by A. A. Jafri
With every passing hour, the party only got livelier. It was close to ten by the time Cheryl Hampton, a tall, slender and stunning blonde, entered the apartment. As soon as she sashayed in, Mansoor knew who she was. Very proudly, Joseph introduced her to Lisa and Mansoor and got her some champagne.
‘So, where did you two meet?’ Mansoor asked Cheryl after they had all settled down with their drinks. Both Joseph and Cheryl began laughing.
‘Oh god! It’s a funny story! Joe, you tell him.’
Mansoor had never heard anyone call Joseph ‘Joe’ before. It must be something special. Cheryl’s eyes revealed her feelings for him, but Mansoor did not notice much in Joseph’s eyes, except that they were bloodshot and that they still had that impish twinkle.
‘You see, Cheryl goes to the University of Houston, and I used to be the manager at the Burger King outlet nearby. I had seen her many times on my way to work. She always carried a bunch of really heavy books in her hand. You know . . . psychology books. I knew then that she was getting her degree in psychology. One day, I went to the mall, and there she was, shopping at the department store in a dark red dress. I discreetly made my way over to her, and when she was right next to me, I said to her, “You look like a sherry!” And with my accent and all, she thought I said, “You look like a Cheryl.”’
‘I could’ve sworn he said that,’ Cheryl jumped in. ‘So I asked him how he knew my name. And he said, “I am a fortune teller.” Now, I don’t usually fall for that sort of bullshit, but since I thought he had just told me my name, I sort of ended up thinking that maybe he was a fortune teller. And the next thing he tells me is that I go to the University of Houston and that I am majoring in, how did you say it, Joe?’ She turned to Joseph again.
‘I said you were majoring in pisschialogy because that’s how I used to pronounce ‘psychology’. English pronunciations are stupid,’ Joseph clarified.
Laughing, Cheryl continued with the story. ‘The next thing I knew, he was holding my hand and telling me all sorts of things about myself, and surprisingly, eighty per cent of what he told me was right. Then he introduced himself, and the rest, as they say, is history.’
‘No, actually, the rest is pisschialogy,’ Joseph added, and everyone laughed.
The party was in full swing by now, with people laughing and drinking and dancing. Not everyone, however, was happy with Joseph’s selection of music. Mansoor went to check if he had some dance music, but one look at his music collection and he was disgusted with Joseph’s horrid taste. He turned on the radio and tuned into a station which was playing something that people could slow-dance to—Peaches and Cream’s ‘Reunited’. Mansoor held Lisa in his arms and began to dance. Everyone followed suit. Someone dimmed the lights, providing a perfect romantic atmosphere, but no sooner had that happened than the doorbell rang again. Mansoor saw Joseph going to get the door with a Heineken in his hand. When he opened the door, he saw Zakir Hassan and Sher Khan, dressed in their traditional shalwar-kameez, standing outside. Not knowing what to say or do, Joseph invited them to come in. But Zakir looked at the bottle in his hand, then at the scene within the apartment and turned livid. With his swelled-up carotid artery and his dilated nostrils, he erupted.
‘I thought you had invited me to come and bless your restaurant! I thought you had converted to Islam! Shame on you for wasting my time. Curse be on you and your djinn friend Mansoor ul Haq.’ And with that, he stormed away, Sher Khan following him.
‘Fuck you too!’ Joseph shouted. He saw Zakir turning back in anger, but Sher Khan whisked him away, perhaps realizing that getting into a brawl with Joseph would be the last thing they should do. Mansoor saw and heard everything, and when Joseph closed the door, he went up to him and asked, ‘Do you think he will be there to inaugurate your restaurant tomorrow?’
‘I sure hope so!’ Joseph laughed. ‘But if he’s not there, you can substitute for him!’
And in the deepest recess of his mind, Mansoor heard the reverberating voice of Haider Rizvi chant:
Twelfth man . . . on the pitch . . . in he comes to serve;
Zero talent . . . zero knack, has a lot of . . . nerve
He then heard Zakir calling him: ‘Mansoor ul Haq, the djinn! Mansoor ul Haq, the djinn!’
Mansoor wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol muddling his brain or if he was hallucinating.
