Of Smokeless Fire

by A. A. Jafri

What drowned me was my being,

  If I had not been, what would matter then.’

  —Mirza Ghalib

  Twelve

  Noor finally did learn about Maulvi Nazir’s existence, when he unexpectedly returned home early one day, but, oddly enough, he remained calm. Farhat’s plot did not upset him. His only complaint was that she did it behind his back.

  ‘I wouldn’t have kicked him out if you had told me. I am not heartless.’

  Was he mellowing down? Was he having a change of heart? Mansoor had read somewhere that war changed people; it changed their self-perception. Had this short war changed Noor in a lasting way? Did it make him confront his own mortality? Was his inner tungsten filament about to snap? And what about those nightly lectures extolling Socrates’ dictum that the ‘unexamined life was not worth living’ and Nietzsche’s doctrine that ‘there are no truths, only interpretations’? What about having the guts to doubt and puncture your most cherished beliefs? What about being secular?

  Noor still drank every night and never prayed, but he often closed his eyes for the longest time, as if in a deep meditative state. Was his father, deep in his heart, a spiritual person despite being non-religious? Mansoor was now old enough to ask such questions. Indeed, his father had encouraged him to doubt and question things. He looked at his mother and heard her snoring. War had affected her too. Every night during the war, when she heard the sirens go off, she would start trembling. When prayers did not cast out her fears, she would take a Valium. And now, as she slept soundly, Mansoor realized that it must be the Valium again, for she never snored so loudly and so soon after closing her eyes.

  The 1965 war had matured Mansoor. There was no question about it. He felt it. But was it the war or the big lie about it that had transformed him into a doubter? He remembered his father telling him once, during one of his nightly lectures, that doubt is the seed that grows into a formidable intellect, like a banyan tree. When the government and the newspapers kept telling the citizens that Pakistan was winning the war, Mansoor had believed the lie. So who was he supposed to trust now? What was he supposed to feel now? What was the nature of truth? Did it begin with a capital T or a small t? Did it bring happiness or sadness? He had all these questions crowding his mind, clamouring for his attention. But one day, when he sat across from his father who clutched on to his empty whisky glass, his eyes closed, Mansoor could only ask this: ‘Abba, do you believe in spirituality?’

  He had asked the question in English, even though he knew the Urdu word, roohaniyat. It was a word that Maulvi Nazir used incessantly without explaining it. He wanted to see if his father could make it intelligible for him.

  Noor opened his eyes, looking surprised at the question. He remembered when Mansoor had asked him about what happens when one dies, and he remembered the tungsten filament analogy he had used to explain death. This was his second tough question, at least for his age. Maybe his nightly lectures were paying off, Maulvi Nazir notwithstanding. He cleared his throat, took a sip of the whisky, and answered Mansoor’s question with a question, ‘Are you asking me if I am spiritual?’

  ‘I guess what I am asking is, how do you find peace of mind? I heard you say once that whisky calms you . . .’

  ‘I drink whisky to escape from the drudgery of my profession, but spirituality for me is listening to the songs of Saigal and Talat Mahmood, reading Ghalib and my friends Faiz’s and Majaz’s poetry. Son, I am a materialist to the core.’

  ‘What about God?’

  ‘What about Him?’ Noor asked.

  ‘Do you believe in God?’

  ‘There is no evidence to back up such a belief. And all our knowledge is based on evidence, everything else is either a wish or a fear,’ he paused, took a large gulp of whisky and continued, ‘You know, son, with all their faults, the British gifted one good thing to humanity. Do you know what that is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It is the gift of empiricism. Hang on to it. It will stand you in good stead.’

  As the lecture continued, Mansoor noticed his father’s lips. They were thick and moved slowly as he spoke; their movement, he saw, but the sound, he didn’t hear. Then suddenly, there was a bark, and Mansoor looked at his father. Had he done that?

  ‘Look behind you, Mansoor,’ his father said.

  He turned around, and there was Chaos, his dog. And then he heard his mother’s voice, ‘Get that unclean animal out of the house! He should NOT enter my room!’

  Mansoor quickly picked up the terrier.

