by A. A. Jafri
‘So, do you feel like eating Chinese or shall we order chicken tikka?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know . . . what do you feel like Amma?’
‘I asked you, not your mother.’ Noor was slightly peeved.
They settled on Chinese, and Noor wrote down the names of a few dishes on a piece of paper and gave it to Budhoo along with a twenty-rupee note. Then he ambled to the liquor cabinet in the men’s quarter, where he stashed his entire collection of expensive imported liquor. He came back with the navy-blue box of Royal Salute Scotch Whisky and two crystal whisky glasses.
‘Tonight, we are going to have the best food, the best dessert and the best drink,’ he announced, sitting down on his usual couch. He opened the box and pulled out the bottle from the navy-blue pouch within. Unscrewing the cap, he poured the Scotch into the two glasses and then added two cubes of ice and some water in both. He never drank his whisky neat. After taking a large swig from one glass, he offered the other glass to his son.
‘How old are you?’ he asked.
‘Nearly seventeen,’ Mansoor replied, trembling a bit and stealing a quick glance at his mother.
‘I think you are eligible to have a celebratory glass with your father; you don’t need your mother’s permission, so stop looking at her.’
‘You are corrupting my son,’ Farhat remarked rather casually, picking another laddu from the box.
Mansoor was surprised by that mellow statement. A few years ago, she would have picked a raging fight with his father over this. But perhaps she had finally got used to his drinking. Noor fired back with a couplet from Ghalib:
Waiz na khood piyo, na kissee ko pila sako
Kya baat hai tumhare sharab tahoor key
He turned to Mansoor and asked if he had understood the meaning of the lines. When Mansoor hesitated, he said: ‘This is another couplet from my favourite poet. What he is saying is: “What good is your liquor of piety, O’Preacher, that neither can you drink it, nor can you offer it to anyone.”’
Noor seemed pleased with himself at coming up with an apropos couplet in reply to Farhat’s mild protest. While telling Mansoor not to look at his mother for permission, he stole a guilty glance at his wife.
Mansoor had been introduced to the occasional sip of whisky from an early age. Noor called it a purging experience, a baptism of whisky. But Mansoor still felt uncomfortable drinking in front of his mother, who, he knew, disapproved of it sharply. He hesitatingly took a sip now. Satisfied that his son had defied his mother, Noor asked Mansoor a question, ‘What are your plans after your Senior Cambridge exams?’
With Noor slightly inebriated, the conversation had switched to English.
‘To go to college?’ Mansoor replied, not sure why his father had asked that.
‘Mashallah!’ Noor exclaimed sarcastically. ‘Mister, college is the only option for you. I am asking about your subject.’
‘I haven’t really thought about it, Abba. I still have a year to decide,’ Mansoor answered.
‘I want you to seriously think about economics.’
Never in his wildest imagination had Mansoor thought about economics.
‘Will you get that third book from the second shelf of my bookcase?’ Noor pointed at his precious bookcase standing in one corner of the bedroom.
Mansoor walked over to the bookcase and took out the book his father wanted. It was a book by a man called John Maynard Keynes and was titled The General Theory of Employment, Interest and Money.
‘Do you know who this man was?’ Noor asked, taking the book from him.
Mansoor shook his head and said, ‘No.’
‘He was the man who saved the world.’
Noor flipped through the pages until he came to a passage that he had underlined with a red pencil.
‘Read the part that I have underlined.’
Mansoor took the book from his father and began reading:
The ideas of economists and political philosophers, both when they are right and when they are wrong, are more powerful than is commonly understood. Indeed, the world is ruled by little else. Practical men, who believe themselves to be quite exempt from any intellectual influences, are usually the slaves of some defunct economist. Madmen in authority, who hear voices in the air, are distilling their frenzy from some academic scribbler of a few years back.
Mansoor looked up at his father after he finished reading.
‘That is why I want you to study economics.’
