by A. A. Jafri
Farhat came home that evening, her eyes red and swollen.
‘What happened to you? Why were you shouting at me last night?’ Noor asked her somewhat fearfully, but she remained silent.
‘Won’t you even ask me how your son is? What have I done to deserve this?’
‘You were drunk last night, weren’t you?’ she asked at last.
‘So what’s new about that? It was a twenty-three-hour flight and I drank a little more than usual to fight the fatigue and the boredom.’
‘Well, now you won’t be able to drink at all because I have flushed all your bottles down the toilet.’
At first, Noor did not understand what she was talking about, but then as she went on and on about Satan’s urine being flushed down the toilet, he went to check on her bluff. And the next thing Farhat saw was his red, contorted face bursting with anger. But Noor restrained himself. Calmly, he approached her and asked, ‘Do you know the value of all the bottles that were in that liquor cabinet?’
‘Yes, equal to an eternity in dozakh.’
‘Don’t you dare talk to me like that. Don’t you dare talk to me like I am a child or a . . . I have been very patient with your nonsense,’ Noor paused and took a long deep breath, and then he continued, ‘and get rid of this . . . this . . . this thing off your head; you look like a bloody nun.’
His temper had returned, but Farhat remained defiant and said, ‘I don’t tell you what to do, and I don’t want you to tell me what to do from now on.’
‘You don’t tell me what to do? You just broke all my bottles. Listen to me, and listen with your ears open: I am the master of this house, and you are going to do whatever I tell you to do,’ he growled.
‘I am not going to blindly jump into a well if you tell me to.’
‘Do not talk like an illiterate woman. I have never put any undue pressures on you. You can do anything as long as it is within reason, but wearing a hijab is against everything I stand for.’
As Farhat stormed out of the bedroom, Noor felt that he was standing face-to-face with irrationality and bafflement. He did not know what had come over his wife. Was it a new-found fervency? Or was it that she was in love with Zakir? The first possibility seemed likely, and it made him anxious. The second possibility, no longer remote, seemed a little irrational to him. But then there was no love between Noor and his wife to lose, and that realization made him anxious.
*
That night, even though she did not want to confront him any more, Farhat’s head swirled with uncertainty and her heart sank with fear. The word ‘zina’ and Zakir’s explicit pronouncement echoed in her mind: ‘Your nikah with him is null and void. Your nikah with him is null and void.’ One of these days, she would have to put the question about Noor’s true beliefs before him; she could not live the life of a fornicator.
Twenty-Two
Farhat rejoiced when The People’s Leader, who relished his Royal Salute, banned alcohol to appease the religious parties. Earlier on, when he had stoked latent hostilities between the muhajirs and the Sindhis, the sons of the soil, she had called him ullu ka patha, literally the son of an owl, a mild imprecation. Unlike her husband, she called Pakistan her watan, her homeland. So why was religion no longer a binding force? Did Pakistan, as a metaphor for the greater religious community, suddenly lose its meaning? Why was she still called an immigrant after having lived almost half her life in Pakistan? And what about Mansoor, who was born in Sindh?
But now The People’s Leader was in Farhat’s good books again—the alcohol prohibition trumping the sectarian controversy. At last, her prayers were answered, or so she thought. Now the whole country would be free of the curse of alcohol. If the Shaitan’s drink was banned from the country, it would automatically be removed from her house. But Farhat had seriously underestimated her husband’s resourcefulness. A few days after the prohibition, Noor bought half a dozen bottles of Scotch to replenish his stock, from God knows where. Farhat’s blood pressure shot up again and she threw another violent fit. Confident that the new lock he’d got installed would safely guard his precious liquor cabinet, Noor coolly paraphrased Mark Twain, ‘Begum Sahiba, too much of anything is bad, but too much good whisky is barely enough, especially when the Tippler prohibits it.’
*
For the next several months, although a facade of peace returned to the Kashana, it felt like the lull before a storm. The servants sensed the iciness between the barrister and his begum; the relatives detected the chill.
