The Diary of a Social Butterfly

by Moni Mohsin

  ‘You should have threatened the porter or coolie or whatever he was called in your college with the police,’ I advised him. ‘Always you will find that it’s the servants who are at the bottoms of it.’

  They all stopped talking and stared. I suppose they hadn’t been expecting such a clever respond. I just smiled serenely at all the losers, snapped my crutch bag open, took out my latest Channel lipstick, put it on, snapped my crutch bag shut and patted my Chop Suey outfit. They all suddenly started talking at the same time.

  Aunty Pussy says people who go to Cambridge get overeducated and overexcited and become egg-centric. Apparently Oxford doesn’t have the same effect. Hai, shweetoo Imran Khan went to Oxford, na. People who go to Oxford are called Oxen. That’s all that Janoo has in commons with Imran. That they are both Oxens.

  Even twice die-vorced Jonkers has more initiate than Janoo. He gave a ten lakh ki donation to the charity—thanks God Aunty Pussy wasn’t there or she would have snatched it right back—and invited all the girls in frocks with no sleeves and no backs to sit at his table. Shameless they are vaisay, almost thirty and still single. I tau think most of them have been shelved in any case. As usual Jonkers was bonking up the wrong tree.

  Everyone was there. Mouse and Zaheer. Salik Chundrigarh and Nadoo (from Hashim Raza family only), all the legally blonde girls, and Captain Farook, the captain of Latent Rehmatullah Ball Trust. When Jonkers, poor thing, downed his sixth Scotch and jumped on to the dance floor to do a solo, Janoo left for the toilet and stayed there for at least an hour. I think so he was very ill that night. Bechara.

  Pakistan scoffs at India’s Kashmir bus offer

  Butterfly betrayed by friends

  I hate my friends. All of them. Every single lying, cheating, two-faced one of them. Why? Because they’ve stabbed me in the back, that’s why. While my innocent, trusting back has been turned on them, they’ve gone off and re-invented themselves, leaving me high and wry. And worst thing, they’re making so much of money on top also.

  Mulloo the namaazi has become a party organiser, if you please (she’s cornered the market in milaads and bismillahs), Flopsy, who failed every year in Convent and got three pink cards from Mother Andrews for being stuppid, has opened a school and made herself Principle, and even Fluffy, whose house, Mashallah Mention, is on our backside, and whose every coming and going I thought I knew, has become a fashion designer! Quietly-quietly she’s gone and installed three darzis in her garage and now she’s the owner of ‘Fluffy’s Fab Fashion House’. This is the same Fluffy whose mother still wears a burqa, and Fluffy, who the first time she came to KC (oho, baba, Kinnaird College, what else?) was dressed in a frock and a shalwar. Aur upar se Janoo’s cousin, Faiza, whom I tau vaisay have always called Faeda because she’s such a user, who’s never slept on anything but charpais, has become a furniture designer and even opened a showroom. Dekho zara memsahibs ko! What cheeks!

  So I went straight to Mummy and complained. ‘I can’t bear it,’ I wept. ‘If I hear one more time how successful they are and how popular they are and how much of money they are making, I’ll kill myself.’

  Mummy narrowed her eyes into slits like she does when she’s thinking hard and hissed: ‘These silly little upstarters. We’ll show them.’

  ‘But how?’ I wailed.

  ‘Why don’t you open an art gallery?’ Mummy said slowly. Now you know why Mummy was head girl at Sacred Heart Convent? Because she’s always been more chalaak than anyone else, that’s why.

  ‘All you have to do is to rent an empty kamra,’ she said, ‘and paint it white. Stick in some lights and put up a few picture hooks and there you are. Art Gallery! And you, Gallery Owner!’

  But then we had to think of a name. I suggested Decent Art Gallery, but Mummy said no, it sounded too lower middle class.

  ‘Bonanza?’ I said.

  ‘No, too upstartish.’

  ‘Tasveer?’

  ‘Too Urdu medium.’

  ‘Marks & Spencer?’

  ‘Isn’t that already taken?’

  So after many-many thoughts we finally hit on it. As soon as that was decided I rushed out and had my cards printed. Hai, I’m so proud of them. They are light-se pink, like Rose Petal toilet tissue, and on them it says in curly purple writing: ‘Art Attack (new art gallery), Gallery Owner and Arts Council: Mrs Butterfly Khan, expert in modern art and pictures and all.’

