We sit in total silence. Subhi takes his glasses off and polishes them. I try again.
‘What books do you like?’
Subhi looks at me as though I’ve grown two heads.
‘Beg pardon?’
‘What do you read? Thrillers? Classics?’ For a moment I’m back in the cool stillness of Eldred House and Wish is throwing back his head with laughter.
Something flickers in Subhi’s beady little eyes. It looks like irritation.
‘I read medical journals. I do not waste time on fiction.’
‘Waste time? Reading?’ I’m gobsmacked. What are my parents thinking, lumping me with this philistine? ‘What about Dickens? Or Chaucer?’
Subhi shakes his head. ‘Only medical textbooks. To advance my knowledge.’
I’m starting to despair. We have absolutely nothing in common. It’s a disaster.
Ironically it also feels as though Subhi is here against his will. His expression isn’t exactly miserable but it’s certainly pained and I haven’t got a clue what the guy’s thinking. I feel increasingly on edge and before long I’m chewing my nails for dear life. How can I spend the next fifty years with a guy who talks less than a mime artist? I’ll go pagal!
‘Tell me about your work,’ I say desperately and, bingo, it’s like I’ve flicked a switch: the man beneath the moustache comes to life at long last as he lectures me about his beloved medicine. While Subhi drones on about the latest medical discovery I switch off and my eyes start to glaze. I nod my head for effect and say ‘Mmm,’ every now and again while mentally replaying far more interesting conversations I’ve shared with Wish. Luckily I’m never put on the spot to prove that I’m paying attention. Subhi is a monologue kind of guy. He never asks my opinion because he’s not interested in what’s going on in my head and heart.
And it gets worse.
Apart from medicine the only other topic that gets him going is politics – India versus Pakistan to be precise, or anything anti-India to be even more precise…
This is so not a good thing. I loathe racism in any form and Subhi gets louder and louder as he warms to his subject. Uncle Mutti joins in too and as they discuss Kashmir they become more insulting by the minute.
‘Please, that’s enough!’ I interrupt.
Uncle Mutti’s caterpillar eyebrows shoot into his silver hair and Subhi’s mouth stays open mid word.
‘Amelia!’ says my mother, aghast at my lapse of manners. ‘You know better than to speak so disrespectfully before your elders.’
‘Sorry,’ I say, not feeling anything of the sort, ‘but Nish has Indian parents.’
Subhi scowls. ‘That is one friendship you will discontinue when we are married.’
I gawp at him, furious and dismayed. I can’t protest because he’s my fiancé and as such he calls the shots, but inside I’m seething. How dare he? If he upsets Nish I’ll tell him exactly what I think, and never mind Dad’s izzat. The guy is a dick.
But dick or otherwise Subhi is very clever. He doesn’t target Nish or make it obvious he can’t stand her. Oh no. He does it in a very subtle way by snubbing her whilst making an effort to talk to everyone else. Had this been any other guy I would have told him to take a hike like I did to Micky when he was so vile about Eve. But now I’m helpless simply because word has been given.
The guy’s a jerk. I can’t marry him!
But what choice do I have?
As I listen to my parents discussing the shaadi arrangements with such excitement I realise, with a horrible twisting of my guts, that I don’t have any choice at all. They’re seriously taken with Subhi for some bizarre reason known only to themselves.
It’s OK for them, isn’t it? They don’t have to marry the guy. Or sleep with him. Or bear his children.
This is one nightmare that I won’t be waking up from.
After the Jamshaids drive away, Mirpur’s electricity supply gives up again, which offers me the perfect chance to slip away unnoticed to untangle my thoughts.
I open the French windows and push through the tangle of muslin, loving the silky touch of the night air on my hot face and the way the breeze stirs my clothes. Invisible crickets chirp, and chatter drifts from the baithak.
Everyone is occupied. No one will notice I’m missing.
Once my eyes adjust to the darkness I make out white gravel paths meandering between the plants and flowers. Roses scatter waxy petals under my feet and swathes of jasmine brush against my legs. Jasmine is one of the most popular wedding flowers in Asia and my generous aunt has already offered to cut as much as I want for my shaadi.
But I’m trying not to think about that.
