by Moni Mohsin
Just as I was going to open my fast with a soupy daal, Janoo said, ‘I presume you’re going to burn yourself on my funeral pyre when I die.’
And then I remembered that film Water and I decided there and then not to be Indian. Which was such a relief, because then I could have a proper iftaar with naan kabab and biryani and koftas and haleem sitting on my proper table on my comfy chair in my tracksuit. And yell and shout to my heart’s content. Hai, it’s so nice to be meat-eating, shouty Paki.
19 soldiers among 28 dead in Kashmir blast
Butterfly goes in search of wealthy Sindhis
Such a coo I’ve done, such a coo keh not even Musharraf could have pulled it off. Of course, Janoo’s angels even don’t know because he is tau bilkull fed up with what he calls my ‘puerile dementia with all things Indian’. Best is to leave him aside because he’s like that only.
Haan, as my friend Faiza says, the latest accessory is not the Prada bag but an Indian slung over the shoulder. So when Didi and Sally and Minnoo can have rich-rich Indian friends, why can’t I, hain? I am also not me, bachoo, if I don’t hook a big, fat Indian fish. When it comes to these things, no one is a better hooker than me, that I can tell you from now only.
So I started my champagne to hook a rich Indian. I went to Mummy and Aunty Pussy and asked them who the richest Indians were. They know these things, na, because once they were Indian also. Before they were Partitioned. Anyways, Aunty Pussy told me that richest ones used to be the Maharajas and Nawabs and things, but now they’re all ghareeb and have charraoed their palaces on rent and moved into little-little bungalows. The new rich ones, she says, all have names ending with ‘ni’. They are Sindhi, but not like our Khuhros and Pagaros and Mirs and Pirs who have Land Cruisers and land only. They are Hindus. Natch. They have private planes parked in Heathrow and swanky yaks moored off Can. Near Niece, baba. In the South of Spain.
‘Families like the Lalvanis and Shivdhisanis and Ambanis,’ Aunty Pussy said, ‘understand?’
‘Of course I understand, Aunty Pussy,’ I snapped. ‘I’m not a crack, you know. You mean like the Thandapanis and the Jamdanis and Machhardanis, na?’
Aunty Pussy blew out of her nose like she does when her maid asks for a holiday. But I’d had enough, so I left with the ‘ni’ thing stuck in my head like Mummy’s joora pin.
Next day, while Janoo was hearing news on TV, it struck me. The minute Janoo left the house, I frantically called up Mouse in Isloo.
‘Can you help me get an Iraqi visa?’ I asked. (Mouse knows everyone in Isloo.)
‘Sure,’ she said, ‘they’re two a penny. But why do you want to go to Iraq now?’
‘Uff,’ I said, ‘don’t you know, the grandest Sindhi’s there only?’
‘What do you want with a Sindhi?’ Mouse asked.
‘Oh, just to be friends,’ I replied airily. ‘Is it a crime?’
‘I suppose not. But what’s a high-profile Sindhi doing in Iraq?’
‘Not just high profile, but grandest of the grand,’ I smirked.
‘Really? And who’s that?’
‘Grand Ayatollah Ali Al-Sistani.’
22 Iraqis die in US air strike
Butterfly disappointed by Imran Khan’s divorce
Just got back from Karachi, yaar. So tired, na. Vaisay what a hectic, bootiful weekend. Shahina and Shakil (bhai, Jang newspaper-wallay), their son Ibrahim got married, na, to Khurshid and Zeba Hadi’s daughter Sheena. One tabahi function after another. A monsoon flood of people. Everyone who was everyone was there. Even Janoo.
I said to him: ‘Note kar rahe ho? This is the way to do things. When Kulchoo gets married I’m going to do same-to-same.’
I’m also going to invite everyone—except Janoo’s family, of course. I can see them already, trundling in like a herd of dinosaurs in their moth-eaten kimkhab ghararas and their big-big gold jhoomars and fat-fat karas. Sooo last century. Sooo last millennium. Sooo not invited.
After returning to Lahore, I’ve gone to a few balls-shawls. Voh tau, as Janoo says, are my meat and drink, na. One was Care only. And the other was not a ball but polo match. By Citizens’ Foundry. They do education of poor children. Janoo says it’s a very worthy project. He’d know. Being very worthy himself.
