Of Smokeless Fire

by A. A. Jafri

  A little later, Noor got up to use the toilet. With only Mansoor in the room, the air became a bit awkward. Sadiq’s face blanched and he began fidgeting. After a painfully long minute, he smiled hesitantly and said, ‘It was good to see you at Chandni Lounge that day.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mansoor replied.

  ‘Do you go there often?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I like the ambiance of the place more than the food.’

  Mansoor just nodded. Giving up, Sadiq interlocked his fingers and leaned back into the chair, resting the back of his head on his hands, and surveyed the glass cabinet. Mansoor pretended to look at the scriptural hangings on the wall. His father was surely taking his time in the toilet. Eventually, Mansoor asked Sadiq about the courses he was teaching that term. Sadiq said he was teaching a new class called ‘The Theatre of the Absurd’.

  A delightful irony, Mansoor thought.

  Seventeen

  Mansoor was now in the final years of college. The political climate had worn him down, and the strikes and shutdowns had jaded him. He decided it was time to go abroad if he wanted to get a good education. Initially, his father wanted him to go to England for further studies, but it was the United States that attracted Mansoor more. It represented youth, vigour and dynamism, a place where the action was. Besides, most of his classmates had also gone to the United States. After convincing his father that the centre of economics had shifted from England to the United States, he began sending applications to as many American universities as he could. Noor insisted that he apply to all the Ivy League universities, but Mansoor did not and lied about it. He was not sure he’d get into any and he didn’t want to waste time. Most of his life, he had studied at extraordinary institutions, now he wanted to try the ordinary. The idea of applying to the ‘yellow schools of America’ appealed to him.

  *

  It was Athanni’s fourth ride on the elevator within the first hour of the day. Up and down, up and down, like Sisyphus, but pushing everyone else’s meaningless weight. That is what he usually did during the entire day, but on that particular morning he did more in one hour than he did during the whole day. Everyone wanted him to take something to someone or run some trivial errand for them. If it was not the files, then it was the envelopes; if it was not the envelopes, then it was the forms that needed someone’s signature. And then, as if he were their servant, he had to fetch tea for the clerks. As he pressed the ground floor button on the elevator, he noticed his reflection on the brass door. His new beard almost concealed the scar on his face. His hand instinctively went to that area; the skin felt stretched when he touched it. The elevator stopped on the second floor and the assistant clerk from the Home Loans Department, Javed Anwar, stepped in. As soon as he saw Athanni, he said: ‘Areý, Khaleel, where have you been? Mister Hashem was looking for you!’

  ‘For me? Why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  The elevator had already reached the ground floor. Athanni’s heart raced with excitement. He was sure that Mister Hashem would talk to him about Islamic banking. As soon as Javed stepped out, Athanni whispered, ‘Thank you, Mehrun,’ and pressed the button for the second floor, where Mister Hashem’s office was. Outside Syed Hashem’s office, his secretary sat screening everyone in quest of an audience with her boss. The minute she saw him, she said, ‘Where were you? Mister Hashem was looking for you! Go in quickly.’

  Inside, the burly Mister Hashem sat on his leather chair, smoking a cigarette and going through a file, his handlebar moustache covering his upper lip. As soon as he saw Athanni, he gestured him to come in.

  ‘I want you to take this box to Mister Kirmani at the Tariq Road branch. Tell him I need him to act on all the files right away, and tell him to return these to me by next Wednesday. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Lifting the heavy box, Athanni made his way towards the door. Suddenly, as if remembering something, he stopped, turned around and said, ‘Hashem Sir!’

  ‘Yes, what is it?’

  ‘Sir, did Mehrunnissa talk to you about me?’

  ‘About you? No. What is this about?’

  ‘Sir, I have heard that you are going to be in charge of Islamic banking here, and I want to work in that department.’

  Hashem looked at him from head to toe, as if trying to figure out what exactly he had said. He then returned his stern eyes to Athanni’s face.

