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

Beach. She knew that he was going in a direction that was diametrically opposite to where she lived, but she pretended ignorance. As they reached the oceanfront, she noticed a line of magnificent houses along the road, standing imperiously and looking down upon the rest of the city. He stopped his car in front of one of them.

‘Why did you stop?’ she asked, her heart beating faster, unsure about the next moment.

‘Would you like to come inside my house?’

‘No, please just take me home.’

But instead of taking her home, Alvi turned off the engine. Mehrun froze, conscious of her trembling legs. Alvi reached into his left coat pocket and took out a sterling silver cigarette box that had ‘AAA’ engraved on it. He took out a cigarette, pushed the car lighter and waited till it popped up. He pulled out the lighter from the socket and lit up his cigarette. Every passing second of silence stifled Mehrun’s nerves. She gazed into the darkness. Alvi inhaled profoundly, holding on to the smoke for a moment, relishing it, and then exhaled.

‘Would you come with me to the Middle East if I ask you to marry me?’ he said as he tapped the ash from the cigarette into the car’s ashtray.

Mehrun was stunned. Did he just ask her to marry him? Was that a marriage proposal or a job offer? She had always been a dreamer, but the idea of marriage had never entered her mind, not even when Talat Mirza warned her of Sadiq’s foolish notion about making her his second wife. And here was her boss, a rich man, a man from the upper class no less, asking for her hand in marriage. Suddenly, the noise of cars swishing by and the wind ruffling through got amplified, and all she could say to him was, ‘Please take me to my home.’

‘Not before I hear an answer.’

Mehrun felt queasy, but then she mustered up enough courage to ask, ‘Why do you want to marry me?’

‘Why does anyone marry anyone?’

That was hardly an answer, and it intensified Mehrun’s irritation. Alvi wondered if she had heard any rumours about his sexual orientation. But there was nothing in her demeanour that hinted at any awareness on her part of those constant, malicious gossips.

‘So, what do you think?’ he persisted.

‘I don’t know what to think. It’s too sudden. I need time.’

‘Mehrun, I will make you happy and very, very rich. Isn’t that what you want?’

After a pause, she said, ‘I don’t feel well. Please take me home.’

‘I will be leaving for the Middle East in a week, and I would like an answer before that.’

Was that an ultimatum? Mehrun remained quiet. He stubbed out what remained of the cigarette in the ashtray, turned on the ignition and pulled the car back on the road in tentative silence.

Eighteen

Alvi had done many favours for Mehrun: mentoring her, furthering her career, defending her promotions. He had even helped her financially, so that she and Jumman could move out of their old, rundown house and into the newer settlement of Baagh-e-Bahar, the Garden of Spring. Hardly a garden, this neighbourhood was still a significant improvement compared to the thickly populated slum they had lived in all their life. On more than one occasion, Alvi had stressed to Mehrun that success depended not only on hard work and connections, but also on having the correct residential address. So, to pursue success, Mehrun began renting an unassuming two-bedroom flat in one of those tall, tiresome buildings that stood restlessly like people waiting in queues to get their daily ration of sugar and flour. She had decorated the inside of the apartment with pride and love. This was her crowning achievement, and she showed off her new tenement to her few friends, but the one person she wanted to show her home the most to was Mansoor. Something, however, prevented her from doing this. Although she was still relatively hard-pressed for money, she had moved up a rung on the monetary ladder—the mischance of her birth had already ruled out the possibility of her climbing the social staircase. In a society where people have long memories of one’s status in life and one’s ancestry, she was destined to live and die a churail.

But she was happy in her new flat; it gave her a feeling of success. Her old hovel had begun to haunt her. Memories of the horror of her mother’s last days filled every corner and gave her nightmares. She wanted to bury those memories, and her new flat helped her achieve this. This modern flat signified her rebirth, it was an abode free of past insults and ignominy.

That night, after she got home, she collapsed on her bed without changing her clothes. Jumman was nowhere to be found. It seemed that he had not come back from the Kashana. Mehrun’s mind returned to the events of the day. What was Alvi’s marriage proposal all about? Was she to take that as a compliment or as an insult? Could she afford to turn him down? He had said that he would make her happy and very, very rich. But words did not mean a damn thing. She did not know if more indignations awaited her. Torn by the events of that evening, she buried her face in her pillow and cried. She cried so much that she began hiccupping and finding it difficult to catch her breath. She cried until her tears dried out and she felt her energy vaporizing from her body. Even as her face radiated heat, she began shivering. She felt her forehead; it was burning hot. The proposal continued to lacerate her heart. She got up and went to the bathroom to splash cold water on her face. After washing her face, she lifted her head to look in the mirror and saw her mother’s face instead—hideous and scarred. She shot out of the bathroom, screaming, her face still wet and soapy. Was that really her