‘Areý O, Quaid-e-Azam, this is like the Rani of Jhansi’s rebellion against the Angrez,’ Changez Gul whispered to Sikander.
‘May God save these unhappy people,’ Sikander replied, shaking his head.
As expected, the clashes between Farhat and Noor resumed. He saw Zakir’s hands in their latest altercation, as his wife repeated the most virulent parts of Zakir’s lecture, especially his damnations of sinners, using the most sophisticated Urdu words.
One day, Noor telephoned Zakir in utter desperation. The conversation started off in a civil tone but deteriorated quickly as Noor became frustrated by Zakir’s sententious moralizing.
‘Zakir, you and I go a long way back. As your old friend, I am requesting you . . . no, no, I am pleading with you to tell my wife to show moderation and respect.’
‘What do you mean by showing moderation, Noor?’
‘Well, she has become quite extreme in her views . . . almost fanatical.’
‘Well, brother, one person’s faith is another person’s fanaticism.’
‘Yes, but I have a feeling that her faith is directed more towards me, you fanatic. I don’t have any problems with her faith. I have a problem when it trespasses on my lifestyle, and I have a bigger problem knowing that you are inciting her.’
‘Well, Noor, I know what your beliefs are, and in my opinion, you are misguided. And it is my solemn duty to tell her that your beliefs are wrong when she asks me about them.’
‘It is not your duty to talk about my personal beliefs, especially not with my wife. If you think I am wrong, convince me, not my wife. I dare you to debate with me, one-to-one.’
Because his argumentative prowess was legendary, and because Zakir had witnessed it himself, both on and off the court, Noor knew that he would never agree to such a debate.
‘Well, Noor, I will do what I have to do and if you will excuse me now, I have better things to do.’
‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Zakir Hassan, for sowing the seeds of discord between my wife and me. You have become more than a mischief-maker. Is it your religion to poison her mind against me?’
‘I have not poisoned her mind, Brother Noor; your wife comes to my house of her own free will. If you don’t want her to do that, tell her not to come,’ he replied calmly, using his diplomatic skills.
‘Don’t lie to me, Zakir Hassan. I know that you have been inciting her about my drinking and my beliefs. I warn you, they are none of your business, and if you interfere in my personal life again, I will hold you personally responsible.’
‘Let me also warn you, Brother Noor, drinking is illegal in this country now and I can have you lashed for this offence!’ Zakir’s voice quivered as he said this.
‘You can go and get yourself fucked by an asshole!’ And with that, Noor hung up the telephone.
That night, when he went home after work, Noor witnessed a new storm brewing. It so happened that when Farhat went to Zakir’s dars, the sermon, that day, he asked her to leave his house. And when she asked him the reason, he detailed the fracas with her husband, stressing that Noor had used the most vulgar language—‘aisee gundi, gundi gaaliyan, such dirty, dirty swear words’—he had ever heard in his life.
Farhat tried to apologize to him for her husband’s behaviour, but to no avail. Too incensed to accept her apologies, he asked her to leave, and Farhat left Zakir’s house in tears. When Noor arrived home after work, she greeted him with a new fusillade of recriminations and reproaches. And then sh
e asked him the question that she had been dreading all this while, ‘Tell me, do you consider yourself a Muslim or not?’
‘Don’t talk to me about subjects you know nothing about,’ he shot back.
She pressed him for a direct answer, but he ducked the question. The more she pushed him, the more irate he became, until he finally ordered her to shut up. That was when all hell broke loose. Farhat announced that she was going to go and stay with her sister until Noor gave her the ‘right’ answer.
Noor spent two disturbed nights in his bedroom. Like a madman in a mental asylum, he paced from one end of the room to the other. What else could he do in this time of crisis? Read Ghalib for answers? Pull Boethius from his bookcase and seek solace in The Consolation of Philosophy? On the third day, realizing that he could neither raise the stakes any further nor jeopardize his marriage of fifty years, Noor sent Sikander for her. But Farhat remained resolutely defiant and sent Sikander back saying that she needed an answer from Noor. She had finally matched his intransigence with her tenacity. By this time, all the servants and the neighbours had heard about their quarrel, and all sorts of rumours took wings.
