‘Be careful what you ask for,’ I say grimly.
Forget the thrills and spills experienced at Alton Towers; the driving here is a must-do experience for all the thrill seekers, adrenaline junkies and Jackass fans out there! The sheer volume of traffic by itself would be overwhelming, but couple that with the fact that there appear to be no rules of the road and you get a truly hair-raising experience. The horns are not your standard beeping sounds, more a variety of melodic musical horns and high-pitched whistles. And all the drivers use their horns liberally and sometimes in lieu of indicators. My ears are ringing and my stomach is lurching. It doesn’t help either that the roads are randomly strewn with speed bumps and potholes; we bump up and down so much I feel as though I’m in the middle of a step class.
And I’d thought London was busy.
Fortunately before too long we leave the city and head out into the stunning countryside of Kashmir. I’m amazed we’re still alive. The Almighty must really want me to marry Subhi to bring me safely through that traffic.
The journey to Mirpur is almost too much to absorb. Fleeting impressions jostle for attention and even Fizz is silenced as she gazes out of the window while the car spirals around and around the winding mountain, up and upwards towards Mirpur. The sweet-scented valleys are quilted in a hundred different hues of green, boasting dense forest, velvet plateaus and fields, agricultural foliage and shrubbery, and all sorts of flowering plants. It’s heartbreakingly beautiful, the sort of lush countryside you want to explore hand in hand with somebody special. A couple could wander for hours in their own private Eden. Kashmir is well and truly a piece of Paradise on Earth. No wonder India and Pakistan are fighting over it...
I must have nodded off at this point. One moment Wish is smiling down at me and tucking a jasmine flower behind my ear, and the next Nish is patting my shoulder. No offence to Nish but for a split second I’m devastated. Will it ever get any easier?
‘Welcome to our humble home!’ beams my uncle.
‘Humble?’ says Fizz. ‘I hope they never come to ours!’
The Sheikh family mansion is situated in the upper-class district of Mirpur and sits in the middle of an elegant street lined with rows of flame trees, jacaranda trees and hibiscus. The house is white with colonial-style pillars and a majestic sweep of steps curving up to the huge front door, and looks like somewhere the Beckhams might live. Humble it ain’t.
‘Here are my children!’ cries Auntie Shammi when two teenagers saunter down the steps. ‘Come on, you must meet your cousins!’
Everyone piles out of the people carrier, flexing their limbs and wincing when pins and needles gush into fingers and toes. Auntie Shammi is squawking with excitement and flapping her hands like a grounded bird. There’s kissing, and hugging and more tears, and eventually I find myself hauled into the thick of it so that everyone can gawk at the bride-to-be.
‘This is my second eldest, Maya,’ Shammi says, propelling a plump teenager forward. ‘And this,’ she adds pulling a blushing adolescent into the spotlight, ‘is the light of our lives! Our son, Tabish!’
Maya and Tabish good-naturedly allow my mother to weep over them and clutch them to her bosom, while the rest of us smile awkwardly.
‘This is your cousin, Amelia,’ Shammi tells her children. ‘Isn’t she pretty? She’s the one who’s going to marry Subhi.’
‘Lucky Subhi!’ says Tabish.
‘You’ve pulled, babe!’ whispers Eve, but Eve learned to whisper in a helicopter and poor Tabish looks mortified. I look away to spare his embarrassment and notice another young girl has joined us; only this one is as tall and as willowy as Maya is short and dumpy. Her skin’s as smooth as rose petals and her hair falls in a glossy waterfall to her waist. But it’s her eyes that make me catch my breath and take an involuntary step backwards. They are almond shaped, fringed with thick lashes and black as sloes, and for a split second the emotion in those eyes is raw and unguarded.
‘There she is,’ cries Shammi, and the girl’s expression instantly shifts to meek and dutiful. ‘Amelia, this is my eldest daughter, Sana! I just know you two are going to be the greatest of friends.’
But Shammi is in for a major disappointment. When Sana raises her eyes and looks coolly at me I’m shaken to the core.
The emotion that flits across my cousin’s face is pure and unadulterated hatred.
