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

damn interview!’ But he could not. Too timid to stand up to Zakir and let this opportunity pass, he sold his soul and quietly prayed with him. After the prayers, a servant brought them tea and biscuits in a silver tray. Mansoor took the drink and thanked Zakir, but he knew that the worst was yet to come, and he was right. Zakir lectured him about the ‘decadent West’ and about the virtue of religion, liberally quoting the scripture from memory. And all this time, Mansoor sat quietly, nodding his head and pretending to listen.

‘Prayer is the pillar of religion; fasting is the shield from sins. The good news is that you were born a Muslim. Allah did you a great favour by creating you in a Muslim household,’ Zakir said.

A Muslim household? Mansoor thought. My father doesn’t believe in any of these things, and my mother . . . well, she believes as a matter of habit, and me . . . I don’t know what I believe in, he wondered.

Mansoor then heard Zakir say, ‘Every day, after the early morning Fajr prayers, recite the ninety-nine names of Allah before you do anything else, and inshallah you will see that you will have a problem-free day.’

Mansoor’s mind had begun drifting again, while his eyes conducted a grim survey of the re-invented Zakir Hassan. What earth-shaking event, what calamity in his life had made him give up his prestigious job in exchange for converting people to his beliefs? One must have a bucketload of certitude to believe that they possess the absolute truth, one that everyone should hear about. How could a man change so profoundly and in so abbreviated a period of time? How did Zakir support his family and pay for the upkeep of his elegant bungalow?’ Mansoor knew he had four daughters, but he never saw them. They must be observing the purdah by now. Mansoor’s ordeal lasted for another hour or so. When he finally managed to leave, he thanked Zakir once again for arranging the interview and bade him goodbye with the promise that he would keep him informed about his visa status.

*

With Zakir’s help, Mansoor obtained the visa for America. As the date of his impending departure neared, Mansoor noticed a jump in his father’s alcohol intake. Was he hurting? Didn’t his father want him to go to America? He could drown his emotions in Chivas Regal; he could carry on a normal conversation, but he would never say no to higher education. So what was the matter? Then, two nights before his departure, his father summoned him. Mansoor felt flustered as he walked into his parents’ bedroom.

‘Come, sit with me. I have something important to talk about,’ Noor said in English when he saw Mansoor.

Struggling with her own sadness, Farhat lay on the bed, cursing her husband, her eyes all red and puffy from continuous crying. While Noor drowned his sorrows in alcohol, Farhat submerged herself in her faith. Every day after Noor left for his office, she picked up the Qur’an, recited a few sections and cried her heart out on the prayer rug.

After Mansoor had seated himself on the chair, Noor poured him a glass of whisky. Mansoor accepted it reluctantly. Catching a quick glance of his mother’s scowling face, he winced. So close to his departure, he did not want to antagonize his mother, but then he couldn’t reject his father either. Noor raised his glass and said, ‘Cheers.’ Mansoor forced a smile and raised his glass as well.

‘Son, now that you are almost ready to go to America, I thought that this would be an opportune time for me to give you some last-minute advice . . . not that you need any,’ and with that, Noor laughed his familiar, inebriated laugh. Pausing for a while, he took a sip of the whisky before continuing. ‘My first advice to you would be to get the highest education possible. Actually, nothing would give me greater satisfaction than you getting a PhD. I am going to support your education for as long as I have to, so don’t worry about money. My other advice to you would be to try and settle in America if you can. Don’t ever think about coming back to this wretched country.’

Mansoor felt sad when his father said that. This was his country, his place of birth. If he didn’t belong here, he wouldn’t belong anywhere.

‘Why do you say that?’ Mansoor asked.

‘Why? Why? You ask why? Because, Sahibzadey, you have no future here. Even if you get a job here, you will not be able to live honestly. Corruption in this country of YOURS will eat you up like cancer, and no amount of radiotherapy will cure it. If you come back, you will do so without my blessings.’

‘What are you two talking about? Can’t you speak in Urdu?’ Farhat interrupted. She jumped into the conversation because she thought Noor was berating Mansoor for something.

Noor had never liked her interruptions, especially not when he was talking with their son. Now, he rudely told her off, ‘What we are talking about has nothing to do with you. So turn around and go to sleep.’

‘How can anyone sleep with you talking so loudly?’ Farhat remained defiant.

To diffuse the situation, Mansoor quickly intervened. In a soft tone, using the most polite Urdu words he could think of, he said, ‘Amma, Abba is just giving me some advice about living in a foreign country . . . that’s all.’

The answer did not satisfy her. Farhat turned to the other side, pulled up her blanket and began crying softly. Noor’s insults had lacerated her feelings again. To upset her like that was nothing unusual for him, especially when he was boozed out. That night, however, she was more tearful than usual. Living with this man for all these years, watching him drink every night, listening to him talk in English, witnessing his impossible-to-understand lectures to their son, all of it still