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

in his tea. As he began sipping it, Noor noticed the smudges of dust on the framed picture of his late father on the wall.

‘Budhoo, dust the frame, it has streaks all over.’

The servant pulled the dishcloth hanging from his shoulder and began cleaning the frame. He stopped and gazed at the picture for a while before continuing again. Budhoo had come to work for Noor’s family as a young man. Nobody knew his real name. The moniker, Budhoo, which in Urdu meant simpleton, stuck to him because of his childlike manners.

Noor was still thinking about Farhat. How badly they both wanted a child, and how ruthlessly nature had denied them. Eleven failed pregnancies. Why? All his friends had heirs, all except him. He had always wanted a family, sons and daughters. Twenty-three years ago, when he was only twenty, he had been notified by his parents that his marriage had been arranged with the daughter of Javed Sultan. No one even bothered to tell him the girl’s name for a long time. But none of that had mattered on his wedding day. When Noor had lifted Farhat’s veil, he was dazzled by her beauty, and when she raised her green almond-shaped eyes to look up at him, it was as if the whole room had lit up. Only seventeen then, she had retained her elegance and beauty throughout their married life, despite being pregnant almost always and now middle-aged.

The ringing of the doorbell broke his reverie. He stood up and drew the curtains that separated the men’s quarters from the rest of the house. A few seconds later, Budhoo brought in Haider Rizvi and Sadiq Mirza, his closest friends from college. The loud-mouthed political editor of the Morning Gazette, Haider Rizvi was better known for his thick, black round glasses and his penchant for using tiresome cricket terms in his editorials than for his journalistic prowess. Sadiq Mirza, on the other hand, was his outright antithesis. A professor of comparative literature at the University of Karachi, he was soft-spoken, thoughtful and good at putting things into perspective. His trademark pipe mostly remained glued to the right corner of his mouth. Noor admired his erudition.

Haider sniffed the air, almost salivating as he savoured the delicious smell of the venison, ‘Scotch and venison! Now that’s what I call cricket!’

‘My friends, that’s what you get in my raj,’ Noor replied.

‘It would have been perfect, except for this bloody heat,’ Sadiq remarked, lighting his pipe.

After they had settled down, Noor gave them their plaques and opened the bottle of Johnnie Walker. It was only during such meetings of the literati that he took out his Scotch; for his everyday needs, he quaffed the local whisky, which he called his shahi tharra, his royal hooch.

‘I am going to hang this in my office,’ Sadiq said, admiring the plaque.

‘Me too, but before I forget, I have a message for you, Noor, from our publisher, Mr Azeem Shan. He would like you to represent the Morning Gazette.’

‘Why? Did he forget to pay his protection money to the government?’ Noor asked, pouring the whisky into the glasses.

‘Very funny, but no. He paid his protection money. This has to do with something else.’

‘Thanks, but no thanks. Tell Azeem Shan that I can’t take any more cases. My workload has increased since Burmah-Shell retained me.’ Noor handed one glass to Haider and the other to Sadiq.

‘Well, at least speak to him.’

‘Why should I? The thirsty go to the drinking well; the well doesn’t go to the thirsty.’

‘But what is this case about?’ Sadiq asked, puffing out smoke from his pipe.

‘Remember the corruption story we ran against that bloody-fool minister? He retaliated by slapping us with a lawsuit accusing us of libel,’ Haider said.

Sadiq swigged down the Scotch and said, ‘So that’s why your editor wants the most sought-after attorney in Pakistan to represent them.’

‘Frankly speaking, I don’t want to get involved in these bloody political dramas. I have had enough of them in India,’ Noor said. ‘The English went away, but they left their poodles behind just to piss us off.’

‘Come on, Noor, you’ll become famous,’ Haider said, and guzzled down the whisky.

‘Fame doesn’t inspire me, my friend,’ Noor replied.

‘So, what’s this speech that the Leader of the Nation is going to deliver today?’ Sadiq asked, as if Haider had an advance copy of the speech. ‘I have heard that it’s probably about a possible rapprochement with India,’ he continued.

‘Or it could be just another speech giving honorific titles to vacuous sycophants,’ Noor replied.

‘Everyone in this country has titles stuffed right up their asses!’ Haider laughed as he stood up and began refilling his whisky glass.

‘Titles in this country, my friends, are like haemorrhoids; sooner or later, every asshole politician gets them,’ Noor interjected. The three friends burst into laughter.

‘Okay, here is a deep mathematical question for you, Professor: What are the odds that we will have a Constitution ready in time to entertain us?’ Haider asked Sadiq.

Before Sadiq could reply, Noor laughed and said, ‘Between zero and naught! The Assembly has been on it since 1947; how much progress has it made in these last four years, huh?’

‘The hard part is drawing a fine line between the secular and the religious,’ Sadiq retorted.

‘Well, I think the fault lies with the Great Leader. If he had not died so soon after the Partition, we would not only have a Constitution but a secular one at that,’ said Haider.

‘Instead, theocracy is now entering Pakistan through the back door,’ Sadiq added.

‘My friends, theocracy, in this country, is going to make a grand entrance, garlanded with flowers and wearing a turban. Just wait and watch,’ Noor replied.

The bell rang again, and after a moment, Zakir Hassan made his entry, liberally doused in the most expensive cologne and looking his usual dapper self. A connoisseur of the bon vivant, he had recently joined the United Nations’ Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO). Based in Rome, he was back in Karachi on official business. After