Our demons hide in plain sight
Part of every faith is its own unique set of mysteries. They are perhaps one reason that faith holds such sway on so many. Maybe it is a consequence of being born an empty slate. We need explanations for some things, but some others we would prefer to be left as they are. It enriches our lives with a bit more ‘magic’.
Islam has its set of mysteries encompassed by the catch all term ‘Ghaib’. One of the more enigmatic are beliefs pertaining to the existence and nature of the Djinn – beings that are said to be made of ‘smokeless fire’ and many scholars argue, are completely concealed from all human senses. Over the centuries, the Djinn have been the subject of much exegesis with many explanations put forth, some somewhat mundane, others no less enigmatic. It is said the Djinn are a parallel race or civilisation, with their own laws, tribes and institutions. The Djinn, or some of them, are also believed to be able to possess ordinary humans, sparking their fearful reputation. What is largely consistent, however, is their hidden nature.
With a title like ‘Of Smokeless Fire’, some may pick up A A Jafri’s novel hoping to read a story set in the horror or thriller genre. But the book explores a ‘horror’ of another sorts, in a manner of speaking.
As a young child whose mind was captivated by tales of Djinn and other supernatural horrors, I often wondered if the adults around me were as scared as I was of them. If not, then how were they able to overcome this fear? Would I be able to? As an adult, I think I have an answer: life itself can be infinitely scarier than ‘things that go bump in the night’. And the horrors fellow humans are capable of unleashing, well you get the picture.
‘Of Smokeless Fire’, living up to its title, begins with the birth of a ‘Djinn’. After eleven miscarriages, Barrister Noor ul Haq and his wife Farhat Begum finally have a son. Born against the backdrop of the assassination of Pakistan’s first prime minister Liaquat Ali Khan, the couple’s maid Kaneez sparks the rumour that Farhat Begum has given birth to a Djinn.
From the very first page, the author stresses to the reader how little someone like Kaneez knows about such an esoteric aspect of Islam and yet, how easy it was for her to spread the rumour. So enduring does it become, that Noor and Farhat’s son Mansoor (more on that name later) is called throughout his life a Djinn by those that know him.
Prime Minister Liaquat Ali Khan’s assassin was fatally shot by police officers a few seconds after he committed the murder. His motives for the killing remain unclear to this day, with various conspiracy theories abound. In a manner of speaking, the author wants us to think that one Djinn was actually born that day. Many more would follow. The novel ends on the day that President Ziaul Haq (given a different name by the author) died in a fateful plane crash in 1988.
As his name hints, the character of Noor ul Haq – the Light of Truth – burns brightly with conviction in his particular set of ideals. Secular and exalting reason above all else, Noor sees faith and religion as something that obscures the ‘truth’ rather than something that illuminates it. Whether that is a contradiction is something the readers can decide for themselves. For Noor, faith is born by people’s fear of the unknown – a Djinn in one manner of speaking. One way to defeat that is through pure reason and knowledge.
The writer makes it very clear that Noor, for all his lack of religiosity, wears his own convictions on his sleeve. In what strikes as pompous, he names his house ‘Kashan e Haq’. “The name… meaning the House of Haq, or, in English, the Abode of Truth, had been carefully chosen by barrister Noor ul Haq… the only house on the street with a name instead of a number,” he writes. “No one knew if the name was a statement of sorts or if the barrister wanted to establish his aristocratic credentials in his adopted country.”
More importantly, Noor ul Haq names his son Mansoor ul Haq, evoking both its literal meaning (the Protector of Truth) and a connection with the Sufi saint Mansur al Hallaj who was martyred for proclaiming ‘I am the truth’. As the book eventually reveals, this latter connection is anything but an accident. The various devices laid out by the author at the time of the central character’s birth tie neatly towards the end.
Through Mansoor’s upbringing, ‘Of Smokeless Fire’ explores the conflict of beliefs. His parents are engaged in their own given their diametrically opposed stance on religion. But a larger conflict wages on in the backdrop, as the writer chronicles pivotal moments in Pakistan’s history.
Given his attitudes towards religion, Noor does not want his son to receive any religious education. Instead, he believes encouraging him to read literature would be a much better substitute for his moral and spiritual upbringing.
Mansoor’s mother Farhat, on the other hand, is a deeply religious woman, albeit not a well-educated one. Strongly opposed to her husband’s habit of drinking, she is shown praying to God that he finally kick the bottle. In secret, she hires a cleric to ensure Mansoor retains some manner of religious education, lest he turn into his father.
