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

homes. Noor had bought a ticket for Nasir to flee the country, but the labour leader was apprehended before he could escape. It was only later that Mansoor learned about his father’s involvement in the whole affair.

‘Sahibzadey, things are going to become uglier and more corrupt in our legal system; you won’t be able to survive. No, there is going to be no discussion about this topic again. Do you hear me?’

‘Yes, Abba,’ Mansoor replied.

Budhoo entered with boxes of Chinese takeaway just then, effectively ending the conversation. Relieved to see him, Mansoor got up and pretended to help him serve the food. After Budhoo left them, the three of them quietly slurped the shark fin soup and munched on the spring chicken.

After a while, Mansoor, out of nowhere, asked his father, ‘Abba, can you tell me about djinns?’

‘Djinns?’ he echoed. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Why are you always interested in djinns? Especially at night?’ his mother interjected.

‘No reason. Just curious,’ Mansoor replied.

Noor had long ago heard about the rumour that Kaneez had spread regarding Mansoor, but he had forgotten all about it. Now when he heard the word ‘djinn’ from his son, he became a little worried and felt an urge to tell him what he thought. Reaching for his whisky, Noor took a sip and said, ‘You know, son, your grandfather was a religious scholar and a firm believer, quite unlike me. But what I admired most about him were his impeccable character and his philosophical interpretations. He abhorred the literalists and fought battles with them.’

‘But what did Dada Jaan think about djinns made of smokeless fire?’ Mansoor asked.

‘Well, let me tell you about his version of djinns.’ Noor paused for a moment and took another sip from his almost-empty glass.

‘The word “djinn” means “something hidden”. A part of everyone’s being is concealed, even from one’s own self. That part is one’s inner djinn. Find your hidden self, or your inner djinn, and you find your true self. The smokeless djinn is a metaphor for the rage that exists in everybody. You have a djinn; I have a djinn and your mother has a djinn. In fact, she has the biggest djinn!’ Noor laughed even as Farhat glowered at him.

That night, as he closed his eyes to go to sleep, Mansoor couldn’t stop thinking about what his father had said about djinns as one’s hidden self. Is our concealed self our true reality? Why is it hidden? How do we discover it? Is the inner rage an ugly part of our reality that also needs to be discovered? That was a scary thought.

Fourteen

Even though Joseph lived in Karachi, he had never paid much attention to the urs or the birthday celebrations of Abdullah Shah Ghazi, the eighth-century Sufi saint. Regarded as Karachi’s patron saint, his birthday was observed with great fanfare. His shrine, located on a hilltop overlooking Clifton Beach, attracted people of all faith, who came for supplication and spirituality. The tomb with its white and green striped dome, beautiful tile work and colourful bunting stood out from afar. Recently, tourists and hippies had also started visiting the shrine.

When Mansoor told Joseph about that year’s celebrations, the first thought that came to his mind was the langar, the free ‘consecrated meal’ that would be served at the shrine. Rather than going home and eating the same daal and roti, he could have a feast there and all for the cost of a bus trip! The food at the shrine was believed to have miraculous power, and those who came to beseech Ghazi that day had their wishes granted by the dead Sufi saint. Who knows, Joseph might even get his heart’s desire to become a movie star. He asked Mansoor to accompany him, but he declined. Feeling dejected, Joseph decided to go there by himself.

When Joseph arrived at the shrine, night had begun to fall. An interminable sea of pilgrims greeted him. He saw more people disembarking from buses, trucks, taxis and even donkey carts. Everyone ran towards the tomb as soon as they got out of their vehicles. Pedlars huckstered their wares, while beggars asked for alms. It was a chilly night, crisp and brittle, as men, women and children in tattered clothes, their faces garbled by wretched poverty, their hopes raised by vague promises moved towards the tomb. Joseph walked with them deliberately, as if he knew exactly what he would do once he got to his destination.

Suddenly, Joseph heard a loud firecracker. It sounded like the racket that the ack-ack guns made during the war. The next moment, he saw men, women and children falling even as others ran frantically in every direction. They were shrieking and screaming. It was a stampede. He stopped walking, and without thinking, he turned back and started to run in the reverse direction. He heard more shots as he ran. A haggard-looking man was running alongside him. ‘Was that a firecracker?’ Joseph asked him.

‘No, I heard there was fighting between two groups; they must’ve fired at each other,’ the man replied.

Joseph had seen policemen in their grey and khaki uniforms when he had got down from the bus, and he hoped they would bring order. But the police fired tear gas shells into the crowd, which caused even more panic. The cries of women and children could be heard everywhere. People were falling over each other, getting crushed in the process. A tear gas shell landed near Joseph, swishing thick smoke. As he ran past it, he felt a burning sensation in his eyes, and he began coughing as his chest tightened. But he kept on running.

After Joseph had cleared some distance, he stopped to rest for a while, and as he wiped his eyes with his sleeve, he saw a man on all fours on the ground, holding his side as blood oozed out. He looked confused when Joseph bent over to see him. He asked the man what happened to him, but the man had difficulty speaking.