by Moni Mohsin
But Americans also I don’t understand. Sometimes they are saying that we Muslims did it because we are jealous of them. Because they live in skyscrappers and condoms and eat Big Macks and hot dogs and watch Jerry Sponger and Opera Winfrey. And they have freedom and we don’t.
But darling, who wants to live in a condom, even if it’s on a beach in LA, if you have to do your own laundry and cook your own food and wash your own car and even bharao your petrol yourself? I mean, yeh koi life hai? Honestly! I’d much rather live in my kothi in Gulberg with my cook, driver, maid, dhobi, bearer, gardener and chowkidar than any old condom in LA. And as for skyscrappers, taubah baba, what if electricity goes? Who will come up and down those fifty floors, hain? And anyways, I tau love my lawn. So nice for parties in winters. And then nice thing about Gulberg is everyone lives here. Mummy’s just round the corner, Flopsy’s on my backside, Mulloo’s down the road. And because we are so close to the ground, no plane can fly into us…
Pakistan becomes an ally in the US war against terror
Butterfly quashes her sister-in-law’s attempts to rise above herself
I am so depress. Why? Try living with my in-laws. I tell you, one day with them and you’d become suicidal. Kal Janoo’s younger sister dropped in. There I was having a perfectly nice morning, getting my legs massaged, when suddenly I looked up and there was Psycho standing in her polyester jora (I wish someone would tell her that polyester is so over, yaar!), clutching a box of sweets.
‘These gulab jamans are for you, Bhabi,’ she said.
‘I don’t touch mithai,’ I said, waving it away. ‘Too much of sugar, too much of ghee, too much of chloroform.’
‘You mean cholesterol,’ she smiled. ‘And never mind, Bhabi, after the way you slog at the gym to shift those few stubborn tons you can afford a little indulgence.’
Bitch. How dare she correct my Kinnaird College English when she only went to a bechara college like Home Econmics and that too on sifarish? And how dare she talk about my few extra ounces when she herself looks like Marilyn Brando in his last years?
‘It’s just that I haven’t seen one of these boxes for so long,’ I purred. ‘Mithai is so last millennium. But maybe it’s still trendy in Iqbal Town—or was it Bahaar Town? That’s where your cosy little cottage is, na?’
‘My double-storey kothi is in Defence, actually,’ she replied. ‘Bilal’s just got a new job. Very big it is,’ she consisted, I mean persisted, boasting like the cheapster that she is. ‘He now has two hundred people under him.’
‘Must be mowing the grass in the graveyard, then,’ I said, yawning delicately.
‘And Bilal’s sister’s been elected to the National Assembly, na,’ she continued, ignoring my comment. ‘We’re all going to Isloo in our new Prado for the swearing-at ceremony.’ As if I don’t know.
‘The same sister who is four feet tall and hunchbacked? Or is it the one who is cross-eyed with buck teeth? Khair, who cares about the election anyway? If I wanted I could win two-two seats tomorrow,’ I said.
‘Really, Bhabi?’ she forced out a laugh, ‘and what would be your constituency?’
‘Don’t you lecture me, ji!’ I snapped. ‘I have a bigger constitution than you can even dream of, where I prop up the entire economy with thousands of people dependent on my goodwill.’
‘And where’s that?’ she pretended to smile sweetly.
‘Liberty Market, of course,’ I replied equally sweetly. ‘All of Al Fatah, Kitchen Cuisine, Saleem Fabrics, dry fruit-wallah, Ehsan Chappals, even Book Gallery where I buy my Vogue and Harper’s, they would all die if it were not for me! I would only have to nod at them and they’d come pouring out in their thousands giving me ten-ten votes each.’
Thanks God after that she stormed out, leaving me with my maalish woman. I threw the mithai to Kulchoo’s labradog but afterwards I watched him carefully to see whether he died a slow horrible death. You never know with these jealous in-laws…
NATO forces invade Afghanistan
Butterfly wonders why the invasion should dictate her social life
Janoo’s given me ultimatum. He says he’s not going to any parties or any balls or any shaadis this winters.
‘Bhai, why?’ I asked.
‘Because I don’t feel like it,’ he said.
‘And why you don’t feel like?’
