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

carpet. He picked them up and thought of Noor. Sure, he was a professor, but he was no Humbert Humbert, and Mehrun was definitely not his Lolita. You couldn’t be more wrong, Noor ul Haq. He raised both his hands in an imaginary defence against what the barrister had said that day. He remembered Noor’s gaze alternating between the copy of Lolita and him.

Mehrun came back with the tea tray. She put it down on the coffee table and began putting sugar and milk in his tea. She did the same for herself and then sat back on the chair.

‘Sahib, I was thinking . . . could you . . . I mean, could you get me admitted into President’s College . . . I’ll be forever grateful to you,’ she said.

‘President’s is tough to get into,’ Sadiq sat up and continued, ‘Do you think you will have the marks?’

‘I am trying for a first division. I have to, to get scholarships . . . otherwise I won’t be able to pay the tuition,’ she said.

‘I know that,’ he said. ‘If you get a good first division, I’ll do my best to get you admitted there on a scholarship. The current principal of the college is a former student of mine.’

He then asked her to come and sit near him. She chose the chair in front of him instead. Despite being somewhat at ease with him, the question of sitting right next to him still did not arise. She respected him, admired him, but she would always consider herself his servant. And even though his demeanour differed from Noor Sahib’s, she still could not imagine him as her mentor. But then, while everyone else looked past her, Sadiq Sahib always looked into her eyes, that too with a smile. Was he attracted to her? Now it was her turn to smile.

‘Why is education so important to you?’ the professor asked.

‘My English teacher once told me that while I was smart enough to get a good education, it would only matter if I went to an English-medium school. Ever since I was a little girl, my dream has been to learn English, but my mother never liked that. She did not even want me to go to school, but I went, and I always came first in my class. My parents never went to school, but I want to go to college and then teach like you.’

‘You are still a little girl.’

‘No, I am almost nineteen. I am practically a woman now.’

Sadiq sighed in relief when he heard her say she was nineteen. Mehrun was not a twelve-year-old Lolita. Noor was dead wrong. With his guilt somewhat abated, he asked her more questions about her dreams, about her interests and about her friends. And for the first time in her life, Mehrun felt that somebody was genuinely interested in her. The more questions he asked, the more comfortable she became. His lavish attention brought her to a happy place. In the excitement of this realization, she suddenly saw him searching her eyes. She blushed and lowered her head, and the next thing she knew, he was kissing her. Mehrun did not resist, succumbing utterly, allowing him a few moments of passion, the relational structure dismantling, the taboos breaking, but then she stood up.

‘What are you doing, Sahib?’ she asked, her voice trembling. ‘Talat Begum, she just called me beti!’

Sadiq did not know what to do as he watched Mehrun run out of the house. It all happened suddenly. How did he lose control of his instincts? He felt embarrassed. What should he do? Should he run after her and apologize to her? But he stood there nervous and hesitant, long after Mehrun had gone.

*

The city lights returned with hurried normality, but the blackout in peoples’ minds continued unabated. People wanted to block the memory of that inane war; so they avoided discussing it. But Haider Rizvi was not one of them. He wrote an impassioned editorial, entitled ‘The Questions’, in the Morning Gazette:

There is a sense of loss, but what is utterly lost cannot be identified. There is a sense of ruin, but what is genuinely wrecked cannot be fathomed. Why did we fight this war? Was it indeed about self-defence? Was our territory really invaded? Was our honour actually slandered? Who will do the objective analysis? Who will be held accountable? Who will lead the way so that we do not waste our humanity in fighting unnecessary wars and devote it instead to solving the problems of hunger and illiteracy, and bettering the condition of 80 per cent of our people who wage a daily battle against grinding poverty?

The government issued a warrant for his arrest. The charge: incitement of public anger against the government. But the war had changed Haider, too. He was angry and he no longer feared the general. When the labour leader and their friend Hassan Nasir disappeared, it shook them all. Secretly arrested for being a communist, he was tortured and killed by the government. No, Haider Rizvi couldn’t be silent any longer. He must fight the charges.

Noor gladly offered to take up Haider’s case and began preparing a vigorous defence. Knowing fully well that he would be in a kangaroo court fighting bogus charges, he remained determined not to give the government a free pass. Noor was willing to risk arrest; staying on the sidelines was no longer an option. He couldn’t let his friend languish in the Central Jail, not without putting up a good fight.

Thirteen

Joseph’s quarrels with his mother turned into daily battles. He insulted her family and her profession, and hurled curses at Pakistan, where he thought his future was bleaker than hers. She, in turn, just bawled and called him an ungrateful traitor. Seduced by the dreams of becoming a movie star, he felt these dreams would become a nightmare if he remained in this morass that was Bhangi Para. Thoughts about faraway places like India, Dubai, England and