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  Butterfly goes polo mad

  So much of mazza!! I’m tau going off my rocket with all the parties-sharties, shaadi-vaadis and khaanas galore. And the polo! Voh tau even more better. So many polo functions, and all by special invitation only so that no aera-vagheras could get in. Serves them right, I tell you. Trying to muscle in where they don’t belong. Janoo’s sisters, the Gruesome Twosome, kept calling, kept calling, begging for tickets. So shameless they are. ‘Hai, Bhaijaan, humko bhi le chalein, na,’ they pleaded with Janoo.

  Janoo, being the sulphate that he is, got them tickets in the VIP enclosure. I tau nearly blew a fused. Particularly after what they did to me last week only.

  ‘Bhabi,’ said Cobra, the Elder One, ‘Aap ne tau voh fillum dekhi hogi, na, jiss mein apki Mummy star kar rahi hain?’

  ‘Kaun si?’ I asked.

  ‘Haw, voh nahin hai, Return of the Mummy. Itni hum ne enjoy ki, na, aap ka soch-soch keh.’

  So when the tickets arrived, I quietly khiskaowed them from the dining table where Janoo had left them and had them sent to Mummy’s with a note that said: ‘I know you and Daddy already have two-two each but I thought you might like to take your maid and driver. After all, they are also human beings.’

  When Janoo asked, I said, ‘What tickets, baba? I tau never saw any expect my own. Cross my heart and hope to die.’

  Now let the ugly sisters take a panga with me and see what a tit for tit girl I am.

  But what a pity keh no glam Indians showed up at the polo. Itna main look forward kar rahi thi, na, to entertaining Shahrukh Khan and Salman and Hrithik in my new sun room with its pink wall-to-wall and apple-green velvet curtains, sorry, drapes (aaj kal only the aunties say curtains). Chalo, next time. But the Denim and Diamonds Ball was just too much, yaar. All these trendy models and cute-cute polo players—ours vaisay were the best. Indian Captain, Samir Suhag, was okay also but nowhere as cute as our Kublai Khan, who lost his teeth but not the match. Too bad they didn’t come wearing their tight-tight jodhpurs and their sweaty shirts. So hot they look in them.

  Now next in my diary is Sindh Club Ball, from where I’ll rush back for Nazi and Mansha’s son’s wedding, and then back again to Karachi for the Murree At-a-Late Ball, aur phir the Tapal wedding. I suppose I’ll have to drag around the zinda laash—Janoo, who else? But as Mother Andrews at the Convent used to say, we all have our crosses to bare…

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  Mummy, Aunty Pussy and Jonkers depart for Haj

  Mummy’s gone on Haj. And Aunty Pussy also. Daddy refused to go, said his summons hadn’t come yet. And Uncle Cock-Up tau, poor thing hasn’t been same since he got beaten up by those goondas. So they’ve dragged poor old Jonkers along instead. They had to be accompanied by a male member, I mean, mehram, na. Voh tau must hai, bhai. Otherwise you know what the Saudis are like.

  ‘Cheer up,’ I told Jonkers. ‘Maybe you’ll find a nice namaazi type girl there. I mean after all, the whole world comes there. You’re bound to get at least one seedhi-saadhi shareef type in all those teaming millions.’

  When I told The Old Bag that Mummy was off to Mecca on Haj she muttered something about cats and nine hundred mice or something. I tau ignored. Best hai to ignore. That seclusion I’ve reached after so many years of marriage.

  I told Mummy to do lots of duas for me, for my health, for my looks, for my social life, my bank account. If I hadn’t reminded her she was quite likely to hog God all to herself. Sad to say because she’s my mother, but she’s like that only. I also told her to bring me a litr
e of holy water from the holy land. It makes your skin glow, you know, it being holy water from the holy land and all. In fact, I even know someone—bhai, Mulloo’s first cousin from her father’s side—who was so ill, so ill, that doctors-shoctors, everyone had given up on him. Couldn’t speak, couldn’t eat, couldn’t breathe even, but then someone told his parents they should send for holy water because only that could save him. So of course his parents exported a drum of it—or was it imported? Anyways, the minute it arrived they started pouring it down his throat and you know what? By evening he was not just breathing again, he was eating, drinking, sitting up in bed, chatting, everything! As soon as he got out of hospital he immediately went off to Haj to give thanks.