One whole week passed by and Farhat did not come back. Even though Noor felt as if his blood would clot in his veins, he could still not push himself to telephone his son in Iowa—at least not right away. He must cajole Farhat first, express regret and nourish her needs.
*
After Noor left for Karachi, Mansoor went back to spending his days at the library. The Special Collections section would have been the perfect getaway from his parents’ escalating problems. But repressing his convoluted emotions turned out to be an impossible task. The guilt kept coming back, tearing him apart. He had been cold with his father, a bit stand-offish. Turning down his father’s offer to finance his education must have shredded the man’s heart. On more than one occasion, Noor had repeated that his only goal for the remaining years of his life was to earn money for him and his mother. He had lived in a mental wasteland for far too long to strive for anything else. Mansoor had no right to turn down his offer, and this realization now made him angry with himself. Despite all his failings, he knew that his father was a good man. How many people had he helped? How many lives had he improved? All their servants, his friends in The Unholy Quartet, his relatives and even total strangers had benefited from his magnanimity. When his father gave, he gave unconditionally; when he helped, he helped unreservedly.
Mansoor’s mind wandered to his mother and her religious metamorphosis. Maybe it was a good thing. Perhaps she needed religion to fight loneliness; perhaps she required the retreat that faith provided. But what about his father? Who would be his companion in his solitude? What would be his crutch? Scotch and Pakistani tharra? As tears welled up in his eyes, Mansoor quickly took out his handkerchief and wiped them dry. He did not want anyone to see him crying. At that moment, he just wanted to go home, hug his parents and tell them to be kind to each other, to take care of themselves, but instead, he heard a pleasant voice ask him gently, ‘Are you okay?’
‘What? . . . Yeah, yeah,’ Mansoor replied hurriedly and looked up to find a girl standing in front of him, gazing at him questioningly.
‘I’m sorry, but you seemed to be crying. Are you all right?’ she asked again.
‘It’s nothing, it’s nothing. I’m just a little homesick,’ he hastened to assure her.
The girl nodded her head. ‘I’m Lisa,’ she said after a moment and extended her slender brown hand towards him.
‘I’m Mansoor.’
As Mansoor struggled with the conflicting need to be alone and the desire for some company, Lisa Reid came into his life at the perfect time. Her big, kind brown eyes and soft smiling features drew him instantly to her. Tall and slightly built, with shoulder-length hair, she was an attractive African-American woman of mixed heritage. Mansoor pulled a chair next to him at his table and asked her to sit down, and they went through the banality of a perfunctory chat.
*
Since their chance meeting at the library, Mansoor and Lisa met every day. There was something about Lisa that reminded Mansoor of Mehrun, something that lived in a deserted corner of his consciousness, but exactly what it was he just could not pin down. Not her face, not her voice, maybe it was the way she looked at him. The fact that she was writing her doctoral dissertation on the socio-economic causes of the partition of India and Pakistan made her even more attractive to him. Although Mansoor had read a fair bit about the Partition and had heard the personal stories of loss from his father and mother, he found the American perspective curious and refreshing.
‘My father was involved in the freedom struggle, and he was actually in the Working Committee of the Congress Party. In the first Congress government, he was the political secretary to the education minister of Bihar.’
‘Oh, I must meet him. I would give anything to interview him!’
‘You just missed him. He was here just recently. Too bad I did not know you then; otherwise, I would have definitely introduced you to him.’
‘Well, the next time he is here, be sure to introduce me.’
One night, as they sat on a bench near the university pond, under the starry sky, Lisa said to Mansoor, ‘We have gone out a few times, but I still feel as if I don’t know you . . . you are . . . you are . . . What is the word I am looking for . . . so inscrutable?’
‘But I think I am an open book!’ Mansoor protested. ‘What do you want to know?’ he asked rather casually.
‘Like who are you, Mansoor ul Haq?’
