by Moni Mohsin
War erupts in Sri Lanka
Butterfly too hot to write
Got back to Lahore from Boston last week. Uff baba, it’s so hot, so hot, keh don’t even ask. Too hot to think, to talk, to write.
Israel kills 60 in Lebanon massacre
Mulloo buys a Porsche
Ek tau Janoo is such an embarrassment also. So out of it he is. So untrendy, so dheela, so behind when it comes to knowing what’s hot and what’s not. Take Mulloo’s party yesterday.
Talking of Mulloo, I’m sooooo jay of her and Bobby’s new car. It’s a bright red Porch. Mulloo looks a bit—vaisay kehna nahin chahiye, what with her being my best friend and all—but she looks so strange, so bazaar sitting in such a hot car with her hijab flapping in the wind. She tells me she’s put a taaveez in the car, and also does duas and phookoes it every morning because people look with so much of envy at them when they come roaring out of their house—which is just beside the ganda nala with its rotten eggs and big-bathroom smells.
She tells me also that although she’s constantly shooing them away when they have to stop at traffic lights, beggar children keep putting their dirty hands on the windows and Bobby’s had to send for a special non-bleach glass-cleaning spray just for car from London only. They’ve also had a porch built for the Porch right in front of their sitting room where the old lawn used to be, so when they are entertaining all the guests can see the car—all gleaming and spotlit and everything out of the big-big glass windows—with the big, gleaming swimming pool behind. I think so it’s a bit shoda of them but then you know, na, that Mulloo didn’t go to KC. She is a Home Econmics girl. So what can you expect?
Haan, so I was telling you about the dinner party. Janoo was banging on and on about mangoes and how much he loves Dussehris and Langras and something else called Summer Bewitched or something. People there were looking so bored and I tau was just respiring—sorry, sorry, expiring—with embarrassment, na. So I said, with a light, tinkly si laugh, ‘Mangoes are so over, Janoo.’
‘What do you mean?’ he asked. ‘The season’s very much on.’
‘She doesn’t mean over,’ added Mulloo, laughing in a not-so-tinkly-way, ‘she means OVER! As in unfashionable. As in bore. We tau just eat rambutan from Al-Fatah only, flown in fresh from Bangcock. Not so expensive. Just 800 rupees a kilo. So much nicer than mangoes, which I tau find so smelly, baba. And talking of smells, you know that motia that grows in your garden, darling,’ she said, turning to me, ‘so cute, I thought, it was. So quaint!’
‘What’s quaint about motia?’ asked Janoo with that tight-lipped look of his he gets when he’s just about to explode. ‘For me it signifies summer.’
‘How sweet,’ Mulloo murmured. ‘Depends where you spend your summers. For us tau summers are just orchids.’
‘Tell me, Mulloo,’ I said finally, ‘when are you going to learn to swim? After all, you’ve had your pool for what, five years now?’
Akbar Bugti killed in army action
Butterfly’s air conditioner mysteriously stops
Uff, it’s so hot, so hot, I tau swear Janoo’s brain has melted. Bechara, crack tau he always was but now he’s gone and got start staring mad. Such strange-strange things he’s started doing. Pehlay tau he went and sold the Suzuki on which I sent the cook to buy sauda, saying we didn’t need four-four cars and that it was polluting the air needlessly. Then he started switching off lights in empty rooms. And now he refuses to let me have my bedroom ka AC on when I’m not there. Imagine! In this heat! Can you think of a bigger zulm? First I thought it must be tripping. The AC, not Janoo.
I’d just come back from lunch at Mummy’s and when I entered my room, I got such a blast of Saharan heat that I nearly got knocked up. So first I called the servants and screamed at them, but they said they didn’t know anything, and then I called Shareef the electrician, who is badmash number one, it turns out. He hummed and hawed over it and said maybe it’s the coolant, maybe the heatant, maybe the oppressor (or was it compressor?) or maybe just the dictator. Anyways, he charged me a thou but he got it going.
When Janoo came home I told him what had happened and first his face turned purple, then maroon, then red. Then he said, ‘Did you not bother to have a look at that infernal machine yourself?’
‘In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not an electrician or a mechanic or something, achha?’
‘Had you looked, even you, with your limited intelligence, would have realised that it was merely switched off.’
‘Switched off?’ I shrieked. ‘You know I only switch it off in October.’
