Of Smokeless Fire

by A. A. Jafri

  Haider Rizvi was the only top editor who was spared arrest. He began playing the game that he had alluded to when he spoke to Noor a while ago. Under Haider’s leadership, the Morning Gazette became the administration’s mouthpiece, and in return, the government rewarded him generously with advertisements. Rizvi began enjoying the new limelight, hobnobbing with the powerful and the ruthless. Irreligious at heart, but steeped in slyness, he practiced his art of pretension to perfection. So shameless was his sycophancy at the time that his prickly friend Noor became uncomfortable in his company. Had he not been such an old friend, Noor would have dumped him altogether.

  Part III

  ‘Who holds the devil, let him hold him well,

  He hardly will be caught a second time.’

  —Faust: Part 1, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

  Nineteen

  Mansoor completed his undergraduate degree in economics from the University of Karachi and was eager to study further in America. All his admission papers from the University of Iowa had arrived, but the prized American visa eluded him. The process was so labyrinthine that he almost gave up on it until Haider Rizvi offered his help.

  ‘I know someone at the American consulate who can get you the visa, but there is one condition.’

  ‘What is that?’ Mansoor asked.

  ‘You will let me call you the twelfth man!’ Haider laughed so hard that he began to cough.

  After he settled down, Mansoor replied, ‘Uncle Haider, if you get me the visa, you can call me anything you want.’

  ‘Okay, my twelfth man, come to my office tomorrow, and we will start the innings,’ Haider said.

  The next day, Mansoor drove his Datsun to Haider Rizvi’s office. Located in an old colonial-style mansion, the fading yellow building grimly reminded Mansoor of the control the government had on it now. After parking his car inside the Gazette’s parking lot, a rarity in this densely populated, land-scarce city, he went straight to Haider’s second-floor office. Sitting behind a sturdy table, a petite and well-groomed secretary in a light blue dress guarded Haider’s office.

  ‘I am here to see Mr Haider Rizvi.’

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘No, but he asked me to come at any time.’

  ‘You can’t see him if you don’t have an appointment . . . besides, he is with somebody right now.’

  ‘I know him personally . . . could you just tell him that Mansoor ul Haq is here to see him?’ he pleaded desperately.

  ‘I am sorry, Mr Haq, no appointment, no meeting. I can get you an appointment for January.’

  But January was two months away. Besides, he was supposed to be in America in January. Feeling thoroughly disgusted by the imperious, intransigent secretary, Mansoor turned around to leave, but Haider came out of his office just then and saw him.

  ‘Oh, come on in, Mansoor! I am glad you came. Miss Davis, please hold all my calls.’

  A sly smile on his face, Mansoor glanced at Miss Davis triumphantly and walked into Haider’s office. Inside, he saw a man in a crumpled kurta-pyjama sitting comfortably across from the editor. Wearing a white prayer cap, his round moustache-less face concealed by a long salt-and-pepper beard, he looked familiar to Mansoor.

  ‘Assalam alai kum,’ Mansoor greeted him, raking his memory to identify the face.

  ‘Wa-alaikum assalam wa rahamatullahe wa barakatuh.’

  Greeting Mansoor with the additional benedictions of divine mercy and blessings, and squeezing out all the pietistic verbiage he could to assert his new self-image, was a man no other than Zakir Hassan.

  Mansoor recognized that raspy voice. Gone was the man with the infectious smile, the dapper attire and the magnetic personality. In his place sat a shaggy mendicant with a stern face.

  What a transformation! Mansoor thought. He knew that Zakir Hassan had gone through a period of exhaustive soul-searching, but such a drastic makeover he had never imagined. Mansoor pulled an empty chair and asked, ‘How are you doing, Uncle Zakir?’

  ‘All praise is to Allah,’ came the prompt reply. After a brief pause, Zakir continued, ‘So you are going to America?’ And before Mansoor could reply, he spoke again, ‘Good! Very good! Our beloved Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, said seek education even if you have to go to China . . .’

  Mansoor knew that there was a ‘but’ hidden somewhere and he waited for it to erupt.

