Of Smokeless Fire
Page 30
‘Why didn’t they get divorced?’ Lisa asked.
‘Divorce, in my culture . . .’ Mansoor searched for the right word, and then continued, ‘I don’t know . . . it’s . . . umm . . . complicated.’
‘Divorce is complicated in any culture, Mansoor,’ she replied.
‘I guess . . .’
‘After being married for forty years, my father dropped the bombshell on my mother. He told her that he wanted to get out of the marriage,’ she said.
‘Just like that?’ Mansoor asked.
‘Yeah, just like that. It happened just like that, out of the blue, on one absolutely ordinary day. Forty years and four children did not count for anything when it came right down to it. My dad just got bored with his life and with my mother.’
Lisa’s mother, Sandra, had sacrificed her own ambitions so that she could marry the man she loved. Working two jobs to support him through graduate school, taking care of four young children all by herself when he was busy travelling for his firm, and then, forty years later, she had suddenly become too tiresome. In his sixty-second year of life, he realized that he did not love her any more. Living with her for the remainder of his life seemed like a burden of Sisyphean proportions; he wanted to reinvent himself.
So, when Mansoor talked about the strain between his own parents, Lisa knew exactly what he had gone through, but for his sake, she remained strong. She consoled him, comforted him and hurt with him. But back in her apartment, she let open the floodgates of emotions and cried like she had never cried before over how unfair life was.
*
That night, when Mansoor returned home after dropping Lisa off, he received a long-distance call from Mehrun. The repressed guilt returned unbidden. After the initial round of perfunctory conversation, Mehrun told him about the photographs that her husband had received.
‘You too, huh? Do you know who sent it?’ Mansoor asked.
‘No, that is the mystery,’ she replied.
‘Well, it’s from Athanni. He slipped an envelope with the two pictures into my hand at the airport, on the day of my departure. I think he was spying on us.’
‘Athanni? I can’t believe it!’ Mehrun exclaimed. ‘Did he say anything when he gave it to you?’
‘No, he didn’t. But there was a message on the back of one of the photographs, warning me that there was more to come. I bet he is planning something nasty.’
‘Ameer Sahib was furious and said that he would kill the person who sent these if he ever found out his identity.’
‘Let’s keep quiet until Athanni makes his next move. You know, Mehrun, the most stupid thing I did was to invite his family to stay with my mother at the Kashana.’
‘Why did you do that?’
‘I don’t know, I . . . I didn’t want Amma to stay there all alone.’
‘You shouldn’t have done that. They’ll never leave now.’
‘I’ll kick them out when I go back.’
‘Mansoor Babu, that won’t be easy.’
‘We’ll see . . .’
They talked for a bit longer about everyday things—his apartment, her friends and then Joseph’s plan to buy the Burger King franchise and to have it’s inauguration on New Year’s Day, the perfect day to symbolically cut all his ties from his past. He had invited both Mehrun and Mansoor to the opening.
‘Well, maybe I’ll see you at the opening then?’ Mansoor asked.
‘I don’t know, Mansoor, whether I’ll be able to come or not. Ameer Sahib is being transferred to London to set up a new head office there . . . the timing might conflict.’
‘So, how is he?’
‘The same. He has asked me to keep a low profile. He doesn’t want me to blemish his career.’ She paused for a moment and then abruptly said, ‘Well, I better hang up; he may be trying to call.’
Their night together at the Palace Hotel didn’t come up even once in the entire conversation.
*
Mansoor felt a sense of insufficiency after his chat with Mehrun, like something crucial had been left unsaid, something unacknowledged. But did he really want to talk to her about that night at the Palace Hotel?
Standing near the living-room window, Mansoor gazed at the starry sky and thought about Mehrun and Lisa. Had he cheated on Lisa? And what about Mehrun? Had she seduced him? He didn’t want to inflict pain on either of them. To keep quiet was probably the best choice, at least for now. Perhaps he would tell Lisa about Mehrun’s existence at some point.