*
As the clock struck twelve, Joseph welcomed the new year, ululating. Arriving in the guise of drunken revelry, it heralded the end of his centuries-old untouchability. It broke the economic barriers, the social impediments and the psychological blockades of time immemorial. He knew that his progeny would never ever have to suffer the same contempt; his descendants would never again experience the humiliation of a hereditary bhangi-hood. His quotidian existence was finally over, his mangled life was now straight. He had finally matriculated. Exuberant, he first hugged and kissed Mansoor, then Lisa and finally Cheryl. Then, calling all the revellers to attention, in a booming, emotional and intoxicated voice, he declared, ‘My friends, I want to introduce to you my brother for life, Mansoor ul Haq. He and his late father, Noor ul Haq, the big barrister sahib, they gave me and my family sustenance when death took away my father. He and his late father gave me and my family a roof when floods swallowed our home. He and his late father gave me hope with their money when others shoved insults at me. And most of all, my brother Mansoor, I call him Mansoor Babu, he gave me the best gift of all—a lifelong friendship.’
With tears freely flowing down his cheeks, Joseph hugged his childhood friend again and again, shaking his hand. Despite the stoned atmosphere, Joseph’s speech had touched many a heart. Mansoor, who had been unaware of the deep respect and loyalty that Joseph felt for his father, was overwhelmed by emotions too. Putting his arms around Lisa and Mansoor, an extremely drunk and emotional Joseph said to Lisa, ‘Marry this man, because he will make you happy for life, just like he made me happy.’
Both Lisa and Mansoor were embarrassed at being put on the spot. But Mansoor had already been entertaining the thought of marrying Lisa, although he knew it would be impossible to convince his mother to bless their union. Mansoor remembered the awkward conversation that he had had with his father just before he left for America. Noor had told him that his mother would be deeply hurt if he married a white woman. Or was it an American woman? But then Lisa was half African American. He was sure her race would make it even more difficult for his mother to accept her. It did not matter that Aunt Sarwat was probably darker than Lisa. The word ‘African’ was all his mother would care about.
*
Around three in the morning all the guests left, and Joseph went to bed shortly afterwards, but Mansoor and Lisa stayed awake in the living room until the early hours of the morning. Snuggled on the sofa together, Lisa at last revved up enough courage to ask Mansoor what had been percolating in her mind for a long time.
‘Mansoor, I have to know where I stand . . .’ she said.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked. Although Mansoor was starting to feel the beginning of a massive hangover from all the mixed drinks he had guzzled, he knew very well what Lisa meant.
‘I mean, where do I fit in your life? Where is our relationship going?’
‘Do you have to know about it now?’
‘Yes, because we never talk about these things. And I have to know so I can plan my life. I will finish my degree next May and I have to make some decisions.’
‘Can’t it wait till we are back home?’
‘No, it can’t. What you can tell me in four days, you can tell me now.’ Lisa was determined to get some answers.
With shakiness of purpose, Mansoor said, ‘I want to marry you, Lisa, but my life is too messed up at this stage for me to give you any certainties . . .’
Lisa didn’t say anything. Mansoor had made love to her many times, but much to her dismay, he had never actually told her that he loved her. The social conditioning of his mind prevented him from saying the word
s out loud. He had grown up in a society where saying ‘I love you’ was thought to cheapen the pure sentiment of love. It was never announced, never displayed.
After a slight pause, Mansoor closed his eyes, gathered his thoughts and said haltingly, ‘I . . . I love you, Lisa Reid, but . . . I have to go back . . . to sort things out with my mother and with my relatives.’
Mansoor had told Lisa about the ruckus his mother had created when she saw the picture of them from the party. After a slight pause, he continued, ‘I also have to decide where I am going to live—in Pakistan or in America. My mother is all alone there, and I know . . . she . . . she wants me to return to Pakistan and live with her. I also know I will have a difficult time convincing her about me marrying you, so I have to break the news gradually.’
‘Wait, wait, wait. Did you just say that you have to convince your mother about marrying me?’
‘Yes . . .’
‘But don’t you think you have to ask me about marriage first? I mean, how can you be sure about whether I even want to marry you or not?’ she asked.
‘I don’t want to ask you something that I may not be able to deliver. And I cannot force you to live in a place that you may hate.’
