Of Smokeless Fire
Page 35
And the crowd watched, catatonic, two ignited bodies danced, flickered, struggled—a grand display of crackling pyrotechnics. It was as though they were watching a wrestling match between the legendary Bholu Pahelwan and Dara Singh, with all the fireworks. The smokeless fire suddenly started emitting smoke. Athanni continued to struggle, his entire body engulfed in flames now. The crowd recoiled in horror as the djinn tightened his grip on Athanni and squeezed him until he became lifeless and fell to the ground. Still enflamed, the djinn stood there for a second, looking at the burning corpse on the ground, before walking away and dissolving into the rarefied air.
Witnesses later reported that after walking a few hundred yards, the djinn turned around and suddenly disappeared without leaving his ashes, without leaving a trace. Later, among the charred remains, the authorities could find only one body, only one set of bones, only one skull; Mansoor had vanished from the face of this earth, or so they said.
On the same day, somewhere over the Sindh province, there was another massive explosion mid-air. An army helicopter carrying General Behroopia and his top army commanders was mysteriously blown to smithereens. The blast annihilated everyone on board. The power-wielders were pulverized by an unknown assailant, the faithful brigade dissipated into the thin stratosphere. Nobody knew what happened; no one knew where their bodies went. The empty caskets draped with the national flag gave an illusion of a funeral. And to further the fantasy, the new government hastily erected a cenotaph to honour the ‘Soldier of Islam’. Half the nation was shocked, the other half was relieved. Half of them mourned the general’s death, and the other half offered prayers of thanksgiving.
Epilogue
Across the miserable landscape, sinister rumours spread about the baffling death of the generals. There were a thousand-and-one tales of conspiracy, each story more ominous than the other, and each theory more intriguing than the last one. A common theme in all these scenarios was that it was the ‘enemies of Islam’ who had killed the general. To those who spun these tales, ‘they’ killed him because he had devoted his life to Islam and its true revival. The nation quickly dubbed him a shaheed, a martyr. Ironically, they called his predecessor a shaheed, too. An Urdu poet lamented about the corruption of the word ‘martyrdom’:
Tum mujhe maar do to main hoon shaheed
Main tumhey maar doon to tum ho shaheed
(If you kill me, then I am a martyr
If I kill you, then you are a martyr)
It was a case of Martyrdom Gone Wild.
*
Rumours mystified the death of a lesser figure, Mansoor ul Haq, as well. There, too, were a hundred-and-one accounts of what happened near the mosque, each tale more tangled and each fib more disturbing. There was thrill, there was gore, and then there was the hyperbole. One ‘eyewitness’ saw Mansoor’s blazing body ascending towards the sun, gravitating to where Jahannam, hell, is. Another ‘eyewitness’ saw him gliding up until his entire body crumbled into ashes and dust. Yet another bystander vouched that the whole thing was invisible. Yes, there was a fight, but only Athanni was involved. Like a madman, he fought with his own shadow and it was he who doused himself in kerosene.
But all the talebearers remained steadfast about one thing: there was a smokeless fire. There was a djinn, and Mansoor was that djinn, and in the end, Athanni was possessed by him too. Everything was so fanciful, so monstrous that one had to be there to believe it.
‘The police found the charred body of my Khaleel but found no trace of that djinn; what else could explain that?’ Sarwat told her remaining son, Chowwani. ‘The day he was born, the Leader of the Nation was assassinated, and the day he died, the Leader of the Faithful was assassinated. I knew he was evil,’ she railed.
Six months later, the sharia court gave the verdict against Nawab Khan Namaqul and his family. The court that was supposed to declare Mansoor ul Haq a blasphemer, posthumously vindicated him, evicting the Khan family from the Kashana. But where was Mansoor? What happened to his body? Who would be the rightful heir to his property? Nobody knew. Rumours and mystery continued to dog Mansoor’s death, just as it had dogged his short life.
The court decided to auction off Kashana-e-Haq. Despite being derelict and in hopeless disrepair, the Kashana became a conquering obsession for Mehrun. She had to buy it, if not for herself, then for the memory of Mansoor. She had to buy it for her frail father, so that he could see his garden grow again. To ensure that no one else outbid her, she opened all her coffers and made the highest bid. She bought the house as if to finally avenge the murder of her friend, her lover. Her childhood dream house was now finally hers, and there she was, the new begum of the Kashana. Mehrun could have never imagined the circumstances under which she would become the mistress of this house. The wife of a multimillionaire banker, she could have bought any home, anywhere in the world, but she chose the Kashana in loving remembrance of Mansoor.
On the other side of the world, Joseph Solomon married Cheryl Hampton and bought a mansion in the exclusive Sugar Land suburb of Houston. With the profits he was raking in, he bought another Burger King franchise near Houston and created a scholarship fund in Mansoor ul Haq’s memory at a local college. He, too, chose a name for his house: Bhangi Para.
Mansoor died, but the rumours about his death and about his being djinn did not—a resonant story, refusing to die. What was never witnessed by any eyes was spread by countless whispers. His death became the boast of the believers and the lament of the sceptics, remembered mostly by its messiness. He died a medieval death, choreographed by medieval minds.
Acknowledgements
This book is for my parents who are no longer here, who shared with me their ancestral stories in India, who made the journey to Pakistan during the turbulent days of the Partition and struggled in the new country’s early days. They taught me the importance of honest work and persistence.
To Yasmin, who encouraged me throughout the writing of this novel. Without her constant support, her readings and rereadings, her thoughtful suggestions and her literary insights, my dream as a writer would have remained just that. There is no one I would rather spend my life with than her.
To Farhan and Nabeel, who, in their childhood, insisted that I create stories for them. Their questions about why, what, when and how helped me structure my stories to their satisfaction. To Saara, who became our daughter and brightened our lives.
To my bhaiya, Safder, who introduced me to literature and sent me novels and plays from London that were not available in Karachi. He encouraged me to write when I showed him my first effort at Urdu poetry.
To all my other family members who have impacted my life and supported me in so many ways.
To Jack Luzkow, my best friend, who read several early and later drafts patiently and gave me much-needed encouragement and valuable suggestions.
To my friend and brother Lokesh Chaturvedi, who read an early draft of this novel and whom I’ll always miss.
To May Maxwood and Hatice Husnu, my first readers, who always thought that my book was very publishable. I am grateful for all their support.
To Venugopalan Menon, my dear friend and roommate at university, for his wisdom and hours of conversations about films and literature. His concerns about my studies were fully noted.
To my dear friend Shashi Lalvani, whose family was also uprooted from Sindh during the Partition and whose love of the province I share.
To Karachi, my birthplace, for the beautiful memories that pepper this story.
Finally, I want to thank my editorial team at Penguin Random House India: Tarini Uppal, who took a chance on me and was unstinting in her generous guidance and expertise. Her emails always came promptly and as a wonderful boost; and Aslesha Kadian, whose careful reading and excellent suggestions helped me greatly. I was fortunate to have such brilliant editors.
THE BEGINNING
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This collection published 2021
Copyright © A.A. Jafri 2021
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This digital edition published in 2021.
e-ISBN: 978-9-390-91468-5
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