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

What is wrong with him? he wondered.

He called Chaos again. When the dog did not come out, he decided to go and check for himself. Afraid of what he might find there, Mansoor approached the doghouse with trepidation. A disgusting smell of dog vomit permeated the yard. He stopped and sniffed the air. His heart pounded and his legs became weak, but he mustered the courage and went ahead. As he peered inside the doghouse, he got a massive shock. In a pool of blood, and what seemed like vomit, lay a moribund Chaos. Never in his life had Mansoor seen so much blood. The nauseating smell made it difficult for him to stay there any longer or do anything. He did not know if Chaos was alive, but there was no time to waste or panic. And with that thought, he sprinted back inside the house and headed straight to the drawing room where he picked up the bulky black telephone receiver and dialled the veterinarian’s number. But as he was dialling, a piercing blast rattled the windows of the drawing room. Mansoor dropped the phone and ran out into the backyard, where a ghastly scene of destruction confronted him. Razed to the ground and strewn all across the lawn, like scattered matchsticks, lay the remains of the doghouse. And in the middle of the rubble, he saw the bloody remains of Chaos. Mansoor stood there, bewildered and benumbed, trying to make sense of this mayhem. The sound of the blast brought his parents out.

‘What happened, beta? Are you okay? Where is Chaos?’ his father asked, running up to him.

‘Are you okay? Mansoor?’ his mother asked him, shaking him when he didn’t say anything.

Rattled and fazed, Mansoor stood there motionless, while his mother approached the disaster area. She stayed there for some time and then came back to stand with Noor and him. As if from a great distance away, Mansoor heard his mother say, ‘Chaos is dead, but thank God you are alive. I am glad it was the dog that died.’

*

Mansoor wanted Chaos to be buried where his doghouse had stood, but Farhat did not wish to have a dog cemetery in her compound. She created such a big ruckus that Mansoor decided to have him buried at a pet cemetery.

The police came and interviewed the servants. They roughed up Budhoo, cuffed Changez and questioned Sikander, but they couldn’t find the culprit. Traces of chemicals near the doghouse confirmed that a small bomb had destroyed it, and the autopsy of Chaos indicated that it was arsenic that had killed him. But the ultimate question was: who was the intended target? Chaos or Mansoor? And, more importantly, who was the killer? Mansoor had no clues and no suspects. That Athanni would undertake such a wanton act of brutality never entered his mind.

*

Two months after the senseless killing of Chaos, Mansoor got two letters in the mail, one from the University of Iowa and the other from Joseph. He opened the letter from the university first. He had been accepted into their master’s programme in economics. Then he opened Joseph’s missive, which was, much to his surprise, very neatly penned in Urdu.

Salaam Mansoor Babu,

You must be quite surprised to receive my letter. I must tell you at the outset that I am only dictating my thoughts to my good friend Salamat Masih. He is also a Pakistani Christian like me and works at the refinery. He used to teach Urdu at the school I went to, back in Bhangi Para. He has promised to teach me how to read and write in Urdu. So next time, maybe you will receive my letter in my own handwriting.

I wanted to write to you earlier, but I had been busy here. Living alone in a foreign country is hell, especially when you do not know the language. In the beginning, it was tough for me to understand Farsi, but now I have become reasonably fluent in it. You will be happy to know that I can now talk git-pit git-pit in English also, not as good as you or even Mehrun, but I can make myself understandable to some Amreeki and Angrez people here. Life in a foreign country teaches one about survival. For me, being in Iran has been busy and rewarding. I cannot thank my friend Reza Dabiran enough for giving me this opportunity to live and work here. I live in the city of Abadan, which is located in the south-western part of Iran, and I am currently working for an oil company. Many Americans live in this town. They are babus, like you, but they don’t mind talking with me and shaking hands with me. You see, I haven’t told them that I am a bhangi. I wonder how they would react if they knew. I have befriended some of them. One person has been very helpful. He is an old Amreeki, Peter Dawber, who says that he fought in the Second World War and visited Karachi in 1954. He loves Pakistani food. I often invite him for dinner at my flat. You know, when I was working at Café de Jamadar I learned how to cook. My friend Peter Sahib tells me I am so good that I should open a restaurant. Maybe someday, I will.

You know, my mother has gone back to Punjab and is now living with her sister. She is still angry with me for leaving her alone, but you tell me what could I have done? Kismet doesn’t knock at your door every day. My mother doesn’t understand that and begs me to come home in every letter she sends me. I am planning to visit her later this summer. I will get my vacation and guess what? They are not going to dock my salary! When I come, I would like to see you and, if possible, stay in your