  ‘You should wash your hands seven times with soap and do your ablutions after you throw that creature out,’ she continued her fulminations.

  Mansoor took the terrier out of the house and put him back in his doghouse in the garden. He then retired to his room. Moonlight pierced through the curtains, making the room brighter and lovelier. Pulling the curtains to one side, Mansoor lay down on his bed and watched the magical moon. He found himself thinking about Joseph and Mehrun. She had lost her mother, and Joseph had lost his dream. Mansoor must have just fallen asleep when he realized that someone was trying to wake him up.

  ‘Mansoor, it is time for morning prayers. Get up.’ It was his mother.

  He turned to look at the clock on his bedside table. It was 4.35 a.m., and the muezzin was calling for morning prayer.

  ‘Prayer is better than sleep.’

  ‘Prayer is better than sleep.’

  Mansoor did not want to pray, but he also did not want to upset his mother. So he got up, went to the bathroom and closed the door softly behind him. After he wiped his face dry, he came back to his room and pulled out the prayer rug, a gift from his grandfather, from the almirah. He sat on the mat and looked at it vacuously, unable to genuflect, unable to prostrate, powerless to pray, every word of the Qur’an seemingly erased from his memory. He forgot all the forms, he forgot every ritual, his mind turned blank. Mansoor stared at the gracefully curved minaret pattern on the prayer rug. He stayed like that for some time, then he got up, folded the mat, kept it back in the almirah and returned to his bed to confront his unfilled thoughts. This became a habit, a routine for him every morning. His mother would wake him up just before the morning azan; he would do his ablutions quietly, come back, sit on the rug and stare at the minarets printed on it. Sometimes he would bury his face in his hands and lie prostrate on the prayer rug. He had prayed secretly in the past, but now he just could not bring himself to obey his mother.

  *

  The political turmoil in the aftermath of the war forced the shutdown of schools and the postponement of exams. For Mehrun, the delay was a welcome relief. It gave her the time to vent, to grieve and to reflect on her mother’s death. It was Dr Minwalla who told her that Kaneez need not have died. Her death was senseless. How was Mehrun supposed to process this bit of information? Aren’t all deaths senseless? What about the family of eleven that had perished in Lasbela when the bomb fell on their house? Did that make sense? What about the worthiness of death when life is horrid? Did her neighbourhood matriarch, Bua Kareeman’s death at the age of eighty-two make sense? Her mother’s life was short and shitty, the unfairness of it didn’t make any sense to Mehrun either. And what about the beating she took from that lecherous monster, the malang? According to Naseebun, Kaneez’s death was Allah’s will and had nothing to do with the malang. If you can’t explain something, should you believe it blindly? Mehrun glanced at her father, lying on his charpoy and gazing at the ceiling.

  Suddenly, a car’s horn disrupted her ruminations. She wiped her eyes with her dupatta and went out to see who it was. It was Sadiq Mirza in his white Hillman.

  ‘My wife sent me to see if you were doing okay,’ he said when he saw her approaching the car. ‘She sent some food for you and your father.’

  From the front passenger seat, he picked up a brown bag, the spicy smell of food escaping from it.

  ‘Thank you, Professor Sahib.’ Mehrun took the bag from him and stood there motionless, the silence between th
em discomforting. She did not know whether to invite him into her shabby house or ask him to leave. Sensing her unease, Sadiq told her to put the food in the house and come back.

  ‘My wife wants to see you.’

  ‘This is too much food; it will go bad if I keep it in my house. Let me leave this food with my neighbour. She has a refrigerator.’

  After leaving the food with the neighbour and telling her father that she had to go to work, she got into the back seat of the car.

  Sadiq caught her reflection in the rear-view mirror as he reversed the car and drove away towards University Road.