  ‘But, let me give you a piece of advice. You know I lived in America for many years, and I have seen its worst side and its best side. And as a person who cares about you, let me tell you—continue to pray five times a day, fast during Ramadan and read the holy Qur’an every day, and you will be saved from the worst side of America, inshallah.’

  The confidence in Zakir’s assumption that he would ‘continue to pray’, and the certainty of his conclusion that he needed to be ‘saved’, irritated Mansoor. But he was in no mood to hear a sermon, so he just nodded politely and turned his attention to Haider.

  ‘Do you think you can get me an interview with the consul general?’ Mansoor asked Haider.

  ‘I certainly can! Not to worry, twelfth man,’ Haider replied confidently and then changed the subject, ‘Would you like something hot or cold to drink?’

  ‘Tea would be great,’ Mansoor answered.

  ‘Well, I should be leaving; I have to go to four more places,’ Zakir said and got up to leave. He shook hands with Haider, embraced Mansoor and kissed him on his forehead. As he was about to leave the room, he turned again and said, ‘Mansoor, I would like to give you some advice about America, and perhaps even help you get the visa. I am on a first-name basis with the consul general. We were classmates at Harvard. Come to my house tomorrow after the midday prayer, or before it . . . perhaps we can go to the mosque together.’

  ‘I will try.’

  ‘That’s all I ask.’

  Zakir did not like Mansoor’s answer. He knew that Noor’s son couldn’t be religious, and that was his challenge, but he was also confident in his abilities to persuade the boy. It was an art that he had used routinely as a diplomat. If only he could spend some time with the young man, he could save him from his father’s beliefs. That was the plan.

  After he had left, Haider told Mansoor that Zakir had joined a proselytizing group whose job was to convert the ‘errant’ Muslims first. He mockingly called them the Pyjama Dheela Topi Tight Party, a reference to the loose pyjamas and the tight caps that the members of the party wore.

  ‘His life’s mission now is to visit seven different Muslims every day and remind them about religion. It was a good thing you came, and just in time too, because he was throwing jerky googlies,’ Haider said.

  Mansoor stayed with him for another hour, but he just couldn’t get a straight answer about the interview with the consul general. By the time he left, he knew that he had wasted his time.

  *

  The next day, Mansoor went to Zakir’s house, which was located near the newly built Marine Drive, right next to the Arabian Sea. A beautiful exclave, with bricked bungalows overlooking the deep tantalizing waters of the Arabian Sea, the whole pristine development with its big, wide streets seemed at odds with the rest of the city that remained mainly unplanned and haphazard.

  It was still a little before the midday prayer, so Mansoor whiled away his time by driving around aimlessly, enjoying the scenery. Palm and coconut trees lined the shoulders of the Drive, and a few seagulls majestically circled the blue sky. He saw a group of children on horses, smartly dressed in jodhpurs, partaking in what looked like their regular riding lessons. The sight of the blue water and the sandy beach invited him, but he decided against going in. After driving for about half an hour, Mansoor turned his Datsun around and headed towards Zakir’s house.

  As he pulled up near the iron gate of Zakir’s bungalow, he saw him watering his flowers. Mansoor waved at him. Zakir came and embraced him warmly as he got out of his car. After exchanging pleasantries, he told Mansoor that he had some good news.
/>   ‘Good news for me?’ Mansoor asked.

  ‘Yes, first come on in, and then I’ll tell you.’

  As they passed through the symmetrically landscaped front garden, Mansoor noticed a row of immaculately shaped hedges and rose bushes—red, pink and yellow. A large Italianate fountain misted the air and two marble pillars flanked the porch leading to the front door. Zakir might have traded his Saville Row suits for white kurta-pyjamas, but the grandeur of his property was non-negotiable. He led Mansoor straight to his library. Framed calligraphic verses from the Qur’an, painted by the Pakistani artist Sadequain, robed the otherwise naked walls. A desk cluttered with papers, manuscripts and a few open books stood in the centre of the room, suggesting some writing in progress. A Sony stereo cassette deck played a dulcet rendition of Qur’anic verses recited by a qari, a professional reciter. As he sat on the sofa opposite the desk, Mansoor asked impatiently, ‘So, what is the good news, Uncle Zakir?’