Noor’s economic philosophy had undergone a series of transformations. During his early college years, he had been a communist sympathizer; he read The Communist Manifesto and fantasized about the proletarian revolution in post-colonial India. But Joseph Stalin’s brutal repression and the Soviet invasion of Hungary turned him off entirely from it. In England, while studying for the Bar, he was influenced by the Fabian socialists. When he returned to India, like many other Western-educated men, he began supporting the secular politics and socialist economics of the Congress Party. After the Partition, when his law practice took off, he visited the United States and, impressed by the country’s affluence, converted to capitalism. To him, the free enterprise system was it. The study of economics became his newest passion, and he pored over the tomes of Adam Smith, J.S. Mill, John Maynard Keynes and Milton Friedman. It was too late for him to become a practicing economist, so he started to think about living his dream through his son. At last, he had found a profession for Mansoor.
Mansoor’s mind, however, would switch off whenever Noor talked about economics, so he only retained bits of the information that his father insisted on imparting. Seeing his father so successful in his chosen path, he had always thought that he would eventually take over Noor’s practice, imagining an engraved gold-plated sign at the entrance of the Variawa Building where the office was: Haq and Haq, Advocates, Supreme Court. His admiration for his father’s work had only intensified after he successfully defended Haider Rizvi.
‘But I want to be a lawyer like you,’ Mansoor said.
As soon as he had uttered these words, he noticed his father’s complexion changing. The veins on his neck swelled; he took a deep breath and thundered: ‘I FORBID YOU TO EVEN THINK ABOUT IT.’ After pausing to clear his throat, Noor continued, ‘Now look, son, I don’t want to ever hear such rubbish from you again, understood? Don’t even think about being a lawyer.’
He paused again, grabbed his glass and gulped down some Scotch. ‘Do you know how much I hate this profession?’ he asked. ‘This is the most unproductive profession. It’s a profession where you create tricks and loopholes and legerdemain. You defend your clients even though you know they are lying, and they have cheated.’
‘But don’t the cheats and liars have the right to be defended?’
‘Yes, they do . . . but it weighs you down with a guilt which you will carry for the rest of your life.’
‘But you defended Uncle Haider, and you had tried to help Uncle Hassan Nasir.’
Noor’s face blanched at the name of his dear friend who had been dead for almost eight years. A shiver coursed through his being as the image of Nasir’s tortured body appeared in his mind. Nasir had been regarded by the Dundda government as the most dangerous communist agitator in the country. When he went into hiding, his friends talked about him in code, never mentioning his name even in the privacy of their homes. Noor had bought a ticket for Nasir to flee the country, but the labour leader was apprehended before he could escape. It was only later that Mansoor learned about his father’s involvement in the whole affair.
‘Sahibzadey, things are going to become uglier and more corrupt in our legal system; you won’t be able to survive. No, there is going to be no discussion about this topic again. Do you hear me?’
‘Yes, Abba,’ Mansoor replied.
Budhoo entered with boxes of Chinese takeaway just then, effectively ending the conversation. Relieved to see him, Mansoor got up and pretended to help him serve the food. After Budhoo left them, the three of
them quietly slurped the shark fin soup and munched on the spring chicken.
After a while, Mansoor, out of nowhere, asked his father, ‘Abba, can you tell me about djinns?’
‘Djinns?’ he echoed. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Why are you always interested in djinns? Especially at night?’ his mother interjected.
‘No reason. Just curious,’ Mansoor replied.
Noor had long ago heard about the rumour that Kaneez had spread regarding Mansoor, but he had forgotten all about it. Now when he heard the word ‘djinn’ from his son, he became a little worried and felt an urge to tell him what he thought. Reaching for his whisky, Noor took a sip and said, ‘You know, son, your grandfather was a religious scholar and a firm believer, quite unlike me. But what I admired most about him were his impeccable character and his philosophical interpretations. He abhorred the literalists and fought battles with them.’
‘But what did Dada Jaan think about djinns made of smokeless fire?’ Mansoor asked.
‘Well, let me tell you about his version of djinns.’ Noor paused for a moment and took another sip from his almost-empty glass.