  ‘Areý, Mian Khaleel, growing a beard and having a prayer mark on your forehead doesn’t qualify you to work in Islamic banking. Now, go take care of this business.’Athanni was furious at Hashem’s insults and at Mehrun for not using her influence on his behalf. Carrying the box with heavy steps, he went towards the elevator and pushed the button. In the lobby, he saw Mehrun with Mansoor, laughing about something. As he struggled to hold on to the box, he felt a knot in his stomach. Concealing his face behind the carton, he walked past them without being noticed. Their laughter, like a hazing ritual, intensified his disgrace. ‘You are not better than me, you bastards.’ He took the box to the round tin dumpster at the corner of the parking lot, opened the lid and tossed it into its gaping mouth.

  *

  An unusually cold spell welcomed the first of April that year, veiling the city in a thick fog. It was as if nature was playing an April Fool’s Day prank on the citizens of this tropical city. Before the muezzin’s call for morning prayers, and before the crack of dawn, Athanni scaled the fenced wall of Kashana-e-Haq and entered its compound, staggering towards the backyard with an old satchel hanging diagonally around his neck. The bag bulged with what looked like a rectangular box with wires hanging out from it. Athanni’s steps displayed a purpose as he hurried towards the doghouse that stood in one corner of the lawn. He saw Chaos, Mansoor’s dog, sleeping. Athanni whistled lightly. Chaos barked. He whispered the dog’s name. Chaos whimpered. Turning around to make sure that the bark had not woken up Changez, the guard, he called Chaos again. The dog came out reluctantly, and recognizing Athanni, began sniffing him. The intruder stroked him with one hand, and with the other hand, he took out a piece of raw meat from the satchel and gave it to the terrier. The dog sniffed at the food and began eating it. Athanni then took out a black box from the bag and went inside the doghouse. After a few minutes, he came out with his satchel hanging loosely from his shoulder. He sat cross-legged on the grass and watched Chaos intently. Ten minutes later, the dog slumped on the grass. Athanni got up, lifted the unconscious canine in his arms and deposited him inside his kennel. He came out, wiped his hands on his clothes, walked hurriedly towards the boundary wall, climbed over it and disappeared into the darkness from which he had emerged.

  *

  As was his wont, Mansoor woke up precisely at 6.30 a.m. It was darker than usual. And as he pulled the curtains aside, he noticed the thick fog that had gloomed the landscape. He got ready to go to college. By the time he sat down for breakfast, the sun had cleared most of the fog away. Mansoor quietly finished his breakfast and went outside. He always played with Chaos for a few minutes before he left for university, but that day when he whistled, nothing happened. Usually, the dog would be out, sniffing the grass. When Mansoor didn’t see Chaos, he called his name, but nothing happened again. That was unusual. He whistled again, called his name, clapped and whistled a third time, but still nothing. Chaos was getting old, yes, but he was still agile and never disobeyed his master’s call. A sense of foreboding came over Mansoor.

  What is wrong with him? he wondered.

  He called Chaos again. When the dog did not come out, he decided to go and check for himself. Afraid of what he might find there, Mansoor approached the doghouse with trepidation. A disgusting smell of dog vomit permeated the yard. He stopped and sniffed the air. His heart pounded and his legs became weak, but he mustered the courage and went ahead. As he peered inside the doghouse, he got a massive shock. In a pool of blood, and what seemed like vomit, lay a moribund Chaos. Never in his life had Mansoor seen so much blood. The nauseatin
g smell made it difficult for him to stay there any longer or do anything. He did not know if Chaos was alive, but there was no time to waste or panic. And with that thought, he sprinted back inside the house and headed straight to the drawing room where he picked up the bulky black telephone receiver and dialled the veterinarian’s number. But as he was dialling, a piercing blast rattled the windows of the drawing room. Mansoor dropped the phone and ran out into the backyard, where a ghastly scene of destruction confronted him. Razed to the ground and strewn all across the lawn, like scattered matchsticks, lay the remains of the doghouse. And in the middle of the rubble, he saw the bloody remains of Chaos. Mansoor stood there, bewildered and benumbed, trying to make sense of this mayhem. The sound of the blast brought his parents out.

  ‘What happened, beta? Are you okay? Where is Chaos?’ his father asked, running up to him.

  ‘Are you okay? Mansoor?’ his mother asked him, shaking him when he didn’t say anything.