  ‘What are you doing tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Nothing in particular . . . why do you ask?’

  ‘I have arranged an interview for you with the consul general for tomorrow at 10 a.m. Can you make it?’

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ Mansoor replied. He couldn’t believe what he had just heard. After a moment, he asked him, ‘Thank you! But how did you arrange it?’

  ‘Well, as I told you, the consul general is a friend of mine.’

  Mansoor thanked him profusely. Zakir told him then that he did not think that Haider knew anybody in the American consulate; Mansoor agreed with his conclusion. Then, without any notice, Zakir changed the subject and asked Mansoor, ‘Have you offered your midday prayers yet?’

  Caught off guard by the question, Mansoor remembered, a little too late, the complaint Haider had of him yesterday. Had he anticipated that question, he would have lied, but not now. Not after the favour Zakir had done him. With a gnawing emptiness inside his stomach, Mansoor said, ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t either . . . let’s pray together then.’

  Without waiting for a reply, Zakir led Mansoor to the bathroom to perform the ablutions. Feeling like a phoney who had just peddled away his authenticity, Mansoor wanted to scream and say, ‘You have taken advantage of my weakness. I do not care about the damn interview!’ But he could not. Too timid to stand up to Zakir and let this opportunity pass, he sold his soul and quietly prayed with him. After the prayers, a servant brought them tea and biscuits in a silver tray. Mansoor took the drink and thanked Zakir, but he knew that the worst was yet to come, and he was right. Zakir lectured him about the ‘decadent West’ and about the virtue of religion, liberally quoting the scripture from memory. And all this time, Mansoor sat quietly, nodding his head and pretending to listen.

  ‘Prayer is the pillar of religion; fasting is the shield from sins. The good news is that you were born a Muslim. Allah did you a great favour by creating you in a Muslim household,’ Zakir said.

  A Muslim household? Mansoor thought. My father doesn’t believe in any of these things, and my mother . . . well, she believes as a matter of habit, and me . . . I don’t know what I believe in, he wondered.

  Mansoor then heard Zakir say, ‘Every day, after the early morning Fajr prayers, recite the ninety-nine names of Allah before you do anything else, and inshallah you will see that you will have a problem-free day.’

  Mansoor’s mind had begun drifting again, while his eyes conducted a grim survey of the re-invented Zakir Hassan. What earth-shaking event, what calamity in his life had made him give up his prestigious job in exchange for converting people to his beliefs? One must have a bucketload of certitude to believe that they possess the absolute truth, one that everyone should hear about. How could a man change so profoundly and in so abbreviated a period of time? How did Zakir support his family and pay for the upkeep of his elegant bungalow?’ Mansoor knew he had four daughters, but he never saw them. They must be observing the purdah by now. Mansoor’s ordeal lasted for another hour or so. When he finally managed to leave, he thanked Zakir once again for arranging the interview and bade him goodbye with the promise that he would keep him informed about his visa status.

  *

  With Zakir’s help, Mansoor obtained the visa for America. As the date of his impending departure neared, Mansoor noticed a jump in his father’s alcohol intake. Was he hurting? Didn’t his father want him to go to America? He could drown his emotions in Chivas Regal; he could carry on a normal conversation, but he would never say no to higher education. So what was the matter? Then, two nights before his departure, his father summoned him. Mansoor felt flustered as he walked into his parents’ bedroom.

  ‘Come, sit with me. I have something important to talk about,’ Noor said in English when he saw Mansoor.

  Struggling with her own sadness, Farhat lay on the bed, cursing her husband, her eyes all red and puffy from continuous crying. While Noor drowned his sorrows in alcohol, Farhat submerged herself in her faith. Every day after Noor left for his office, she picked up the Qur’an, recited a few sections and cried her heart out on the prayer rug.

  After Mansoor had seated himself on the chair, Noor poured him a glass of whisky. Mansoor accepted it reluctantly. Catching a quick glance of his mother’s scowling face, he winced. So close to his departure, he did not want to antagonize his mother, but then he couldn’t reject his father either. Noor raised his glass and said, ‘Cheers.’ Mansoor forced a smile and raised his glass as well.

