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

The Ministry of Measurement under the new government began to codify what was not free speech. No one was allowed to use ‘muddy language’ or a ‘mocking tone’ or commit ‘morphological errors’, whatever that meant. They all came under the letter ‘M’. Anyone found guilty would be subject to the following humane punishments: an unannounced tax audit, denial of foreign exchange and the rejection of an exit visa. Freedom of the press was, of course, guaranteed, but journalists had to use it ‘wisely’.

As the new prime minister began to peddle his neurotic new utopia, called ‘Faithian Socialism’, the hyper-intellectuals became co-conspirators and keen collaborators. The latest recruit was the distinguished professor of English literature and humane letters, Sadiq Mirza, who was initially absolutely reluctant to write anything for the government, but persistent and rather graphic threats made him change his mind.

At his university, word had leaked out that Sadiq Mirza was an Ahmadi, the most heretical of all deviant Muslim groups. The smear campaign against his community that had gone on for years had finally reached his doorstep. It began when he noticed that some of his colleagues stopped using the traditional religious greeting when they met him. This was soon followed by them calling him Dr Mirzai, which was a spotting term for Ahmadis. But when the hate mail and the threats of extreme violence started appearing regularly in his mailbox, Sadiq contacted one of his students, who had become a top official in the new government, for help.

His student came back with a quid pro quo from his boss: if he desired protection, he must join the P.O.O.P. as its official ‘writer’. Sadiq had no choice but to acquiesce. And so, he became their apologist—trading panegyrics for protection. Noor, who did not know anything about the threats and the hate mail, read his writings in disbelief. How could someone who was so steeped in erudition write such rubbish? It was nonsense, calculated and intentional. He could find no other adjectives to describe it. Had he lost all links with his intellectual past? Noor saw the inscription at the end of the article: ‘The writer is Distinguished Professor of English at the University of Karachi.’ He wondered if Sadiq now represented the new mindset of the intelligentsia that remembered little, retained nothing and wrote rubbish.

To prevent anyone from challenging his authority, The People’s Leader created a paramilitary force, called the Security, Command, Action Brigade (SCAB), and gave it absolute powers. Noor, with his wry sense of humour, called it the Sinister, Coercive, Abusive Brigade, instead. The SCAB beat up the very people who had helped The People’s Leader come to power. As the people’s government turned despotic, Noor took Sadiq to task regarding his article.

Sadiq had known Noor since they were students at Aligarh Muslim University, and he knew him inside out. While his colleagues at the university lauded his articles, Sadiq knew well what Noor would say. So, to pre-empt him, he phoned his friend and invited his entire family for lunch the following Sunday. Mansoor felt awkward when Noor told him that Sadiq had invited him also. He made excuses, but his father wouldn’t have it any other way.

When they reached Sadiq’s home, Farhat went straight to Talat in the women’s quarter, while the men sat in the austere drawing room. Noor noticed that the bookshelf filled with classics, which used to be a prominent feature of the drawing room, was now replaced by a glass cabinet filled with religious artefacts: an ornate Qur’an, a couple of verses from the Qur’an elegantly framed, a marble slab with the words ‘Allah’ and ‘Muhammad’ beautifully calligraphed. After the usual pleasantries, Noor turned to Sadiq’s newspaper articles. But Sadiq quickly changed the subject, making some frantic gestures with his hands to indicate that his house was bugged. At first, Noor didn’t understand his cryptic signs, but then he realized what could be going on and began talking about cricket.

A little later, Noor got up to use the toilet. With only Mansoor in the room, the air became a bit awkward. Sadiq’s face blanched and he began fidgeting. After a painfully long minute, he smiled hesitantly and said, ‘It was good to see you at Chandni Lounge that day.’

‘Yes,’ Mansoor replied.

‘Do you go there often?’

‘No.’

‘I like the ambiance of the place more than the food.’

Mansoor just nodded. Giving up, Sadiq interlocked his fingers and leaned back into the chair, resting the back of his head on his hands, and surveyed the glass cabinet. Mansoor pretended to look at the scriptural hangings on the wall. His father was surely taking his time in the toilet. Eventually, Mansoor asked Sadiq about the courses he was teaching that term. Sadiq said he was teaching a new class called ‘The Theatre of the Absurd’.

A delightful irony, Mansoor thought.

Seventeen

Mansoor was now in the final years of college. The political climate had worn him down, and the strikes and shutdowns had jaded him. He decided it was time to go abroad if he wanted to get a good education. Initially, his father wanted him to go to England for further studies, but it was the United States that attracted Mansoor more. It represented youth, vigour and dynamism, a place where the action was. Besides, most of his classmates had also gone to the United States. After convincing his father that the centre of economics had shifted from England to the United States, he began sending applications to as many American universities as he could. Noor insisted that he apply to all the Ivy League universities, but Mansoor did not and lied about it. He was not sure he’d get into any and he didn’t want to waste time. Most of his life, he had studied at extraordinary institutions, now he wanted to try the ordinary. The idea of applying to the ‘yellow schools of America’ appealed to him.

*

It was Athanni’s fourth ride on the elevator within the first hour of the day. Up and