It was six the next afternoon when Maya returned from tea with other diplomats’ wives at a restaurant with a rooftop terrace overlooking the Margalla Hills. She was surprised to find Hugo already home and sprawled on the living room sofa reading. ‘Armaan’s sleeping,’ he said, when he saw her, knowing her routine of heading first to his room. ‘I’ve sent Khalida home.’
She sat down next to his feet where he’d stretched them out, waiting for him to ask her where she’d been, and perhaps, tell her she looked nice.
‘How was your day?’ she said finally, to his silence.
‘Oh, you don’t want to know!’ he said, not putting down his book. ‘There’s a reception at the Romanian Embassy tomorrow so I’ll be home late.’
‘Hugo?’
‘Hmmm.’
‘I’d like to go to the ball. There are two seats at Marco’s table and if we’re not taking them, he’ll need to find someone else’, she said, anxiously.
‘Oh God, I see these people every day, Maya,’ he said, putting down his book so she could see him roll his eyes at her. ‘Do I really have to pay for a seat and put on an uncomfortable tux to see them again? Don’t we go to enough parties?’
‘We do,’ she said, wondering when she had become this person to whom going out mattered so much, ‘but never to dance. Besides everyone will be there, and we haven’t hosted a dinner in a few months now, and actually you don’t see these people all the time.’
Hugo paused for a few moments, measuring his desire to not attend against her argument. ‘Alright,’ he said, grudgingly.
‘Oh, Hugo, we’ll have so much fun’, Maya said, grinning broadly. ‘You’re always the handsomest person in any room in your tux, and…’
‘I have to get to that reception, Maya,’ Hugo said, ending the conversation.
Maya went upstairs, slightly deflated, but still excited at the idea of the ball. She flung open her cupboards and started sifting through her things. She needed a dress. She hadn’t bought any recently because she hadn’t needed any in Islamabad, where a dressy top with trousers was more appropriate evening wear.
Taking a few of her old dresses as a guide to styles, a length of chartreuse silk, and a few clippings from magazines, Maya headed to her tailor in the Blue Area. When she had first arrived in Islamabad, she had been amused by the rigid colour coding and demarcations of the city, so different to the organic sprawl of Pindi. The Red Zone encompassed most government buildings including the Parliament House and the Diplomatic Enclave containing foreign embassies. Queries from where to buy a kettle to how to unlock your phone were always met by a vague wave of the hand and the response ‘Blue Area’, a broad swathe of shops and restaurants running alongside the imposing Jinnah Avenue. With time, she had become fond of this area, having found many treasures within, a little cavern of a shop full of blue pottery from Multan, an Iranian restaurant with the best kebabs in the city and her tailor, Riaz, who could make any kind of kurta pajama and replicate Western clothing, a claim she’d hence far only tested with a series of increasingly elaborate tops.
She discussed the dress with Riaz, the neckline (deep), the hem (low), the swing and flow of the skirt, and left nervous but hopeful. A week later when she returned to try it on, she was relieved to see that the tailor had not exaggerated his ability. It was a little on the tight side, though Riaz insisted that there was no miscalculation on his part but that she had become ‘healthier’, the local euphemism for ‘overweight’. Maya was far too embarrassed to argue. Besides, even if it was a little more snug than she had envisioned, standing in the dress in front of her mirror at home, she felt voluptuous and more feminine than she’d felt in a long time. She asked Armaan, playing nearby, what he thought of it and he said she looked pretty, never mind that he also said that when she was standing in pyjamas flossing her teeth in the morning.
Hugo’s tuxedo retrieved from the dry cleaners, was brushed down and was looking as good as always. It fit him like a glove. She helped him with his cufflinks and told him that he looked like James Bond.
‘You’re very sweet,’ Hugo said, brushing down his tuxedo one last time. She lingered, waiting for the return compliment, but when none came, she headed to Armaan’s room to say an always heart-breaking goodbye.