Talking of worthies, look at Imran. After all those lectures about Brown Sahibs and corrupt partying elites and how we should all take off our trousers and put on shalwars, he’s back on the party scene as if he never went away. And all those lectures about family values and he goes off and gets a die-vorce. I’m not saying that he’s not allowed to get a die-vorce, but don’t give so many lectures, na, to all those who are. That’s all.
Itni main disappoint hui hoon, na, keh don’t even ask. I used to do so much of tareef of him when he was standing with Justice Party. And when Janoo used to tell me that a leopard never changes his sports, I used to tell him that you tau are a sarrhial of the first udder who never saw any goods in anyone.
And that Jemima also. Sitting over here all hunched up with a ghoonghat like a naik Parveen and lecturing us on how we should live in joint family systems and how much she loves wearing kurtas and shalloos. And now look at her bouncing around on beaches in a nanga bikini with Who Grant.
But one thing you can’t take away from Imran, and that’s his hospital. That tau is fantastic, even Janoo agrees. And one thing you can’t take away from Jemima, and that’s Who Grant. He tau is fantastic, even I agree.
Janoo’s just too much. Last few months he’s been talking about nothing except politics. Even at Salman Taseer’s sixtieth the other day, he was going on and on about kaun aa raha hai, kaun ja raha hai. Loser, he was the only one on Jamali’s side. Everyone else was on Musharraf’s side. And nobody, but nobody, was on Bush’s side. Bush tau got a lot of gaalis. I agreed completely. I told everyone how America is the route of all evil. Everybody hates America and Americans. It’s the in thing these days. (Thanks God the America ka Council General wasn’t there or visas might have become even more impossible.)
Janoo said, ‘Somebody should be charged for what’s happened in Abu Ghraib prison.’
‘How much do you think they should be charged, Janoo? Crore? Two crores. Or ten, even?’
9/11 Commission to implicate Iran
Why, wonders Butterfly, is Janoo so odd?
Haw, look at them. How mean they are, throwing bomb on poor Shock Aziz. Him being prime minister and all, what if he’d died? As I was telling Janoo, thanks God he was saved, bechara, and no damage was done.
‘What do you mean, “no damage”?’ asked Janoo, in his best sarrhial voice. ‘Nine people died and you say no damage was done?’
‘But dekho, na, darling, I don’t know those people,’ I replied reasonably. ‘How can you expect me to feel sorry for them?’
‘You don’t know Shaukat Aziz either,’ persisted Janoo, staring at me as if I was a stranger.
‘But I feel I do. After all, we know so many of the same people. And I know his old home, City Bank, and I see him on TV. I didn’t even know the names of the people who died.’
‘Enough!’ shouted Janoo, flinging aside his newspaper. ‘Enough of these inanities.’
Aik tau these days Janoo’s paara has charroed so much that you say even one small thing and he corrupts like a volcano. I think so it is the heat only. Kitna kaha tha main ne keh let’s go to London, let’s go to London, but majaal hai keh meri ek bhi suni ho.
‘I don’t want to go to Blair’s England,’ he’d snarled.
He may not want to go to Blair’s England but has anyone asked me if I want The Old Bag to stay in my house? She’s been sitting on my head now for the last three months while her house is being re-innovated. Why she should want her house re-innovated when she should be thinking of, you know, her next house, I mean the one upstairs, in the clouds? (Aik tau you can’t say even, or Janoo gets so upset.) After all, everyone has to go one day—even Mush—but the minute you put the words ‘going’ and ‘The Old Bag’ in one sentence, J
anoo blows a fuse. Too oversensitive he’s become.
‘How would you like it if I kept harping on about your mother’s imminent death?’ he asked me.
‘My mother’s death is not imminent because she is fifteen years younger than yours,’ I replied. ‘And she doesn’t suffer from “sugar” and “heart” and “blood” like yours does. And nor is she always banging on about “when I am no more” and “after I leave” when she has no intention of leaving for anywhere, EVER!’
‘I give up!’ said Janoo throwing his hands up in the air. ‘There is absolutely no point in talking about human frailty to a person lacking so completely in compassion. Might as well try milking a bull.’
