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

the hot wind, called the loo, dried out the vegetation and brought heat exhaustion to many, Noor stayed home again. It was his fifteenth day of absence from work. Like the previous days, he stayed in bed, doing nothing, looking vacuous and inert. Sometimes, he would cover his face with a muslin dulai, a summer quilt; sometimes, he would just gaze blankly through the window. Mansoor tried to cajole him to eat, but he refused. He attempted to regale him by reading from the Morning Gazette and the Daily Jadal, but Noor’s mind wandered off into space, not even Coleridge’s poem made him blink.

When Budhoo announced that lunch was ready, Mansoor dragged Noor out of his bedroom to the dining room. Farhat had already started eating since she was getting late for Zakir’s lecture. As the three of them sat there at the dining table, Noor put the first morsel of food in his mouth, but then he forgot about it, chewing only when Mansoor prodded him. What was going on in his father’s mind? Was he even thinking about anything? Mansoor’s train of thought was interrupted by a woman’s voice. Someone was talking to Budhoo in the kitchen. It was Mehrun. In a few minutes, she entered the dining room.

‘Salaam Sahib, salaam Begum Sahiba, salaam Mansoor Babu.’

Noor stared at her blankly, while Mansoor and Farhat said wa-alaikum assalam in unison.

‘What are you doing here?’ Farhat asked, her voice stern and her mood belittling. It was the same chilly tone that she specifically reserved for Mehrun that returned to her without any hesitation now. Mansoor felt the distance in that tone. So much for ‘Abba and Amma would be thrilled to see you.’

‘My husband was going away on a business trip, so I decided to visit my father in Karachi.’

‘Sit down, Mehrun, have some lunch with us.’

Farhat glowered at Mansoor when he said that. What was he thinking? Bewaquf kahin ka, what an idiot. Did he want to stir things up? Did he want to wake his abba from his distempered gloom?

Of course, Mansoor’s words had absolutely no effect on Noor, even though they almost killed Farhat. So what if the girl had trapped a rich man and was now rich herself? Who was she to come here uninvited, Begum Banarsi saree? And that revolting diamond snare around her neck! So tacky! So garish! Her father was still a servant, and she was still a pukki churail, a true churail, or had she forgotten?

An awkward silence followed Mansoor’s invitation, but Mehrun wisely eased the crisis by politely refusing the offer. ‘Thank you, but I already had lunch. I just came to see my father and convey my salaam to you all,’ she said.

‘Where are you staying?’ Mansoor asked.

‘At the Palace Hotel.’

‘Why don’t you stay in our guest room?’

‘Mansoor! Has your brain rotted? Is this what you studied in Umreeka?’ Farhat remonstrated, looking thoroughly shocked.

‘I think I’d better go,’ Mehrun interjected.

Without saying goodbye, she left in a hurry, leaving the stuffiness of the dining room intact.

After she left, Farhat shouted at Mansoor. ‘Remember your position and her position in life before inviting her for lunch or offering the guest room.’

‘What do you mean, Amma?’ Mansoor asked, chewing his roti. ‘Mehrun is an important person now. She has money and she has status. What else do you want?’

Mansoor saw a faint smile on his father’s face, or so he thought, as he challenged his mother.

‘Don’t you dare mock me! A churail will always remain a churail.’ Her face inflamed with anger, she left the table without finishing her lunch. Mansoor could feel the boiling fury hissing through her body.

Noor remained reticent, oblivious to the tension, hardly eating and barely moving. And then abruptly, he too stood up. Without washing his hands or rinsing his mouth, as was his habit, he returned to his bed. Mansoor felt as if his parents had walked out on him. Had he made the situation worse? His stomach churned; he wished he had not provoked his mother. Setting aside his plate, he walked to the guest bathroom and washed his hands before following his father to his bedroom. Noor was stretched out on his back, his eyes closed, breathing heavily. Not sure what to do, Mansoor quietly settled himself on Noor’s favourite chair and picked up Ghalib’s book of poetry from his father’s bedside table and began to leaf through it. Farhat came into the room wearing a turquoise hijab over a light blue shalwar-kameez.

‘Khaleel is waiting for me outside; I am going to the dars,’ she announced without looking at either.

Noor opened his eyes, tilted his head towards her and recited a couplet from a poem by the Nawab of Awadh, Wajid Ali Shah, himself an exile, written a few days before his death.

Dar-o-Deewaar pay hasrat se nazar kartey hain

Rukhsat ai ahl-e-watan hum tau safar kartey hain

(At the door and the walls, I gaze longingly

Farewell, my countrymen, for I leave for my journey)

As if he had mumbled something in Sanskrit, Farhat stared at him for a moment and then left the room without saying anything. Mansoor noticed a tear run down his father’s cheek towards his ear. Noor closed his eyes again and began breathing heavily. After having lain like this for what seemed like an eternity, he unexpectedly got up and sat upright, as if priming himself to go somewhere. Noor then swivelled, shuffling to the edge of the bed, and gazed at the floor, as if thinking about what to do next. Mansoor asked him if he needed to go to the bathroom. Noor did not reply. Instead, he collapsed back on the bed, his feet still on the floor. Mansoor stood up. He could hear the wheezy air moving through his father’s constricted airways. After a few moments, Noor became agitated. He got up and staggered towards the bedroom door, as if trying to catch Farhat, but before he could reach the door, he fell and banged his forehead on the marble floor.