For now, he had to concentrate on finishing up in Iowa and hurrying back home. Athanni and the certainty of a showdown had to wait. But how would it affect his mother? She’d always had a tender spot for her sister—he knew that—but what tormented him the most was her emotional susceptibility to Athanni. With his smarmy voice and phoney attention, he had her wrapped around his fat fingers. She had become too close to Athanni, even suggesting in one of her letters that he had become like a son to her in Mansoor’s absence. He thought about his beloved Uncle Zahid, and how much his mother would have needed him right now. But he died too young. He would have been able to handle the whole situation with Zakir Hassan, and especially with Athanni and his family. His mind drifted back to Zakir, how the man had changed. The urbane ex-diplomat had been totally replaced by this ultraconservative mullah, both in looks and in thoughts.
Religion, with its Sufistic spirituality, had always existed in his country as something private. But its new, literalist public face horrified Mansoor, and not without reason, making him fearful and angry at the revolt of the fanatics and their needless cruelties. He wasn’t at all excited at the prospect of going back home. He shuddered at the thought of living in a repressive society where many intelligent, educated people now supported General Behroopia’s moral imperatives. But what troubled Mansoor the most was just how arch-conservative the young people of his generation had become. They had lapsed into a pastiched nostalgia that never was. He wondered if Pakistan’s short history was tragically repeating itself. He envied the West for having come out of the dark Middle Ages, their social problems notwithstanding; America had opened up Mansoor’s eyes.
The thought about America turned his attention back to Lisa. Like the sweet, fragrant bela flowers back home, her bright and beautiful image appeared from the messy corner of his mind, and he smiled again. Saddened to hear about her parents’ ugly divorce, he had felt for her when she told him their story. He was in love with her, that much he knew, but he kept warring with his feelings for Mehrun. Why had he slept with her? All these complications had muddled everything. He knew that Lisa, too, had developed deep feelings for him; he could see it in her eyes and he could feel it in her touch. But alas, theirs was a relationship that was doomed from the start. Too many dead-ends, too many winding roads lay ahead, or so he thought. He wasn’t even sure where he would be two years from now.
Regardless of where Pakistan was headed, his future was there, and Lisa would be a misfit there. It would be unfair to ask her to give up everything for him and live in a distant land where everything was unstable. Besides, how could he make her comfortable in a country where he knew he would be miserable? Plagued by these misgivings, he shut his eyes, but the unrelenting thoughts stayed until sleep finally took over.
*
One shivery Iowa evening, Mansoor came back early to his apartment. It was only 4 p.m., but the darkness outside made it feel like the middle of the night. The temperature tumbled to record lows as the Arctic spell froze bodies and souls. Despite putting the thermostat to a toasty 75 degrees Fahrenheit, Mansoor could still feel the Midwest chill drilling into his bones. He turned on the television, took out the leftover chicken from the refrigerator and placed it in the oven to warm it up. The local weatherman was talking about the frigid weather and Mansoor almost died when he heard the man say that with the wind-chill factor, it was minus 60 degrees Fahrenheit outside.
With his dinner warmed, Mansoor sat down in front of the television to eat. It was during the middl
e of the NBC news report that Tom Brokaw, the anchorman, casually read a three-sentence statement that two former prime ministers, one from Iran and the other from Pakistan, had been summarily hanged early that morning. There were no other details. Stunned, Mansoor furiously flicked through different channels to hear more. But the executed leaders of these minor countries were too insignificant to compete with the exigency of a Pepto-Bismol commercial—a simple cure for unending heartburn eclipsing the dead leaders of Iran and Pakistan.
Enraged at the lack of coverage of such an important event, Mansoor telephoned Lisa to find out if she had heard anything; but she hadn’t been watching the news. He then called the president of the Pakistani Students’ Association.
‘Did you watch the evening news?’ Mansoor asked.
‘No, why?’
‘The general hanged The People’s Leader.’
‘Thank God! I am going to offer prayers of thanksgiving for the good riddance, my friend.’
