An Special Guest

At 1:00 AM, Maulana sat alone in the club, smoking. The bartender, Harp, spoke up while serving others. "Bear? Molana... or just the fact that I'm wearing this Western suit bothers you?"

Maulana scoffed. "It's not about the dress, unless the pressing is done by someone who visits the mosque five times a day."

Harp smiled. "Well, a hell of a philosopher you are, isn't it?"

Maulana nodded, smoking through his pipe. "Yes, I am, Harp. How's Laura? Does she know..."

"She's gone for a special meeting," Maulana replied.

Harp nodded. "Hmmm... I'll keep quiet, or else whatever I say at this point..."

Maulana finished his sentence. "I can kill you?"

Harp chuckled. "Nope, you will kill me."

Maulana clarified, "Actually, she's at a Mawlid. James is here, by the way."

James stood near the gate, wearing a purple cap and a Purple Heads uniform. Harp noticed him. "I see he's in the Purple Heads uniform, and he has a nice-looking brown coat. And you, Molana, have a black coat with golden buttons, but I can see the fire in your chest."

Maulana stood up. "Oh, stop, Harp. Now you're also..."

Harp interrupted, "We care about you, Molana. Look at this time... go back home. I'm 29, but I know from just two years of experience that when your wife knows, she'll kill you."

Harp took a sip of beer. "AH!"

Maulana frowned. "How can you drink that shit... alcohol?"

Harp replied, "This is a club, Molana, not a bloody mosque."

Maulana left the club, pushing through the dancing women. At home, he opened the door and put the key on the table. Laura rushed into the office.

"In the guest room, Tagar," she said, heading into the kitchen with an awkward expression.

Maulana threw his pipe on the table and entered the guest room. He saw a fat man wearing a Shalwar Kameez and black slippers, with no hat on his head.

The man stood up. "How are you, son?"

Maulana's face turned disappointing. "What are you doing here?"

The man replied, "I'm your father. Can't I just come and meet?"

Maulana's anger erupted. "You never helped me through anything in my life when I needed it most. Your help! You just lived for yourself, acting like you were doing it for me. You made me embarrassed before everyone in my life. I moved here so I could get away from you... not like this, to see your cult face again."

The man tried to calm him down. "Cool down, son."

Maulana's anger continued. "No! No! No! Always your smiles and hugs, but no money you ever gave me. Nothing was there for me. You had everything for yourself and your brothers, those assholes."

Maulana fell down, and the scene shifted. He woke up in the club as the bartender threw water on his face.

"You're okay, Molana?" the bartender asked.

Maulana looked around, seeing the women and the bartender. "I'm fine."

The bartender explained, "You just fell down because of the big man."

A muscled man with scars on his face walked by. "The man is the guard for the club."

Maulana stood up. "Tell your guard to leave me home, please."

The bartender nodded. "Yeah, sure!"

As Maulana left with the guard, he explained, "You saw my father... he died of natural causes. Why do I feel like I killed him? Maybe because... the smoke happens on its own once you light the tobacco, but it's me who does the smoke."

The guard listened intently. "Huh! Molana, I'm not a philosopher or a great thinker like you are, but you know what? Let the smoke not determine who you are. Every smoke you make mixes in the air and vanishes. The past is just something that doesn't exist anymore. So, take a deep breath of fresh air, because that's what's remained of your past."

Maulana smiled slightly. "Fresh air?"

The guard nodded. "Yes... Allah Hafiz!"

Maulana replied, "Thanks! Allah Hafiz."

The guard left, and Maulana entered his house, opening the door with his key.