  That was three years ago. Now I think so he is living in a huge, big villa in Dubai, because he’d defaulted on some big-big loans from two or three national banks here and government is after him. But, apart from that small matter, mashallah, he is in the pinks of health and he goes for Haj every year.

  Haan, so what was I saying? Yes, what I want Mummy to bring for me from Saudi. Maybe some of those nice glass beads that everyone has on their coffee tables now and, if she got to Jeddah, then a string of Basra pearls. But please, no jah namaazes and those date packets. I have quite enough of those already, thank you. I told her she must be back in time for Basant. Can’t wait for all the parties, yaar.

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  Butterfly betrayed by family

  Mummy’s come back from Haj without my holy water. She says she spilt it by mistake, but I don’t believe her because she’s come back looking ten years younger when everyone else who went in her group is at death’s door. There was so much of infections there, na. Flu and diarrhoea and meningitis and pata nahin kya-kya. Funny vaisay how God didn’t make sure that nothing happened to the Hajis. Considering they’d come all that way for Him.

  You should see poor Aunty Pussy—bilkull bride of Frankenstein, with big-big hulkas under her eyes and skin all lose-lose and pale jaisi—well, as pale as anyone can be with Aunty Pussy’s navy-blue complexion. So why should Mummy’s face look all smooth and creamy, just like Yeh-Lo (voh Bent Affleck ki girlfriend nahin hai? The one who got the pink diamond, baba)? Haan? If you ask me, she’s guzzled all my holy water on the sly. It’s all jhooth about spilling-shilling, she’s swallowed the whole water cooler herself. She’s trying to pull a fast one on me but I know she’s drunk it. It’s written on her face. And all this after doing Haj! Giving golis to your own children. Imagine! She’s also brought me a wooden tasbeeh when I asked for Basra pearls. Well, that’s the last time I lend her my waxing-wali and my message girl. Next time she can go to Cuckoo’s parlour near Main Market and stand in a line with all the secretaries and phone receptionists herself and see how that feels.

  And look at that jerk Jonkers—he went all the way to Haj and he’s come back single. What a loser, yaar! Couldn’t even find one single girl in four millions Muslims.

  I asked him and he said, ‘Well, Apa, one million, really.’

  I wish he wouldn’t call me Apa. He’s only two years younger than me and ever since he became bald he looks forty five, which makes me…

  ‘What do you mean one million, you paagal?’ I snapped. ‘All the newspapers are saying there were four millions?’

  ‘Well, about three quarters were men,’ he said.

  Aik tau he also is so picky, na.

  ‘And what about the other million?’ I asked. ‘Were they women or were they something else? Honestly, the older you are getting the more choosy you are becoming. You find fault in everyone. Now what was wrong with the remaining million women?’ I asked in exasperation.

  ‘Of those, two thirds were over fifty, I’d say,’ he replied scratching his shiny head. ‘And of the remaining third, almost all were already married.’

  ‘If you let small things like that stand in your way, you will never be able to find a wife,’ I told him.

  But I don’t give a damn, yaar. He can remain single till the dhows come home. Life is busy enough with Basant and weddings and things to bother about my loser relatives. They can all jump into the canal for all I care… but it still hurts when your family stabs you in the backside, like mine have done to me.

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  Butterfly wowed by wealthy Indians

  I think so it’s been the most rocking week in Lahore’s history. All the rich and glam Indians have been here for the cricket matches. Vijay Malya came. In his jet. Janoo says Vijay’s got the alcohol business in India all wrapped up. Must be in packaging and gift-wrapping. Vaisay, nobody wraps a present like Aunty Pussy.

  Talking of which, poor Aunty Pussy and Mummy have been reliving all their pre-Partition mammaries. Aunty Pussy says Maharani Gayatri Devi was very beautiful (she’s also come, na), and the famous English photographer Cecil Beating took a picture of her. I was sitting there in the lounge only when they were recalling their other mammaries, poor things, so old and all, na. They say Quaid-e-Azam’s wife was very beautiful even though she wasn’t a Muslim.

  Quaid’s daughter also came. Lucky thing lives in Bombay with all the film stars. Dina Wadia, very extinguished looking, all stately and dignified. I think so she looks just like Quaid-e-Azam, Mohammed Ali Jinnah, in a sari. Saw her at Didi’s dinner only (oho, bhai, Shahida Saigol, who else?).