As they drove to the Diplomatic Enclave, she turned the radio on. There was hip-hop song playing sampling an Afrobeat track they used to listen to in their Nigeria days. ‘Remember this, Hugo?’ she said, nostalgic for the younger versions of themselves, bowling along dusty red roads listening to the same music. It felt like a long time ago. As a diplomat’s wife, you had to be discreet but she’d spoken as delicately as possible with a female friend in Islamabad about how her marriage felt different after Armaan had been born. Her friend had said this was perfectly natural and that it would mature into something different but equally beautiful. Maya eagerly awaited that moment.
Night fell as they turned on to Constitution Avenue lined with the grand buildings of high office, still brilliantly decorated from the Eid ul Adha celebrations a week ago. The austere white marble was almost gaudy with looped green, red, and yellow fairy lights. It was the end of a long hot summer and would soon give way to crisp autumn skies and the wedding season. Despite Hugo’s protestations of it being too hot to wear a tux, the air was cool and she was glad of the cashmere shawl draped around her bare shoulders.
A long line of cars snaked their way into the enclave, heading towards the parking area but Hugo took a turn and parked slightly further out. As Maya alighted from the car, she took care to hold the hem of her dress clear of the wild tangle of bushes that grew around the outer perimeter of the Mediterranean Club. Industrial hemp grew wild all over Islamabad, and the scent of it combined with the anticipation of the revelry made her feel lightheaded.
Inside, they found a simple white canopy, decorated with fairy lights, and a raised wooden platform for a dance floor. White pillars were tastefully swathed with ice blue LED lighting. The décor was pleasantly low-key, perhaps because all of the city’s other decorations were still being used elsewhere.
They made their way to their table, stopping en route to greet Hugo’s colleagues and assorted acquaintances. Some of Maya’s friends from Armaan’s school were virtually unrecognisable from their morning avatars, transformed tonight into soigné women with salon updos in a mix of cocktail and floor-length dresses.
In the excitement of getting two tickets for Marco’s table, Maya had failed to find out who else would be on it. She realised with an inward groan that one of the guests would be Salma, Hugo’s colleague and Principal Political Officer at the British High Commission. Salma’s eyes lit up when she saw Hugo, but it might have been Maya’s imagination that saw Salma’s eyes narrowing when she beheld her.
‘Hi Hugo, how lovely to see you!’ she smiled seductively. ‘Maya,’ she added as an afterthought, ‘what an unusual colour you’re wearing.’
‘Thank you, Salma,’ Maya said, with a fake smile plastered on her face.
‘It’s not everyone who can carry off chartreuse,’ Salma added with the sort of look that left Maya in little doubt that she couldn’t.
‘You look wonderfully sexy, darling. Welcome to the ball!’ Marco said, air-kissing her hello. Maya smiled her thanks up at him. Marco was the chief-of-party of a reputable non-governmental organisation in Islamabad. He took his title very much to heart and was often at the forefront of planning and organising the most splendid out-of-hours soirées in the city.
Maya realised that Salma was at their table because her date for the night was one of Marco’s colleagues, Andreas. Maya had met him before, he was nice enough, if rather staid. She suspected that he was there to hang on Salma’s arm till someone with more polish came along, someone like Hugo with his public-school pedigree, for example.
Salma had been perfectly courteous towards Maya when they first met but her tone changed soon after Maya had told her about her childhood in Rawalpindi.
‘Oh, your fathe
r was an electrician?’ Salma had said, with the fascinated tone of one examining someone’s skin disease.
‘He ran an electrical contracting business, yes.’
From then on, any exchange with Salma was filtered, Maya felt, with a certain level of contempt for her background. It was clear to her that Salma didn’t think Maya was good enough for Hugo, and that she, with a background of privilege and all the right connections, would have made a better choice.