Mansoor hung up in disgust. How could anyone rejoice as if there was justice in the hanging of these rulers—authoritarians, no doubt? Justice and execution, two moral imperatives that were at odds with each other. Wasn’t that moral nihilism with all its connotations and grotesque plausibility? Did moral facts not exist? What about General Behroopia, who was becoming more repressive and draconian? Should he not be executed to correct his wrongs? The tragedy of Pakistan’s history had risen again from the rubbles of its fleeting democracy.
Mansoor was no admirer of The People’s Leader. On the contrary, he had despised him with equal ferocity. But he also believed that his execution was based on trumped-up charges. He had been murdered to pave the way for the mullahs and their brand of dictatorship. By killing him, he thought, General Behroopia will have wiped out all opposition. The People’s Leader had built a cult around his own personality, and this very cult became his nemesis in the end. The next day, the local papers printed a short blurb about the two executed leaders. Mansoor crumpled the newspaper into a ball and threw it in the dustbin.
*
At the end of his course work, Mansoor took his qualifying exams and became a candidate for the PhD degree. Now, all he had to do was find a dissertation topic that would be relevant and soul-stirring, something related to the effect of corruption on Pakistan’s economy. Once his research questions were approved, he could go back to Pakistan and do some original research.
After the last telephone call, Mansoor had not heard from Mehrun again and he presumed that she had moved to London. There were no more pictures or threatening letters from Athanni either, which made Mansoor wonder if he was still planning his next move. With his exams over, Mansoor suddenly felt empty. Lisa, who always went home to Connecticut for Christmas, decided to stay in Iowa City for the holidays. She was in no mood to face her divorced parents at the family celebration. So far, she had maintained her sanity, but Mansoor was worried that she might become depressed. To take her mind away from her parents’ divorce, he suggested that they visit Joseph in Houston for the opening of his restaurant. At first, Lisa refused. But when Mansoor persisted, she reluctantly agreed on the condition that he would do the lion’s share of driving. So, the next morning, they got into her 1972 Dodge Dart Swinger and headed towards Texas.
Driving past vast tracts of the snow-covered farmlands of Iowa, Kansas and Missouri, and then through the flat plains of Oklahoma, they finally entered the desolate stretch that was Texas some eighteen hours after leaving Iowa City. The diverse splendour of America was in full display even in winter. With Lisa by his side, the thousand-mile journey did not seem so tedious. Throughout the long hours on the road, they talked about every topic under the winter sky, every thing except their relationship and their future. They talked about American and Pakistani politics and the civil war in Lebanon. Lisa read aloud the poems of Auden and Yeats from her pocket edition of Selected Poems, her constant companions. She explained to him why jazz was considered a threat to America. And Mansoor introduced her to Ghalib’s poetry and Manto’s stories. He talked about the famous Pakistani ghazal singer Mehdi Hassan and his unique delivery.
And then, to lighten things up, he spoke at length about Joseph and his exploits, carefully omitting Mehrun from all the stories. Mansoor was deathly afraid that she might visit Joseph in Houston for his restaurant’s opening. How would he be able to handle such an awkward situation? What would he do? Not wanting to think about Mehrun, his attention returned to Lisa. She had become emotional while talking about her younger sister, who died of leukaemia at the age of four. Her lips quivered and her eyes welled up as she talked about her little sister’s last day. They had brought her home from the hospital to make sure that her last hours were peaceful. Mansoor put his right arm around her shoulder and squeezed her, and when she put her head on his shoulder, his eyes lit up.
It was December, but the Texas sun shone in all its brilliance. After Mansoor exited the interstate and drove into a suburb of Houston, he missed a turn and got a bit lost. But finally, around 5 p.m., he spotted Joseph’s apartment complex. In a tony suburb, the gated complex stood like a retreat, shielded from the rest of the world. The contrast with Bhangi Para couldn’t be starker. The memory of his visit there with Mehrun was still vivid. The railway line acting as the cordon sanitaire, demarcating the area from the rest of the city, the naked children, the old man who had misery written all over his wrinkled self, and the dead dog—still haunting him after all these years. Now Joseph had found a home that performed a reverse function for him. It cordoned off the city and prevented its sordidness from reaching his beautiful enclave. Mansoor could hardly believe his eyes. Destiny had finally opted to gleam on Joseph. He checked the address in his pocket phone book just to make sure that he was in the right place. Unmistakably opulent, distinctively plush, the Woodhaven Apartment Complex fanned out in all its splendour. The grass, still green, the terracotta walkways, the green tennis courts, the shimmering swimming pool—all vivid reminders of the affluence of the tenants.
