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

unappealing? Or was it him? Was he jet-lagged? Was he impotent? The whole night she racked her brain but couldn’t come up with an answer. So, the next day, before he left for some meetings, she confronted him.

‘I had always heard that the first night is the most romantic night,’ she said.

Alvi remained silent, but his silence gave away his secret. He avoided any eye contact, but his unsettled eyes revealed the truth. After he left, Mehrun sat down and tried to read his unsaid messages. And then it finally dawned on her. All those veiled allusions at work, all those hints dropped here and there, the oblique and expressive snickers about him, all of which she had thought were childish, were really a reference to him being impotent. Was he really impotent? But then why did he marry her? Was there any sinister intent behind this arrangement? He seemed like a gentleman. Nothing made sense to her, nothing at all. So when he came back later that afternoon, she mustered more courage and asked him again, just for confirmation.

‘Tell me, why don’t we . . . I mean, we are husband and wife . . .’

Words betrayed her; thoughts frustrated her. She was scared, ashamed and tongue-tied. A woman just did not ask those sorts of questions. But Alvi knew what was on her mind, and so, to put her mind at ease, he said, ‘Look, Mehrunnissa, if you are trying to ask me why we haven’t consummated our marriage, I think you know the answer.’

‘No . . . No, I don’t.’

‘Well, I am a bloody hum-jins parast, a homosexual. There! There, you have it. It’s all in the open now,’ he blurted out.

In the whispering corridors, she had overheard echoes of the word ‘namard’, non-man, meaning impotent, being repeated after Alvi’s title. But never before had she heard this Urdu word, which also meant same-sex devotee. It sounded like an ersatz invented word.

‘I don’t even know what that word means.’

‘It means that I like men.’

‘Most men like men. What has that got to do with me?’

‘I am a bloody homosexual, for god’s sake,’ Alvi shouted in English.

In one of her discussions with Sadiq about Oscar Wilde’s trial, he had expounded the word to her. She hadn’t paid much attention then. But now, when her husband confessed his homosexuality, it hit her like the punches she had received from Zaidi and Talat. A distressing stillness permeated the room as Mehrun turned into a catatonic wreck.

‘Say something,’ Alvi said. But Mehrun kept quiet. Over and over again, he repeated these two words, shaking her shoulders back and forth.

‘You knew that it had to be a marriage for the advancement of our respective careers! I thought you knew that. God knows everyone else in the bank knew about it!’

‘No! I did not know about it,’ Mehrun shouted as tears began to roll down her cheeks. ‘And how is this marriage going to advance my career? I gave up my career for you!’

‘Don’t start bawling. I needed to marry to accomplish what I want to accomplish. The rumours about me and my . . . preference kept growing and I had to silence my enemies; besides, I was sure that you knew about it.’

‘I am sorry I wasn’t that smart.’

At that moment, everything began to make sense. Mehrun realized that she was to be Alvi’s front, his facade in the world of international banking and finance. To reach the position that he aspired to, he not only had to reveal his banking genius, but the financial wizard also had to show that he was a straight family man.

‘What if I want to have children?’

‘Don’t be silly,’ he said dismissively. But a few seconds later, he added, ‘Well, if you do want children, you’ll have to go somewhere else for that.’ He collapsed on his bed, and then continued, ‘Look, Mehrunnissa, you have a choice. You can stay with me and preserve my secret, and I promise to provide you with everything you want. I will make you a rich woman. I will make you acceptable in this wretched society . . . I have purchased respectability for myself, and I can do the same for you. You can do anything you want, enjoy life, be happy . . . you will have most of the freedoms that modern Pakistani women have, maybe more . . . But if you feel betrayed and you want a divorce, you can have that too. I can pay back your mehr right now and buy you a one-way ticket for the next flight home.’

With that, Alvi pulled out his chequebook and looked at her questioningly.

Mehrun snorted. She turned her face towards the window. So that was my bride price, a measly one hundred and twenty-five rupees, half paid at the time of marriage, half due at divorce. That is why you married me, because I could be bought dirt cheap, she thought.

Alvi got up from his bed and came towards Mehrun. Thrusting out a minatory forefinger, he said, ‘But let me also warn you, if you ever reveal my secret to anyone, I will destroy you like I have destroyed those brilliant banking minds of Pakistan.’

What a man! So generous in the choices he gives me, she thought. He wanted her to make a decision about whether she wanted a divorce or not, then and there, without delay, just like he had wanted her to make the decision about their marriage, then and there. She could not understand how a man who was so meticulous in his professional career could be so reckless in his personal relationships. This sordid slant to his personality was new to her, and his matter-of-fact approach to their bogus marriage jolted her. Her lips still quivering and her heart still thumping, she felt vanquished by a sinking feeling. Without saying a word to him, she rushed into the bathroom, locked herself in and prostrated herself on the tiled bathroom floor in