‘Who are you calling a bull, ji?’ I shouted, following him into the lounge. ‘And if I was so lacking in compassion, would I be feeling sorry for Shock Aziz because bombers tried to get him, haan?’ I said, standing over his chair with my hands over my hips. ‘Why have you gone all quiet now? Tell? And why would I be saying thanks God he was saved if I didn’t have the goods of my country at heart, haan? Tell? Nothing to say now, have you?’ I took a step back as he rose from his chair, but followed him into the hallway. ‘Just because I am right and you are wrong, now you’ve gone all silent, haan!’ As he opened the front door and stepped out, I said, ‘Going now, are you?’
He nodded wearily. ‘I think I’ll lose my mind if I don’t go out for a while,’ he said quietly and shut the door in my face.
Haw! So rude! And what did I say?
Pakistan expects backlash after terrorism crackdown
Butterfly’s coffee party destroyed by incontinent sheep
The Old Bag is also charrhoing on my nerves so much these days that I feel like… bas, poocho na. She’s gone and embarrassed me so much in front of my coffee party set that I’ve become the laughing stop among them all.
This is what she did. I’ve told you, na, that my poor darling shweetoo Kulchoo got ill? Got bronckite-us. Bad cuff and high fever and all. First tau I made him do goggles with salted water, but when that didn’t make any difference I took him straight away to Doc Anwar. Anyways, he put him on antibionics and slowly-slowly Kulchoo started getting better. But of course The Old Bag doesn’t trust me with her darling grandson’s care, and after dropping a truckload of nasty, mean-si hints about ‘the right diet’ and ‘the right cure’, she finally came out with it and insisted that we take him to see some crack hakeem of hers in Sharkpur where the lands and all are. But for once, Janoo took my side and told her that Kulchoo was in safe hands and he didn’t believe in hakeem-shakeems. Chalo, I thought, that’s the end of that.
Obviously not. A few days ago, I was having coffee party in my house—Mulloo, Fluffy, Flopsy and her Toronto cousin Billie, who owns a whole building in My Ami, Sandy of Juicy Juice and my big coo, Anjali from Bombay, whose husband Shekhar went to school with Shahrukh Khan’s sister; they were all there. I was wearing a new jora from Karma and my new shoes from the Prada boutique in Dubai. Of course, haven’t yet been able to persuade kanjoos Janoo to get me that new diamond-vali Shopard watch but I’m working on it… Anyways, there I was all dressed up with everyone looking at me enwiously.
And then the bearer came stammering into the room after he’d just served the sandwiches, saying, ‘Ji, B-b-b-egum Sahibji, Bari B-b-b-egum Sahib…’
And I just knew there and then that The Old Bag had arrived to blacken my face in front of everyone. I just knew it, call it sick sense or whatever. And there she was, larger than life, in her Bata shoes and 150 year old handbag, barging into my sitting room with her driver in toe, who was dragging something on a rope. Imagine my horror when I saw it was a bakra! A real, live, black bakra. Doing baa-baa in my sitting room full of my trendy friends, with all my Noritake china laid out so prettily and heaps of delicate sandwiches.
‘Kulchoo must touch it,’ The Old Bag announced. ‘Call Kulchoo and then after he’s touched it we will slaughter it on the driveway.’
I was tau completely frozen outside and I had this smile pasted on my face while inside I was boiling and squirming, sending thousand curses on her oiled head. Through gritted teeth I told her Kulchoo had gone for tuition.
‘In that case, I’ll wait,’ she announced, and plonked her backside on my sofa beside Anjali.
And then to my utter, utter horror, I hear the sound of water running and I turn around and see that the bakra is doing small bathroom on my Bokhara rug, and Fluffy is howling like a hyena because her brand new pink suede Jimmy Shoe sandals are also being splashed, and then the driver pulls hard on the rope to take the bakra out and that stupid beast backs into my coffee table, knocking my Noritake platter off the table and upending a tray of egg mayo sandwiches on Mulloo’s Karma-clad lap, and she also starts screaming and the driver starts swearing and the bakra baa-ing.
And over all the commotion I hear The Old Bag say, ‘Zara voh chicken patties tau pass karna…’
Shaukat Aziz sworn in as 20th PM of Pakistan
Butterfly notices that summers are going
Nothing to report except that summers are going, thanks God, and winters are coming, but I expect you know that also. So really nothing to report.
