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

from the Daily Jadal would not dare attack a car that had the federal government’s licence plate. Noor came with Sikander, who, after dropping him at Sadiq’s house, went back to the Kashana.

The Unholy Quartet moved to Sadiq’s unpretentious drawing room where the only item of decoration was a bookshelf filled with Western and Russian classics in dark buckram binding. A coffee table stood in the centre of the room with a sofa, bordered by two side tables, set against the wall and two wooden chairs across from it. The discussion invariably gravitated towards national politics. And how could they not talk about politics so close to one of the most hotly contested elections? Excitement and edginess permeated across the country. There was this faint hope of a true democracy, but there was also a fear of another martial law.

Despite too many noisy upstarts, the opposition parties had remained scattered and leaderless. Disarrayed and unprepared by this sudden call for elections, they fought each other. But as soon as they realized that their bickering helped General Dundda’s cause, they reached a compromise.

To challenge the general (now affectionately known as the Saviour of the Nation, a title given to him by his brilliant foreign minister), the opposition parties had jointly nominated the sister of Pakistan’s founder as their leader. A frail, silver-haired dental surgeon in her seventies, she had no political ambitions of her own but had been a close adviser to her brother and a supporter of civil rights. After her brother’s death, she had devoted herself mostly to charity work. Drafted as a consensus candidate, she became a symbol of resistance and came to be known as Madār-e-Millat, the Mother of the Nation. Her candidacy appeared so formidable to the general that, to delegitimize her, he extracted a fatwa from a conservative cleric, declaring that a woman could not be the head of an Islamic republic.

‘I think the Mother of the Nation will give General Sahib a good run for his money,’ Zakir commented.

‘Do you seriously think that Dundda Khan will let her win?’ Haider asked.

‘Noor, what do you think? Will the fatwa derail her candidacy?’ Zakir asked.

‘No, but the general will,’ Noor replied.

The political discussion continued until after dinner, but then Zakir and Haider had to leave. The former had to catch a flight the next morning to Islamabad, while the latter had an editorial meeting to prepare for. Noor, too, was ready to leave, but Sadiq insisted that he stay back for a while.

After Zakir and Haider left, Sadiq opened the bottle of Rémy Martin that Noor had brought for him, and then tempted his friend with some chocolate cake, which Anna had brought for her father from his favourite Pereira Bakery earlier in the day. Anything chocolate was Noor’s weakness, so this enticement made the invitation to stay longer a tad more interesting. As Sadiq got up to get the cake from the refrigerator, Noor surveyed the drawing room. It was small but cozy. On the side table next to the sofa, he noticed the familiar orange and white cover of a Penguin book. He could not see the name of the book from where he sat, so he got up, put on his reading glasses and picked up the paperback. It was Nabokov’s Lolita. Noor had read the novel some years ago, but he still felt uneasy about it. Throwing it back on the table, he subconsciously shrugged his shoulders and returned to where he was sitting. Sadiq came back with two slices of cake and gave one to Noor. As he sat down, he talked about Anna’s love of baking and books, especially her interest in literature. After a while, Sadiq changed the subject to Kaneez’s death.

‘I didn’t think that you knew Kaneez,’ Noor remarked.

‘Oh, didn’t I tell you I hired her daughter, Mehrun, after you fired them?’

‘No, I didn’t know that, and in any case, I didn’t really fire them.’

Sadiq told Noor how Talat had found out about the whole episode and had promptly offered Mehrun a job cleaning the house and cooking for them. He then praised Mehrun’s intelligence and casually told his friend that he intended to teach her English language and literature.

‘You know, your Mansoor introduced her to Oliver Twist.’

‘Good for him.’

An uncomfortable silence overtook Sadiq, as he fidgeted with the cake on his plate. After a moment, he placed the plate on the narrow coffee table and turned towards his friend.

‘Noor, what do you think of Mehrun?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I love her, Noor,’ he said in English. Uttering the words ‘I love her’ in Urdu somehow cheapened the sentiment, at least in his mind.

‘I beg your pardon!’

‘Don’t be angry with me!’

But Noor was not angry with him; he was merely taken aback by this declaration of love. If Haider had said this, it would not have shocked him; if Zakir had uttered those four words, it would not have surprised him. But Sadiq Mirza, the distinguished scholar and literary critic, a married man with three married daughters? That shocked him. His eyes shifted between the copy of Lolita on the side table and Sadiq.

‘Is that why you are reading this filth?’ he asked, gesturing towards the book.

‘It’s not filth, and I am reading it to understand . . .’ Sadiq paused and then completed his sentence, ‘I don’t know . . . I am trying to understand myself, I guess.’

‘I think the cog-nac has affected your cog-nition, Sadiq,’ Noor said sarcastically, emphasizing ‘cog’ the way his driver, Sikander, pronounced ‘cognac’.

But it was not the cognac speaking. Ever since that day in his library, when Mehrun had talked about her love of the English language and her desire to read literature, it was as if she had guided Sadiq’s heart towards the possibility of romantic love for the first time in his life. He knew it was stupid; Mehrun was not even twenty, but he had never felt like this before. He told Noor about that brief encounter in his