‘I’m just not in the mood. That’s all.’
‘And why you are not in mood?’
‘I’m not in the mood because of the war in Afghanistan. I don’t have it in me to party at present.’
‘But you were being so happy that Talibans were being beaten. You tau were clapping and shouting and saying they were running like rabbits. Now you’ve changed your mind. Become a hypocrite? Hain?’
‘No, I haven’t become a hypocrite,’ he said with gritted teeth. ‘I’m still delighted that the Taliban are being ousted, but I don’t like to see Afghanistan being bombed yet again.’
‘So they should have thought of that, na, before inviting Osama to be their house guest, nahin?’
‘I don’t think ordinary Afghans had any say in that.’
‘But ordinary Afghans can have say in whether we go to parties or not?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ shouted Janoo. ‘I don’t know why I even bother talking to you.’
‘Because you are so bore that no one else wants to listen to you!’ I shouted back. ‘And I also only listen because I’m forced to.’
So Janoo took a deep breath and said quietly, ‘I don’t want to party while Rome burns.’
Rome? Are they bombing Rome? Has Osama run there now? Haw. No one even told me. Now I suppose Janoo won’t want to go out because of Italians. Mujhay tau lagta hai he is finding bahaanas. The more I think, the more I think so keh maybe he doesn’t like parties.
Mullah Omar flees Kabul
Why, asks Butterfly, did he not go to the mountains and become a ‘gorilla’?
Yeh Mullah Omar nay kya bongi mari hai, yaar? How he was leader of Taliban if he was such a darpoke, hain? Chalo, okay, you can’t stand so much of bombing but at least you can go into the mountains and become a gorilla like Osama. Instead, he’s sneaked off on a motorbike from the middle of a bazaar. And look at the Americans, also! Standing around in the bazaar scratching their heads while he escapes from under their noses in broad daylight. And that also on a scooter! Such losers! And everyone keeps saying they are so chalaak, so chalaak they have satter-lights that can read the lines on your palms and tell your future from outer space. Humph! As far as I can tell, baba, they can’t even read the number plate of Mullah Omar’s scooter. Main tau honestly bohat disappoint hui hoon.
Vaisay, really, Mullah Omar’s also blackened our faces in front of the whole world. Uss say be worst, he’s blackened my face in front of Janoo. I was so sure, na, that Mullah Omar would fight till death like Muscle Crowe in The Gladiator that I even made a bet with Janoo, who predicated that the Taliban would scatter like ashes in the wind. I said, some people have more guts than to bhaago, ji. And now look what’s happened. I’m feeling so angry, na. So let down. The least they could have done was to think about my bet before shaving their beards and scurrying off like clean-shaven rats.
On top, Janoo keeps rubbing it in. ‘So, where’s your precious Mullah Omar now?’ he asks, grinning from year to year.
Uff, at times like these, I just can’t take him. So irritating he is. Charroes on my nerves so much. First tau I kept listening quietly. But then I also sunaoed him. ‘When I married you,’ I said, ‘I thought I’d found Mr Right. I would have thought a hundred-hundred times before saying yes to the maulvi, if I’d known your first name was “Always”.’
Powell to discuss Indian demands with Musharraf
Butterfly demands Janoo be more socialist
I wish the year was full of Decembers and Januarys and Februarys. No more bore Junes, Julys and Augusts, when nothing happens. Bas, all-year parties-sharties, balls-volls, weddings-sheddings, return of all the
abroad-wallahs, constant aana-jaana, new joras, afra tafri—hai, how nice that would be, na. This year tau the winters have been totally aafat.
First there was the Sindh Club Ball at Sindh Club only. What a tabahi do, yaar. Fifteen hundred people and voh bhi aik say aik best. Hussain—oho, Haroon, baba—Abbas Sarfaraz, Salman and Sally, Irum and Irshad, Furry and Fussy, hai, and my best friend Topsy and her sister Turvy. And Gulgee, Sherry and Nadeem and the Rehmatullahs—yani anyone who’s everyone was there. Main nay itna enjoy kiya dancing all those Indian ke Bollywood numbers keh poocho hi na. I think so the only person who didn’t enjoy was buddhi rooh Janoo, but then what’s new?
