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

Sarwat did not even wait until he left. Putting her house on rent, she moved in with her entire family two days before Mansoor left. The alacrity with which the transition occurred enraged Mansoor; but there was nothing that he could do. After all, it had been his idea to invite her. Like vultures, they had attacked the remains of his house.

All this time, Mansoor remained ignorant of his conniving cousin’s spy work. So far, Athanni had not made any threatening moves or questioned Mansoor either about his highly irregular behaviour at Noor’s funeral or his presence at the Palace Hotel. On the contrary, he became civil and greeted Mansoor with a cloying smile each time their paths crossed in the Kashana. That day, at the airport, as Mansoor embraced his weeping mother and then bade farewell to her and to his aunt’s family, Athanni quietly slipped a sealed envelope into his hand.

‘What is it?’ Mansoor asked.

‘Just a parting gift! Open it on the plane.’

Surprised at Athanni’s apparent thoughtfulness, his curiosity fully aroused, Mansoor put the envelope inside his hand luggage and went to the transit lounge. At that instant, how he missed his father, how he wished he was there. He remembered the day when he first left for America. His father, with buried emotions, had reminded him to write regularly to his mother. He remembered his farewell words and his tense face. Now he was gone. Mansoor’s mind drifted to the day Noor died. He recalled the tears in his father’s jaded eyes moments before he died, the couplet on his quivering lips, the blood haemorrhaging from his nose—it was an image that he found hard to shake off. As he took his seat on the plane, Mansoor realized that he had not mourned his father’s death; he hadn’t shed a single tear. But somehow, it did not feel strange.

After the plane took off, he reached for the overhead bin where he had put his hand luggage. Taking the envelope out from its pocket, he sat back and tore it open. Inside were two pictures. When he pulled the photos out, he realized that they must have been taken secretly—one was a photograph of him with Mehrun, both of them holding hands as they came down the stairs at the Palace Hotel, and the other was a doctored photo with his head twisted around, as if he was about to kiss Mehrun. On the back of the altered picture was an Urdu couplet with an accompanying English translation, just in case he didn’t understand Urdu:

Ibtida-e-ishq hai rota hai kya

Aage aage dekhya hota hai kya

(Why cry, for this is the start of a love

Wait and see, what follows next)

At first, Mansoor was puzzled, but as the couplet’s meaning sank in, he became infuriated. How dare he threaten me? And how did he get this picture with Mehrun at the hotel? That bastard, he thought. He’s been spying! That’s why the bugger had that silly grin on his face all throughout, that’s why he was so polite!

But Mansoor could not understand Athanni’s purpose in giving him the pictures at that particular point. If he wanted to blackmail him, he should have done that while he was still there in Karachi. Why now when he was on his way back to Iowa? He read the couplet on the back a couple of times, and then everything became clear. The eight-anna extortionist has now become a third-rate blackmailer, Mansoor thought. Realizing that the bastard was now comfortably ensconced in his house, he felt foolish. And as his stomach began churning, he muttered to himself, ‘I have a serpent up my sleeve.’ He promised himself that the day of his return from America would be Athanni’s last day in his house, but then he didn’t really know his devilish cousin.

*

Two weeks after that night with Mansoor, Mehrun returned to Dubai. Alvi received her at the airport, which was unusual. He had come alone in his black Mercedes, without the chauffeur. Surprised at this special treatment, Mehrun asked him the reason for his coming to pick her up as she sat in the car. He pulled out two photographs from his shirt pocket and handed them to her. ‘Who is this person?’ he asked.

A sudden paralysing fear struck Mehrun when she looked at the pictures. They were copies of the same prints that Athanni had given Mansoor. On the white border of one photograph was the inscription ‘More to come.’

As Alvi started the engine and pulled the car out of the parking lot, Mehrun’s throat tightened and her heart started to throb. She remained quiet, unable to answer her husband, stunned that someone would spy on her. Were there more incriminating photos of them?

‘Who is this person?’ Alvi thundered.

Recovering from the mind-searing silence, she replied, ‘This is Mansoor ul Haq.’

‘Should I know his name?’

‘My mother used to work at his house. He is the son of Noor ul Haq, the late barrister.’

‘Why were you holding his hand in public?’ Alvi’s voice rose as he continued his interrogation.

Annoyed by his queries, her fear changing into anger, she struck back with a question of her own, ‘Have you hired detectives to follow me?’

‘I didn’t hire anyone. I received these photographs in the post.’

For a moment, she did not believe him, but the expression on his face was not that of a liar. ‘Who is it from then?’ Mehrun asked.

‘How would I know? They didn’t come with a note!’ he snapped back.

They drove in complete silence for the rest of the way. The air-conditioned car with its tinted windows protected them from the baking heat outside. Mehrun, her heart pulsating in a nervous staccato, was unsure of how Alvi would react when they reached the privacy of their home. When they arrived at their grand bungalow, he steered the car into the compound through the wrought-iron gate, where a guard saluted them. And as soon as the car stopped at the front porch, he questioned her again.

‘Did