  Hai, it was so nice to see all the rich-rich, glam-glam Indians. We would’ve got a complex if we didn’t have celebrities of our own. Like Yusuf Salahuddin, who’s Lama Iqbal’s grandson. I told this glam Indian woman that he’s Lama’s grandson.

  ‘What?’ she said, ‘all the way from Tibet?’

  And I shrugged and said, ‘Must be.’

  By the way, I also want a private jet.

  Only problem is we’re loosing in cricket to the Indians. I asked Janoo: ‘How many goals have they done?’

  As usual, he got exasperated. Then he slowly explained all about cricket to me. I pretended to listen carefully, but honestly it was so bore I almost fell asleep. All I can remember is that you can play for five days non-stop and still have a draw. And there’s a nightwatchman and a duck and some men play in slips.

  All the rich Lahoris have been having parties for the Indians. Even the poors like rickshaw drivers have been giving them free rides and, aur tau aur, even Saleem Fabrics, which never gives you even one rupee off, has been giving them massive deductions. Honestly, such big hearts we have. But Mulloo says when we go to India it’s not like that. A shopkeeper would rather die than give you a deduction. Their hearts are the size of a matchbox. And ours the size of Lahore Fort.

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  Butterfly pledges allegiance to Bapu

  Life is over. The Indians have gone back. The parties have ended. There is no more cricket and no more matches. There’s nothing to do and nowhere to go.

  But I’m so spired by our neighbours’ big-big planes that I’ve decided to become Indian also. I’m going to get thalis, wear saris, become a vegetarian and put that red stuff in my partition. I’m also chucking my ‘Fear & Lovely’ because The Look is all dark-dark. My mission in life is to be just like all my new best friends across the border. I’ve even started speaking like them.

  When people say to me why I have started doing all this, I reply, ‘Because I am like that only.’

  I told Janoo that I’m working on a complete transportation. ‘Transformation, you mean,’ he scoffed.

  ‘Whatever,’ I said softly, soothingly. I am a peacenik like Bapu. Oho, Gandhi, you know, Mohtrama. Like him I won’t argue. I won’t shout. Just do quiet, peaceful opposition.

  I carry coconuts in my Prada ka bag and smash them against the entrance door of every house I visit. And I’ve stopped doing salaam. Instead I put my palms together and murmur, ‘Hello, ji,’ while doing that wobbly head thing.

  Stiff cotton saris are a nuisance. All scratchy-scratchy and tight-tight. Kulchoo says I look like an Urdu-spe
aking ayah but I told him Gandhiji wouldn’t like to hear him say hurtful things to his mother. I overheard Janoo and Kulchoo refer to me as ‘Kasturba’, but I pretended not to notice even though I wanted to scratch their eyes out. Instead I repeated to myself: ‘Peace. Ahimsa. Gandhiji.’

  Last night for dinner I’d ordered a thin-si, soupy-si daal with white rice and mutter paneer. Spoilt brat Kulchoo took one look at the block-print dastarkhan on the floor and said, ‘Whatever happened to the table and where’s my cheeseburger and chips?’

  ‘Forget burgers,’ I said in my new, gentle, ahmisa way. ‘Forget chips. We are becoming homespun from now. This is your dinner. Eat, child, and grow strong.’

  ‘But even the servants don’t eat things like this,’ protested Kulchoo.

  Then he asked Mohammed Hussain, the bearer, what they’d cooked for themselves and the traitor said, ‘Aloo gosht, Kulchoo Sahib.’ So he had a big dish of piping hot aloo gosht brought to the dastarkhan with fat, disgusting pieces of meat floating in it.

  I exclaimed: ‘Hai Ram! Chhee-chhee!’

  I had to drink all the soupy daal myself, while sitting cross-legged on the floor. Because of Gandhiji I didn’t want to waste anything. Next day of course I got the runs—and I don’t mean cricket. That was my day of fasting for Janoo’s life, like in Devdas. Of course the day dragged on and on with the fast, and by evening I was feeling so faint, so faint that I thought my soul had transmigrated already. First I cursed Janoo black and blue but in a gentle, quiet way under my breaths. Then I watched tapes of Kyunke Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi, in which everybody looked like they’d got split skulls because of that red line. Gave me such a thumping headache.