‘Well, I did it today,’ said Janoo. And then he started saying such weird-weird things that I tau nearly went behosh. Apparently, at least according to Janoo, there is someone called Paula who has an ice-cap which has melted. Now if you will wear ice caps in summers, what do you expect, hein? And then they say we desis have silly fashions! Then he started ranting about some Global Warning that I think so someone has given. Must be Americans only. One day they are giving warning to Saddam, next day to Osama, then to Iran and now to that His Mullah or someone. And then on top he said there was climate change and that my sauday-wali Suzuki and my AC-until-October-habit were to blame. Suno zara! As if I’m, God forbid, God or someone who can change climates.
But Mummy always told me that when men go mad, always look as if you agree with them and then go and do just the opposite. So I said yes, I know it’s all my fault, but if you don’t mind I’d like to change the climate in my room to winters, and so saying I turned my AC onto terminal cool.
Musharraf and Manmohan agree to resume peace talks
Janoo sinks into depression
Thanks God summers are over, well almost, and season has started, well almost. First there was that nice Munir (bhai, Structure-wallay nahin hain?) and Bilal wedding in Lahore. I tau went on all seven days. So much of fun. And bride’s jora was tabahi—all 60 yards of it. Then there was Ali and Gillo Afridi’s son’s shaadi in Isloo. Too, too fantastic with all that rang-bhang being flung all over the place and all the planes-loads of Karachiites all black and blue. Just like Holly in Indian films. I tau pretended I was Pretty Zinta. Pity there was no Shahrukh, but chalo, maybe in my next life! At least look forward tau kar sakti hoon, na.
Gillo and Ali have been living in Dubai forever. Actually even before forever—from olden days when Dubai-wallahs used to come for shopping to Karachi—Imagine! Someone was saying that Gillo is tau like an institution of Dubai. I think so she must be a bit like the Eye-full Tower in Rome.
Janoo of course didn’t go to a single day of a single shaadi. He is still in morning for Akbar Bugti, oho, baba, the head of the Bugti tribe, whom the army killed, na, and then pretended he’d died himself only. He wouldn’t listen to them, na, and had taken refuse in a cave in the dessert. So they came after him with helicopters and bombs and things, and then they said his cave had fallen down on him in Balochistan and he’d died of natural becauses. Apparently not just the Bugtis, but all of Balochistan is up in arms against Musharraf now.
But what’s to Janoo, haan? He’s not even Balochi, let alone a Bugti. I said so to him that day and uff, you should have seen how he drew off the handles!
‘It’s not just Bugti I’m mourning,’ he shouted, ‘it’s my country. You can go and dance your feet off if you want, but with Balochistan in flames I can’t find all that much to celebrate.’
‘Haw, tau what’s happened to the fire engines, baba?’ I asked. ‘Why can’t they put out the flames in your precious Balochistan?’
Bas. That’s all I said, and he tau almost went up in flames himself. Just like Twin Towers. I think so he is depress. All he talks of is Afghanistan and His Mullah and Gaza and someone else called Helmand, and how the Bugtis—man, woman, child—are on the Exist Control List, and Global Warning and God knows what else.
I swear, I should get a medal the size of a frying pan for putting up with him without going start staring mad. Aunty Pussy tau says I should get Nishan
-e-Haider. But Mummy says no, I deserve the Noble Prize for Piece. Like Nelson Mandela and Mother Theresa and Shirin Mahal—or was it Abadi? Anyways, you know who I mean, baba. That Egyptian, or was it Iranian, lawyer—or was it doctor?—who got a big Piece Prize also. I think so she was a woman.
Till that happens, I’ve decided I’m going to gholo a Prozac into Janoo’s tea every morning. It’s that or pop one myself.
North Korea tests nuclear bomb
Butterfly placates God
Thank God, Ramzan will finish before proper party season starts. Varna tau all the weddings, all the parties, everything would have had water poured over them. Haw, maybe I shouldn’t have said that. Everyone is saying the Muslim God is wrathful. What if I’m stuck down now? Hai, please, Allah Mian, sorry, sorry, didn’t mean that, na. Please don’t take personally, okay? I mean, if it wasn’t for this nice month-long rest when would I get the time to get my party wardrope sorted, hain? And my manicure and pedicure done? And my highlights put? And just to show You how sorry I am, I’m going to have a nice big iftaar in Your name only. I hope You are going to give me lots of savaabs for opening fast of so many people. Or were they supposed to be poor people whose fast you have to open to get credit points in the afterlife?
