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

a short burst of raw energy and the unadulterated performance of sexual oomph. As Joseph dropped to her side, she got up and quickly got dressed. She was just about to disappear from the room when Joseph caught her hand. He winked at her and asked, ‘Marry me?’

She twisted her hand free from his and snapped, ‘Get lost, haramzada bhangi.’

Joseph only heard the word ‘bhangi’, not ‘haramzada’, which meant bastard’s son, but it seemed as if he did not care. Had the hateful word lost all its derisive character? Had it become impenetrable nonsense? But then suddenly, as if he was hit by the realization, Joseph got up and landed a stinging slap on the woman’s cheek. She staggered back and howled and shouted, ‘You motherfucker, get out of my house. I will call my dalla.’

Joseph reached for his shirt pocket and pulled out a crumpled bidi. He lit it up and inhaled its poison, slowly. He was not afraid of her threat to call her pimp. Sitting stark naked after a quickie, smoking a bidi, and hitting the prostitute for her insult made him feel liberated. But when the woman’s pimp came in and saw Joseph—a big, naked guy—he politely asked him to cause no more trouble. Joseph gave him a dirty look, put on his clothes and came out, only to be accosted by another suspicious-looking man.

‘You want pencil-in?’ he asked Joseph in a hushed tone.

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s a drug for “bee dee”,’ he replied.

‘What’s “bee dee”?’

‘“Bee Dee”, saala! Bee Dee! Benereal Degeez!’

Scaring Joseph with horror stories of venereal diseases and the importance of penicillin after sex, the man took him to another dingy flat where he saw a long line of people waiting for a shot of penicillin. Joseph joined the line and waited for a tedious hour to get the injection, marvelling at the cottage industry that the sex trade created. An hour of post-sex-waiting, after six minutes of crappy pleasure, was not his idea of fun. His mind once again began planning escape strategies from his profession, his work and his country.

*

Haider Rizvi’s trial in the august Sindh High Court building was short, swift and fair. Using several precedents and references, Noor destroyed the government’s arguments. The rule of law had prevailed. In vindicating Haider, the judge not only defied the rule of force, but he also asserted the independence of the judiciary. In his ruling, he lectured that it is only in law-observing societies that human potential is achieved. After the verdict, a rather overwhelmed Haider hugged Noor and slumped back into his wooden chair. His head in his hands, he began to weep. Both Sadiq and Zakir, who were there for support, tried comforting him. The lead prosecutor later confided in Noor about the weakness of the case; but what could he do as a government prosecutor? He had to carry on with the sham. After the friends calmed Haider down, they all drove together in Noor’s car to the Sindh Club to celebrate the victory. Noor wondered if General Dundda’s grip on power had weakened, if the sycophants who flocked around him were finally abandoning him.

That night, Noor came home early, elated, and with an enormous, colourful box of sweetmeats. Mansoor was in his bed reading James Hilton’s Goodbye, Mr. Chips when Budhoo knocked at his door.

‘What is it, Budhoo?’ he asked.

‘Mansoor Babu, Sahib wants you.’

Budhoo’s serious tone made Mansoor’s face flush and then go pale. By now, he should have been used to those nightly lectures that metamorphosed into long discourses, but they still caused his stomach to churn.

‘Why does he want me?’ he asked Budhoo.

‘I don’t know, Babu, but he has brought a box of mithai, sweets, from Abdul Hannan’s store.’

Abdul Hannan Sweetmeat Merchants, near Guru Mandir, was Mansoor’s favourite store. Hearing the merchant’s name, he jumped out of bed, straightened his crumpled shirt, put on his slippers and headed towards his parents’ bedroom. Noor had changed into his kurta-pyjama and looked incredibly relaxed, while Farhat lay on their king-size bed, nibbling a sweet laddu.

‘Come on, son, we are going to celebrate today. What do you feel like eating?’ Noor shouted with exuberance.

‘What are we celebrating, Abba?’ Mansoor asked, sitting on the bed across from his father’s tufted armchair.

Uncharacteristically, his father gave him a brief account of his legal victory. He seldom discussed the law or his practice with his son. In fact, he had forbidden Mansoor from even thinking about going into law. The only good thing about the profession, according to Noor, was that it exposed one to the Socratic method of arriving at conclusions.

‘So, do you feel like eating Chinese or shall we order chicken tikka?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know . . . what do you feel like Amma?’

‘I asked you, not your mother.’ Noor was slightly peeved.

They settled on Chinese, and Noor wrote down the names of a few dishes on a piece of paper and gave it to Budhoo along with a twenty-rupee note. Then he ambled to the liquor cabinet in the men’s quarter, where he stashed his entire collection of expensive imported liquor. He came back with the navy-blue box of Royal Salute Scotch Whisky and two crystal whisky glasses.

‘Tonight, we are going to have the best food, the best dessert and the best drink,’ he announced, sitting down on his usual couch. He opened the box and pulled out the bottle from the navy-blue pouch within. Unscrewing the cap, he poured the Scotch into the two glasses and then added two cubes of ice and some water in both. He never drank his whisky neat. After taking a large swig from one glass, he offered the other glass to his son.

‘How old are you?’ he asked.

‘Nearly seventeen,’ Mansoor replied, trembling a bit and stealing a quick glance at his mother.

‘I think you are eligible to have a celebratory glass with your father; you don’t need your mother’s permission, so stop looking at her.’

‘You are corrupting my son,’ Farhat remarked rather casually, picking another