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

think, and during the blackouts, she would study under the tiny flicker of the kerosene lantern and absorb more.

Sadiq kept glancing at Mehrun in the rear-view mirror. Dressed in a white shalwar-kameez, she looked like a model of simplicity and elegance. The young woman was transforming right in front of his eyes, not just physically but also intellectually. She asked smart questions, she replied thoughtfully and her English had improved considerably. If she were correctly educated, she could easily become well groomed and polished under his guidance, and then no one would believe that she was Kaneez’s daughter. Sadiq smiled as he imagined the new and improved Mehrun. But then Noor’s sarcastic comment from the last time they had met echoed in his mind: ‘Is your Pygmalion bhoot, your obsession, under control or not?’

‘How’s your book coming?’ he heard Mehrun’s voice from the back seat.

‘Slowly,’ he replied.

During the shutdown following the war, Sadiq had spent most of his time at home, thinking and making notes about an idea for a book that he had. Both Noor and he would often talk at length about Ghalib’s poetry, and it was his friend who had prodded him to write about the nineteenth-century Urdu poet. In fact, Noor had even suggested the title of the book—Reinterpreting Ghalib in the Twentieth Century.

‘Why don’t you write it yourself?’ Sadiq had asked Noor.

But Noor had quickly shot that idea down. There were only two writers in their group: Haider and Sadiq. Besides, he was too old to write. The wistfulness in his answer was not lost on Sadiq.

As the car turned into the professor’s street, Mehrun spotted Talat standing outside the gate. Sadiq pulled up the car near her and asked, ‘What are you doing outside? Is everything okay? Where are you going?’

‘Anna just called. Her boy fell from his bicycle and has broken his foot. She wants me to come over. Give me the car keys.’

As Sadiq and Mehrun hurriedly got out of the car, Talat said to her husband, ‘I will try to call you from her house.’ Then, turning towards Mehrun, she smiled apologetically and said, ‘Sorry, Mehrun Beti!’

With that, she got into the car and drove off. Mehrun could not believe that she had called her beti, daughter. Even her parents had never called her that. She smiled wistfully.

‘Well, I guess it’s just you and me,’ Sadiq said, walking through the front gate.

Mehrun, still glowing from Talat’s unexpected sweetness, followed the professor as he went inside the house.

‘Do you want me to dust the library?’

‘You are not here to work. Today is your day off.’

Although he had seen her once after her mother’s death, Sadiq had never had an opportunity to properly commiserate with Mehrun. Seeing her grief self-evident in her deep brown eyes, he now asked her about Jumman.

‘Most of his days are bad.’

‘And you? How are you?’

‘I don’t know . . .’

Sadiq wanted to reach out to her, but he did not quite know how to. To comfort a grieving person, let alone a servant, was something that even this professor of language and literature found hard. Should he just keep quiet and let her share whatever feelings she wanted to share, or should he say something trite like, ‘I know what you are going through?’ Luckily, he did not have to say anything at all because Mehrun felt comfortable confiding in her mentor.

‘I was in shock at first,’ she said. ‘But now I am mostly angry. I can’t shake it off, not after the way the malang beat her. He killed her, Sahib. He killed her!’ She burst out crying and buried her face against his shoulder. More than a little taken aback, Sadiq tentatively put his arms around her, holding her awkwardly. Suddenly, he had this mad urge to kiss her, but he controlled it. The only appropriate thing for him to do at that moment was to comfort her. He searched for the right words, but all he could muster was, ‘Let me know if there is anything I can do.’ He felt incredibly stupid.

‘Sahib, you have already done a lot for me,’ Mehrun replied as she pulled back.

They were standing in the middle of the drawing room. Sadiq asked her to pull up a chair and sit. Since her first day in his house, Sadiq had broken all norms, all rules governing the master–servant relationship, and today, Talat had also joined him by calling her beti. Yet, Mehrun was uncomfortable about sitting next to her mentor as an equal; she hesitated and then reluctantly pulled a chair. Sadiq couldn’t avoid noticing the unease on her face. He knew she was hurting badly and that he must practice caution. The professor could not let his emotions cloud his rationality. Noor’s words about how he was confusing the love of an idea for his love for Mehrun were still fresh in his head. He needed to be sure before he professed anything in front of her.

‘How’s your preparation for the exam going?’ he asked as he sat on the sofa.

‘I haven’t studied at all.’

‘If you need my help in any subject other than science, let me know. I can help you prepare.’

‘I may have a few questions on The Great Expectations.’

‘Dickens is one of my favourite nineteenth-century writers.’

Their conversation hit an edgy pause, triggering beads of nervous sweat to gather on his forehead.

‘Should I make tea for you?’ Mehrun asked.

‘That would be great, but make a cup for yourself also.’

‘I’ll make it for you.’ Mehrun felt awkward drinking tea with her employer.

‘I insist that you make two cups. I don’t think of you as my servant. You are my student, my mentee.’

‘Thank you, Sahib,’ she said softly.

She wrung her hands, wavering a little, and then got up to go to the kitchen, leaving Sadiq alone to shuffle through his notes that lay scattered on the side table next to the sofa. As he began putting the documents neatly back in order, a few pages fell down on the