But what to do: I don’t know any poor people. At least not since I discovered that Janoo’s cousin Shameless (well, her real name’s Shama), who I used to take pity on because her husband’s hardwear shop had gone thup and who I used to think was hand-to-mouth and who I used to give all my last-season designer joras to, turned out to have won some huge lottery in Toronto and was the proud owner of not one, not two, but three compartments in Toronto—and that too in the best bit of town, somewhere called Missy Saga, which is like Gulberg of Toronto. Anyways, with that snake in grass Shameless a millionaire I don’t know any more poor people. But I suppose if all my guests bring their drivers then I could open their fasts and get all my savaabs, couldn’t I? So now I must make sure no one drives their own car.
I’ll have to tell Tony bhai not to bring his Porch in that case. He tau won’t even let his driver put his little finger on it, except to clean, of course. And also I’ll have to manao Janoo before I can do iftaar parties. He hates them, you know, iftaar parties. He says it’s just an orgy of eating and self-righteous opining and he’s had it with self-righteous opining after reading Mush’s new thriller, In the Land of Fire.
He thinks Mush has gone too far and bus, it’s only a matter of time now before the Americans organise a little plane crash for him too. Hai, please don’t speak like that, I said to Janoo, at least let me have my iftaar party before we all go up in flames.
In any case, I really don’t know why Janoo is after Mush the whole time. He’s given us so many TV channels and pop groups and so many fashion shows and so many of mobile phones, we should get down on our feet and thank him. Has any democrat ever given this much? Hain? And so what if he’s not elected? Did I elect The Old Bag to be my mother-in-law? Sometimes you just have greatness thrust upon you, and then you just have to grin and bear it. So I’m grinning and Janoo’s bearing.
Eid in Asia amid heightened security
Butterfly bids farewell to British High Commissioner
Mark Lyall-Grant is going, na. Bhai, the British Deputy Commissioner. So lots of bye-bye parties are happening in Isloo, Karachi and here. I wanted to take my passport to the one here so that jaate-jaate he could give me five year multiple entry visa to London, so I don’t have to gravel in Isloo till at least 2010. But Janoo said I was crack. One tau he doesn’t give visas. Then who gives, I asked? The consular people, he said.
‘Haw, the local council? Now they are giving? Must have khilaowed-pilaowed to get the stamp from British Deputy Commission.’
Janoo looked heavenward and shoved me into the car. So badtameez, he is. No manners, no proper utna-betna, no good brought-up. But what can you expect with The Old Bag for a mother? Not like my Mummy, who always taught me to keep my little finger up in the air when holding a teacup and always flushing first before sitting on toilet in other people’s homes so they can’t hear you actually doing small bathroom.
‘Do you know Lyall-Grant’s father founded Lyallpur?’ Janoo asked me on the way to the party.
‘Really?’ I said, twisting the rearview mirror to my side to check my Channel ki new Rouge Noir lipstick.
‘When did it get lost?’
Janoo heaved another sigh and snatched the rearview mirror back to his side. As I said, no brought-up he has.
Law to be amended to easily dissolve forced marriages
Butterfly goes for gold
Hai, can’t wait for shaadi season to start! Have ordered two joras from Kami—oho, baba, voh nahin hai designer, Kamra, sorry, sorry, Karma-wallah, okay?—two from Sonia Batla and one from Hasan Sheheryar, and I’ll kill you if you tell Janoo. Vaisay it’s not as if it’s any of his business because I’ve not touched a penny of his. Kulchoo had them made for me.
Ji haan, Kulchoo! Why? Because he loves me and wants to see me happy. At least that’s what he wrote in his school essay, ‘I want my Mummy and Daddy to be happy.’ So I thought, then he won’t mind if I sell the gold ten-tolay ki brick that The Old Bag gave him for his last birthday. Anyways, what’s he going to do with a ten-tola brick, hain? Whereas I, I could get a Hasan Sheheryar, a Karma, a Batla and live happily ever after—at least till the end of the month.