  Mehrun remembered the professor’s words, when he had said that he would teach her to see life through books. Was that what was going on whenever she thought about her mother’s death? Was she seeing life through the books she had been reading? She already knew how to read English before she met the professor, but with his help, she had quickly become more proficient. He was a great teacher, one who had the gift to not only make literature come alive but also to unearth its most submerged meanings, the hidden realities. Initially, she borrowed books from the professor, and then she began borrowing books from the 25-Paisa Library that had recently opened near her school. After her mother’s death, she had the entire pigeonholed area in the house to herself. That space became her sanctuary, her private place to read and to reflect. The disruptions the war had caused gave her more time to study and think, and during the blackouts, she would study under the tiny flicker of the kerosene lantern and absorb more.

  Sadiq kept glancing at Mehrun in the rear-view mirror. Dressed in a white shalwar-kameez, she looked like a model of simplicity and elegance. The young woman was transforming right in front of his eyes, not just physically but also intellectually. She asked smart questions, she replied thoughtfully and her English had improved considerably. If she were correctly educated, she could easily become well groomed and polished under his guidance, and then no one would believe that she was Kaneez’s daughter. Sadiq smiled as he imagined the new and improved Mehrun. But then Noor’s sarcastic comment from the last time they had met echoed in his mind: ‘Is your Pygmalion bhoot, your obsession, under control or not?’

  ‘How’s your book coming?’ he heard Mehrun’s voice from the back seat.

  ‘Slowly,’ he replied.

  During the shutdown following the war, Sadiq had spent most of his time at home, thinking and making notes about an idea for a book that he had. Both Noor and he would often talk at length about Ghalib’s poetry, and it was his friend who had prodded him to write about the nineteenth-century Urdu poet. In fact, Noor had even suggested the title of the book—Reinterpreting Ghalib in the Twentieth Century.

  ‘Why don’t you write it yourself?’ Sadiq had asked Noor.

  But Noor had quickly shot that idea down. There were only two writers in their group: Haider and Sadiq. Besides, he was too old to write. The wistfulness in his answer was not lost on Sadiq.

  As the car turned into the professor’s street, Mehrun spotted Talat standing outside the gate. Sadiq pulled up the car near her and asked, ‘What are you doing outside? Is everything okay? Where are you going?’

  ‘Anna just called. Her boy fell from his bicycle and has broken his foot. She wants me to come over. Give me the car keys.’

  As Sadiq and Mehrun hurriedly got out of the car, Talat said to her husband, ‘I will try to call you from her house.’ Then, turning towards Mehrun, she smiled apologetically and said, ‘Sorry, Mehrun Beti!’

  With that, she got into the car and drove off. Mehrun could not believe that she had called her beti, daughter. Even her parents had never called her that. She smiled wistfully.

  ‘Well, I guess it’s just you and me,’ Sadiq said, walking through the front gate.

  Mehrun, still glowing from Talat’s unexpected sweetness, followed the professor as he went inside the house.

  ‘Do you want me to dust the library?’

  ‘You are not here to work. Today is your day off.’

  Although he had seen her once after her mother’s death, Sadiq had never had an opportunity to properly commiserate with Mehrun. Seeing her grief self-evident in her deep brown eyes, he now asked her about Jumman.

  ‘Most of his days are bad.’

  ‘And you? How are you?’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’

  Sadiq wanted to reach out to her, but he did not quite know how to. To comfort a grieving person, let alone a servant, was something that even this professor of language and literature found hard. Should he just keep quiet and let her share whatever feelings she wanted to share, or should he say something trite like, ‘I know what you are going through?’ Luckily, he did not have to say anything at all because Mehrun felt comfortable confiding in her mentor.

  ‘I was in shock at first,’ she said. ‘But now I am mostly angry. I can’t shake it off, not after the way the malang beat her. He killed her, Sahib. He killed her!’ She burst out crying and buried her face against his shoulder. More than a little taken aback, Sadiq tentatively put his arms around her, holding her awkwardly. Suddenly, he had this mad urge to kiss her, but he controlled it. The only appropriate thing for him to do at that moment was to comfort her. He searched for the right words, but all he could muster was, ‘Let me know if there is anything I can do.’ He felt incredibly stupid.

  ‘Sahib, you have already done a lot for me,’ Mehrun replied as she pulled back.