  Rattled and fazed, Mansoor stood there motionless, while his mother approached the disaster area. She stayed there for some time and then came back to stand with Noor and him. As if from a great distance away, Mansoor heard his mother say, ‘Chaos is dead, but thank God you are alive. I am glad it was the dog that died.’

  *

  Mansoor wanted Chaos to be buried where his doghouse had stood, but Farhat did not wish to have a dog cemetery in her compound. She created such a big ruckus that Mansoor decided to have him buried at a pet cemetery.

  The police came and interviewed the servants. They roughed up Budhoo, cuffed Changez and questioned Sikander, but they couldn’t find the culprit. Traces of chemicals near the doghouse confirmed that a small bomb had destroyed it, and the autopsy of Chaos indicated that it was arsenic that had killed him. But the ultimate question was: who was the intended target? Chaos or Mansoor? And, more importantly, who was the killer? Mansoor had no clues and no suspects. That Athanni would undertake such a wanton act of brutality never entered his mind.

  *

  Two months after the senseless killing of Chaos, Mansoor got two letters in the mail, one from the University of Iowa and the other from Joseph. He opened the letter from the university first. He had been accepted into their master’s programme in economics. Then he opened Joseph’s missive, which was, much to his surprise, very neatly penned in Urdu.

  Salaam Mansoor Babu,

  You must be quite surprised to receive my letter. I must tell you at the outset that I am only dictating my thoughts to my good friend Salamat Masih. He is also a Pakistani Christian like me and works at the refinery. He used to teach Urdu at the school I went to, back in Bhangi Para. He has promised to teach me how to read and write in Urdu. So next time, maybe you will receive my letter in my own handwriting.

  I wanted to write to you earlier, but I had been busy here. Living alone in a foreign country is hell, especially when you do not know the language. In the beginning, it was tough for me to understand Farsi, but now I have become reasonably fluent in it. You will be happy to know that I can now talk git-pit git-pit in English also, not as good as you or even Mehrun, but I can make myself understandable to some Amreeki and Angrez people here. Life in a foreign country teaches one about survival. For me, being in Iran has been busy and rewarding. I cannot thank my friend Reza Dabiran enough for giving me this opportunity to live and work here. I live in the city of Abadan, which is located in the south-western part of Iran, and I am currently working for an oil company. Many Americans live in this town. They are babus, like you, but they don’t mind talking with me and shaking hands with me. You see, I haven’t told them that I am a bhangi. I wonder how they would react if they knew. I have befriended some of them. One person has been very helpful. He is an old Amreeki, Peter Dawber, who says that he fought in the Second World War and visited Karachi in 1954. He loves Pakistani food. I often invite him for dinner at my flat. You know, when I was working at Café de Jamadar I learned how to cook. My friend Peter Sahib tells me I am so good that I should open a restaurant. Maybe someday, I will.

  You know, my mother has gone back to Punjab and is now living with her sister. She is still angry with me for leaving her alone, but you tell me what could I have done? Kismet doesn’t knock at your door every day. My mother doesn’t understand that and begs me to come home in every letter she sends me. I am planning to visit her later this summer. I will get my vacation and guess what? They are not going to dock my salary! When I come, I would like to see you and, if possible, stay in your servants’ quarters, if it is okay with Barrister Sahib and Begum Sahiba. Please send my salaam to them. How is Mehrun? She is a hot thing, isn’t she? If I were not a bhangi, I would marry her in an instant. Too bad you can’t marry her either. If you see her, tell her I still want her to be my heroine. I hope Athanni doesn’t rob you any more. Did I tell you that some months before I left for Iran, I saw Athanni in a cinema watching a nude filim? I confronted him and he got angry at me and ran away in a taxi.

  Please write to me and tell me about everything back home. You will be surprised to learn that although I hated that country of yours, I still miss it. My address is written at the back of the envelope.

  If you could send me Mehrun’s address in your letter, I would be grateful to you.

  Your servant,

  Joseph Solomon

  Joseph had signed his name in English. Glad to receive his letter, Mansoor decided to reply to him soon, as he was not sure when he would see his friend next. He called Mehrun at her office, keen to tell her about Joseph’s letter, but she was not there. So he left a message and hung up.

