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

The patchy telephone conversation with his father and the long-winded letter had unsettled him. The night before he left, Mansoor tried calling home again, but the old-fangled telephone system made that impossible. So he dispatched another telegram to his father, confirming his arrival. He had too many things to do in too short a time, so he hastily packed a few items for his trip just a few hours before he was to leave for the airport. Lisa had introduced him to Herbert Marcuse and had given him a copy of Eros and Civilization for his birthday. He stuffed it into his hand luggage. Mansoor had lived in a culture whose mores had taught him to repress his sexual desire, but its gratification, of late, had made him a man who was sure of himself, who was confident in his own skin. Lisa showed him a reality that he never knew existed.

He was thinking about Lisa when she came to say goodbye and reminded him to send her a note as soon as he reached home. Mansoor kissed her and said thank you, much to her puzzlement. He told her that he would explain that thank you when he wrote to her from Pakistan.

‘Aren’t you coming back?’ she asked.

‘Yes, why?’

‘The way you thanked me, it seemed as if you were going back home for good.’

‘I shall return,’ he promised.

‘Mansoor, I . . . I think I . . .’ she paused and then said, ‘Never mind, it’s not important.’

‘What?’

‘No, no, it’s nothing. I will tell you when you return.’

Before he could press her more, he saw his airport shuttle approaching. He kissed Lisa again and quickly boarded it. As the shuttle pulled away from the apartment building, he turned around and saw Lisa wiping her tears.

The traffic on I-80 was sparse, so the shuttle reached the airport in good time. After Mansoor collected his boarding card, he headed straight to the departure lounge. He had a few hours to kill, so he decided to spend some time in the duty-free shops. He ended up buying a bottle of Chivas Regal for his father and a Chanel No. 5 for his mother. Feeling hungry, he then picked up a couple of slices of pizza to eat at the gate while waiting to board his flight.

A strange feeling of misgiving gripped Mansoor when he boarded the airplane. He took out his book, but his mind was on his parents. When the air hostess came with the refreshment cart, Mansoor asked her for a gin and tonic.

‘Sir, we do not serve alcohol on our flights any more.’

Mansoor noticed that the word ‘alcohol’ made the passenger seated next to him frown and mutter something under his breath.

‘Since when?’ Mansoor persisted.

‘Since about a few months ago. The government has passed a new regulation prohibiting the serving of alcohol on all PIA flights, sir.’

Mansoor was disappointed. But before he could say something, the passenger intervened.

‘Young man, Pakistan is an Islamic country where there is no room for alcohol. You should be ashamed of drinking.’

‘And you had to interfere! I wasn’t talking to you, and what I do is none of your business,’ Mansoor replied, becoming irritated.

‘As your Muslim brother, I have the duty to tell you what is right and what is wrong.’

Why did everyone seem so duty-bound, so obligated to tell right from wrong? Mansoor wondered.

‘Here are three things that you should know, old man. First of all, I am not your brother. Second, you have no right to tell me what is right and what is wrong. And third, what makes you think I am a Muslim?’

‘Well, I am sorry, but you look like a Muslim,’ the man replied.

Mansoor did not see the need to dignify his last comment with a reply, and when the passenger got out of his seat to go to the toilet, he quietly picked up his hand luggage and moved on to an empty seat a few rows away. After settling down, he took out his father’s letter and began to read it again.

Noor wrote that in his absence, Farhat had started going regularly to the sermons at Zakir’s house, dressed in her new hijab, which was her symbol of revolt, her flag of independence, according to him. About the hijab, he had written:

All of sudden, I see so many young women covering their faces, wearing the burqa, chador, hijab, niqab, and all sorts of veils. My own mother fought against the whole institution of purdah back when she was a young woman. She believed that it was all about controlling women. I think it is also about sexualizing them. They would deny it, but it is true. The mullahs believe that a veil’s purpose is for women to cover themselves so they are no longer attractive. If that is not sexualization, then tell me what is? They justify it by saying that it is to prevent men from having sexual fantasies about them. These troglodyte mullahs believe that a man has nothing else on his mind except copulation. That’s an insult to a decent man’s decency. It is essentially sending the message to all good men that you are not to be trusted. You, too, are a potential sexual predator. And do you know that these people are also forcing hijab on girls as young as six or seven? By doing this, they also see these poor innocent girls as sexual objects. Do the women embracing hijab today not understand what struggles women in the past went through to free themselves of the purdah? To be able to leave the confines of the house and receive an education, have a career, don’t they believe in that any longer? My mother gave up wearing the burqa, and now I cannot believe my wife is willingly wearing a hijab.

Your mother doesn’t understand any of this, saying that it is only about modesty. I asked her, ‘Before you veiled yourself, were you immodest?’ Her answer was yes.