Chapter 34
Once inside my aunt’s house I start to wonder if my exhaustion and fragile state of mind are playing tricks on me. Maybe I was hallucinating in the heat of the relentless sun, because now we’re seated in the baithak Sana is politeness itself. She’s helping her mother serve us glasses of nimboo pani, a refreshing drink made from limes, sugar and soda, and even fetches Eve mineral water. Not once though does she look my way and I find her way of moving eerie. She glides over the marble floors and appears silently behind me on several occasions, making me jump and spill my drink. I have the strongest feeling she’d love nothing more than to sink a knife between my shoulder blades, which I know is ridiculous! I’ve scarcely met the girl.
I must be even more exhausted than I thought if I’m having paranoid delusions. Maybe it’s my exhausted brain playing tricks, because I don’t think I’ve ever felt this tired. When Aunt Shammi claps her hands and announces she’s going to give us the grand tour of the house I feel like howling with despair. But not wanting to show disrespect I try to dredge up some enthusiasm.
‘What an amazing house!’ gasps Nish. ‘It’s like a mini palace!’
She isn’t wrong. This is no simple shack but a spacious and elegant mansion, cool and restful with the latest in air conditioning blasting our sticky limbs with arctic breezes. All the rooms have high vaulted ceilings and are painted white, with long windows that overlook stunning gardens or the courtyards where fountains play merrily, needles of water sparkling in the liquid sun. It’s stunning.
‘I expect you’re tired,’ says my aunt eventually. ‘I’ll give you a tour of my jasmine garden tomorrow and show you to your bedrooms now. Besides, we can’t wear Mills out. Young brides-to-be need all the rest that they can get!’
As everyone laughs and as I blush scarlet I feel Sana’s eyes burning into my back. Just what is her problem?
My aunt throws open a pair of double doors. ‘This is your room, Amelia. You’re sharing with your friends, if you don’t mind?’
I actually prefer this idea. There’s safety in numbers after all. And besides, the room is amazing, all pink and white marble, with two massive king-size beds and a bathroom suite that makes Raza’s look like a public toilet. But best of all are the floor-to-ceiling windows, framed with billowing white muslin drapes, which lead onto a balcony. Beyond the window is a stunning rose and jasmine garden; as the drapes lift in the breeze the most heavenly scents fill the air.
‘It’s amazing!’ I say. ‘Thank you.’
Shammi dimples. ‘Only the best for a beautiful bride!’
This has to be the most romantic room I’ve ever seen, like something out of a Bollywood movie. I should be reclining against the pillows, wearing baggy silk trousers and a yashmak, with jasmine flowers in my loosened hair, waiting for my handsome sheik lover to take me in my arms. He’ll be wearing flowing white robes and a jewelled turban, and when he sees me his emerald eyes will fill with passion…
‘Mills?’ Eve says. ‘Are you all right?’
‘She’s exhausted,’ says my mother. ‘It’s been a very intense few days.’
That’s true. Fizz is still quiet and tearful.
Shammi nods and her body wobbles like a big jelly. ‘What am I thinking? And there’s a big day for her tomorrow, meeting Subhi! The child needs to rest.’
I could rest for a hundred years and still not be ready for good old Subhi but I can’t tell my aunt that, can I? So I smile dutifully, trying to ignore the animosity coming in a tsunami from Sana, and at long last my extended family shut the door. It’s a measure of how bushed Eve, Nish and I are that no one squa
bbles about who is sleeping where. I don’t even remember deciding; I think I just flop onto the nearest bed, and the next thing I know the Adhan seeps into my dreams, rousing me from sleep just as surely as it rouses the faithful to their prayers. Then I hear the roosters crowing and the birds singing their heads off in the fragrant garden below and I’m awake.
I open my eyes. Nish is still asleep, her face pressed down into the pillow, while Eve lies on her back snoring loudly. I must have been tired to have slept through that din.
As my eyes adjust to the cool shadows my gaze wanders to the balcony and I watch the first pink fingernails of dawn scratch the sky. I wrinkle my nose as the strong scents of the flowers waft upwards from the garden, and breathe in the wonderful perfumes, feeling grateful that my aunt’s house smells nothing like Islamabad airport. I’d have had to have my nose cut off if it had. Outside, the new day is coming alive and it’s as though the birds have put on a mini Glastonbury just for me. One bird sounds like it’s rapping, while another makes a strange siren sound, then others join in like backing singers. Over and over again they sing until my breath rises and falls in time with their tune and I start to feel that just maybe I am ready to face the day and whatever weird and not-so-wonderful experiences it throws at me.
