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

that moment with Lisa, was an ineffable feeling, an out-of-body experience. Soothed by her tender embrace and encouraged by her warm reciprocity, Mansoor took her to his apartment, where he made love to her. As their bodies touched, they became fused; their hearts whispered sweet melodies. At that moment, Mansoor only had desire, that incandescent feeling, where reality blends with fantasy, where the humdrum of existence melts away. He kept wondering where she had been all this time during his stay in America.

Thinking about it afterwards, he realized that Mehrun had also aroused sexual feelings in him that he had forcefully and deliberately suppressed. Was it because she was a servant? Or was it because he was afraid of her? With Lisa, his awakening was complete, insensate to everything else. For the last two and a half years in this distant land of dreams, he felt as though he had walked like a sleepwalker; but now the touch of a woman had woken him—he wanted to dance. Oblivious to the loss of his virginity, he lay there, delirious, with this tender, beautiful woman in his arms.

At that moment, he kept hearing a chant inside his head: ‘Haq, Anā al-ḥaqq; Haq, Anā al-ḥaqq (Truth, you are the Truth; Truth, you are the Truth).’ At that moment, the only certainty was the truth of love, the single act, the act of love. Was this the moment he had always waited for? Had he lost his head like his namesake, Manṣūr al-Hallaj? He lay there, pondering over these metaphysical questions, with Lisa in his embrace, snoring softly.

The sharp ringing of the telephone brought him back to earth. He turned around to look at the radium hands of the timepiece that his mother had given him and realized that it was 2 a.m. Who could it be at this hour? As he picked up the phone, he immediately realized that it was a long-distance call. On the other end, a female operator shouted in a shrill voice.

‘Is this Mister Mansoor ul Haq?’

‘Yes, this is he!’

‘Hold on, sir, this is a trunk call from Pakistan. Mister Noor ul Haq wants to talk to you!’

His heart began pounding; he had this sinking feeling that at this late an hour, a call from home had to be bad news, and a few seconds later, he heard his father’s hoarse voice on the other end.

‘Hello, Mansoor . . . beta . . . Hello?’ he was practically shouting because the connection seemed terrible.

‘Yes, Abba, this is me! Is everything okay? Is everything okay?’ he heard his echo on the line.

‘Beta, I have been trying to call you for a few days now. Where have you been?’

‘I have been here only, Abba . . . I have been here only, Abba.’ The echo began to annoy him.

‘I want you to buy a ticket for the next flight to Pakistan.’

‘Why? What’s wrong? What’s wrong?’ Mansoor became concerned now. By this time, Lisa was also partly awake.

‘Your mother had a big fight with me, and she has gone to her sister’s house. You are the only one who can—’ Before Noor could finish the sentence, the line got disconnected.

Mansoor tried to call him back, but he could not get connected.

The telephone call had shaken him; he wanted to get up. But with Lisa still in his embrace, he couldn’t, so he stayed still and looked at her face in the darkness.

‘Is everything okay?’ Lisa asked in a raspy voice, her eyes still heavy with sleep.

‘My father wants me to come home immediately, my mother . . . my mother is . . . sick.’

Lisa raised her head and asked, ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’

‘I don’t know; the line got disconnected.’

No sooner had he said this than the telephone rang again. He quickly picked up the receiver, thinking it was his father, but much to his surprise, it was Joseph, and he was drunk.

‘Mansoor Babu, did you hoist the flag? Did you use your weapon?’ Joseph had this habit of calling him at odd hours, but his uncanny, vulgar telepathy struck Mansoor now. How did he even know that he had just made love?

‘Are you in an insane asylum?’ Mansoor asked.

‘Yes, I am in Houston!’ Joseph replied, laughing convulsively.

Irritated with his friend, Mansoor hung up the phone. Lisa turned around and went back to sleep, snoring softly again. He got up and tried calling home but could not get a connection.

The next day, Mansoor called a Pakistani travel agent in Chicago and reserved a seat on the next Pakistan International Airlines (PIA) flight to Karachi. With his ticket confirmed, he sent a telegram to his father informing him about the day and time of his arrival in Karachi. On his day of departure, he received a five-page letter from his father, posted three weeks ago, pleading with him to come home immediately. It was a rambling, disturbing missive about the crisis in his family and Zakir Hassan’s role in all of this. He read it hastily and put the letter in his jacket pocket, thinking that he would reread it on the airplane.

*

Mansoor was acutely aware of the dominance–dependence relationship between his father and mother. Though he never physically abused her, Noor was often rude to her, sometimes even in front of the servants. Most of the time, however, he ignored her. Farhat existed like a docile, permanent fixture in his bedroom setting. Her lack of formal education was a sore point for Noor. Many of his corporate clients, especially those from the younger generation, had wives who were all well-educated, who spoke fluent English and talked to men with confidence. Farhat had none of those ‘qualities’. She, in turn, despised his ‘over-education’, his penchant to talk in English, especially with their son, his boozing and his ‘grievous beliefs’ about her country and religion. Where she found refuge in faith, he glued himself to his work. As the chasm between them widened, their relationship unravelled. But the breakdown, when it came, came rapidly