  ‘Son, now that you are almost ready to go to America, I thought that this would be an opportune time for me to give you some last-minute advice . . . not that you need any,’ and with that, Noor laughed his familiar, inebriated laugh. Pausing for a while, he took a sip of the whisky before continuing. ‘My first advice to you would be to get the highest education possible. Actually, nothing would give me greater satisfaction than you getting a PhD. I am going to support your education for as long as I have to, so don’t worry about money. My other advice to you would be to try and settle in America if you can. Don’t ever think about coming back to this wretched country.’

  Mansoor felt sad when his father said that. This was his country, his place of birth. If he didn’t belong here, he wouldn’t belong anywhere.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Mansoor asked.

  ‘Why? Why? You ask why? Because, Sahibzadey, you have no future here. Even if you get a job here, you will not be able to live honestly. Corruption in this country of YOURS will eat you up like cancer, and no amount of radiotherapy will cure it. If you come back, you will do so without my blessings.’

  ‘What are you two talking about? Can’t you speak in Urdu?’ Farhat interrupted. She jumped into the conversation because she thought Noor was berating Mansoor for something.

  Noor had never liked her interruptions, especially not when he was talking with their son. Now, he rudely told her off, ‘What we are talking about has nothing to do with you. So turn around and go to sleep.’

  ‘How can anyone sleep with you talking so loudly?’ Farhat remained defiant.

  To diffuse the situation, Mansoor quickly intervened. In a soft tone, using the most polite Urdu words he could think of, he said, ‘Amma, Abba is just giving me some advice about living in a foreign country . . . that’s all.’

  The answer did not satisfy her. Farhat turned to the other side, pulled up her blanket and began crying softly. Noor’s insults had lacerated her feelings again. To upset her like that was nothing unusual for him, especially when he was boozed out. That night, however, she was more tearful than usual. Living with this man for all these years, watching him drink every night, listening to him talk in English, witnessing his impossible-to-understand lectures to their son, all of it still enraged her. And when father and son joined in this sinful act, it hurt her deeply. And that night again, hearing a conversation in that alien language made her feel like a foreigner in her own bedroom; she hated these legatees of British colonialism.

  As Mansoor fiddled with his half-filled
glass, Noor continued with his lecture, ‘Now look, son, I hope you don’t believe in patriotism. Remember, it is the last resort of scoundrels.’

  Noor laughed awkwardly at his own words, and then, raising one of his eyebrows, he waited expectantly for an answer, but Mansoor kept quiet.

  ‘Don’t think that it is your patriotic duty to come back, okay?’ Noor continued.

  Pausing for a moment, he switched gears and railed against The People’s Leader, cursing him for Pakistan’s current mess. When he eventually realized that he had veered away from the task of advising Mansoor, he said, ‘Son, excuse my candour, but I also want to give you advice of an intimate nature.’ He paused to gather his thoughts, and then continued, ‘I hope . . . that you will listen to me very carefully and not get embarrassed.’

  Already turned off by the encore lecture, Mansoor quickly forced himself to tune back in when he heard the word ‘embarrassed’.

  ‘Sure,’ he replied.

  ‘I don’t know if you have already, and I don’t want to know . . . ha ha ha . . . But in America, you will have temptations and . . . ahem . . . in my books, there is nothing wrong with it, and I am not forbidding you to have . . . before you get married, but I just want to caution you about a few things. Number one: never . . . ever . . . never coerce anyone.’

  Is he trying to give me advice about sex? Mansoor thought. Checking to make sure that his mother did not understand any part of this awkward conversation, he replied in English, ‘I am not stupid, Abba.’

  ‘I know you are not, but I am your father and I have a responsibility to tell you these things.’ Then he cleared his throat and paused, trying to remember point number two. ‘Ah, yes, what number is that? Whatever, yes . . . always . . . take precautions; you don’t want to have a bast . . . ahem . . . unwanted . . . you know.’