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

ventured beyond that vast expanse of empty space that formed a cordon sanitaire between opulence and indigence, between touchable and untouchable. Joseph pedalled vigorously through the narrow, muddy path, dodging semi-naked children with bloated bellies. Mansoor saw little boys and girls in dirty rags, one of them pushing a spoke-less bicycle tyre. He saw two boys defecating in the open, engaged in an animated conversation, unmindful of their surroundings and undisturbed by the people around. The smell of faeces mixed with the odour of rotting garbage made Mansoor dizzy. He saw a woman, not unlike Pyaro, thrash her bawling child on his bare bottom. He spotted an old, dark-complexioned man in a turban urinate in front of a burnt half-demolished wall. Nearby, the rotting carcass of a dog attracted hungry crows that hovered above it in the air, waiting for their chance to feast. From every corner of Joseph’s neighbourhood, poverty glared and screamed at the smartly dressed Mansoor. It was a frigid day, but little beads of salty sweat trickled from his brows, reaching his eyes and dripping to his lips. He felt as if someone had put a dagger in his heart. Suddenly, Joseph swerved into a blind alley and tried to stop the bike by dragging his feet along the ground. As it came to a halt in front of a hovel, Mansoor realized that the bicycle had no brakes.

‘Welcome to Bhangi Para,’ Joseph announced to his fellow riders with a flourish.

As Mansoor jumped off the crossbar, his feet landed in a pile of fresh cow dung. He felt something from his stomach move up and threaten to come out of his mouth.

‘This, my friends, is my Taj Mahal,’ Joseph announced, smiling proudly. He was pointing towards a little place that was a study in the architecture of absurdity. Hundreds of loosely compressed cement bricks formed a crudely built cabin, and in place of a door, hung a curtain made from patches of gunnysack.

‘I feel like throwing up,’ Mansoor said, trying really hard to clamp down on the vomit rising up his throat.

Joseph laughed and replied, ‘Come on, Mansoor Babu! It’s not that bad.’

But the smell and the sight of cow dung on his shoes had overtaxed Mansoor’s ability to control his vomit. He took out his handkerchief from his pocket and whiffed the faint but clean smell of washing detergent. That seemed to have a settling effect on him.

Joseph, meanwhile, insisted on taking them to the back of the house, where the rusting front frame of a Volkswagen Beetle jutted out like the nose of a proboscis monkey. Two semi-naked boys chasing a squealing pig ran right past them as they stood staring at the house. Mansoor had never seen a pig before; he did not even know that there were pigs in Karachi, despite his father’s frequent allusions to the ruling elite as such.

Mansoor had had enough; he could not take it any more. So, he told Joseph that he wanted to go home.

‘But we just arrived! Have a sherbet, it will cool you down,’ Joseph tried to pacify Mansoor.

‘No, I want to go home.’

‘Mansoor Babu, you are my guest. You should eat or drink something.’

‘No, I am not hungry. I just want to go home!’ Mansoor shouted.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll give you the food in a Muslim plate.’

‘No, it’s not that. My mother will be back and if she doesn’t find me at home, she will be very angry with me.’

‘I think he is right, Joseph. If Begum Sahiba finds out that we kidnapped Mansoor Babu, we’ll both get such a thrashing that we will remember our nanis, our grandmothers,’ Mehrun intervened, noticing the crimson hue on Mansoor’s face. Joseph’s face changed, too, the hurt all too obvious to hide. Without another word, all three of them hopped back on the bike and prepared for their return trip, which seemed even longer now. This time, Joseph sang a mournful song:

Dil torney waley dekh ke chal

Hum bhi to parey hain rahon mein

(O heartbreaker, tread carefully

For I am also lying in the path)

*

When he returned home, Mansoor was glad to find that his mother was still at her father’s house. He bolted straight to the bathroom, lifted the toilet seat, puked into the commode and immediately felt better. After flushing the toilet, Mansoor rinsed his mouth, washed his face and went into his room. As he collapsed on his bed, a baby lizard, glued to the ceiling, caught his eyes, its translucent glassy body more beautiful than anything he had seen at Bhangi Para. Mansoor closed his eyes and soon began dreaming.

In his dream, he felt light-headed and found himself falling down a pit, about to crash headfirst. Then, he noticed his feet. They were big.

‘Oh, God! What is happening to me?’ he roared.

‘How are you, Djinn Sahib?’ He saw Mehrun dressed in her tattered sweater.

‘Have a Muslim plate, Sahib.’ It was Joseph, holding the carcass of a cat in a deep plate.

‘Mansoor, wake up! Wake up!’

Mansoor woke up with a start and saw his mother’s worried face looming over him.

‘Are you okay, beta? You were mumbling in your dream.’ She felt his forehead. ‘You are burning! You have a fever.’

Mansoor, shivering and delirious, remained like that until Sikander brought Dr Minwalla. After doing a detailed check-up, she told Farhat that Mansoor had double pneumonia and prescribed some antibiotics.

Was it the simple cold that he had from before that had turned into this acute illness? Or was it the sight of the unforgettable Bhangi Para that had caused it? Whatever it was, Mansoor remained confined to his bed for two weeks. It was the worst two weeks of his young life. The first week and a half, his fever disoriented him, bringing with it chills and delirium. At night, he hallucinated and whimpered and cried. Things improved dramatically after that, and by the time his father returned from the capital, Mansoor had almost recovered. It was as if he was waiting for his father’s return so that