‘I would sure like to try living in Pakistan. I know I can make adjustments,’ Lisa said.
‘Life in Pakistan is not so easy, Lisa. There are too many small annoyances. Too many restrictions. Too many things that you take for granted here are simply not available there.’
‘I think you are trying to find excuses,’ Lisa said with a degree of petulance.
‘No, I am not!’ Mansoor protested. His head swimming, he felt like he was going to throw up any minute.
‘Mansoor, I know you’ve had too many drinks and that this is not the time to talk, but I would appreciate it if you could think things over and give me an answer in a couple of days.’
Lisa just could not understand why Mansoor alone could not make the decision regarding marriage. The need for his mother’s permission to marry her was something that simply lay beyond her grasp. It was his life after all!
And then, with his eyes closed and his head throbbing with a headache, Mansoor asked her the question that he should have asked a long time ago, ‘Will you marry me?’
‘WHAT?’ Lisa turned and looked at him, unsure that she had heard him correctly.
‘Will you marry me?’ he repeated.
‘Mansoor, you don’t have to ask me that question to end this discussion. I told you, you can think about it for a few days. I can wait.’
‘I want to marry you, Lisa. And I will marry you today, on the first day of the new year, if you say yes.’
‘Mansoor, wait. You just told me you needed your mother’s permission, how can you say you want to marry me today? Are you sure you are not saying this because you feel pressured by me?’
‘No, I am not asking you to marry me because of any pressure. So, what do you say?’
Before she could answer, they heard the telephone ringing in Joseph’s room. After four rings, Joseph picked the phone up. Then they heard him shout into the phone.
‘I think it’s a long-distance call, probably from Pakistan,’ Mansoor said, sitting up.
He heard Joseph say, ‘Salaam, Haider Sahib. Yes, he is here with me. What? How did it happen? Sahib ji . . . Hello? Hello?’ Then he heard Joseph clicking the cradle a few times and cursing the telephone system of Pakistan.
An unknown terror gripped Mansoor. His stomach tightened, his throat dried up and he had this terrifying feeling that something was wrong, and he knew it had to do with his mother.
Mansoor heard the door open and saw the silhouetted figure of Joseph appear from his bedroom. He was wearing a lungi, like he used to wear in Pakistan.
‘What’s wrong, Joseph?’ Mansoor asked.
‘Hey, you guys still up?’ Joseph was startled to see them in his living room.
‘Who was it on the phone?’
‘Oh! No one! It was just a wrong number,’ Joseph tried to lie, but his ashen face gave it all away.
‘No, it wasn’t. I heard you clearly. You were talking to Haider Rizvi. It was about my mother. Wasn’t it? Is she dead?’ Mansoor said all this in one breath. It was as if he had a sudden foreboding about his mother, or perhaps he had unconsciously prepared himself for the worst news. Joseph stood there motionless, his mouth open, his mind blank in utter disbelief.
‘Yes.’
‘Did he say when this happened?’
‘No, the line got disconnected.’
‘Can I use your phone to call home?’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Joseph replied.
For the next hour, Mansoor tried to call the Kashana, but the line appeared to be perpetually busy. Lisa could feel the hail of emotions that hit him. Frustrated with the telephone line, he got up and asked Lisa to wake him up around eight. She looked at the time. It was almost quarter to six.
Twenty-Seven
Farhat had a massive heart attack. With Athanni by her side, she was rushed to the hospital where, as she lay dying, she repeatedly called Mansoor’s name and implored Athanni to phone him. He promised to call him but made no attempts to actually do so. To show the world that Mansoor was an utterly heartless person, he then spread the lie that he had placed the call and apprised Mansoor of the situation, making it amply clear to him that his mother was on her deathbed, but Mansoor did not want to come right away.
‘Can you believe that he slept with that half-breed churail even before his father’s soul ascended to heaven? And even though his dying mother wished to see him one last time, he simply chose to ignore her!’
Spreading gossip like this, first through his immediate family and then through all their relatives and neighbours, Athanni tried to turn everyone against his cousin; and all this, just to seize Kashana-e-Haq. It was a plan that he had concocted a while ago. To accomplish this goal, he had fake property papers prepared by a crooked attorney, transferring the legal ownership of the house in his name. The illiterate Farhat had signed the papers, thinking that she was only granting temporary power of attorney to her nephew to protect her son from the ‘scheming churail’ who had clearly ensnared him.
