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

‘I haven’t seen him at all. I didn’t even see him at the funeral prayer,’ Athanni added.

‘Well, Khaleel Khan, in Noor’s son’s absence, you should take over and perform this most important responsibility. You are the next of kin; you are the heir apparent.’

Athanni smiled and replied, ‘Gladly, Uncle Zakir. I will gladly do that; what could be a greater reward than this?’

*

With the grave covered with dirt, Mansoor walked back. He knew that Athanni would be watching his every movement, taking a picture of every lapse in his actions. Snap. Snap. Snap. But Mansoor did not care. He walked, unaware of his surroundings, oblivious of the strangers around. He walked away from the funeral procession, in the opposite direction. Suddenly, Mansoor heard the honking of a car. When he turned around, he saw Mehrun in a taxi. She motioned him to get inside. Without thinking, Mansoor opened the door and sat next to her. The cab sped away towards the Palace Hotel.

Twenty-Four

Inside the luxurious room of the Mughal-style Palace Hotel, Mehrun and Mansoor went through a dizzying journey of impulsive sexual arousal. They made wild, frenzied love. After all, it was the union of a churail and a djinn, the most erotic union of all—self-revealing, transcendent, unequal in clarity and heedless to consequences. It was Agape and Eros melding together, their libidinal energies uninhibited. Mansoor and Mehrun had stumbled on freedom—anarchic and giddy at the same time.

Mansoor realized that if he were charged for a crime, it would be that he was making love to an outcast, to a woman despised, a woman whom his mother held responsible for his father’s death, and that he was making love at the most sinful of times. But why was he there? Was he in love with Mehrun? Was he expiating for his mother’s insolence? Was this his way of getting back at his community? He felt like screaming. He wanted to say to Athanni, ‘Look, you idiot, you talk about staying away from her, but here I am, in a perfect union with her!’

Mansoor felt no guilt; he experienced no fear about having sex on the day his father died. Didn’t Meursault, in Camus’s The Stranger, have sex with Maria the same day? Or was it the next day? He shrugged that coincidence off quickly. Had Mehrun planned all this as a part of her revenge? No, that couldn’t be it. No, it had been spontaneous. One minute they were drinking, and the other minute they were kissing each other hungrily. She had always been close to him, but she had also always maintained a measured distance. That day, the gap became a singularity, and they broke all taboos and shed all inhibitions.

‘You know, Mansoor ul Haq, as a child, you were forbidden to even play with me, and now, as a grown man, you have made love to me. You should not even be anywhere near me,’ she told him with a sly smile on her face.

‘Is that why you put the business card with your room number in my pocket?’

‘Yes, I wanted to make love to the man who has always been forbidden to me.’

‘Forbidden love is the best kind of love,’ he replied. After a pause, he continued, ‘At this time, I shouldn’t be near anything except my father’s freshly dug grave, exchanging banalities with perfect strangers and accepting their phoney sympathies.’

‘Are you having regrets?’

‘No, I am just wondering about the furore that must be raging because of my strange behaviour.’

As they talked, the phone rang. Mansoor picked it up and said hello, but no one answered, so he put it down and just shrugged his shoulders.

‘Don’t pick up the phone if it rings again,’ Mehrun told him.

*

Athanni had a hunch that Mansoor was with Mehrun. He smiled deviously as a plot began to form in his mind. A plot of deep revenge, one that would settle all scores, restore his pride and show Mansoor never to mess with him, Khaleel Khan. Now, what would Mister Mansoor tell the world about why he behaved so badly at his father’s funeral? Where was he when they had offered prayers of absolution for Uncle Noor? He was cavorting with that churail, that’s where he was. When his father’s head needed to be turned towards Mecca, what was the prodigal son doing? It was I, Khaleel Khan, who turned his head and threw the earth on my uncle’s body. Not Mister America-return.

The first thing that Athanni did after he returned to the Kashana from the graveyard was to search for Mansoor. But when he did not find him, he went to look for Jumman instead. On spotting him, he asked, ‘Where is Mehrun staying?’

‘Payless Hotel, Babu. Why do you ask?’ Jumman replied.

‘Oh, nothing important, I just wanted to tell her something important about the bank,’ he lied and then added, ‘and her husband, Alvi Sahib, is he there too?’

‘No, she came alone, Babu.’

‘Do you know what her room number is?’

‘I don’t remember, Babu. But she wrote it for me on a piece of paper. I have it here in my pocket.’ Jumman took out the hotel’s business card and pointed to the room number written on it before handing it over to Athanni.

*

It was already quite late at night, but Athanni turned the key in the ignition of his rusted Hillman, caressed his Yashica camera and got the car started. He did not know what awaited him at the Palace Hotel, but he was sure that he was going to find something juicy. In a few minutes, he was on Drigh Road, speeding towards the hotel. The rainy night had emptied the streets, save for a few armoured vehicles that patrolled the city, reminding everyone that General Behroopia was in charge. Athanni’s heart raced with excitement; his mind bubbled with anticipation as he approached the recently refurbished colonial-era hotel, hoping to destroy his arch-enemies. Parking the car in the parking lot, he made a