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

side. And as a person who cares about you, let me tell you—continue to pray five times a day, fast during Ramadan and read the holy Qur’an every day, and you will be saved from the worst side of America, inshallah.’

The confidence in Zakir’s assumption that he would ‘continue to pray’, and the certainty of his conclusion that he needed to be ‘saved’, irritated Mansoor. But he was in no mood to hear a sermon, so he just nodded politely and turned his attention to Haider.

‘Do you think you can get me an interview with the consul general?’ Mansoor asked Haider.

‘I certainly can! Not to worry, twelfth man,’ Haider replied confidently and then changed the subject, ‘Would you like something hot or cold to drink?’

‘Tea would be great,’ Mansoor answered.

‘Well, I should be leaving; I have to go to four more places,’ Zakir said and got up to leave. He shook hands with Haider, embraced Mansoor and kissed him on his forehead. As he was about to leave the room, he turned again and said, ‘Mansoor, I would like to give you some advice about America, and perhaps even help you get the visa. I am on a first-name basis with the consul general. We were classmates at Harvard. Come to my house tomorrow after the midday prayer, or before it . . . perhaps we can go to the mosque together.’

‘I will try.’

‘That’s all I ask.’

Zakir did not like Mansoor’s answer. He knew that Noor’s son couldn’t be religious, and that was his challenge, but he was also confident in his abilities to persuade the boy. It was an art that he had used routinely as a diplomat. If only he could spend some time with the young man, he could save him from his father’s beliefs. That was the plan.

After he had left, Haider told Mansoor that Zakir had joined a proselytizing group whose job was to convert the ‘errant’ Muslims first. He mockingly called them the Pyjama Dheela Topi Tight Party, a reference to the loose pyjamas and the tight caps that the members of the party wore.

‘His life’s mission now is to visit seven different Muslims every day and remind them about religion. It was a good thing you came, and just in time too, because he was throwing jerky googlies,’ Haider said.

Mansoor stayed with him for another hour, but he just couldn’t get a straight answer about the interview with the consul general. By the time he left, he knew that he had wasted his time.

*

The next day, Mansoor went to Zakir’s house, which was located near the newly built Marine Drive, right next to the Arabian Sea. A beautiful exclave, with bricked bungalows overlooking the deep tantalizing waters of the Arabian Sea, the whole pristine development with its big, wide streets seemed at odds with the rest of the city that remained mainly unplanned and haphazard.

It was still a little before the midday prayer, so Mansoor whiled away his time by driving around aimlessly, enjoying the scenery. Palm and coconut trees lined the shoulders of the Drive, and a few seagulls majestically circled the blue sky. He saw a group of children on horses, smartly dressed in jodhpurs, partaking in what looked like their regular riding lessons. The sight of the blue water and the sandy beach invited him, but he decided against going in. After driving for about half an hour, Mansoor turned his Datsun around and headed towards Zakir’s house.

As he pulled up near the iron gate of Zakir’s bungalow, he saw him watering his flowers. Mansoor waved at him. Zakir came and embraced him warmly as he got out of his car. After exchanging pleasantries, he told Mansoor that he had some good news.

‘Good news for me?’ Mansoor asked.

‘Yes, first come on in, and then I’ll tell you.’

As they passed through the symmetrically landscaped front garden, Mansoor noticed a row of immaculately shaped hedges and rose bushes—red, pink and yellow. A large Italianate fountain misted the air and two marble pillars flanked the porch leading to the front door. Zakir might have traded his Saville Row suits for white kurta-pyjamas, but the grandeur of his property was non-negotiable. He led Mansoor straight to his library. Framed calligraphic verses from the Qur’an, painted by the Pakistani artist Sadequain, robed the otherwise naked walls. A desk cluttered with papers, manuscripts and a few open books stood in the centre of the room, suggesting some writing in progress. A Sony stereo cassette deck played a dulcet rendition of Qur’anic verses recited by a qari, a professional reciter. As he sat on the sofa opposite the desk, Mansoor asked impatiently, ‘So, what is the good news, Uncle Zakir?’

‘What are you doing tomorrow morning?’

‘Nothing in particular . . . why do you ask?’

‘I have arranged an interview for you with the consul general for tomorrow at 10 a.m. Can you make it?’

‘Yes, I think so,’ Mansoor replied. He couldn’t believe what he had just heard. After a moment, he asked him, ‘Thank you! But how did you arrange it?’

‘Well, as I told you, the consul general is a friend of mine.’

Mansoor thanked him profusely. Zakir told him then that he did not think that Haider knew anybody in the American consulate; Mansoor agreed with his conclusion. Then, without any notice, Zakir changed the subject and asked Mansoor, ‘Have you offered your midday prayers yet?’

Caught off guard by the question, Mansoor remembered, a little too late, the complaint Haider had of him yesterday. Had he anticipated that question, he would have lied, but not now. Not after the favour Zakir had done him. With a gnawing emptiness inside his stomach, Mansoor said, ‘No.’

‘Well, I haven’t either . . . let’s pray together then.’

Without waiting for a reply, Zakir led Mansoor to the bathroom to perform the ablutions. Feeling like a phoney who had just peddled away his authenticity, Mansoor wanted to scream and say, ‘You have taken advantage of my weakness. I do not care about the