*
Joseph greeted them enthusiastically, shaking their hands vigorously. America had transformed him. The Joseph that Mansoor grew up with, the one who roamed around in a loincloth and undershirt, was gone. In his place stood a tall, muscular young man, wearing a polo T-shirt and Levi’s jeans, exuding ardour and displaying devotion. The only vestiges of his old self were his moustache, his Punjabi-accented Urdu and the familiar bidi sticking out from his mouth.
Mansoor asked, ‘Where on earth did you find a bidi in Houston?’
‘Oh, my friend, what is it that you cannot find in the Pakistani bazaars in Houston. Do you want some paan? I can get that too.’
Mansoor just laughed. Feeling happy about Joseph’s achievements, he congratulated him on his success. Joseph, in his humbleness, attributed it to Mansoor for ‘providing’ his friendship and to his father for providing the money.
Although the two-bedroom apartment appeared luxurious, it boasted only a few pieces of furniture. A dark printed sofa, mismatched with two sturdy ladder-back chairs, clashed sharply with the beige-coloured wall-to-wall carpet, while a spacious coffee table stuck out in the centre. A set of sliding doors at one end of the room opened on to the balcony, where a black, round grill vented smoke and the aroma of barbecued kebabs. Although Joseph had been prepping for his restaurant’s inaugural day, he had found the time to cook a lavish meal—two kinds of kebabs, chicken tikka and lamb biryani, along with ras malai for dessert. It was the big-hearted Joseph thanking Mansoor for his father’s magnanimity, and both his guests ate ravenously. Mansoor was surprised by his cooking skills, and Lisa, who had eaten Pakistani food at Mansoor’s apartment, felt that Joseph’s cooking surpassed Mansoor’s by more than a mile.
‘Why are you buying a Burger King franchise? You should open a Pakistani restaurant,’ she suggested.
‘Lisa ji, someday I will do that, but first I will get rich, and then I will go into that ditch!’ He laughed and Lisa raised her eyebrows.
After she left, Joseph went to his bedroom and came back with a cheque written in Mansoor’s name, for twelve hundred dollars, and handed it to him.
‘What is this?’
‘Barrister Sahib had given this to me; it was a loan, even though he never said that.’
‘Don’t insult his memory, Joseph,’ Mansoor replied, a bit hurt, and returned the cheque.
‘I knew that you are like your father. He always gave and never took back. If you do not consider me a bhangi, let me hug you.’
‘You were never a bhangi to me, Joseph.’
As he held his friend in a hug, Joseph began to cry like a child. Mansoor patted his back, trying to calm him down. Once he stopped crying, they drank late into the night. In his drunkenness, Joseph told Mansoor that he had also invited Zakir Hassan for the opening ceremony.
‘Why did you have to invite him? He was the one responsible for my father’s death.’
‘Well, Mansoor Babu, he, too, was my benefactor. Had it not been for him, I wouldn’t have got the visa.’
‘He helped me get my visa, too, but I repaid him by praying with him!’ Mansoor chortled, his laugh reminding him of how his father used to be in his intoxicated state.
‘But I am not sure if Zakir Sahib will actually come. I spoke with him on the telephone some two months ago and he told me he was planning to go on a proselytizing tour with the Dheela Pyjama group,’ Joseph added.
‘How do you know about the Pyjama Dheela Topi Tight Party?’
‘Haider Sahib zindabad!’
Mansoor laughed and then changed the subject, ‘Is Mehrun coming?’
‘No, she told me she was moving to London and would be too busy to come.’
Mansoor sighed, feeling relieved that a potential crisis had been averted. ‘When was the last time you spoke to her?’ he asked.