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

‘Why are you buying a Burger King franchise? You should open a Pakistani restaurant,’ she suggested.

‘Lisa ji, someday I will do that, but first I will get rich, and then I will go into that ditch!’ He laughed and Lisa raised her eyebrows.

After dinner, Joseph and Mansoor drank Heineken and reminisced about old times. Lisa stayed with them for a while, fighting the inevitable boredom with some wine, and then retired to the guest room.

After she left, Joseph went to his bedroom and came back with a cheque written in Mansoor’s name, for twelve hundred dollars, and handed it to him.

‘What is this?’

‘Barrister Sahib had given this to me; it was a loan, even though he never said that.’

‘Don’t insult his memory, Joseph,’ Mansoor replied, a bit hurt, and returned the cheque.

‘I knew that you are like your father. He always gave and never took back. If you do not consider me a bhangi, let me hug you.’

‘You were never a bhangi to me, Joseph.’

As he held his friend in a hug, Joseph began to cry like a child. Mansoor patted his back, trying to calm him down. Once he stopped crying, they drank late into the night. In his drunkenness, Joseph told Mansoor that he had also invited Zakir Hassan for the opening ceremony.

‘Why did you have to invite him? He was the one responsible for my father’s death.’

‘Well, Mansoor Babu, he, too, was my benefactor. Had it not been for him, I wouldn’t have got the visa.’

‘He helped me get my visa, too, but I repaid him by praying with him!’ Mansoor chortled, his laugh reminding him of how his father used to be in his intoxicated state.

‘But I am not sure if Zakir Sahib will actually come. I spoke with him on the telephone some two months ago and he told me he was planning to go on a proselytizing tour with the Dheela Pyjama group,’ Joseph added.

‘How do you know about the Pyjama Dheela Topi Tight Party?’

‘Haider Sahib zindabad!’

Mansoor laughed and then changed the subject, ‘Is Mehrun coming?’

‘No, she told me she was moving to London and would be too busy to come.’

Mansoor sighed, feeling relieved that a potential crisis had been averted. ‘When was the last time you spoke to her?’ he asked.

‘About three weeks ago . . . I don’t think she is happy, Mansoor Babu. I could sense it in her voice.’

Mansoor, surprised at Joseph’s perspicacity and his ability to grasp the truth about Mehrun’s marital situation, said nothing. They drank for a while longer and then retired, calling it a night.

*

The bright sun dappled its rays through the openings between the curtains in their bedroom, waking Mansoor and Lisa up the next morning. Realizing that it was late, Mansoor jumped out of bed and hit the shower while Lisa, her eyes closed, rested her exhausted self on the lumpy mattress. Joseph had already left to monitor the progress at his restaurant.

Outside, somebody fired up a lawnmower, startling Lisa with its raucous roar. She was now fully awake. A little tired and homesick, she began wondering if her family would celebrate Christmas the way they used to. Before they left for Houston, she had called her mother and made up some lame excuse for not coming home that year. But Lisa knew her mother didn’t believe her.

She was still thinking about the state of things back home when the doorbell rang, its grating peal making her jump out of bed. She didn’t want to answer it, but someone kept pressing it longer and harder, as if to annoy her. Had Joseph forgotten his keys? She got up, put on her nightgown and went to the front door. Through the peephole, Lisa saw a bearded man in a black tunic. Was he Joseph’s relative? Her sigh almost audible, her fingers turning the knob with a frustrated pressure, she opened the door slightly.

The bearded man, taken aback at the sight of a woman in a nightgown, lowered his head and asked, ‘Does Yousef Suleiman live here?’

‘Who?’

‘Yousef Suleiman!’ he repeated.

‘No,’ she replied, but then hesitatingly asked, ‘Are you talking about Joseph Solomon?’

‘Yes, that was his Christian name; Yousef Suleiman is his Muslim name, which I gave him.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yes.’ The man continued to look at the floor, his shifty manners puzzling Lisa.

‘Well, Joseph has already left for work.’

‘My name is Zakir Hassan and I have come from Pakistan,’ the man said.

Lisa knew right away that it must be the same Zakir Hassan that Mansoor had mentioned when discussing his parents’ marital problems. He had described his transformation in vivid detail. Making no eye contact with her, his behaviour off-balancing his manner, he made Lisa feel downright uneasy.

‘Do you want to come in?’

‘No, thank you. Are you Mrs Suleiman?’

‘No, I am a friend of Mansoor ul Haq. We are just visiting Joseph.’

As soon as she uttered Mansoor’s name, he lifted his head, his eyes passing over her face for one quick second before he averted his gaze and looked the other way. The man who had lived in the West and dated many women in his life now felt embarrassed at the mere sight of one. As he stood there dithering, Mansoor came out of the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist. Startled to see Zakir Hassan at the door, he stopped in his tracks and stared at him. A few seconds later, having regained his composure, he blurted, ‘Assalam alai kum.’

‘Wa-alaikum assalam,’ Zakir replied.

Relieved to see Mansoor, Lisa scurried back into their room, leaving the gauche visitor to her boyfriend. Mansoor invited him in. Proceeding slowly, Zakir wiped his shoes on the doormat, entered the apartment and seated himself on a chair in the living room. Mansoor excused himself to get dressed.

Alone in the room, Zakir surveyed his surroundings. The coffee table, cluttered with empty beer cans, greeted him. His lips tightening at the sinful sight, he pulled his chair away from the napaak, unclean table. When Mansoor reappeared in his Iowa Hawkeyes sweatshirt and