Mohsin Hamid - Moth Smoke

‘Let us be in trouble,’ Sindhi cap says, to the approving nods of the group.

‘The Christians have a bomb. The Jews have a bomb. The Hindus have a bomb.’

‘The Buddhists have a bomb,’ interjects sweaty nose.

‘Right,’ continues Sindhi cap. ‘Everyone has a bomb. And now the Muslims have a bomb. Why should we be the only ones without it?’

‘And when prices go up, and schools shut down, and hospitals run out of medicine, then?’

‘Then we’ll work twice as hard and eat half as much.’

‘We’ll eat grass,’ says sweaty nose, quoting from one of the Prime Minister’s speeches.

‘And do you think people who eat grass will still go for rides on rickshaws?’ asks an exasperated Murad Badshah.

‘At least we’ll be alive,’ Sindhi cap says.

‘We would have been alive anyway. The entire world knew we had the bomb.’

‘I didn’t know,’ says sweaty nose.

‘Yes, and it’s one thing to say you have it, and it’s another to shake mountains,’ says Sindhi cap.

Murad Badshah snorts. ‘Shake mountains. We’ll see who gives a damn about shaking mountains when we can’t pay for the rent of this depot and our rickshaws break down and the only things for sale at Lakshmi are boiled onions.’

‘We had to protect ourselves.’

‘My roof protects me,’ says Murad Badshah. ‘My full belly protects me. You boys think we’ve done a great thing. But you’ll see. Difficult times are ahead.’

Sindhi cap and sweaty nose exchange a look. But no more is said. The mechanics clear the food and the drivers head out to their rickshaws to begin their night rounds.

Murad Badshah and I remain seated.

When we’re alone, I tell him I need five hundred rupees’ worth of hash.

He strokes his jowls. ‘Five hundred, old boy? May I ask why such a large amount?’

‘It’s for some friends.’

‘Heavy smokers?’

‘Clearly.’

He gets up, opens a toolbox, rummages around inside, pulls out some hash, and plops it in my lap. It’s about the size of my fist and wrapped in a transparent sheet of plastic.

‘This is fine stuff. I’m giving it to you for five hundred, but you can easily sell it to people of means for two thousand or more.’

‘Why are you giving me so much?’

He laughs, his body shaking. ‘I help out my friends. And when a friend buys in bulk, he gets a fair price.’

I grin. ‘Thanks.’

He nods. Then he takes something out of his pocket. ‘See if they like this as well.’

‘What is it?’

‘Heroin.’

‘No thanks.’

‘You never know. Your friends might be interested. It’s not much. I’ll throw it in for free with what you’re buying.’

I examine it. ‘It looks like hash to me.’

‘It’s mixed with charas. But believe me, the heroin is there.’

I slip it into my pocket and thank Murad Badshah, turning down his offer to smoke a joint, because I don’t want to arrive at Raider’s place too late. On my way I break off a healthy chunk of hash for myself. I’m almost out, after all, and five hundred for the rest is still a bargain.

Raider lives with his parents in a housing colony off the canal near the university. I ring the buzzer and he comes out of the house to see who it is.

‘Partner,’ he says when he recognizes my face over the gate.

We shake hands. ‘I’ve got it,’ I tell him, handing it over.

‘This is a hell of a lot of hash,’ he says. ‘Is it good?’

‘Yes.’ Murad Badshah never fools around with inferior stuff.

‘I can’t take it from you for so little. Here, take another five hundred.’

I wave his hand away. ‘It only cost five.’

He pushes the note into my palm. ‘I’m not going to give it to them for less than fifteen hundred. If you don’t take a cut I’ll feel guilty.’

So he is selling the stuff, after all. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘I insist.’

Pride tells me to give it back, but common sense tells pride to shut up, have a joint, and relax. I shrug and put the note into my wallet.

‘Do you think you could do this again?’ Raider asks.

‘Get more pot?’

‘This much for so little.’

‘I could, I suppose.’

‘There are definitely people who would buy from you. It might be good, you know, keep you liquid till you find some work.’

‘I’m liquid enough, thanks.’

‘Come on, yaar. Don’t get defensive. What about the electricity? A little extra cash can’t hurt.’

‘Enough, Raider.’

‘Okay. Sorry. Thanks for helping me out. I appreciate it.’

We shake hands and I head off. In the car my wallet sits snugly between my rump and the seat, a folded note thicker than it was a little while before. I wait for regret and guilt to come, but they don’t show up. The whole thing is between Raider and his friends. If he’s selling and they’re buying, it really has nothing to do with me. Just a little cash for my troubles, money that will make life easier for a few days. And it isn’t another loan, another debt to Fatty Chacha, who can hardly afford to lend to me in the first place.

Besides, I’ve topped off my stash, and that’s cause to celebrate.

When I get home I find Manucci staring at a candle on the mantelpiece for no apparent reason.

I walk over to him, my shadow dancing on a different wall from his.

‘What is it?’ I ask him.

‘A moth in love, saab,’ Manucci says.

Sometimes I don’t understand what he’s talking about. But I do see a moth circling above our heads.

‘Bring me the fly swatter,’ I tell him.

‘No, saab.’

I hit him across the top of his head, not too hard and with an open hand, but forcefully enough to let him know that I won’t put up with any impertinence. ‘What do you mean, No, saab?’

‘Please, saab,’ he says, cringing. ‘Watch.’

The moth circles lower, bouncing like a drunk pilot in turbulence. I could clap him out of existence but I don’t, because I’m getting a little curious myself.

The moth starts to make diving passes at the candle.

‘He’s an aggressive fellow, this moth,’ I say to Manucci.

‘Love, saab,’ he replies.

‘I never knew you were such a romantic.’

He blushes. ‘The poets say some moths will do anything out of love for a flame.’

‘How do you know what the poets say?’

‘I used to sneak into Pak Tea House to listen.’

The moth stops swooping, enters a holding pattern about two feet above the candle, and then lands on the wall in front of us. It’s gray with a black dot on its back that looks like an eye.

‘That’s an ugly moth,’ I say.

I wait for Manucci’s response, but he says nothing.

The moth doesn’t move.

‘He’s afraid,’ Manucci says.

‘He should be. Love’s a dangerous thing.’ I look carefully. Dark streaks run down the moth’s folded wings. ‘Maybe he’s burnt himself.’

The moth takes off again, and we both step back, because he’s circling at eye level now and seems to have lost rudder control, smacking into the wall on each round. He circles lower and lower, spinning around the candle in tighter revolutions, like a soap sud over an open drain. A few times he seems to touch the flame, but dances off unhurt.

Then he ignites like a ball of hair, curling into an oily puff of fumes with a hiss. The candle flame flickers and dims for a moment, then burns as bright as before.

Moth smoke lingers.

I lift the candle and look around the mantelpiece for the moth’s body, but I can’t find it.

For a moment I think I smell burning flesh, and even though I tell myself it must be my imagination, I put the candle down feeling more than a little disgusted.