the C.O.P.s effectively, General Dundda called for elections and declared his candidacy. Being in power for six years and ruling the country as the most powerful potentate in its brief history had made him confident enough to think that he would win the elections.

The call by his fellow journalists to arrest him made Haider fearful. So he, in turn, called Noor to get his legal opinion. Noor calmed him down and joked, ‘There is no chance in hell that you will be arrested before 2 January 1965. After that, come to me.’

The elections were scheduled for 2 January 1965. Noor was right, the elections eclipsed Haider’s book from the front pages of most dailies, except the Daily Jadal. It continued its campaign to have his book banned and demanded that Haider Rizvi, the traitor-in-chief, be arrested.

*

Just before the elections, Sadiq invited his three friends to his house for dinner. His wife, Talat, had made an elaborate Hyderabadi dinner that included biryani, korma and a few other delicacies before leaving with their daughter, Hannah, to spend the weekend with her grandchildren. Sadiq called his daughter Anna, as in Anna Karenina, and that is how he introduced her to everyone.

Haider came incognito with Zakir, hoping that the goons