Of Smokeless Fire by A.A. Jafri (i wanna iguana read aloud TXT) 📕

him. Experiencing the pangs of being an exile in his own city, the city of his birth, he even began questioning his lawsuit. The entire country had become the Theatre of the Absurd.

‘What is the point of all this?’ he shouted, but no one paid any attention to him, except Athanni.

Mansoor suddenly realized that he was truly all alone in this world. He had no family, no friends; he was a fucking orphan. He wanted to give it all up to Athanni, who was probably still plotting revenge, always conspiring villainy.

To hell with the fucking lawsuit and the fucking house. What am I going to do with the house even if I win the case? I can’t actually convert it into a homeless shelter! he thought.

He felt entropic. There was disorder in his country, but now it felt as if the disease was taking over his self. The world no longer made sense to him. What difference would it make if he got his house back tomorrow? What difference would it make if he returned to America, defended his dissertation and published a highly regarded book? Nothing mattered.

The cars were honking and people were laughing and talking, going on with their meaningless daily chores. Mansoor turned to Shaheed-e-Millat Road, Martyr of the Nation Road, named after the first prime minister who had been assassinated the day he, Mansoor, was born. He passed his old neighbourhood, insensate to everything except his brainwaves. His trance was broken when the muezzin called the faithful for the Friday prayers. In front of him stood his neighbourhood mosque, the same mosque where he used to go with his Uncle Zahid for Eid prayers, where he always felt like an abandoned orphan. Guarded by minarets on all sides, the mosque stuck out in its brilliant simplicity. Not one thing about it had changed. Mansoor stood there and gazed at the mosque for a long time. He noticed the same kerosene shop next to the mosque, still standing there defiantly despite the arrival of gas and electric stoves. The smell of kerosene still paralysed him, reminding him of that day in his distant past when Joseph and Mehrun had cremated that lizard. Joseph and Mehrun’s ghosts appeared in front of him now, their hands joined together, singing that dreadful couplet.

Aadhi roti, aadha kebab

Girgit ko marna bara sawab

Aadhi roti, aadha kebab

Girgit ko marna bara sawab

As he continued standing there, he heard the chanting get louder and clearer.

Aadhi roti, aadha kebab

Kafir ko marna bara sawab

(One-half roti, one-half kebab

Killing an infidel is the highest reward)

Mansoor turned around and saw Athanni with a large, angry mob behind him. Some of the men were brandishing sticks and some were wielding knives and machetes. There was something fantastically ominous about these faceless people.

Pointing a minatory finger at Mansoor, Athanni shouted, ‘Brothers, he is the blasphemer! He is the apostate! He has desecrated our religion and profaned our leader. He is an atheist like his father was. His punishment is death. BURN HIM! KILL HIM!’

Mansoor saw Athanni, with that chilling face, displaying the conference leaflet with his scribbles and drawing. Realizing that his cousin had incited the crowd against him, he turned around and began walking briskly, wanting to put as much distance as he could between himself and the sinister mob. And then, Mansoor heard people running behind him, chanting slogans. He turned back to check and realized that the crowd was closing in on him, preparing to attack. His heart froze and his feet jellied, but Mansoor mustered enough strength to run full speed ahead. As he picked up the pace, his breathing became laboured. He had scarcely cleared ten yards when he sensed his thighs becoming heavy and leaden. The chants of ‘kill the blasphemer’ pierced his ears. And then came the familiar couplet:

Aadhi roti, aadha kebab

Kafir ko marna bara sawab

As the angry pack closed in on him, the ground he scaled became a pointless space of confusion. Suddenly, Mansoor lost his balance, tripped over and fell flat on his face. Blood gushed out of his nose, and as he tried to get up, he was torpedoed by a stone. Mansoor fell back to the ground. When he tried to get up again, a metal rod hit his head. He heard his punishers ranting.

‘Stone him to death!’

‘No, behead him!’ another person shouted.

He saw Athanni making his way forward from the back of the crowd with a kerosene canister in his hand.

‘No, he is an evil djinn. He would like to be cremated in a smokeless fire. Let’s honour his wishes!’ Athanni roared.

One person pulled Mansoor up from the ground and another held him from behind. The smell of kerosene hung heavy in the air as Athanni, the predator, came face-to-face with him, all his demonic wretchedness written large and clear on his face. The person who had gripped Mansoor now released him, pushing him forward. Without saying another word, Athanni splashed the kerosene on Mansoor’s clothes. And then, with pure venom in his eyes, he took out a cigarette lighter from his pocket, flicked open the flame and set Mansoor on fire. As the flames erupted, he chanted:

Aadhi roti, aadha kebab

Dahariya ko marna bara sawab

(One-half roti, One-half kebab

Killing an atheist is the highest reward)

Like a burning effigy, Mansoor became a fireball of flame—smokeless, odourless, invisible. For a moment, he stood there unruffled and unshaken, as if he cherished every moment of it, as if the fire had found the abode it was looking for, as if, much like Abraham’s fire, it had become a peaceful garden that bore no harm.

And then the crowd saw another man set ablaze. It was Athanni. Mansoor had a stranglehold on Athanni. Trying unsuccessfully to liberate himself from the firm grip of the fiery djinn, Athanni screamed for help. But no one came to his rescue. They both grappled and scuffled and performed the Danse Macabre.

And the crowd watched, catatonic, two ignited bodies danced, flickered, struggled—a grand display of crackling pyrotechnics. It was as though they