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

of the house, who issued orders to her imaginary servants, each time in broken English. She had picked up a smattering of this alien language at her Urdu-medium yellow school and also from eavesdropping on Mansoor’s lessons with Zaidi, who preferred teaching him out in the verandah, making it easier for Mehrun to listen and absorb the lessons. Even when they were inside, she would find an excuse to stay nearby, within earshot. Every afternoon, when she saw Zaidi approaching the Kashana, she would casually drift towards the verandah, pretending to be busy with her work, while her ears stayed glued to Zaidi’s diction and delivery.

Joseph Solomon also joined them sometimes. A tall, muscular, dark-complexioned boy, he came to the Kashana to help his mother, Pyaro, the sweeper, clean the toilets and collect the rotting garbage. But mostly he got distracted by Mehrun and Mansoor. Always dressed in a bright-coloured dhoti and a contrasting kurta, he would announce his entry into the back garden either with a bhangra dance or a bawdy Punjabi song. Whenever he saw Mehrun, he would raise his eyebrows, wink at her and smile impishly. If he found her listening attentively to Mansoor’s tutor, he would make kissing gestures with his fingers or offer her a bidi to smoke. His antics always made Mehrun smile and Mansoor blush. To Mansoor, he was forever the most welcoming disruption.

Joseph belonged to the sweeper community in Karachi, which was entirely Christian. Originally untouchable Hindus, they were converted to Christianity by the missionaries from Europe. The change of religion, however, did not expunge their pariah status. The Hindus of the city still regarded them as untouchable because they originally came from the lowest of castes, while the Muslims avoided physical contact with them because they considered them unclean. Discrimination against them continued unabated and they remained social outcasts, languishing at the bottom of the social ladder. Joseph was fortunate to get some education at The School, run by British nuns in Bhangi Para, where he lived with his mother.

*

At first, Mansoor took extra caution to ensure that his interactions with these ‘undesirable elements’ remained hidden from his parents, but as their games in the Kashana’s back garden became more amusing, more engaging, he became careless. To him, Mehrun and Joseph were far more exciting playmates than his wealthy classmates or his ornery cousins, Khaleel and Jaleel—Sarwat’s sons. Joseph always had something new to tell: a cheap joke, a vulgar song, or a crude story, and Mehrun kept up a steady supply of her ever-ready tuk-bandi, her concocted Urdu doggerels.

‘Mehrun, do you want to see a filim with me?’ Joseph asked Mehrun one afternoon when the three of them were sitting under the guava tree in the back garden, whiling away the hours.

‘Get lost! You’re crazy.’

‘The hero in the filim looks like me.’

‘Have you seen your face in the mirror?’

‘I see it in your eyes; I don’t need a mirror. One day, when I become a hero in my filim, you will beg me to marry you.’

‘I’d rather marry an idiot millionaire.’

‘Just for you, I will become a millionaire first, and then I will change into an idiot.’

‘Okay, so what filim are you going to see?’

‘Chummi Dey.’

‘Give Me a Kiss’ was a made-up movie title, and Mehrun knew it. Mansoor blushed, and she convulsed into laughter.

*

While Joseph’s flirtatious games were fraught with delicious anticipations, Mehrun’s coquetry and her reciprocity to his lewd banter always had the element of the unexpected. Mansoor never knew what the next surprise would be. And that was the allure.

That day, Mansoor had been outside with his friends for longer than usual. Realizing that his parents would get up from their siesta any time, he decided to return to his ridiculous routine. But just as he was about to leave his forbidden friends, he saw Khaleel and Jaleel saunter in his direction. He despised them, especially Khaleel, the shifty blackmailer. Khaleel knew that Mansoor enjoyed the company of Mehrun and Joseph, ‘the scumbags’, and so, to keep quiet and not tell his aunt about what was going on, it was only fair that Mansoor paid him something.

Khaleel’s usual cut, eight annas for himself and four annas for his younger brother, were wrested from Mansoor’s weekly allowance of five rupees, and although it was not much, it still upset Mansoor. Both Joseph and Mehrun knew about the brothers’ nasty habit. So they nicknamed them after the most commonly used Pakistani coins: the older one became Athanni, meaning eight annas or half a rupee, and the younger one, Chowwani, meaning four annas or a quarter rupee. The fact that Joseph and Mehrun had nicknames for them enraged Khaleel and he became more brazen in extorting money from Mansoor whenever he had the opportunity.

‘Mansoor, what are you doing playing with these lowlifes?’

Mansoor kept quiet.

‘Where is our money?’ Khaleel asked.

Mehrun came and stood between them and started singing her made-to-order Urdu doggerel:

Athanni ney yeh gaana gaya:

Mein paisa churaney aya,

Chowwani ney mara panja,

Athanni Babu ganja

(Athanni sang this song:

I came to steal the money,

Chowwani hit and clawed,

And now Athanni Babu is bald)

‘Get away from me, kutiya!’ Khaleel pushed Mehrun aside.

The word ‘kutiya’ or ‘bitch’ was used so frequently at Mehrun’s house that it did not sound like an insult to her. But as Khaleel moved closer to Mansoor, it was Joseph who now became a wall between them.

‘Get out of my way, you bhangi’s litter,’ Khaleel tried to slap him, but he missed.

Although the word ‘bhangi’ literally means one who is addicted to the narcotic drug bhang, it is used as a racially offensive term. Calling a sweeper ‘bhangi’ was a grave mistake. It was the ultimate insult. It was something that made even the pachydermatous Joseph bristle with anger. Scream the worst profanity at him, and he would laugh with you, but call him a bhangi, and you are dead. As the word stung his ears, Joseph grabbed Khaleel by his balls and snarled, ‘Listen, you son of a . . .