Mohsin Hamid - Moth Smoke

I wrote about things people didn’t want seen, and my writing was noticed. Zulfikar Manto received death threats and awards. And the more I wrote, the more I loved home. I was back, I was finding myself again, and I was being honest about things I cared for passionately. Childbirth had hurt me inside, and I was finally starting to heal.

When I met Darashikoh Shezad, I didn’t know whether I was going to sleep with him, but I knew I wanted to. He seemed the perfect partner for my first extramarital affair. He was smart and sexy, and since he was one of Ozi’s best friends, I knew he’d keep his mouth shut.

It was fantastic. We had a delicious courtship, slow and exquisite, because we both felt so guilty. Sex was a revelation: being touched by another man, declaring my independence from the united state of marriage, remembering myself by being felt for the first time. We smoked joints and talked for hours and made each other laugh.

I once went to a coffee party where rich young wives sat around and moaned about being bored while their husbands were at work, and I laughed at them afterwards, because I knew that I had a lot to do. It wasn’t until later that I realized they did, too. Affairs were the most popular form of entertainment around. And I know why. My affair with Daru was, at first at least, the most liberating experience I have ever had. I felt bad, of course. Selfish. But I also felt good.

The problem was that I started to get under his skin, and he, in a very different way, started to get under mine.

I’ll tell you more later.

I take the turn as fast as my car lets me, my road grip half a handshake away from letting go, from flipping my Suzuki onto its back, and cut through traffic with a smile on my face because I’m thinking of Mumtaz. The card in my shirt pocket presses into my chest, its corner painful, but I finish sucking the life out of my joint, curling my lips at the heat and smell of burnt filter when it’s done, before I take the card out and put it on the seat next to me.

I’m going to a kiddie party.

The old chowkidar lets me in with no trouble, and I see maybe a dozen cars in a long driveway. I’ve shaved today and even treated myself to a haircut, my hairdresser taking it close to the scalp as he flirted with me, so I look as young as I can. But I’m definitely older than these kids, and they notice. This is the pre-college crowd, still in school and worried about the O levels and APs and SCs and SATs that stand between them and the States and Merry Old England, the only places they’d ever dream of going for an education.

One of them asks, um, excuse me, who I am.

‘I’m a friend of Raider’s.’

‘Raider?’

‘Haider.’

‘Oh.’ He looks around to make sure we’re not being watched. Naturally everyone’s staring at us. ‘Do you have it?’ he asks, lowering his voice.

‘Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?’ I notice they only have Murree vodka. How cute. These kids are still learning to walk: they have the cash for Scotch but they don’t yet have the contacts.

‘Well, it’s not really my party.’

Come on, kid. Not you, too. At least try to pretend that I’m more than just a drug connection. I’m well dressed, hip. A little hospitality wouldn’t hurt. ‘Whose party is it?’

‘It’s sort of all of ours. But it isn’t my house.’

‘Are you saying you don’t want me to stay?’

‘No, I’m not saying that.’

‘Great. I’ll have a drink, then.’

He looks almost frightened.

I smile. ‘Just teasing, yaar. Don’t worry, I won’t steal any of your girlfriends. Take the stuff and I’m off.’

‘Do you mind if we go outside?’

‘No.’ We head out onto the lawn, away from prying eyes. I hand him my fourth and last pancake of hash.

‘How much?’ he asks.

‘A thousand.’

He gives it to me without another word. This is incredible. He’s buying it for eight times what it cost me, and he actually seems happy about it. I like this kid. ‘What’s your name, by the way?’

‘Shuja Rana. Yours?’

‘Darashikoh Shezad. Call me if you ever need more.’

‘What’s your number?’

I tell him, and he takes out the stub of a pencil and writes it down.

‘I’m sorry you can’t stay,’ he says. ‘I wouldn’t mind at all. But some of these people are such snobs.’

There you go, kid, putting your foot in your mouth. You can stand my stench even though your friends can’t, is that it? You’re lucky I need your money.

‘That’s too bad,’ I say, lighting a cigarette. ‘Run along. I’m going to have a smoke, and then I’m leaving.’

It’s a big lawn, and I stand in the middle, watching the house, wondering how many of these kids will grow up into Ozis. Quite a few, probably. Our poor country.

A couple walks out together, holding hands, but when they see me they turn around and go back inside, leaving me uncertain whether they think of me as a chaperon or a servant.

When I get home I’m still a little angry.

It’s the wrong time for Manucci to ask for his pay.

‘I don’t have it,’ I say.

‘Saab, you haven’t paid me in two months.’

I raise my hand and he flinches, but I don’t hit him. ‘Enough. I’ll pay you when I pay you. I don’t want to hear another word about it.’

He runs off, looking upset. I feel a little hard-hearted, but I tell myself I did the right thing. Servants have to be kept in line.

I go to my room with a candle and fish the heroin Murad Badshah gave me out of one of the drawers. Heroin and charas mixed. ‘I’ll call you hairy,’ I say, pleased with the name. My curiosity has been killing me, but I haven’t yet tried the stuff. Tonight I feel reckless, feel like having sex on the roof in the moonlight, except that Mumtaz hasn’t called since that crazy night, and this hairy will have to do.

I roll a jay, or maybe I should call it an aitch, since I’m using hairy. It frightens me a little bit, so I use about half the amount I would if it were hash. I light up and puff delicately, but it doesn’t taste so different from what I’m used to, and it doesn’t seem to be any more harsh on my throat. I finish the aitch and sit back to see what it does to me.

The first feeling is jointy, a head throb from unfiltered nicotine in the tobacco. A light hash buzz slides in after that, nothing spectacular, just a medium-level high. I wait to see if anything else will follow, relaxing into the sofa and shutting my eyes. When I open them again, the candle has gone out and the moon is riding higher in the sky, its faint colorless light peeling off the wall opposite me. Long shadows. Should light another candle, but feel very comfortable, in no rush to move. My watch says an hour has passed. Skin itches, but in a good way, and hand slips under shirt to scratch it. Soon the moon’s so high that I’m sitting in shadowless dark, but my eyes have adjusted and I can see well enough without a candle, so I stay put.

I would like a cigarette, though. Where are my cigarettes? I just made an aitch, so I must have some. Ah, here they are in my shirt pocket. How convenient. Now if I could find a lighter without getting up I would be so happy. Open the pack and there one is. Wonderful. Now the next question: aitch or cigarette? Aitch’s too much work. But cigarette’s boring. What the hell. Sit up. Roll one.

Light up.

Ahhhhh. World floats at body temperature. Very nice, very nice. I’m in a good mood. My head is clear. Thoughts are coming one at a time, nicely formed. I like this. Well, I might as well admit it: this hairy is damn pleasant. Damn pleasant, do you say? I do indeed, my dear sir, damn pleasant. Nice little interior dialogue, that.