Naashta, or breakfast, is a grand affair and Auntie Shammi has pulled out all the stops. If I eat like this every day I’ll be bursting out of my shalwars!
‘Now,’ says Aunt Shammi, beaming at all of us, ‘I’ve got some very exciting news. The Jamshaids have called! They’re popping over tonight with Subhi to formally ask for Amelia beti's hand!’
When I hear this a piece of my toast goes down the wrong way and for a good few minutes I gasp and splutter while Eve slaps me on the back.
‘See how excited she is!’ cries my Aunt.
Excited? Can’t she see I’m choking to death here?
Once my eyes have stopped streaming and I can breathe again I discover my appetite has pushed off. In fact I’m feeling rather queasy. This afternoon I’m going to meet my future hubbie-ji, the total stranger with whom I’ll share the rest of my life.
And that suddenly feels like a very, very long time.
It’s early evening and I’m alone in the bedroom. There’s great excitement downstairs because the legendary Dr Subhi – who, if my aunt is to be believed, is a mixture of Omar Sharif’s looks with the intelligence of Professor Stephen Hawking and the business acumen of Lord Alan Sugar thrown in for good measure – is due to arrive at any moment. To try to still my mounting hysteria I’m watching the blades of the fan whirring above my head but it’s no use. I’ll end up permanently cross-eyed if I keep this up for much longer.
Downstairs the sound of happy, excited voices can be heard. That’ll be the in-laws then. And of course my future husband, Dr Subhi Jamshaid. I think I’m going to be sick. If it were Wish and his folks coming over to ask for my hand (and the rest of me) then I’d be sick with excitement, not terror.
‘We’ve seen him!’ shrieks Eve, running into my bedroom and hurling herself onto the bed. My sisters and Nish follow suit. I sit bolt upright waiting for the verdict. And I don’t have to wait long because they all start yapping at once.
‘He looks really clever,’ says Roma,
‘He’s very polite,’ adds Nish.
‘He might even be fit under that moustache,’ giggles Fizz.
Upon hearing the dreaded ‘tache’ word my blood turns to iced water and my mind rewinds to that horrible nightmare that I had all those months ago when I almost married Cousin It. Only it wasn’t just a silly dream, was it? It was a premonition…
‘Are you listening?’
Fizz is shaking my arm so rigorously I almost expect it to pop out of its socket, and if it did that would be a good thing. A night in the hospital would be preferable to a night with the in-laws.
‘Come on!’ says Fizz. ‘Don’t freak out on us now. The Ali family izzat’s on the line here!’
‘Leave her alone!’ Roma pulls Fizz off. ‘Since when have you cared about our izzat?’
The twins glower at one another, but before a full-scale row can erupt Mummy-ji arrives and breathlessly announces that it’s time for me to make my grand entrance.
I start to shake.
This is it.
I just need a minute to get my head together and to bid farewell to all my hopes and dreams of a soul mate. Once I’ve met Subhi there’ll be no going back, no more life as a single girl.
And no more dreams about Darwish Rahim.
After final good-luck hugs from the girls and Mum, I take a deep breath and leave the room to make my way down to meet my fiancé. Unfortunately this is the point in the proceedings where Fate decides to pull a moonie at me. Just as I’m walking past the narrow galley that leads to the kitchen I bump smack into Sana carrying a tray full of chai stuff. Crash goes the tea tray. Smash go the cups and saucers.
‘Ouch!’ shriek Sana and I as the hot tea spills all over us.
‘I’m so sorry!’ I gasp, brushing biscuit crumbs off my tea-stained clothes and swiftly adjusting the dupatta to cover the massive stain flowering right over my crotch. Somehow I don’t think the just-toilet-trained look will go down well with my new in-laws.
Sana gives me an evil glare before crouching down to scoop up the debris.
If in doubt, kill her with kindness…
‘Let me give you a hand,’ I say. Sheesh, that girl has an attitude problem, I think to myself.