All evening he sat frowning moodily into his glass. I asked keh what’s your problem, baba? He said, ‘Here we are on the verge of war with India, and everyone’s dancing away as if it was a bright new dawn,’ and he drained his glass in one gulp.
Frankly speaking, I really don’t know what to do with Janoo now. Maybe I should send him to a shrimp. But I shouldn’t say anything in front of him, kyoon keh mind na kar jaye. Even though he’s a buddhi rooh, sarrhi boti, I still have to keep on the bright side of him because the Lady Duffer Ball is still to come and I have to drag him to it. As it is, getting him to go to the Sindh Club Ball was like getting Vajpayee to go on a picnic with Musharraf. Uff, he’s become such a stuttering block in the path of my social life, na. Janoo, not Vajpayee. Anyways, chhoro Janoo ko. Why waste time talking about that loser when I could be telling you about this tabahi party in Lahore that I went to?
Organised by Jalal—Salahuddin, na—at Isbah’s house only. Three hundred people in, and five hundred out on the waiting list, shivering in the foggy cold. Felt so good walking past all those shivering hopefuls with my nose in the hair. Uff, inside it was even more amazing, with all those thin-thin models in their little-little clothes and high-high heels. And all the silver-haired uncles lounging around on sofas watching them dance from under lowered lids. And the blonde aunties watching their uncle-husbands like Batman watches the Joker. Bar flowing bar-bar. And platters of sushi going past. I tried a sushi nivaala but it tasted all kacha-kacha. I think so they’d forgotten to cook it. So when nobody was looking I quickly spat it out into a bush, wiped my mouth, reapplied my lipstick—MAC ki Russian Red—and teetered off to the dance floor on my six-inch heels. So much action, yaar. I wish January would last the whole year. Without the fog, but.
Daniel Pearl abducted and executed in Karachi
Butterfly prepares for Basant
‘I think so my best month is February,’ I told Janoo as we were driving to Twinkle and Bobo’s for dinner. ‘I used to think ke December is my best, but February uss se bhi best hai.’
‘I agree. There’s something uplifting about spring,’ he said.
‘Particularly the springs of a Merc, they tau are the most uplifting,’ I said, wondering how we’d got on to topic of car suspenses. Sometimes I think Janoo’s metre has turned. ‘Pajero is also okay, but I think so maybe Prado is better.’
‘I meant spring, as in season. You know, blossoms and flowers and birds and balmy weather?’ sighed Janoo.
So that’s why he was talking of springs. He’s not totally crack, thanks God.
‘Spring-shing koh maro goli,’ I replied. ‘I was talking of Basant. Uff, I can’t wait. The whole week is going to be wall-to-wall functions. I’ll be going to so many parties that I won’t even have time to say hello to anyone.’
Janoo gave me a funny-si look, but just at that moment we arrived at Twinkle and Bobo’s so I didn’t have to ask keh bhai, why you are giving me such funny-funny looks?
Dinner wasn’t too bad. Small-sa tha. About thirty people only. Half inside, half outside. Some sitting in sitting room, some lounging in lounge, some, as Janoo said, inhaling grass on the grass. I think so he meant the scents of springs and the smell of new grass, vaghera. Food was from Avari, although Twinkle pretended her cook had done it. Jhoothi. I’ve ordered those fat-fat, fried-fried prawns myself so many times. And not to mention the cold slaw and the smoked salman and the black forest chatto and the chocolate mouse. Sub from there only. Honestly, I don’t know why people have to lie, particularly when they know they’re going to be found out. Also pretended she’d done the flowers herself, when I know she’d stolen the arrangements from the Gurgling Fridges-walon ka function yesterday. I saw her with my own eyes only, sneaking off with the centre ki arrangement hidden under her fake pashmina shawl when she thought no one was looking. Uff, taubah! So much of lies. So much of reception.
Anyways, talk was all about the coming parties. Janoo says a lot of the Basant parties will be Coke-fuelled. Voh sponsor kar rahe hain, na. They and Emirates. Allah unko khush rakhe for making so many deserving people happy. Also, Razzak Dawood’s son is tying the string. The wedding will be in Karachi and Lahore over a whole week. We’re sure to get invited because Janoo knows him from before. Must remind Janoo to call him and just do hello-hi to refresh his memories. And phir Imran is having a fundraiser with Amitabh in his hospital. I wish vaisay he’d asked Shahrukh Khan. Amitabh is also not bad, but ab zara aged ho gya hai. Bechara.