With time, Athanni had developed a nasty plenitude, a serpentine completeness. Extortion, thievery, bombing, animal killing, blackmailing—he had done it all. But his latest plot was a chapter taken right out of the book of nefarious accomplishments. Mansoor had never fully imagined the extent of his devilry. He had misread him, grossly underestimating the lengths that Khaleel Khan would go to in order to destroy him. He was unprepared to deal with the measures his cousin would take to satisfy his cretinous revenge fantasies. Khaleel Khan ‘Athanni’ was, in Mansoor’s mind, always an idiot who needed to be taught the occasional lesson. He was dead wrong.
At Farhat’s funeral, Haider asked Athanni if Mansoor knew about his mother’s death. Athanni lied to him too, saying he had sent two telegrams and tried making trunk calls multiple times, but he could not locate him. Feeling a sense of lingering loyalty to Noor, Haider launched his own search for Mansoor. From Jumman, he got Mehrun’s telephone number in London. It was she who informed him that Mansoor might be at Joseph’s apartment and gave him the latter’s telephone number. And that was how Haider was able to call Joseph and inform Mansoor about the tragedy.
*
Mansoor arrived in Pakistan five days after his mother’s death. Although he had sent a telegram to his home address to inform the residents of his arrival date, no one came to receive him at the airport, making him feel like an alien in his own country. It was early morning when he landed in Karachi, and the January sun tried to sneak out through the clouds to heat up the cold air. Mansoor took a taxi and went straight to the Kashana. He expected to see Changez Gul at the gate, but the man had been replaced by a new chowkidar, who was reluctant to let him in. But when Mansoor told him that he was Sarwat’s nephew, he relented. There was no sign of any of the other servants. The backyard garden where
he, Mehrun and Joseph used to play was utterly barren—the grass had died out, and the trees, once lush and green even in winter, stood in complete nakedness.
When he went inside, a fusillade of accusations, taunts and insults greeted him. With equal opportunities and matching eagerness, as if they had rehearsed it all, everyone in Nawab Khan Namaqul’s family participated in this verbal assault. Sarwat accused Mansoor of causing her sister’s death. Athanni and his father called him a shameless swine. Chowwani showed him the five fingers—the sign of shame. And before Mansoor had even realized what was happening, they ordered him to leave his own house. At first, Mansoor refused, and then he, in turn, ordered all of them to leave the house. But Athanni came back brandishing a copy of the title to the house.
‘Your mother, my pious aunt, may Allah rest her soul in paradise, cut you off because of your kafir tendencies,’ he shouted.
‘Where were you the day your father died?’ Sarwat asked.
Before Mansoor could answer, Athanni retorted, ‘I will refresh your memory, you thankless son. You were whoring around with that churail. Weren’t you?’
‘And where were you when your mother died?’ Chowwani jumped in, and then answered his own question, ‘Whoring with some gori bitch!’
Insomnia and jet lag made Mansoor’s head spin; the vicious, verbal shoving gave him a throbbing headache. Athanni and Chowwani loomed large like Munkar and Nakir, the twin angels of the grave, while Nawab Khan Namaqul and Sarwat fluttered their wings like Azrael, the angel of death. At that moment, Mansoor really wanted to become a djinn—exhaling smokeless fire and destroying these people with his blazing flames, incinerating them completely. Instead, he thundered, ‘You are a bunch of vultures, and I will get back what is lawfully mine. I will see you all in court.’
‘And we will see you in the sharia court,’ Athanni replied.
*
As the mist inside his mind cleared, Mansoor found himself outside the Kashana. He heard strange whispers and murmurs; he saw Mehrun, Joseph and Chaos. And then, like the phantasm of a dreadful dream, the Kashana loomed up in front of him like a decrepit house, its paint peeling off, the flowers wilting and the huge jasmine vine dying out, the serenity of this beautiful bungalow that his father had so lovingly built usurped by this pack of bloodthirsty scavengers. Mansoor noticed a lizard on the boundary wall of the house, its tongue stuck out, not towards the sky, but towards him. It was as if the reptile had also joined the vulgarians in their derision.