I think so I’ll wear the Karma jora to one day in Sanam Taseer’s wedding. I hear it’s going to be a tabahi celebration over a whole week, with party and disco and dholak and mehndi and dinner, and then all of it all over again in the pages of Good Times to gloat over. Uff, so much of fun!! Janoo says I’ve become a fixture in Good Times. Vaisay to be honest I’ve started recognising their phot-graapher, na, and any time I spot him at a party or gallery opening or shaadi or whatever, I immediately pout and make sure I am standing inside his camera ki lens. Bhai, bus, one has to paddle one’s own canoe in life otherwise who else is going to do it for you?
But I hope it won’t go and rain, yaar, and spoil everything. That will be so bore. It’s good it’s happened now only—rain, bhai, what else? I think so some bits of Karachi and Lahore even have become so flooded that people have been macarooned in their houses. But I think so only in poor, poor bits of the city. Defence, Gulberg and GOR mein tau, mashallah, mashallah, everyone is warm and dry and partying away.
Talking of Karachi, I hear Shobha Day came there to launch a new novel by Nadia AR. It’s called Kolachi Nights and so juicy it is with all the things I love most—goss and clothes and parties, vaghera. Maybe I should write one myself. I’ll call it Lahori Nights—or no, Lahori Days. Bhai, one should be original, nahin, otherwise all those jealous types like Mulloo, Flopsy, vaghera say I’ve stolen the idea from someone else. As if I’m some copy cat or cheater cock or something.
Saddam hanged
Janoo goes missing
Just look at Janoo! For the last four days there’s been no naam or nishaan of him anywhere. I’ve been worrying myself to death—well, in between hurrying from one shaadi to another—wondering where he’s disappeared to. I even sent the driver to the airport to check if he was coming off the Haj flight or something—you never know with him, na, he’s forever sneaking off here and there. But it turns out that janaabji has been lurking all this time in Sharkpur! And with my son, Kulchoo, in toe. Father and son decided to bunk the wedding season and go off to—what does Janoo call it?—haan, ‘presume with nature’. Or was it commune? Khair, whatever! It’s just a show-off way of saying that he’s a loser who wanders through muddy fields and drinks enormous steel ke glass, beloved of all paindus, full of smelly bufallow milk. (Thanks God for Nestlay ka milk, yaar. No more stinky cows for me.)
Anyways, going back to Janoo, I could have marroed some show about him, about how he’s manly and bloodthirsty, if he’d had the grace to do at least some shikaar. But no! Voh bhi nahin! Wildlife, he says, is on the verge of distinction and the on
ly shooting he’ll do is with a camera. As if he’s Mahesh Bhatt or something! All Kulchoo could talk about was having seen a nilgai in the wild. Honestly! Khud tau Janoo is what he is, but he’s also gone and made my poor old son into a bucket case! And so black also, from wandering outside all day.
‘Well,’ I responded, ‘I may not be one of your precious nilgais, but it may interest you to know that I was also on the verge of distinction worrying about you. At least you could have told me.’
‘But, Mama,’ said Kulchoo, ‘we made the plan on the spur of the moment when you were at the hairdresser’s. We called your mobile but you probably couldn’t hear over the blowdryer. I even left a message but you never called back so I thought you were okay with our trip.’
Hmm. I remember dimly seeing a missed call from Janoo but since I knew it was going to be some bore complaint or the other, I never checked. But of course I couldn’t admit that, so I started screaming and shouting about how the message never came and then Janoo said he’d show me his mobile to show the exact time and date when Kulchoo had made the call. And so I shouted even louder about how no one trusts me and no one cares how I feel, and how embarrassed I was having to lie to Naz and Mansha about how Janoo was ill in bed and so couldn’t attend Hassan’s fab valeema, and how I’d had to hitch a ride with Mulloo to Naila Moltifoams’ New Year party like some poor bechari, and how I’m getting late for Bunny and Sarmad’s valeema now and don’t have the time to stand around arguing with two bucket case losers anyway…
Palestinians sign unity government deal
Butterfly prepares for Basant parties
God is on my side. I’ve always known, but now it’s official. If he hadn’t been, then he wouldn’t have ended Muharram in time for Basant, now would he? So all the mullahs and sarrhi botis can go fly a kite. Oh, sorry, forgot! They can’t fly a kite because they believe it’s anti-Islamic. Their nikahs will break, or some such thing, if they do so much as look at a patang. Well, they can go and do whatever it is that they do, because I tau damn care, frankly speaking.