Al Qaeda casualties not known: US
Uncle Pansy passes away without revealing Swiss bank account number
Mummy telephoned early this morning, about twelve-ish, while I was still in bed, to tell me that Uncle Pansy had gone.
‘Gone where?’ I yawned.
‘To Him.’
‘To whom?’
‘Him.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Oho, baba, God. Him. Allah Mian.’
‘Oh Him,’ I said. ‘Why didn’t you say so?’
‘I did say so.’
‘No, you didn’t.’
‘I did.’
‘Didn’t.’
‘Did!’ She shouted. ‘For God’s sake, stop arguing.’
I was about to slam the phone down when I realised what she had said. ‘You mean he’s dead?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Haw, hai,’ I said. ‘How? When?’
‘Last night in his sleep.’
‘Poor thing! So that means he didn’t find out until the morning, when he tried to wake up but couldn’t.’
‘Something like that.’
‘But chalo,’ I said to Mummy. ‘He lived to a respectful age, thrice married, seven children, two grandchildren, lived a very full-up life. I think so he must’ve been seventy seven at least. When was his birthday?’
‘July 15th,’ she said.
‘Which year?’ I asked.
‘Every year,’ she said.
‘No, Mummy. I mean, when was Uncle Pansy’s birthday?’
Again she said, ‘July 15th.’
‘But which year, Mummy?’
‘I’ve told you, na, every year,’ she said. ‘Except next year.’
Poor Mummy, she’s become sterile. Everything she forgets.
Anyways, now we have to do the funeral and burial, because Uncle Pansy’d fought with his last wife and all his children. Not that he’s left anything to us. Shouldn’t say bad things about deer departeds but such a kanjoos makhi choos he was. Mummy says everything of Uncle Pansy’s is in a numbered account in Swizzerland. His paintings—four-four-five-five Chughtais he had—he’d also put there. He’d even sold his carpets and his silver. No one knows the number of his account because, God bless him, he was so kameena. He didn’t even trust Mummy, his real sister, with the number. She says it’s probably four-two-zero. I think so it’s zero-zero-seven, chalaak as Uncle Pansy was. But honestly, least he could have done was to give Mummy the keys of his locker in Swizzerland so she could pay for his funeral. It’s not fair, na, to expect others to pay. Like we’ll have to now. Or else everyone will talk.
Anyways, Uncle Pansy, however kameena he may have been in other ways, was quite considerate in some ways. I mean he could’ve died before the LRBT Ball, but he didn’t. Or he could’ve died during Basant even, but he didn’t. Instead he died in Muharram after finish o
f party/shaadi season and before start of London season. So we didn’t have to cancel anything. Thanks God.
But I still wonder where the account is and who knows the number. Someone must be knowing. Maybe I’ll get someone to hypnotise Uncle Pansy himself and ask. Oho, forgot. He tau has already gone to Him. I’ve heard sometimes people give numbers of their birthdays for their accounts and things. What did Mummy say was Uncle Pansy’s? Haan, July 15th. So that’s 15. And July’s six. Or is it seven? Now what’s the rest? I think so I better call Mummy and ask.
‘Hello? Mummy? You know Uncle Pansy? When was his birthday?’
‘July fifteenth.’
‘But what year?’
‘Every year. How many times do I have to tell you?’
‘But when was he born? What year? Hello, Mummy, are you there? You said once that he was five years older than you. What year were you born?’
There was silence on the other end.
‘Mummy? Can you hear me? What year were you born? Tell, na, Mummy, because I think so I might be able to find his numbered account that way.’
‘I can’t hear, darling, line’s gone all fuzzy.’
Strange, I thought, I can hear her as clearly as if she was sitting opposite me.
‘Mummy,’ I shouted. ‘WHAT YEAR WERE YOU BORN?’
‘Uff, beta, it’s hopeless. Can’t hear anything at all. I’ll have to ring off. Byeeee.’