Turning left, my sandals scrunching on the gravel, I follow a path through the jasmine beds. The milky flowers only open after dusk. I trail my hand through the petals and inhale waves of fragrance. Auntie Shammi swears jasmine has magical healing powers. Nature’s antidepressants, if you like. Maybe I should pick a bloody big bunch? I’ll be mainlining the stuff soon. A tear trickles down my cheek and splashes onto the gravel. Why didn’t I speak to my parents sooner? I’ve only got myself to blame for this mess, which is why I can’t cause a scene now by refusing to spend a minute more in Subhi’s company. The shame of changing my mind now would be immense.
With a sigh I look up, gasping in amazement because with the power cut the sky is black velvet sprinkled liberally with stars. Living in cities all my life I’ve never seen the night sky without the glow of a thousand street lamps. I never knew the heavens were so crowded! To think that each pinprick of light is a sun, maybe surrounded by its own planets, is a humbling thought. Perhaps millions of light years away another girl is sitting in a dark garden staring into the night sky and longing for true love? As I stargaze a blur of blue light streaks across the sky, so fast I almost miss it. A shooting star! The celestial firework traces its path across the heavens and then is gone, as abruptly and as mysteriously as it appeared, but not before I close my eyes and wish on it harder and with more desperation than I’ve ever wished for anything in my life.
In the quiet and fragrant darkness I wish, with all my heart, for Wish.
Chapter 35
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a young woman in possession of her father’s cheque book must be in want of some serious shopping.
‘Lahore used to be known as the Paris of the Punjab,’ Nish reads from her guidebook. ‘Today it’s renowned as the fashion centre of Pakistan.’
‘Excellent!’ Eve rubs her hands together. ‘It’s time for some serious retail therapy.’
After nearly two weeks of Subhi I need more than retail therapy.
‘You’ll love the shopping, girls,’ smiles Auntie Shammi. ‘In Lahore one is spoilt for choice. Amelia beti is very lucky to be able to purchase her trousseau here.’
I’d almost forgotten the real reason for coming to Lahore – almost but not quite, because my excited mother and aunt constantly remind me. We’ve made this trip in order to purchase everything I need for my shaadi trousseau, from my bridal lehenga to the sohna, or gold, I’ll wear. No wonder Daddy-ji keeps on tugging at his beard. This lot is going to cost him a fortune.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ scoffs my mother when I mention my fears about the expense. ‘A girl only gets married once and we want to give you the shaadi of your dreams.’
Better not tell her this is fast turning into the shaadi of my bad dreams.
‘You’re so lucky, getting to shop in Lahore,’ grumbles Fizz. ‘I bet I have to buy my trousseau from Bradford Market or something.’
I don’t say a word. If I were marrying Wish I’d be bubbling over with excitement at the thought of finding the wedding dress of my dreams, but since I’m marrying Subhi I couldn’t care less if I was buying a bin liner. In fact a bin liner would be preferable because I could smother myself with it shortly after the ceremony.
Feeling very cheated that all the shaadi dreams I’ve treasured since childhood have ended this way, I follow my
relatives into the air-conditioned people carrier hired especially for the shopping trip. The last time I went anywhere near such shops was the trip to Oxford Street when Fizz decided to vanish for the day and Wish and I went to search for her. I close my eyes and feel again the hard contours of his body in my arms and hear him whispering that everything would be all right. I swallow the lump in my throat. Wish was wrong there. Things couldn’t be any further from ‘all right’.
As the people carrier crawls through the traffic, I distract myself by capturing some images of Lahore for my future articles. Aunt Shammi has ordered the driver to take us on a mini tour and she points out all the sights in a breathless monologue. The city teems with life and I’m intrigued by the way the new and old lifestyles fuse, eastern and western traditions mingling to create a prosperous and vibrant metropolis. Every street is lined with vendors, their carts doing brisk business on the roadsides or at the traffic lights as they sell everything from roast corn to biryani to flowers.
‘There’s the famous food street,’ says my aunt, pointing to a road on the left. ‘Each night it’s closed for traffic and transformed into an open-air dining area. We must go tonight.’
‘Never mind that!’ cries Eve, almost leaping out of her seat. ‘I can see McDonald’s!’