  *

  Two weeks before his bank was nationalized, Alvi officially resigned as the chairman and managing director of the High Finance Bank, much to the dismay of his colleagues. They felt betrayed, and made it sound as if Alvi, the captain, had abandoned a sinking ship and used the only lifeboat available to flee alone, leaving his fellow passengers to the sharks. Their reaction was to shun the man. Avoiding him was their way of shaming him. Mehrun, of course, knew about his planned resignation well before everyone else, but she had still nurtured a hope that he would change his mind. Without his protection, she was afraid to continue working at the bank alone. Her meteoric rise had created enemies, and her close ties with Alvi had made people whisper. But with Alvi at the helm, she never had to worry about anything. The fear of nationalization had made most people jittery; the tension levels were at an all-time high, but what flustered Mehrun more was the possibility of working amid angry wolves after Alvi left.

  When Alvi finally announced his intention to resign, Mehrun busied herself in organizing a farewell party for him. But the party had to be discreet; the top bosses had to be kept in the dark since Alvi had already become a pariah. Throwing a farewell party for a deserter was tantamount to committing career suicide, nevertheless, Mehrun went ahead with the preparations.

  A day before the party, however, she felt sick. But skipping it was out of the question. It would be a let-down for everyone, and she would never do that. She took four Aspro tablets before heading to work and psyched herself for the evening. Alvi had unfinished business to attend to, so he spent his last few days working till late, wrapping things up. On the day of the party, after the other bosses were gone, Mehrun tricked Alvi to come down to the basement of the bank. The surprise party touched him. Gratified that his staff still cared about him despite his lame-duck status, he thanked them in a cracked voice. He was deeply moved by Mehrun, who took the risk to organize the whole thing.

  Compared to the farewell bashes of past eras, this one turned out to be a tame affair. Dancing, drinking and debauchery were obviously missing. The psychedelic index, a term coined by Alvi, did not rise above zero, but then he had never cared for frivolity. After giving a heartfelt speech, he came to Mehrun, thanked her and renewed his job offer. But how could she leave her real job for a pipe dream? How could she abandon her father alone in this behemoth of a city? Despite her emotional remoteness with her fathe
r, she wanted to stay close to him. They had no other relatives in the town, no family, and Jumman had no friends either. The Kashana was the only place where he functioned like a normal person, where he found purpose, meaning and happiness. Perhaps, if he shifted there and stayed as a live-in gardener, she could leave him without feeling guilty. Could she ask Mansoor to make that arrangement?

  ‘Please think again about my offer.’

  Mehrun smiled stingily.

  ‘If you want, I can ask your father,’ Alvi suggested.

  ‘He will never allow his unmarried daughter to live alone in a foreign country.’

  ‘Then get married!’ Alvi suggested.

  Mehrun laughed and said, ‘Yes, it is that easy, especially for a girl of my background.’

  ‘What is wrong with a girl of your background?’

  Alvi knew everything about her background and the societal barriers erected like the reinforced steel around the bank’s vault, but he still lingered on for an explanation, as if to keep the conversation running.

  ‘Alvi Sahib, who do you think is going to marry me? For the men of my world, I am too liberated, too educated; I earn my own living; I am independent; I support my father. As for men from the other world, I do not even exist. Who is going to marry a daughter of a har . . . a gardener?’

  She stopped to collect her thoughts, and after a split-second break continued, ‘Besides, my father cannot provide any dowry for me.’

  Alvi’s persistent questions exasperated her, and her vigorous explanations caught people’s attention. Realizing that people were eavesdropping on their conversation, she changed the subject.

  Alvi stayed with her till the party ended, even helping her clean the place, which discomfited her more. With the cleaning done, he offered to take her home. It was too dangerous to use public transportation at that hour, so Mehrun accepted his offer. The night was starry and silent. They sat in Alvi’s Mercedes convertible, which cruised smoothly on the dark, deserted road towards Clifton Beach. She knew that he was going in a direction that was diametrically opposite to where she lived, but she pretended ignorance. As they reached the oceanfront, she noticed a line of magnificent houses along the road, standing imperiously and looking down upon the rest of the city. He stopped his car in front of one of them.