  They were standing in the middle of the drawing room. Sadiq asked her to pull up a chair and sit. Since her first day in his house, Sadiq had broken all norms, all rules governing the master–servant relationship, and today, Talat had also joined him by calling her beti. Yet, Mehrun was uncomfortable about sitting next to her mentor as an equal; she hesitated and then reluctantly pulled a chair. Sadiq couldn’t avoid noticing the unease on her face. He knew she was hurting badly and that he must practice caution. The professor could not let his emotions cloud his rationality. Noor’s words about how he was confusing the love of an idea for his love for Mehrun were still fresh in his head. He needed to be sure before he professed anything in front of her.

  ‘How’s your preparation for the exam going?’ he asked as he sat on the sofa.

  ‘I haven’t studied at all.’

  ‘If you need my help in any subject other than science, let me know. I can help you prepare.’

  ‘I may have a few questions on The Great Expectations.’

  ‘Dickens is one of my favourite nineteenth-century writers.’

  Their conversation hit an edgy pause, triggering beads of nervous sweat to gather on his forehead.

  ‘Should I make tea for you?’ Mehrun asked.

  ‘That would be great, but make a cup for yourself also.’

  ‘I’ll make it for you.’ Mehrun felt awkward drinking tea with her employer.

  ‘I insist that you make two cups. I don’t think of you as my servant. You are my student, my mentee.’

  ‘Thank you, Sahib,’ she said softly.

  She wrung her hands, wavering a little, and then got up to go to the kitchen, leaving Sadiq alone to shuffle through his notes that lay scattered on the side table next to the sofa. As he began putting the documents neatly back in order, a few pages fell down on the carpet. He picked them up and thought of Noor. Sure, he was a professor, but he was no Humbert Humbert, and Mehrun was definitely not his Lolita. You couldn’t be more wrong, Noor ul Haq. He raised both his hands in an imaginary defence against what the barrister had said that day. He remembered Noor’s gaze alternating between the copy of Lolita and him.

  Mehrun came back with the tea tray. She put it down on the coffee table and began putting sugar and milk in his tea. She did the same for herself and then sat back on the chair.

  ‘Sahib, I was thinking . . . could you . . . I mean, could you get me admitted into President’s College . . . I’ll be forever grateful to you,’ she said.

  ‘President’s is tough to get into,’ Sadiq sat up and continued, ‘Do you t
hink you will have the marks?’

  ‘I am trying for a first division. I have to, to get scholarships . . . otherwise I won’t be able to pay the tuition,’ she said.

  ‘I know that,’ he said. ‘If you get a good first division, I’ll do my best to get you admitted there on a scholarship. The current principal of the college is a former student of mine.’

  He then asked her to come and sit near him. She chose the chair in front of him instead. Despite being somewhat at ease with him, the question of sitting right next to him still did not arise. She respected him, admired him, but she would always consider herself his servant. And even though his demeanour differed from Noor Sahib’s, she still could not imagine him as her mentor. But then, while everyone else looked past her, Sadiq Sahib always looked into her eyes, that too with a smile. Was he attracted to her? Now it was her turn to smile.

  ‘Why is education so important to you?’ the professor asked.

  ‘My English teacher once told me that while I was smart enough to get a good education, it would only matter if I went to an English-medium school. Ever since I was a little girl, my dream has been to learn English, but my mother never liked that. She did not even want me to go to school, but I went, and I always came first in my class. My parents never went to school, but I want to go to college and then teach like you.’

  ‘You are still a little girl.’

  ‘No, I am almost nineteen. I am practically a woman now.’

  Sadiq sighed in relief when he heard her say she was nineteen. Mehrun was not a twelve-year-old Lolita. Noor was dead wrong. With his guilt somewhat abated, he asked her more questions about her dreams, about her interests and about her friends. And for the first time in her life, Mehrun felt that somebody was genuinely interested in her. The more questions he asked, the more comfortable she became. His lavish attention brought her to a happy place. In the excitement of this realization, she suddenly saw him searching her eyes. She blushed and lowered her head, and the next thing she knew, he was kissing her. Mehrun did not resist, succumbing utterly, allowing him a few moments of passion, the relational structure dismantling, the taboos breaking, but then she stood up.