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

knows where. Farhat’s blood pressure shot up again and she threw another violent fit. Confident that the new lock he’d got installed would safely guard his precious liquor cabinet, Noor coolly paraphrased Mark Twain, ‘Begum Sahiba, too much of anything is bad, but too much good whisky is barely enough, especially when the Tippler prohibits it.’

*

For the next several months, although a facade of peace returned to the Kashana, it felt like the lull before a storm. The servants sensed the iciness between the barrister and his begum; the relatives detected the chill.

‘Areý O, Quaid-e-Azam, this is like the Rani of Jhansi’s rebellion against the Angrez,’ Changez Gul whispered to Sikander.

‘May God save these unhappy people,’ Sikander replied, shaking his head.

As expected, the clashes between Farhat and Noor resumed. He saw Zakir’s hands in their latest altercation, as his wife repeated the most virulent parts of Zakir’s lecture, especially his damnations of sinners, using the most sophisticated Urdu words.

One day, Noor telephoned Zakir in utter desperation. The conversation started off in a civil tone but deteriorated quickly as Noor became frustrated by Zakir’s sententious moralizing.

‘Zakir, you and I go a long way back. As your old friend, I am requesting you . . . no, no, I am pleading with you to tell my wife to show moderation and respect.’

‘What do you mean by showing moderation, Noor?’

‘Well, she has become quite extreme in her views . . . almost fanatical.’

‘Well, brother, one person’s faith is another person’s fanaticism.’

‘Yes, but I have a feeling that her faith is directed more towards me, you fanatic. I don’t have any problems with her faith. I have a problem when it trespasses on my lifestyle, and I have a bigger problem knowing that you are inciting her.’

‘Well, Noor, I know what your beliefs are, and in my opinion, you are misguided. And it is my solemn duty to tell her that your beliefs are wrong when she asks me about them.’

‘It is not your duty to talk about my personal beliefs, especially not with my wife. If you think I am wrong, convince me, not my wife. I dare you to debate with me, one-to-one.’

Because his argumentative prowess was legendary, and because Zakir had witnessed it himself, both on and off the court, Noor knew that he would never agree to such a debate.

‘Well, Noor, I will do what I have to do and if you will excuse me now, I have better things to do.’

‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Zakir Hassan, for sowing the seeds of discord between my wife and me. You have become more than a mischief-maker. Is it your religion to poison her mind against me?’

‘I have not poisoned her mind, Brother Noor; your wife comes to my house of her own free will. If you don’t want her to do that, tell her not to come,’ he replied calmly, using his diplomatic skills.

‘Don’t lie to me, Zakir Hassan. I know that you have been inciting her about my drinking and my beliefs. I warn you, they are none of your business, and if you interfere in my personal life again, I will hold you personally responsible.’

‘Let me also warn you, Brother Noor, drinking is illegal in this country now and I can have you lashed for this offence!’ Zakir’s voice quivered as he said this.

‘You can go and get yourself fucked by an asshole!’ And with that, Noor hung up the telephone.

That night, when he went home after work, Noor witnessed a new storm brewing. It so happened that when Farhat went to Zakir’s dars, the sermon, that day, he asked her to leave his house. And when she asked him the reason, he detailed the fracas with her husband, stressing that Noor had used the most vulgar language—‘aisee gundi, gundi gaaliyan, such dirty, dirty swear words’—he had ever heard in his life.

Farhat tried to apologize to him for her husband’s behaviour, but to no avail. Too incensed to accept her apologies, he asked her to leave, and Farhat left Zakir’s house in tears. When Noor arrived home after work, she greeted him with a new fusillade of recriminations and reproaches. And then she asked him the question that she had been dreading all this while, ‘Tell me, do you consider yourself a Muslim or not?’

‘Don’t talk to me about subjects you know nothing about,’ he shot back.

She pressed him for a direct answer, but he ducked the question. The more she pushed him, the more irate he became, until he finally ordered her to shut up. That was when all hell broke loose. Farhat announced that she was going to go and stay with her sister until Noor gave her the ‘right’ answer.

Noor spent two disturbed nights in his bedroom. Like a madman in a mental asylum, he paced from one end of the room to the other. What else could he do in this time of crisis? Read Ghalib for answers? Pull Boethius from his bookcase and seek solace in The Consolation of Philosophy? On the third day, realizing that he could neither raise the stakes any further nor jeopardize his marriage of fifty years, Noor sent Sikander for her. But Farhat remained resolutely defiant and sent Sikander back saying that she needed an answer from Noor. She had finally matched his intransigence with her tenacity. By this time, all the servants and the neighbours had heard about their quarrel, and all sorts of rumours took wings.

One whole week passed by and Farhat did not come back. Even though Noor felt as if his blood would clot in his veins, he could still not push himself to telephone his son in Iowa—at least not right away. He must cajole Farhat first, express regret and nourish her needs.

*

After Noor left for Karachi, Mansoor went back to spending his days at the library. The Special Collections section would have been the perfect getaway from his parents’ escalating problems. But repressing his convoluted emotions turned out to be