Maya was diverted from these thoughts by the arrival of the other couples who completed their table. Shehryar and Javaria were both journalists and very much part of the young and trendy media set whom Maya found great company, even though Hugo didn’t seem to feel the same way. Then there was Rizwan, no one really knew what Rizwan did, only that he was very rich and owned a lot of land. His wife, Aleena, was a fashion designer who brought out a line of increasingly bizarre clothes every season. Her latest ‘pret collection’ was a series of belted and bedazzled gauzy ponchos which could only be carried off by women with absolutely no hips or bums.
‘You look fabulous, babe,’ Aleena said, looking appreciatively at Maya through a cloud of vape smoke. ‘Where did you find this gorgeous dress?’
‘My tailor made it for me,’ Maya admitted somewhat sheepishly. Aleena was sure to be wearing designer wear.
‘Very impressive,’ Aleena said, warmly, chatting about the coming season’s necklines.
Maya cast a quick glance at Hugo, who was listening to Rizwan telling a long story, and already looking bored She understood that these were Marco’s, and by extension, her friends and not his, but she wished he would make more of an effort to appear interested.
Just then a friend, Aneela, spotted her from across the room and came over to say hello. She was a rare acquaintance from her childhood days. Aneela’s mother had known hers, and even though Aneela was much younger than her, she had sought Maya out when she had arrived in Islamabad. By coincidence, she was working at the British High Commission as an administrative assistant. She was with Adam, the new political officer. Maya thought them a sweet couple, but as they walked away, she heard Salma mutter to Javaria, ‘I wonder how long that’s going to last. Of course, he’s her ticket out of here.’
Maya looked at her pointedly. Salma realised she’d overheard her, and in spite of her entrenched snobbery, blushed.
‘I think dinner is served,’ Salma said, sounding flustered. She stood up and walked towards the buffet table.
Hugo and Maya followed, finding the buffet an eclectic mix of dishes to reflect the international flavour of the event.
The music started as soon as dinner was cleared away. The DJ christened the evening with ‘La Bamba’. Yes, it was corny but it was lively, and everyone knew it, and she was itching to dance. With the exception of Mario and Rizwan, the music was received with coolness at their table. She saw Salma rolling her eyes. Maya couldn’t bear another second in her company.
‘Hugo, come on, let’s dance,’ Maya said, holding out her hand.
‘To this? I don’t think so!’ he said.
Salma smirked.
‘Well, I’d like to dance,’ Maya said, looking at Hugo.
Marco swooped in, ‘I should be honoured,’ he said, taking her hand. She was furious with Hugo for showing her up in front of their table, especially in front of that awful woman. She looked at him and shrugged, and took Marco’s hand.
She felt slightly self-conscious at first but soon forgot herself and began to dance. The music wasn’t great, it was true, but everyone around her seemed to be having a great time and she was determined to be part of the revelry, with or without her husband.
Nobody had told her that marriage would be so lonely.
Even in the cool evening, it was warm under the canopy, thanks to the gyrating bodies and the wine. After some spirited moves to ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun,’ Maya went to get a drink of water. She also sensed the approach of the more maudlin segment of the evening as the DJ was beginning to veer towards ‘slow dance numbers’, and she thought it best to get off the dance floor. On her way to the bar, she spotted Hugo talking to a random diplomat though the conversation appeared stilted, and Hugo had his fake politely-interested face on. She walked up to them.
‘I am sorry to interrupt but I am just about to commandeer my husband onto the dance floor,’ Maya said with a charming smile. The random diplomat smiled and bid them good night.
‘Come on, let’s dance,’ she smiled up at Hugo.
‘Maya, I really don’t feel like dancing. The music is terrible. I’m bored and I’d really like to go home. It’s almost midnight anyway. Khalida’s husband will pick her up soon. We should just go home.’
She thought of when he had first met her when he had begged her to dance with him. He hadn’t been quite so particular about the music then.
‘Yeah, let’s go,’ she said, turning her head away. She was close to tears.
No one was at the table as everyone had drifted off to mingle or to dance so they quickly went outside and got into their car, which Hugo had parked in the tangle of hemp, prepared for a quick getaway.