‘The word “djinn” means “something hidden”. A part of everyone’s being is concealed, even from one’s own self. That part is one’s inner djinn. Find your hidden self, or your inner djinn, and you find your true self. The smokeless djinn is a metaphor for the rage that exists in everybody. You have a djinn; I have a djinn and your mother has a djinn. In fact, she has the biggest djinn!’ Noor laughed even as Farhat glowered at him.
That night, as he closed his eyes to go to sleep, Mansoor couldn’t stop thinking about what his father had said about djinns as one’s hidden self. Is our concealed self our true reality? Why is it hidden? How do we discover it? Is the inner rage an ugly part of our reality that also needs to be discovered? That was a scary thought.
Fourteen
Even though Joseph lived in Karachi, he had never paid much attention to the urs or the birthday celebrations of Abdullah Shah Ghazi, the eighth-century Sufi saint. Regarded as Karachi’s patron saint, his birthday was observed with great fanfare. His shrine, located on a hilltop overlooking Clifton Beach, attracted people of all faith, who came for supplication and spirituality. The tomb with its white and green striped dome, beautiful tile work and colourful bunting stood out from afar. Recently, tourists and hippies had also started visiting the shrine.
When Mansoor told Joseph about that year’s celebrations, the first thought that came to his mind was the langar, the free ‘consecrated meal’ that would be served at the shrine. Rather than going home and eating the same daal and roti, he could have a feast there and all for the cost of a bus trip! The food at the shrine was believed to have miraculous power, and those who came to beseech Ghazi that day had their wishes granted by the dead Sufi saint. Who knows, Joseph might even get his heart’s desire to become a movie star. He asked Mansoor to accompany him, but he declined. Feeling dejected, Joseph decided to go there by himself.
When Joseph arrived at the shrine, night had begun to fall. An interminable sea of pilgrims greeted him. He saw more people disembarking from buses, trucks, taxis and even donkey carts. Everyone ran towards the tomb as soon as they got out of their vehicles. Pedlars huckstered their wares, while beggars asked for alms. It was a chilly night, crisp and brittle, as men, women and children in tattered clothes, their faces garbled by wretched poverty, their hopes raised by vague promises moved towards the tomb. Joseph walked with them deliberately, as if he knew exactly what he would do once he got to his destination.
Suddenly, Joseph heard a loud firecracker. It sounded like the racket that the ack-ack guns made during the war. The next moment, he saw men, women and children falling even as others ran frantically in every direction. They were shrieking and screaming. It was a stampede. He stopped walking, and without thinking, he turned back and started to run in the reverse direction. He heard more shots as he ran. A haggard-looking man was running alongside him. ‘Was that a firecracker?’ Joseph asked him.
‘No, I heard there was fighting between two groups; they must’ve fired at each other,’ the man replied.
Joseph had seen policemen in their grey and khaki uniforms when he had got down from the bus, and he hoped they would bring order. But the police fired tear gas shells into the crowd, which caused even more panic. The cries of women and children could be heard everywhere. People were falling over each other, getting crushed in the process. A tear gas shell landed near Joseph, swishing thick smoke. As he ran past it, he felt a burning sensation in his eyes, and he began coughing as his chest tightened. But he kept on running.
After Joseph had cleared some distance, he stopped to rest for a while, and as he wiped his eyes with his sleeve, he saw a man on all fours on the ground, holding his side as blood oozed out. He looked confused when Joseph bent over to see him. He asked the man what happened to him, but the man had difficulty speaking. Without a second’s hesitation, Joseph lifted him up in his arms and ran towards a slowly moving taxi. He waved at the driver, who stopped the instant he saw him—a big man carrying a limp body. Joseph gently lowered the man into the back seat and then ran to the other side. He opened the door and jumped in next to him, cradling his head on his lap.
‘Civil Haspataal!’ he shouted to the taxi driver.
The taxi swerved and accelerated convulsively as it headed towards the hospital, the rattling noise of the exhaust from the busted silencer annoying the wounded man. The man was having difficulty breathing. After a while, he whispered something to Joseph. It was then that Joseph realized that he was a foreigner.
‘Where from?’ Joseph asked in his broken English.