‘Don’t bother,’ hisses Sana, scooping fragments of bone china into her hands. ‘I can manage. Isn’t there somewhere you have to be?’
Ungrateful cow! Leaving her to it, I swallow my nerves and make the final steps towards the sitting room. Taking one last deep breath I turn the door handle and walk in. Every molecule of my being is screaming ‘Run!’ and it takes all the self-control I possess not to flee. Only knowing my father has given his precious word stops me.
‘Come in, Amelia beti,’ smiles my mother.
That cotton-wool feeling is back and I feel as though I’m seeing the room through the wrong end of a telescope. I must take care not to knock into the coffee table and make a total tit of myself.
This is the last thought whirling through my mind before I’m plunged into darkness. At first I think my eyes have screwed themselves shut to block out the horrible reality but then I realise that they’re still open.
‘Oof, another blackout!’ I hear Auntie Shammi wail. ‘When will they sort the electricity supply out?’
‘Don’t panic,’ says my uncle. ‘The backup generator will kick in soon.’
But wouldn’t you know it? At the very nanosecond the lights go off and the room turns inky black I catch my heel on the edge of the Persian rug and stumble. I can’t see to save myself and I go flying.
I sprawl on the floor and before I get a chance to recover from the shock, never mind pick myself up and try to retrieve what shreds of dignity I have left, the lights flicker back on again. Why couldn’t the blackout have lasted for several hours? That would have given me enough time to creep out of the room, tear upstairs, grab my suitcase and hitch a lift back to the airport, which has to be a better scenario than lying flat on my stomach with my face only inches from someone’s highly polished shoes. Slowly I look up at the person attached to them.
And I really wish I hadn’t.
Talk about falling head over heels for my future husband.
My first view of Subhi is a nostril’s view of his moustache.
At least I think that’s a moustache. It could well be another life form. Eugh! How come I never realised before that I have a moustache phobia? Everything else in the room goes blurry as I stare and stare at it until my mother breaks the trance by hissing, ‘Amelia! Get off the carpet!’
‘Sorry!’ I pick myself up and brush my shalwars down. Then I check out the rest of Subhi, which I’m glad to say is nothing out of the ordinary.
But I’m going to marry the guy! Surely he should be som
ething out of the ordinary? I wait for the stomach aeronautics to begin. And wait. And wait some more, but it’s no good. Subhi does absolutely nothing for me.
It’s not that he’s ugly. If your thing is Pakistani doctors with moustaches and beady black eyes then you’d be jumping for joy. But if you like green eyes, caramel skin and curly raven’s wing hair then Subhi just isn’t your bag.
I smile at Subhi while our proud parents make the introductions but inside I’m yelling ‘Nahin!’ just like in my nightmare. He’s bland and utterly sexless; no wonder my parents are captivated. While Subhi speaks to them with just the right amount of deference I check him out and try my hardest to find something positive to say.
His hair is perfectly cut, and his nails are perfectly buffed, and his moustache is perfectly trimmed. His glasses are perfectly shined and sparkling and his clothes are perfectly ironed. He doesn’t wear the local traditional garb either, which would suggest he’s a modern kind of a guy – except that Subhi’s ‘western’ attire is more Marks & Sparks than Paul Smith. You can’t blame a girl for being slightly put off by her fiancé dressing like her Daddy-ji. I can’t imagine Subhi in a tight white tee shirt or biker leathers or even in the buff–
Oh Allah-ji!
I bet he has a hairy back too, if the thicket sprouting from the tight neck of his shirt is anything to go by. And I’m going to have to…to have to…
Breathe saheli, you don’t need to go there.
Yet.
Subhi and I make stilted small talk like the total strangers that we are. Within minutes we grind to a painful halt.
‘Isn’t this a beautiful house?’ I say quickly, dying of thirst in this conversational desert.
‘Yes indeed,’ says Subhi, and then studies the toes of his shiny shoes with great interest.
This is going to be a very lonely marriage. I have a vision of myself in twenty years’ time talking to the wall like Shirley Valentine. In fact, forget twenty years, I’ll be chatting to the wall in twenty minutes.
The Wedding Countdown Page 32