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

Can you believe this? Here is a woman well past her prime, about to enter her seventh decade of life, and she feels that men will look at her with lust because she is sexually attractive.

In his letter, Noor described Zakir as a religious rock star. His fame had spread to even the most neglected areas of the country. Eminent people like the legendary cricketer Lion Prince, and failed movie stars, like Salome, came to his house to be blessed by what Noor called his religious nonsense.

I tell you, beta, his followers are a bunch of religious bargain hunters, his house a one-stop-religious mall, just like the mall you took me to in Iowa. He has started to sell his holier-than-thou-crap on cassette tapes to these gullible idiots. Zakir relishes every moment of it. You had said to me in Iowa that you couldn’t understand how he could give up a career in foreign diplomacy for this. Well, son, I think he is making more money selling these amulets than what he was ever making as a third-rate diplomat.

After reading the letter, Mansoor thought about his mother’s choice of wearing a hijab. Was his father right in questioning her decision? Here was a man who believed in personal choice, denying the same to his wife. But was Amma’s decision really voluntary, or was it driven by external influences, such as Zakir Hassan or the increasing religiosity in the public sphere? Although he agreed with many of the points his father raised in that letter, why not just let Amma be happy in what she wore? If she saw it as a sign of modesty, let it be. The more he thought of his parents, the sadder he became.

Mansoor put away the letter when the air hostess announced that dinner was about to be served. With no alcohol to drown his agony, he asked for a ginger ale to go with his dinner. The new prohibition made him anxious about the Chivas Regal in his hand luggage. The possibility of the bottle getting confiscated and leading to a brush with the new law made him nervous. After he finished the biryani they served for dinner, Mansoor tried to sleep, but sleep had deserted him. He thought of Lisa. What was it that she had wanted to say? He was yet to confront his feelings for her. Mansoor remembered how she had wiped away her tears . . . Was it love? It was too painful to think about it.

*

When the plane stopped for refuelling at the Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris, Mansoor got out and went to the transit lounge to exchange some dollars for francs. The thought of the Chivas getting seized by Pakistani customs was still on his mind, so he strolled towards the duty-free shops to look for something else for his father. But what else could this son buy for his strange father? Not sure if Noor read books any more, he walked in and out of a bookshop without buying anything. Across the long terminal, he saw rows of elegant shops and restaurants flanking the corridors. He stopped in front of the display window of a men’s wristwatch store. The watches looked too pricey. He decided to take his chances with the bottle in his bag. To hell with it! If the authorities tried to confiscate it, he would simply bribe them. It always worked.

The terminal bustled with life as Mansoor sauntered back towards his gate, idly watching passengers dash in every direction in their business suits and flowing dresses. He saw an airline crew walk past him, the air hostesses talking about an obnoxious traveller on a flight just concluded. Inside a bistro, a child yawned, a plate of half-eaten food on the table in front of him, while his mother pestered him to hurry up. Two more hours to kill, Mansoor thought. Near his gate, he saw an empty seat and quickly occupied it. Not knowing what else to do, he took out Eros and Civilization from his hand luggage, but his Eros was already tangled, and so, reading became a struggle. His mind kept turning to what awaited him at home—uncomfortable accusations, unbearable arguments, painful conversations—and he began dreading the thought of becoming a go-between for his old parents.

He wanted to call Lisa and open up his heart to her. But she would be in the library at this hour. Should he call Mehrun? Although she was aware of his parents’ complicated relationship, Mansoor had never actually discussed it with her. Without thinking, he took out his pocket phonebook and automatically searched for her name under M, but there was no entry there. Then he looked under A. There it was: Mehrunnissa Alvi, her married name meticulously entered in his handwriting. The public payphone from across his seat beckoned him. Taking out the francs from his pocket, he went towards the booth. He had enough money for a thirty-minute call. But what if her husband picked up the phone? He would just hang up. After inserting the coins in the coin slot, he dialled her number. It was Mehrun who answered.

‘Mansoor Babu! Where are you?’

Even after all these years, she addressed him as Mansoor Babu, a reaffirmation of the master–servant relationship that had existed between them.

He told her where he was and where he was going without telling her the reason for his trip back home.

‘Oh, then I will see you in Karachi. I am also going home next week,’ she said, and after a pause, she added, ‘my husband is building us a house in Defence Housing Society.’

Mansoor remembered her shoebox-like house and wanted to joke about it, but he resisted. He knew that Defence Housing Society had become the poshest and most expensive area in Karachi, eclipsing all other neighbourhoods.

‘Have you chosen a name for your house?’ he asked, nervously unbuttoning and buttoning his jacket.

‘I am going to call it the Kashana-e-Jhoot, the Abode of Lies.’ She laughed.

Mansoor detected a