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

Noor did not tell her the whole story, that when Manṣūr al-Hallaj thought he had found God, the Ultimate Truth, he concluded that since He was everywhere and in everything, he, Manṣūr al-Hallaj, had become a part of God. In his ecstasy, he said, ‘Anā-al-Haq, I am the Truth,’ and was executed for this heresy.

Farhat knew nothing about Sufism, but she liked the name. To her, giving the right name to a child was the most important thing. Two weeks before her delivery, she had heard an oft-repeated lecture from her father, Javed Sultan, on this very topic.

‘It is important to give the most suitable name to a child, because a name affects the character, blesses the household, and protects the future generations. My daughter, the name of a Muslim child should be distinctively Islamic and should have a good meaning,’ he had said.

When Farhat told Javed Sultan that Noor had named their son Mansoor ul Haq, he too, liked it and responded, ‘It is a very auspicious name.’

*

After finally having the child that they both had wanted so much, and a son at that, Noor slipped back into his regular work routine while Farhat devoted her full attention to the newborn. They began doting on him in their own ways.

Just before his friend Zakir was due to return to Rome, Noor gave a farewell dinner in his honour. Both Haider and Sadiq came as well, and the discussion turned to Pakistani politics once again.

‘Your government is rotting, Zakir. It is suffering from gangrene.’

Whenever Noor referred to Pakistan or the Pakistani government in front of his friends, it was always preceded by the second person possessive pronoun, as if he himself were a detached resident, an alien who never embraced his citizenship. Deep in his heart, Noor felt embarrassed to be the citizen of a country defined by religion. To be religious, according to him, implied a step backward towards anti-intellectualism.

Circumstances had condemned Noor to become an unwilling resident in a country that he frowned upon. Nonetheless, it was his choice to remain an outsider. He proudly called himself a self-ostracized man. To him, it was this self-ostracism that gave some justification to his life in Pakistan. His friends, however, often challenged this dissonance.

The new country’s Constitution was finally being written down by a few Pakistani lawyers, all trained in Britain. As someone who had studied law there, Noor had known and intensely disliked them.

‘They were all self-righteous hypocrites,’ he said, ‘giving sanctimonious speeches about faith and country during the day and partying at night.’

‘Now, how do you know that?’ Zakir asked, crossing his arms, his eyebrows tightening.

‘I was at Oxford, remember?’

‘I was there, too, but I didn’t hear anything.’

‘No, you had already left for Harvard,’ Noor reminded him.

‘But we’re all hypocrites. Aren’t you one?’ Zakir asked, finally ticked off.

‘How am I a hypocrite?’

‘You call yourself an agnostic, but you invoke God at every opportunity you get. Why do you say “inshallah” when you don’t even believe in Him? In my book, that’s hypocrisy.’

‘My friend! That is a cultural phrase, a phrase of habit rather than of conviction. It has the same profoundness as the empty phrase “you know”!’

‘But you have been proved wrong before, Noor,’ Zakir replied, changing the subject back to politics. ‘We will have a Constitution soon.’

‘Well, only time will tell . . . inshallah.’

Sadiq noted the sarcasm, and Haider, seeing the vitriol in the air, tried to change the topic to cricket. It was a contrived attempt, and they all knew it. Noor, however, did not want Zakir to leave his house with a bitter taste in his mouth, so he apologized to him and the friends shook hands and made up. The next day, Haider and Sadiq went to see Zakir off at the airport, but Noor said his goodbye on the phone.

*

Work and the Sindh Club remained central to Noor’s existence as his life lumbered over the potholes of Karachi, powerless to absorb the shocks and jolts of Pakistani politics. His drinking increased, and so did Farhat’s daily vexations. His kisses became more intolerable for her; his attempts at lovemaking, more disgusting. Why did he have to drink every day, she wondered. He was not like this in the beginning. To her knowledge, his drinking began after they migrated to Pakistan and it intensified when his law practice started to flourish. The invitation to become a member of the elite Sindh Club had made matters worse. After that, whenever Farhat confronted him about his drinking, he would always have one reply.

‘Your country stresses me out,’ he would declare, ‘and the whisky relaxes me; it helps my sanity. So leave me alone.’

In the beginning, he was discreet about his drinking, but later, when he became open about it, she began giving him paan, the betel leaves, to suppress the smell of whisky on his breath.

‘At least eat one of these after you drink. I don’t want people to catch a whiff of whisky on your breath.’

At times, she felt unloved. She felt as if fate had condemned her to be with a man whom she would never learn to love. At times, she longed for Israr, her first cousin, whom she had been engaged to be married to since she was twelve. Everything had been agreed upon between their parents even before she was born. She hardly knew him; she barely saw him. But everyone raved about Israr. They said that he was the most handsome man in town. That he was kind and gentle, and best of all, he was deeply religious. All her female cousins teased her and said that they would make the perfect couple, and they would have boys so handsome that everyone else would want to have their daughters marry them. Conditioned to accept Israr as her life partner, Farhat had begun developing feelings for him. However, kismet had other plans. While riding his horse to his farm one day, Israr was thrown several feet into the