‘And Pizza Hut!’ adds Fizz. ‘Oh can we? Please?’
‘No we can’t!’ says Roma. ‘Not when there are so many traditional restaurants!’
The twins bicker as always and my mother shushes them with peacekeeping skills that Kofi Annan would envy. Meanwhile the car slows in the heavy traffic and for a moment I think Eve is about to leap out in order to grab a Big Mac. Her hands and nose are pressed against the window as though she can absorb the taste just by staring hard enough.
‘Oh my God!’ Eve leaps back from the window as though the glass has scalded her. She points at a ragged figure at the roadside. ‘What’s the matter with that poor child?’
Fizz rolls her eyes. ‘Duh, it’s a beggar, Eve. Haven’t you sussed it yet? They’re everywhere.’
Fizz isn’t wrong. Pakistan’s a nation of beggars and wherever we travel they constantly hound us. Beggars lurk and loiter in every nook and cranny; they pop up around every corner and roam from one busy bazaar to another. They beg all day long, walking barefoot on the burning roads and with no cover from the harsh sun. On every traffic-choked route they throng the junctions and traffic lights, frantically trying to attract attention by stretching out their hands for alms and pleading piteously. And it’s not just adults either. Small children, some not even four years old, offer to wash cars or sell dusty flowers for a few measly rupees. It’s horrific and heartbreaking but sadly not unusual, and I’m ashamed to admit that almost three weeks into my stay in Pakistan I’m growing used to the sight of the beggars. So I’m not sure why Eve’s so shocked.
‘I know she’s a beggar,’ says Eve. ‘But there’s something different about her. Look yourselves if you don’t believe me.’
I lean across Eve, unwind the window and, sure enough, a small girl is standing outside McDonald’s with her hands outstretched and wailing at the top of her lungs. Every now and then she stops crying and bursts into fits of hysterical laughter – odd behaviour certainly, but it isn’t just this that makes her stand out. It’s the child’s appearance that makes me catch my breath. She looks like a rodent with her small shrunken head, squashed features and large fleshy ears. As she tries to beg the only speech she makes is an incoherent babbling.
‘What’s wrong with her?’ I gasp.
Uncle Ghulab twists round from the front seat and gives me an indulgent smile.
‘She’s a chuwa,’ he says. ‘One of the “rat-children”. I’m afraid that’s what people call them.’
‘Them?’ I echo. ‘You mean there’s more than one?’
My uncle nods. ‘There’s hundreds like her in Pakistan, Amelia beti. They’re very successful beggars. Believe it or not the chuwas hold a sacred position here. It’s widely believed the disabled are closer to God and must not be ignored. Some people even perceive them as messengers from God. Give them money and they will touch you on the shoulder conferring a blessing.
‘There’s some controversy over how their deformities are caused,’ Uncle Ghulab adds. ‘No one knows for certain. Some people assume that it’s a genetic problem. In any case, they are often found begging. They are probably the most successful beggars in this area.’
‘People send disabled children out to beg?’ I’m shocked.
My uncle sighs. ‘Girls, try and remember things are very different in Pakistan. Criminal networks organise beggar gangs and they can make a lot of money from children who beg for a trade.’
As my uncle describes these practices I listen with growing horror and anger. Something has got to be done. Before the traffic lights change I shoot as many pictures of the poor little girl as I can, hoping I can capture something of her plight. If only Wish were here, he could do justice to the terrible story that I’ve just heard; he could create images to break the heart of anyone who saw them.
The car pulls away into the traffic, leaving the little beggar girl behind. But judging by the quiet atmosphere inside, she’s very much in our thoughts. Even Fizz looks troubled. The images from the street play over and over in my mind, and then it comes to me in a flash. Never mind weddings and shopping. I have an idea for a series of features Nina Singh will like a whole lot more. And, more importantly, that may even be able to make a difference. I’m going to write my articles about the poor people of Pakistan and I’m going to do it in such a way everyone at home will sit up, take notice and do something about it.
And maybe doing this will give me something to focus on, something less selfish than my own unhappiness? After all, a broken heart hardly compares to a broken life, does it?
