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

‘Abba! Are you okay, did you slip?’ he asked.

Noor did not reply. His face distorted, his breathing shallow, he struggled to get up, but could not. Mansoor helped him stand up and realized that the left side of his body was entirely lifeless. He knew then that his father had suffered a stroke. Summoning all his strength, Mansoor grunted, lifted his frail father up and carried him back to his bed. After putting him down on his bed, he bolted outside and hollered for the servants. His hysterical shouts brought Budhoo, Sikander and Changez inside the house.

‘Abba fell down. We have to take him to the hospital,’ he told them, and then addressing Budhoo said, ‘Budhoo, you and Changez take him to the car.’

They each took an arm, placed them around their shoulders and half-carried Noor to the front porch towards the car. Blood ran down from Noor’s nose. His breathing was sluggish and his contorted face displayed a cryptic fear. He tried to say something but only managed a guttural sound, his speech muzzled by the stroke.

‘Don’t worry, Abba. We’ll take you to the hospital. You will be fine.’

Mansoor tried to elevate his father’s sinking spirit even as panic assaulted his own. When they reached the car, Changez and Budhoo laid him down on the rear seat. Mansoor ran to the other side and squeezed in by his father. He raised his head and placed it on his lap. A feral cat ran out from under the car as Sikander turned on the ignition. Stepping on the accelerator, he swerved the vehicle towards Aga Khan Hospital. In a vain attempt, Mansoor tried to clean his father’s bloodied nose and stem the flow of blood with his handkerchief, but it continued to ooze out. His trousers soaking in blood, his heart beating furiously, Mansoor cradled his father in his arms. He was still alive, still breathing, but any moment now he could cease to be. His existence was slowly dissolving. Noor struggled to breathe, barely clinging on to life. Mansoor hoped against all hopes that his father would use his will power to defy death, to frustrate the angel of death, Malak ul Maut, at least until they reached the hospital, but alas, that did not happen.

They were just ten minutes away from the hospital when Noor ul Haq breathed his last in Mansoor’s arms. The sun had set on the eminent barrister. His life was done. With tears in his eyes, Mansoor said goodbye to his father, closed his lifeless eyes and caressed his non-existence.

A few months ago, while he was sitting in the university library, Mansoor had suddenly found himself thinking about his father’s mortality. He had felt an immense sadness flowing through his arteries. Still, he had never imagined it would happen this way, and this quickly. The tungsten filament had finally snapped. His father’s life would burn no longer.

*

In the aftermath of Noor’s death, Farhat was an emotional wreck. Weeping and wailing, she begged her dead husband’s forgiveness. After waging a bruising battle with him in their old age, she now felt contrite. In her mind, the purpose of her struggle was to show Noor the ‘true light’, the ‘path to salvation’, not to kill him. But now that he was gone, she just hoped that he had recited the kalimah before his soul departed. She began reminiscing about the last hours she had spent with him—the silly couplet, the last lunch and, of course, that wretched Mehrun who had appeared from nowhere just hours before, like the courier of death. And then she concluded that it was Mehrun who caused his death.

‘That churail . . . that Mehrun . . . She struck him dead. She came and he died.’

Mansoor shook his head when he heard her whispering to Sarwat and Athanni.

Athanni’s eyes gleamed. Embittered by Mehrun’s change of fortune and her new prosperity, he found a perfect opportunity to join in and vilify his former co-worker. Mansoor noticed that he had his Yashica 35-mm camera hanging around his neck. The lurid journalist was hard at work, searching for the sensational even in death, he thought.

‘Farhat Khaala, she is her mother’s daughter, a pukki churail, an immoral woman. I used to work with her. I know her kind. She seduced Alvi Sahib, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she cast a deadly spell on Uncle Noor,’ he whispered back.

‘Shame on you, Khaleel Khan, for smearing an innocent woman and spreading nasty rumours. Shame on you,’ Mansoor whispered in his cousin’s ear.

In Athanni’s mind, Mehrun, Mansoor and the other ‘low lives’ collaborated and contributed to his miseries and failures, and his aunt’s insinuations confirmed his convictions.

Feeling the heat from Mansoor’s assault, Farhat came to her nephew’s rescue. ‘Don’t try to defend that churail, Mansoor. She killed your father and you know it. And you stay away from her, too. Or she will put a spell on you as well!’

‘Listen to your mother, Mansoor. Mehrun is evil; don’t join her against your own family,’ Sarwat added, trying to defend her son.

‘And why do you have a camera?’ Mansoor demanded. ‘Don’t you dare take any pictures of my dead father.’

‘Farhat Khaala has asked me to take pictures,’ Athanni replied with a smirk on his face.

Mansoor wanted to snatch his camera away from him, but if it was his mother’s wish to participate in this ghoulish act, there was nothing he could do.

*

The news of Noor’s death had reached every corner of Karachi. His clients, colleagues, relatives, friends and former friends began gathering at Kashana-e-Haq. Haider Rizvi came and hugged Mansoor warmly. His long absence from Noor’s life had dried his tears for his friend.

Outside the house, the humid air and the gathering dark clouds threatened a downpour. In Mansoor’s mind, a thought leavened: would his Abba have preferred a cremation rather than a burial—going out defiantly, just to spite those insufferable idiots? He remembered when Noor had