But while Farhat may feel she is saving her and her son’s soul, faith does not free her from a greater evil that we choose to wilfully hide from our sights. Class differences plague Pakistan, like other nations, to this day and the novel makes an attempt to explore them.
Mansoor, throughout his childhood, is drawn towards Mehrun, the daughter of their gardener Jumman, and Joseph, the son of a sweeper named Pyaro. He forms a friendship with both that last well into their adulthood. For all her religiosity, Farhat begum strongly disapproves of her son mingling with the children of ‘household help’. Contrary to message of equality that her religion preaches, she is a strong believer in the separation of social classes.
So strong is her distaste for those she sees as beneath her that she takes exception to her husband’s act of benevolence towards their sweeper who is struck by calamity. “A sudden chill fell over the room as Farhat saw the need to re-establish her authority,” Jafri writes. “She did not appreciate her husband’s hospitality. It was one thing to have given Pyaro a job as a sweeper, it was quite another to provide them with a place to stay in the servant’s quarters.”
Both Mehrun and Joseph, in their own ways, are passionate about changing their fate and status. Neither wants to accept a life trapped in their parents’ professions. As their story unfolds, the author perhaps wants readers to imagine what their potential once unshackled from class and religious prejudices could amount to.
Through Noor’s experiences and observations, the author also explores the impact of pivotal points in Pakistan’s history, from 1951 to 1988; from the rule of General Ayub Khan to that of Ziaul Haq. The author renames both of them, and other key figures from Pakistan’s political history, although perhaps that might be an unnecessary choice. But back to the topic, Noor is immensely hurt by the political and social direction the nascent state of Pakistan moves towards, and the dynamics that evolve under the influence of growing religious extremism.
“That Pakistan was created by secular leaders like Mohammad Ali Jinnah and Liaquat Ali Khan as a homeland for the Muslims of India, had initially made Noor hopeful about the country’s temporal path. After all, these were men steeped in the lofty traditions of Western education,” Jafri writes. “But soon after their deaths, when their secular agenda was first challenged and later expunged by the reactionary right, Noor became increasingly disillusioned.”
Growing cynical, he refers to Pakistan as ‘your country’ whenever he speaks to anyone about it, although the sentiment is borne less out of resentment and more out of a tragic resignation that the dream he shared with the founders of the country is being overshadowed.
“Two constitutions in fifteen years is no ordinary feat, Sahibzadey. By the time this country of yours is fifty years old, this version could very well become a collector’s item!” he tells his son in one episode, referring to the 1962 constitution. “Your government is rotting, Zakir. It is suffering from gangrene,” he says at another instance.
Noor is shown consistently opposed to the increasing influence of religion in Pakistan, but his household and social circle is not immune to its effects. In this exploration, there appears to be a warning at those that remain apathetic and convinced they would not be swept up in the waves of history.
His son Mansoor has a cousin who threatens and blackmails him as a child for playing with Mehrun and Joseph. As they grow old, that cousin joins a religious party and finds in extremism an excuse to carry on that resentment.
As for Mansoor, himself, his idealism compels him to return to the country from the United States to become a university lecturer. Living up to the expectations of his name, he encourages his students to question their own attitudes and to be sceptical. With colleagues and students who share his outlook, he opens up a club named after al-Ma‘arri, an eleventh-century blind, heretic poet of Islam. “Some nine hundred years before John Lennon wrote his iconic song ‘Imagine’, al-Ma‘arri imagined a world without religion,” the writer tells us. Through the club, he attempts to “promote intelligent conversations about forbidden topics and to encourage the students to think critically about politics, religion, philosophy and literature.” But as he grows popular among the student body, he becomes a target for the jealousy of his colleagues.
Coming back to the topic of Djinn, Jafri’s choice to title his book after them can be seen in various ways. Like their nature is being hidden to human senses, they could, on the surface, be seen to hint towards the fiery realities that are never revealed to the ‘mere mortals’. There are many facts that remain hidden and many truths to the pivotal incidents of history that will perhaps never be revealed.
But then like the smokeless fire that supposedly created the Djinn, there are evils and ills that either escape our sight or we choose to wilfully ignore. And so they perpetuate.
Through Mansoor, Jafri issues another warning: “…whenever you replace any concrete reality with an abstract idea of homogenised people, you create a passive putty to be kneaded at will by tyrants. This is the first step towards hell.”