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

paintings that had graced the walls of the zenana previously had all been swapped with holy verses printed on black velvet in heavy gold frames.

For Mansoor’s mother, the worship of God was important; it was always there, but it was rarely noticed. She practiced her faith quietly, abided by it, but it was never unsettling for anyone else. The whole set-up that she had created in her son’s childhood with Maulvi Nazir had been a weak attempt to inject faith, one drop at a time. Mansoor thought that the sacred and the sacrilegious, the rational and the absurd, and the all-important cultural artefacts of his life, had often sparred with each other, but they never came to a head, never threatened to obliterate each other. Even now, he would never trade one for the other. And what had happened to Uncle Zakir? The person who used to be so full of doubts, who believed in bonum vitae, the good life, how could he now suffer from the sense of religious and moral certitude? He had purposely become a man with insufficient imagination, refusing to enter any value system save his own. Obviously, he had played a role in bringing Mansoor’s parents’ troubled marriage to a breaking point.

*

The sun had finally come out, and hearing the calls of the vegetable vendors outside, Mansoor decided it was time to pay a visit to Nawab Khan Namaqul’s house and bring his mother back home. Mansoor dropped Sikander home first and told him to take the rest of the day off. He then drove in the direction of his uncle’s house. A balding Athanni, watering his flower beds, greeted Mansoor nervously. His flowing hennaed beard, sans a moustache, was a signifier of his new identity. Wearing a shalwar-kameez, he resembled the rotund Maulvi Nazir. Mansoor’s unexpected appearance threw him off. They shook hands, and after exchanging a few clumsy trivialities, Mansoor asked him about his mother. Athanni’s expression and tone changed immediately.

‘She cannot go to that house.’

‘That house? That house is her home. I am her son and I am going to take her back. Now get out of my way.’

This was the first time Mansoor had confronted his former extortionist, and it was the first time Athanni got scared of Mansoor. He quickly moved out of his way. Mansoor went inside the house and saw Farhat in a black hijab, sitting slumped in a chair at the dining table, reading the Qur’an. She looked at least twenty pounds lighter. As soon as she saw him, she froze, as if she had seen his ghost. Realizing that it was indeed her son, she came forward and squeezed him tightly. Tears streaked down her gaunt face and her lips trembled. Mansoor kissed her and hugged her back.

‘Let’s go home, Amma.’

And without a moment’s hesitation, Farhat said, ‘Yes, let’s go.’

Just then Sarwat came charging in, followed by Athanni. ‘Farhat, what are you thinking? How can you go back?’

But it was as if Farhat had been waiting for these magic words: ‘Let’s go home.’ She went in and quickly changed her clothes, putting on a beige-coloured hijab, brought her suitcase and got ready to go. After she settled down in the rear seat of the car, Mansoor drove away. But dread filled her heart in the short journey back to her home, and Farhat began to quietly sob again.

When they reached the Kashana, the first thing Farhat did was to go straight to the kitchen and order Budhoo to prepare a hearty breakfast for her son. Then, as if absolutely nothing had happened, Farhat immersed herself in her household chores again. Noor, too, went on doing his things at the other end of the house. Without exchanging a word, without swapping apologies, they carried on with their disengaged routines. Like two sad people living a fractured life, separated by abstractions, they pretended to have patched up their differences in utter silence. Mansoor remained displeased, but what could he do? Under the circumstances, he could not have hoped for a better reconciliation. The cultural fact was that conflicts were resolved through silent affectations, not through exaggerated emotions. Here, silence, and not time, healed all wounds. Mansoor just hoped that their reconciliation would last and that people like Zakir wouldn’t poison their relationship with their adjusted claims and amorphous promises. He also wished that his father would cut down on his drinking, but that was a forlorn hope; he did not remember a single day when his father had not had any alcohol. Noor had recently turned seventy, and to wish that he would change now was a vain hope.

*

Since its inception, political disorders and intrigues had plagued Pakistan like waterlogging and salinity. But each turmoil cracked the structural foundation of the country a tad more. The Supreme Court sanctioned every coup, justifying each upheaval as a regrettable requirement, calling it the Doctrine of Necessity. It was as if this was a divine idea, a reverential justice. But Noor was no longer interested in anything, not politics, not philosophy, not Pakistan.

One July morning in 1977, the wobbly democracy of Pakistan was dealt another blow. The chief of army staff, who had been carefully chosen by The People’s Leader because he regarded him to be a simpleton with limited life interests like prayers and polo, dethroned his benefactor unceremoniously. Pakistan’s history gyrated a full circle and gave the former prime minister a taste of his own despotism. But Noor remained silent. The genius schemer had fallen prey to a devious plotter. An opinion writer in the Daily Hulchul called the latest dictator General Behroopia, a person with many faces. Many people followed the lead and also began calling him that nickname in private. Tyranny continued unabated, albeit with a new look, and the age of religious machination started at full throttle. But Noor remained silent.

Both Mansoor and his father watched the latest dictator on live television. Displaying a packet of imported Dunhill cigarettes on his desk, the general talked about