As Hugo drove back along Constitution Avenue, she sat next to him in stony silence.
‘Look, I’m sorry I didn’t dance but I…’ he began, but the sudden violent sobbing that emanated from his wife stopped him in his tracks.
‘This isn’t working,’ she said, ‘we’re just a joint parenting unit.’
‘Maya, I think you are overreacting. I...’
‘No, I’m not. I looked forward to this night for so long and you made no effort to dance or even pretend that you’re enjoying yourself. Would it have killed you to look happy for one moment?’ she said, crying more out of anger than disappointment.
‘You seemed to be having a great time with your mates. I walked around and chatted with some guys from work. I kept waiting for a decent song to come on but it never did. I think you’re blowing this way out of proportion, but all the street lights are off and I really need to focus on the road. Can we please talk about this when we get home?’ Hugo said and they completed the rest of the journey in silence punctuated by the sound of Maya sniffling.
The front door opened as soon as the car drove up the driveway. Khalida stood at the door with Armaan in her arms.
‘Madam, Armaan woke up half an hour ago and is crying too much for his mama. He doesn’t want to sleep again,’ Khalida said.
Armaan reached out for Maya, his face puckered up in tears. She gave him a cuddle but had to pay Khalida whose husband was waiting on his motorbike, so she passed her son to Hugo who took him upstairs to his room.
‘Madam, why are you sad?’ asked the woman who probably knew her better than anyone else in Islamabad.
‘I am OK, Khalida, just a little tired. Thanks very much and good night. Get home safe,’ Maya said as she locked and bolted the front door.
Walking upstairs to Armaan’s room, she looked in to find Hugo asleep on Armaan’s bed with Armaan fast asleep in his arms. The room was warm and the curls were pasted down on both their foreheads. Maya felt an overwhelming surge of love. Hugo was a good dad, a great dad. Perhaps she had overreacted. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to do, it was all so much more complicated than she thought marriage would be.
Maya walked out onto the balcony. The Margalla Hills were outlined in the distance. There was a power cut and the generator hummed below, but did not drown out the sound of music coming from the park in front of their house. A few youngsters had parked their cars on the pavement and were talking, laughing, and playing dance music on their car radios as loud as they could. It sounded like pop with a hip-hop beat and even though she didn’t know the song, she began to slowly dance alone.
Only The Deepest Love
Sonya Rehman
“The more I see of the world, the more I am dissatisfied with it”
—Pride and Prejudice
‘
Samina? I need to see you, can we meet?’ Sobia’s v
oice was shaky.
‘Are you alright?’ I asked, panicking slightly.
‘Not really, when do you get off from work?’
‘3 pm tops, at The Deli?’
It had to be that husband of hers; something about him didn’t sit well with me, though it had been an arranged marriage and I barely knew him. I had only had a chance to observe him at the wedding last weekend as he sat there looking regal in his gold sherwani with a crimson pagri perched on his head, Sobia sitting stiffly next to him in an elaborate tea-pink and gold ensemble, weighed down by kundun and gold. Perhaps he was just nervous or maybe it’s in his nature to be reserved, but you didn’t feel any real warmth from him for any of us or even really for Sobia. Still, I didn’t want to judge anyone on a meeting at such a stressful time. Maybe this was the male version of Bridezilla. Also, the idea of my dear sweet cousin, who was the closest thing I had to a sibling, having married someone cold was something best banished from the mind.
What could possibly have happened in a week? Surely they were still just getting over the fatigue of having entertained half of Lahore?
The memory of the wedding brought a blush to my cheeks. In a mortifying moment I’d tripped over my Chantilly lace sari and bumped into a waiter carrying a plate of canapés that had then landed on me. I would have ended up on the floor if some friend of Asad’s hadn’t steadied me just in time. Unfortunately, the steadying had involved him holding me rather intimately, if only for a few seconds. What a way to be introduced. God, I hope I never have to relive the embarrassment by bumping into him again!
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