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

to do was find a dissertation topic that would be relevant and soul-stirring, something related to the effect of corruption on Pakistan’s economy. Once his research questions were approved, he could go back to Pakistan and do some original research.

After the last telephone call, Mansoor had not heard from Mehrun again and he presumed that she had moved to London. There were no more pictures or threatening letters from Athanni either, which made Mansoor wonder if he was still planning his next move. With his exams over, Mansoor suddenly felt empty. Lisa, who always went home to Connecticut for Christmas, decided to stay in Iowa City for the holidays. She was in no mood to face her divorced parents at the family celebration. So far, she had maintained her sanity, but Mansoor was worried that she might become depressed. To take her mind away from her parents’ divorce, he suggested that they visit Joseph in Houston for the opening of his restaurant. At first, Lisa refused. But when Mansoor persisted, she reluctantly agreed on the condition that he would do the lion’s share of driving. So, the next morning, they got into her 1972 Dodge Dart Swinger and headed towards Texas.

Driving past vast tracts of the snow-covered farmlands of Iowa, Kansas and Missouri, and then through the flat plains of Oklahoma, they finally entered the desolate stretch that was Texas some eighteen hours after leaving Iowa City. The diverse splendour of America was in full display even in winter. With Lisa by his side, the thousand-mile journey did not seem so tedious. Throughout the long hours on the road, they talked about every topic under the winter sky, every thing except their relationship and their future. They talked about American and Pakistani politics and the civil war in Lebanon. Lisa read aloud the poems of Auden and Yeats from her pocket edition of Selected Poems, her constant companions. She explained to him why jazz was considered a threat to America. And Mansoor introduced her to Ghalib’s poetry and Manto’s stories. He talked about the famous Pakistani ghazal singer Mehdi Hassan and his unique delivery.

And then, to lighten things up, he spoke at length about Joseph and his exploits, carefully omitting Mehrun from all the stories. Mansoor was deathly afraid that she might visit Joseph in Houston for his restaurant’s opening. How would he be able to handle such an awkward situation? What would he do? Not wanting to think about Mehrun, his attention returned to Lisa. She had become emotional while talking about her younger sister, who died of leukaemia at the age of four. Her lips quivered and her eyes welled up as she talked about her little sister’s last day. They had brought her home from the hospital to make sure that her last hours were peaceful. Mansoor put his right arm around her shoulder and squeezed her, and when she put her head on his shoulder, his eyes lit up.

It was December, but the Texas sun shone in all its brilliance. After Mansoor exited the interstate and drove into a suburb of Houston, he missed a turn and got a bit lost. But finally, around 5 p.m., he spotted Joseph’s apartment complex. In a tony suburb, the gated complex stood like a retreat, shielded from the rest of the world. The contrast with Bhangi Para couldn’t be starker. The memory of his visit there with Mehrun was still vivid. The railway line acting as the cordon sanitaire, demarcating the area from the rest of the city, the naked children, the old man who had misery written all over his wrinkled self, and the dead dog—still haunting him after all these years. Now Joseph had found a home that performed a reverse function for him. It cordoned off the city and prevented its sordidness from reaching his beautiful enclave. Mansoor could hardly believe his eyes. Destiny had finally opted to gleam on Joseph. He checked the address in his pocket phone book just to make sure that he was in the right place. Unmistakably opulent, distinctively plush, the Woodhaven Apartment Complex fanned out in all its splendour. The grass, still green, the terracotta walkways, the green tennis courts, the shimmering swimming pool—all vivid reminders of the affluence of the tenants.

*

Joseph greeted them enthusiastically, shaking their hands vigorously. America had transformed him. The Joseph that Mansoor grew up with, the one who roamed around in a loincloth and undershirt, was gone. In his place stood a tall, muscular young man, wearing a polo T-shirt and Levi’s jeans, exuding ardour and displaying devotion. The only vestiges of his old self were his moustache, his Punjabi-accented Urdu and the familiar bidi sticking out from his mouth.

Mansoor asked, ‘Where on earth did you find a bidi in Houston?’

‘Oh, my friend, what is it that you cannot find in the Pakistani bazaars in Houston. Do you want some paan? I can get that too.’

Mansoor just laughed. Feeling happy about Joseph’s achievements, he congratulated him on his success. Joseph, in his humbleness, attributed it to Mansoor for ‘providing’ his friendship and to his father for providing the money.

Although the two-bedroom apartment appeared luxurious, it boasted only a few pieces of furniture. A dark printed sofa, mismatched with two sturdy ladder-back chairs, clashed sharply with the beige-coloured wall-to-wall carpet, while a spacious coffee table stuck out in the centre. A set of sliding doors at one end of the room opened on to the balcony, where a black, round grill vented smoke and the aroma of barbecued kebabs. Although Joseph had been prepping for his restaurant’s inaugural day, he had found the time to cook a lavish meal—two kinds of kebabs, chicken tikka and lamb biryani, along with ras malai for dessert. It was the big-hearted Joseph thanking Mansoor for his father’s magnanimity, and both his guests ate ravenously. Mansoor was surprised by his cooking skills, and Lisa, who had eaten Pakistani food at Mansoor’s apartment, felt that Joseph’s cooking surpassed Mansoor’s by more than