Musharraf meets Manmohan in the US
Butterfly’s drawing room goes minimalist
Ek tau so much of thinking I’ve been doing, na, so much of it, keh mujhay lagta hai as if I’m going to get a brain haemorrhoid. I’ve been popping Lexxos (oho, baba, Lexotnils) to relax my nerves, but not a jolt of difference they’ve made. Must be fake, do number ka maal. As a result, all of last week I’ve spent in such kush makush keh jiss ka koi hisaab hi nahin. Now I know how poor old General Mush must have felt when Bush called him on 9/11. Decisions, decisions, decisions! But at least for him the writing was on the ball, meray liye tau no such luck.
Kya hua hai? Uff, taubah, don’t you know? Janoo’s friend Habib—bhai, Fida Ali, architect nahin hai, from Karachi only?—well, I heard him overtalking of something called ‘minimalism’ at a khaana the other day. Apparently it’s the ‘in’ look of kamras and gardens, vaghera, in which dunya ka sub kuch hotay huay bhi you have to pretend that you are bhooka-nanga and have nothing. So your drawing and dining should have only one or two pieces. No glass-fronted almaaris stuffed full of jahezi silver, no Begumi piles of multicoloured silk jamawar cushions, no big-big land-escapes in big-big golden frames, no chandi-layers, no jhoolas and Sindhi furniture, no cut-glass vases and bowls, no porcelain figurines, not even Lladro from Harrods. Curtains can’t be swagged and fringed anymore. They all have to be linen and cotton, not velvet and brocade. Even your Bokhara carpets should be rolled up and put in the godown. (Now that mine has goat su-su stains on them, that’s just as well, vaisay.)
And if you still have all that ethnic painted furniture, then tau you are a total loser and should retire to Sharkpur where all the losers like Janoo’s relatives live. But if you are with it and cool, then you should have a nanga floor—but only if it’s wood or limestones. Chips must be immediately uprooted. Prints are out. So no paisleys, and flowers tau are so over keh naam hi na lo. Weaves are in. And that too, in tired, dusty colours like moss, mouse, frog, mud. Flower buffets in crystal vases are out. Dry, thorny branches are in. Walls must be white. Furniture beige. And absolutely no carving-sharving. No curtains. Blinds only. Lamps have to be discreet and modern. Like me.
But what is giving me a brain haemorrhoid is what to display now. Should it be the big Gardener plate or the silver tray? I keep thinking Gardener but it has flowers in the centre and flowers are tau bilkull out. Then again silver is over, but one tray I think so is okay. Habib says the trick to avoiding headaches, and I suppose also to look khaata-peeta, is to circulate your stuff. Phir tau I better put the Gardener plate. At least it is circulate in shape.
Shaukat Aziz visits India; Kashmir and pipeline top agenda
Janoo needs shrimp, decides Butterfly
Janoo, I think so, needs to go on Prozac. Ever since the beginning of November, na, he’s b
een going from bed to worst. First tau there was the American election. Bush ki victory ko us ne itna feel kiya hai, na, keh jiss ka koi hisaab hi nahin. I think so he’s more upset than Carry even. Just kept shaking his head and muttering, ‘How COULD they? How could they vote Bush in?’
‘Uff, baba,’ I told him finally, ‘what’s to you? He’s their PM, not yours. Why are you eating our heads over it?’
‘Because what he does has ramifications for the whole world,’ he shouted. ‘Look what he’s done to Iraq, what he’s doing in Guatanamo Bay, what he plans to do in Iran. And for your information, he’s a president, not a prime minister!’
Same difference! I muttered to myself. I didn’t tell him keh I was also disappointed. Itna main hope kar rahi thi, na, keh Carry would win and then we’d get that shweetoo-sa, young-sa Edwards with his glossy hairs and Tom Cruise smile. But instead we have to stare at that sarha hua buddha sanda, Chainy.
And then just as Janoo had begun to shave again, Yasser Arafat went into a comma. Again, Janoo depression mein chala gya. Sat in front of TV all day, na kaheen aana na jaana, na kissi se milna. Na koi GTs, na koi khaanas, not even any iftaaris for God sake. I wanted to tell Janoo, it’s all very sad and everything, but Arafat’s not your chacha, you know. But one look at his red-red eyes and gritted teeth and I thought better not say anything, otherwise he himself might go into a comma.
And then on top, Falluja happened. Lo, it was as if the Americans were bombing our house. Janoo tau, bechara, bilkull hi crack ho gya. All day now he spends reading international news things on the Inner Net.