I’ve always longed to check out Lahore’s shopping scene, ever since Sanaubar bragged about how amazing it is – and for once she wasn’t exaggerating. Auntie Shammi leads us through the heaving streets at a cracking pace, elbowing her way through shoppers and tourists alike and whizzing us in and out of shops so fast my head is spinning. The razzle-dazzle of the bazaar intensifies with every shop we visit. Yards and yards of cloth are laid out for us to examine, a kaleidoscope of colours and designs that shine and sparkle like something from Aladdin’s cave.
As if the bazaar isn't enough there are also numerous boutiques selling ready-made shalwar kameezes, churidar kurtas, saris, and of course the bridal lehengas. As we wander through the narrow lanes we’re dazzled by the glittering displays of ever more exotic wares, everything from garments to glass bangles to gold.
I don’t know where to start.
But the rest of my party does and before long Daddy-ji, Qas and Uncle Ghulab are laden with purchases. Auntie Shammi’s haggling and grasp of numbers would put a Wall Street trader to shame and, thanks to her, Eve and Nish are able to splurge on all the shimmering shift dresses and cool kaftans they desire. Even though my thoughts are still full of the pitiful chuwa girl I can’t help but get swept up in the excitement of the shopping frenzy and, before long, I end up with my own heavy load to carry. The more Mummy-ji spends the more my father tugs his beard. He’ll be bald if we shop for much longer.
After lunch the men leave us to it because this is the serious part of the trip, shopping for my shaadi outfit. I try my hardest to dredge up some enthusiasm but the more I look at all the traditional red and gold outfits the more desperate I feel. I can’t marry Subhi in blood red, no matter how much I feel like slashing my wrists. It’s too close to that horrible nightmare.
I sip the chai served by obsequious shopkeepers and I feel like I’m becoming more and more picky by the minute, shaking my head and saying ‘Nahin’ to every outfit showcased for my approval. Even though I’m not marrying the man of my dreams I absolutely refuse to wear a scarlet bridal outfit. I’ll look like something out of a slasher movie.
Even if I’m going to marry Subhi I still want to look
beautiful on my wedding day. What girl doesn’t? I’m also playing a game with myself in order to get me through the day without having a panic attack, and that game is pretending I’m going to marry Wish next week, rather than the moustached monster. As each item is presented I ask myself whether Wish would like it, or try to imagine what Wish would say if he were to see me wearing it. I know it’s a silly thing to do, and I know Wish is engaged to Minty, but give a girl a break. I’m trying to get through this any way that I can. And besides, my dreams aren’t hurting anyone, are they?
Except me, I suppose.
‘Don’t you like any of the lehengas?’ asks my mother, close to desperation.
I shake my head.
‘There’s one more that may suit,’ says the shop owner quickly, seeing thousands of rupees slipping out of her grasp with every nahin I utter. ‘It’s a little unusual and not to everyone’s taste.’
‘Bring it on,’ says Eve. ‘We’re losing the will to live here.’
And then it happens.
‘That’s it,’ I breathe. ‘That’s my dream dress!’
‘Are you sure?’ says Eve. ‘I think that belongs to Barbie.’
A pink wedding dress has always been my dream and this one is perfect. The ensemble is a lehenga choli, which roughly translated, means a skirt and bodice, and it comes with a veil, the trusty dupatta, which has many uses, from disguising ugly brides to hiding tea stains. The dress is meticulously cut and beautifully stitched; it’s fashioned from the most delicate blush pink and the palest old-gold silks and chiffons, the exact hues of a rosy sunrise. I’ve been dreaming of a pink wedding dress for as long as I can remember, not a Disneyesque creation, but something subtle, delicate and feminine and just like this.
‘It’s just right,’ I say, holding it up against my body.
‘Try it on!’ cries Nish.
So I do. And it’s everything I ever dreamed of. The bodice has a scooped neckline that exposes my collarbones (where did they come from? Must be a side effect of the Subhi Diet Plan – the idea of sleeping with him would make any girl lose her appetite) and exposes just the right amount of cleavage. It has an equally low-cut back and the narrowest Swarovski-crystal-encrusted straps to keep the tiny sleeves in place.
The Wedding Countdown Page 33