‘Iran,’ the man replied with difficulty.
‘Don’t talk,’ Joseph said, ‘we go haspataal.’
Throughout the journey, Joseph applied pressure on the man’s wound, using his handkerchief to try and stem the bleeding. He kept comforting the injured man in his broken English, telling him, ‘haspataal come soon.’
The man grimaced in pain as the taxi braked right in front of the hospital. Joseph gave the driver one rupee and pulled out the incapacitated Iranian effortlessly. He was a small man, so Joseph did not have any difficulty carrying him. He took him straight to the emergency, where the orderlies and the nurses whisked him away. One of the nurses came back and rudely ordered Joseph to wait. So Joseph went and sat on one of the wobbly chairs in the reception area. He stayed there for a couple of hours until a young doctor came out and told him that the patient needed blood. They asked him his blood type.
‘It’s red!’ he replied.
‘We need to take your blood to see if you’re a match. It may save this man’s life. He is in bad shape. Are you willing to give blood?’
‘Yes,’ Joseph replied.
They pulled him into a room and asked him to lie flat on the gurney. They drew vials of blood. Joseph did not know how many; he had already fainted. When he regained consciousness, it was late. He went to the nurses’ desk and asked about the Iranian. Relieved to hear that he was stable and had received his blood, Joseph headed home.
The next day, Joseph went to the hospital to visit the Iranian. One of the nurses had informed him that the police would be there to take his statement, but the police never came. The Iranian, Reza Dabiran, spoke little Urdu and no Punjabi, while Joseph spoke a smattering of English and no Farsi; they communicated in an odd mixture of sign language, Farsi, English, Punjabi and Urdu.
‘Thank you for saving my life,’ Reza said in English as he tried to sit up.
‘Oh! No bother, Sahib,’ Joseph replied.
Reza Dabiran, a man in his late thirties, was severely bruised and cut, but his face still displayed his handsome features. Although his injuries made it difficult for him to speak, he continued to chat with Joseph.
‘I am a commercial attaché at the Iranian consulate,’ Reza said.
‘Shrine, Sahib?’ Joseph asked and made a hand gesture asking why.
/> With a smile on his face, Reza said, ‘I was on my way to the beach when I was suddenly hit by the mob, and then I don’t exactly know what happened.’
Reza did not have any family or friends in the city, and his colleagues from the consulate visited him only once in that dingy Dettol-smelling hospital. So, to him, Joseph’s company was a welcome respite. He stayed at the Civil Hospital for three days and was later moved to the Holy Family Hospital, which had better facilities. Reza stayed there for two more weeks, and Joseph visited him every day. One day, he even brought some fruits for him. Joseph had saved the man’s life, and now he touched his heart with kindness. With a friendly, young doctor acting as Joseph’s interpreter, Reza learned everything about his rescuer.
‘You know, Joseph, I can help you find a job in Iran if you want, but not in films.’
‘You can? Oh! Please, Sahib, I will be your servant!’ Joseph replied.
‘I can get you a job at one of the oil refineries.’
Joseph became ecstatic. He wanted to pack his bags the very next day and leave for Iran, but Reza laughed and told him to have patience. It would take time to get everything in order. But Joseph had found his miracle, and he called it hope.
*
After he returned from the hospital that night, Joseph wanted to broadcast his good news to the whole of Bhangi Para. He wanted to celebrate the offer of hope around those narrow pathways that always led to a dead-end. He wanted to tell his mother that her days of cleaning other people’s shit were over. For at last, there was hope. But his mother was nowhere to be found. He saw the same dog that he had hit with a stone the other day in his frustration, but he did not hit him this time; instead, he threw him the sandwich that he had swiped from the hospital. The dog took a few steps towards it and began eating it.
From the sweltering oil refineries of Iran to the film studios of Bombay, Joseph could see his future stretch out in front of him like a long shimmering path, free of blind spots and dead-end alleys. He saw himself prancing around movie sets with Rajesh Khanna and doing a dance number with Sharmila Tagore. His fantasies, however, were rudely interrupted by the tired face of his mother as she entered their shack.