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

‘You, my friend, are not in love with Mehrun; you are in love with language and literature, and with the idea of an intelligent young woman being enamoured with what you love—language and literature,’ he paused and then asked, ‘And what about Talat? Are you going to divorce her?’

‘No, I don’t have to divorce her. Islam allows for polygamy.’

‘My God, Sadiq! I can’t believe that I am hearing this from a liberal, educated and secular man like you! You have gone stark raving mad, my brother.’

‘I don’t know what to do. All day, I think about Mehrun. I know I can teach her English. I can be her Pygmalion, Noor.’

‘Pygmalion, my foot! Pygmalion carved the statue and then fell in love with it. You, on the other hand . . .’

‘I know what you are thinking, but I want your guidance.’

‘You need to see a psychiatrist! Now, look . . . think about your family, think about your age difference, your intellectual difference and your distinct backgrounds.’

‘Noor, you of all people are asking me to not fall in love because of our different social backgrounds?’

‘I am talking about reality and your teenager-like behaviour at this age! Snap out of it, Sadiq. Stop reading Lolita. If your wife lets you live, you will regret everything.’

Right at that moment, Sikander rang the bell and informed Noor that he had come to pick him up. Worried that his friend had gone mad, Noor admonished him one more time to not be stupid and then left.

*

The elections came and the general won. The bigwigs of the C.O.P.s, charging the government with blatant rigging, promised massive protests. But internal party squabbling ended their lacklustre rallies, and the Mother of the Nation, demoralized by the election result, died a few months later.

Although the general assured the nation that he bore no malice and would exact no revenge as his election was nothing but ‘the people’s glory’, his son had other ideas. Intoxicated by his father’s victory, which the Daily Jadal called ‘obviously rigged’, he sent truckloads of thugs to beat up anyone who spoke out against his father. Sending his goons to Soldier Bazaar, the hub of the C.O.P.s in Karachi, he inflicted reprisal—burning property, firing at unarmed people and sowing the seeds of ethnic hatred. The city that had become the symbol of resistance against authoritarianism now became permanently labelled as the city of muhajirs, immigrants from India. The children of these immigrants, children like Mansoor, could never be the sons of the soil. Dictatorship got validated, and Western governments praised the new civilian President for bringing his nation into the family of democracies.

*

After the elections, among the many decisions that the government took, the one that shattered Joseph’s heart and hopes the most was the banning of Indian films from Pakistani cinema halls. These Indian films had provided Joseph with a distraction from the dirty drudgery and the filth that summed up his life in Bhangi Para. But then Joseph realized that the ban might actually help fulfil his dream of becoming a movie star. Deprived of the Indian films, audiences thronged to see Pakistani films. Increased demand led to increased production. The ban thus became a blessing in disguise for the fledgling Pakistani film industry, and the 1960s became the golden era of films in Pakistan. It also coincided with the rise of the film star Waheed Murad, known as the Chocolate Hero, who dominated the industry until his premature death in 1983. Waheed captured Joseph’s imagination in a way that Dilip Kumar, the Indian heart-throb of that era, never did. He began to talk like Waheed Murad, walk like Waheed Murad and even paid a full ten rupees to a barber to make him look like the actor. When he found out that the Chocolate Hero’s bungalow was in the same neighbourhood as Noor’s, he began to spend a great deal of his free time there, waiting to catch a glimpse of him. The stalking paid off, and Waheed Murad offered him a role as an extra in one of his hit movies. That offer, small no doubt, made Joseph feel big. And when he heard the news, he bought a pair of sunglasses, a cheap scarf and a pipe, and paid a visit to the Kashana. He found Mansoor and Mehrun in the backyard. When Mehrun saw him, she asked, ‘Why are you dressed up like a cheap villain?’

‘Meet Chocolate Hero Number 2,’ he bowed, and then turning to Mehrun and pointing at her, said, ‘Meet my Chocolate Heroine Number 1.’

Detailing his encounter with Waheed Murad, Joseph told them that he had been offered a key role in his up-and-coming movie Heera aur Pathar. He added, ‘It can be translated as “Diamond and Stone”, for the lovers of Angrezi language.’

‘We will believe you when we actually see you in the movie,’ Mehrun said.

Joseph did not care if Mehrun did not believe him. The proof of his stardom would be in that epic donkey-cart race, which, he was told, was one of the best scenes in the film. He did not have a donkey cart, so he just rented a donkey and a cart from a dhoban, a laundress, who lived outside his neighbourhood.

Unfortunately, on the day of the shooting, Joseph overslept, and that was the end of his chance to succeed Waheed Murad as the next chocolate hero. But now he was entirely obsessed with becoming a movie star. Cleaning ‘people’s shit holes’ was no longer an option. He could not be a bhangi any more. That was history as far as he was concerned. But then his friend Anthony Masih, who did work in the film industry, told him, ‘Once they find out that you are a bhangi, you will never work in the film industry here. I am going to go to Bombay, where they will never know anything about my past.’

Now the word ‘Bombay’ got stuck in Joseph’s ears. It played inside his mind like a technicolour movie