In the beginning, she used to pronounce his name as ‘Man-Sooer’, and the way she said it, it sounded like a compound English–Urdu word meaning ‘Man-Pig’. He told her about it, laughing as he tried correcting her pronunciation.
‘It’s Mun-Soor,’ he told her.
‘So, who are you, Mansoor ul Haq?’ A twinkle appeared in her beautiful brown eyes as she pronounced his name correctly.
At that moment, Mansoor had this irresistible urge to kiss her and tell her that he may very well be in love with her, and the next second, he succumbed to that urge. He kissed her, savouring every moment of it, as if he would never get another chance to kiss her again. And then abruptly, he pulled back from her. ‘I am a djinn,’ he said, answering her question.
‘What’s a djinn?’ Lisa asked, not missing a beat.
‘A djinn is a being created by Allah, from smokeless fire; they are airy beings with transparent bodies, who can transform themselves into any form or shape.’
‘Oh well, that explains everything!’
‘Have you read Aladdin and the Magic Lamp?’
‘Oh! You mean you are a genie, like a genie in the bottle?’
‘Something like that! Except that I’m out of the bottle now.’
‘Boy! Can I have my three wishes now?’
He kissed her again. A long, lingering kiss. Her lips, warm and sweet, tasted of mint. Mansoor felt drowned in her exuberant sensuality, but then, without any warning, a trembling fit seized him, a fit that shook his very being. It was early June, but he felt cold, terribly cold. Not knowing what exactly was happening, Lisa wrapped her arms around his body and kissed him again. He had read about sensual kissing and had heard stories about it from Joseph, but what he experienced then, in that moment with Lisa, was an ineffable feeling, an out-of-body experience. Soothed by her tender embrace and encouraged by her warm reciprocity, Mansoor took her to his apartment, where he made love to her. As their bodies touched, they became fused; their hearts whispered sweet melodies. At that moment, Mansoor only had desire, that incandescent feeling, where reality blends with fantasy, where the humdrum of existence melts away. He kept wondering where she had been all this time during his stay in America.
Thinking about it afterwards, he realized that Mehrun had also aroused sexual feelings in him that he had forcefully and deliberately suppressed. Was it because she was a servant? Or was it because he was afraid of her? With Lisa, his awakening was com
plete, insensate to everything else. For the last two and a half years in this distant land of dreams, he felt as though he had walked like a sleepwalker; but now the touch of a woman had woken him—he wanted to dance. Oblivious to the loss of his virginity, he lay there, delirious, with this tender, beautiful woman in his arms.
At that moment, he kept hearing a chant inside his head: ‘Haq, Anā al-ḥaqq; Haq, Anā al-ḥaqq (Truth, you are the Truth; Truth, you are the Truth).’ At that moment, the only certainty was the truth of love, the single act, the act of love. Was this the moment he had always waited for? Had he lost his head like his namesake, Manṣūr al-Hallaj? He lay there, pondering over these metaphysical questions, with Lisa in his embrace, snoring softly.
The sharp ringing of the telephone brought him back to earth. He turned around to look at the radium hands of the timepiece that his mother had given him and realized that it was 2 a.m. Who could it be at this hour? As he picked up the phone, he immediately realized that it was a long-distance call. On the other end, a female operator shouted in a shrill voice.
‘Is this Mister Mansoor ul Haq?’
‘Yes, this is he!’
‘Hold on, sir, this is a trunk call from Pakistan. Mister Noor ul Haq wants to talk to you!’
His heart began pounding; he had this sinking feeling that at this late an hour, a call from home had to be bad news, and a few seconds later, he heard his father’s hoarse voice on the other end.
‘Hello, Mansoor . . . beta . . . Hello?’ he was practically shouting because the connection seemed terrible.
‘Yes, Abba, this is me! Is everything okay? Is everything okay?’ he heard his echo on the line.
‘Beta, I have been trying to call you for a few days now. Where have you been?’
‘I have been here only, Abba . . . I have been here only, Abba.’ The echo began to annoy him.