by Soniah Kamal
‘Be quiet, Chapati,’ Alys said. ‘I don’t even bake for fun.’
‘I’ll sit there after having served chai to the potbelly and pretend to be a shy and opinion-less dummy. And on my wedding night I’ll turn into a sex maniac, and then he’ll divorce me on account of too much enthusiasm, since ardour will imply immorality.’
‘Or,’ Alys said, ‘maybe he’ll appreciate that you can’t get enough of flying the coop.’
Sherry took a long drag. ‘I hope this prospect doesn’t decide to poop in our toilet, like the last one did. Took forever to unclog that mess.’
‘Here’s a mess of a different kind. We received the invite to the NadirFiede circus. I’ve wasted all afternoon listening to what gift will make us look rich enough and what we’re going to wear in order to captivate eligible bachelors. You know how despicable I think this whole husband-hunting business is.’
‘Yes,’ Sherry said, ‘I’m well aware. Chalo, best of luck. Let us hope you and Jena hunt good husbands.’
‘I don’t even want to go,’ Alys said. ‘A bunch of himbos and bimbos showing off to each other about who enjoyed the glitzier holiday this year.’
‘Have you any idea how many people would die to be invited?’ Sherry said. ‘I’d love to just see who in the world is marrying that pain in the bum Fiede Fecker. Do you think Fiede is a pigeon or have she and Nadir Sheh flown the coop?’
‘It is a truth universally acknowledged that a good girl ought to keep her mouth shut about whether she’s been keeping her legs shut.’
‘I bet Fiede’s been humping and pumping night and day,’ Sherry said. ‘But at the wedding, like all good pigeons, she’ll pretend her feathers have never fluttered.’
‘Come with us to the NadirFiede mehndi,’ Alys said. ‘Come!’
It was quite acceptable in Pakistan to bring an uninvited guest to a wedding, for in a gathering of hundreds, what was one more?
‘Your mother,’ Sherry replied, smiling, ‘will not be happy to have me tag along.’
‘Mummy will be fine,’ Alys said, knowing full well that she’d be annoyed. ‘Please come. The NadirFiede spectacle will actually be fun with you there.’
Sherry shrugged an okay.
‘Yeah! You’re coming with us! And who knows, you might very well meet your Prince Charming at the mehndi.’
The friends laughed. They ground out their cigarettes in the grass and popped chewing gum into their mouths. Then, linking arms, they strode out of the graveyard towards their homes.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Binats parked in the overflow car park and headed to the gymkhana gates for the NadirFiede mehndi ceremony. The security guard at the gate beamed when he saw Alys, Jena, Sherry, and Mari. The four women had long been tutoring low-income children for free, and Jena asked the guard how his son’s exams had gone.
‘Excellent,’ he said, blessing them with happiness and long lives as he let them in.
‘Such a good omen,’ Mrs Binat chirped, ‘to enter such an event with the blessings of a menial. You watch, Alys and Jena, this wedding will end well for both of you.’
‘Mummy, shh,’ Alys said, as they joined other guests walking up the candlelit driveway towards the vast grounds and into the wedding shamiana, the huge multicoloured tent shot through with gold thread. The scent of perfumes and colognes mingled with that of beef seekh kebabs and chicken tikkas cooking on coal grills. Guests stood in clusters, chattering, and children ran underfoot followed by ayahs preening in last season’s cast-offs.
The groom and his entourage had yet to arrive. A gaggle of young girls – Fiede’s cousins and close friends – sat on the makeshift dance floor in front of the bride-and-groom stage with a dholak between them, though clearly none of them knew how to properly play the double-sided drum. Lady was an expert; she elbowed her way into the group, and soon she was playing the drum and bellowing Punjabi wedding songs – ‘lathe di chaddar, chitta kukkar banere, sadda chidiyan da’ – with such gusto and to such ear-shattering whistles that several guests asked if she was Fiede’s best friend.
Mrs Binat spied Fiede Fecker’s parents – Mr Fecker, in a navy raw-silk kurta, and Mrs Fecker, in hideous tangerine organdy – and she and Mr Binat proceeded to congratulate them. Mr Fecker shook hands with Mr Binat. Mrs Fecker’s gargantuan eyelashes, supposedly imported from Milan, were apparently weighing down her eyes, because it took her a moment to recognise Mr and Mrs Bark Binat, after which she thanked them for coming before moving on to the next guest.
Mrs Binat glowed as moneyed folk flitted around. She recognised acquaintances from when she too had been moneyed folk, and she chose to overlook the women’s cool greetings. Instead, she basked at the welcome their husbands were giving Barkat. They were embracing him and exclaiming that they hadn’t seen Bark-Bark in years, which was true, for Mr Binat had chosen to become something of a recluse since his elder brother’s betrayal.
In fact, Mr Binat had been reluctant to attend NadirFiede, for fear that his brother and sister-in-law might be there. It was only after Alys reminded him that it was the perpetrators who should be mortified and stay away and not the victim that Mr Binat agreed to come. As their father stood among old friends, a little bit of his former self returned, and all the Binat girls stood taller as he introduced them to uncles who remarked how much they’d grown and how lovely they’d become. Soon the wives steered their husbands away from Mr Binat’s daughters, and Mrs Binat, refusing to allow any slight to upset her this evening, proceeded to lead her brood to one of the fuchsia velvet sofa sets arranged around coal stoves.
She was pleased to note the number of eyes following Jena as they walked down the Afghan rugs covering the lawn and into the seating area. She’d dressed her daughter well. Jena was in a dove-grey silk sari, the muted colour enhanced with a darker grey sequinned blouse and a kundan-and-emerald choker set – the gems fake, of course, thanks to Ganju jee, but no one was the wiser. At an event where everyone was dressed like a Brazilian parrot, Jena’s understated elegance as the African parrot stood out. If it weren’t for the wretched Tinkle’s smear campaign, Mrs Binat knew, women seeking brides for their sons would have been coming up to her in order to make enquiries about Jena’s age, occupation, and intentions for marriage.
Still, Mrs Binat knew beauty had the potential to defeat the slurs of a jealous relative. Jena had only to sink her hooks into a prospective Rich Man, who would subsequently be so besotted by her looks that he would ignore rumours about her family. Alas, Mrs Binat thought as she smoothed a wrinkle from Jena’s pallu, none of her daughters were proficient in the art of hook, reel, grab. In fact, except for Lady, her daughters were discomfited by the very notion of catching a husband, despite the number of times she’d told them that one had to seek out a good proposal as one would a promotion or a comfortable shoe.
It was all this nonsense about falling in love that was making catching a husband unseemly. Of course one must fall in love, but let it initially be the man who falls and then, once his ring is on your finger, you too may allow yourself to fall in love – though within reason, Mrs Binat always cautioned, for the best marriages were ones where the husband loved the wife more. She sighed. It was her full-time job as a good mother to get her daughters married well, and she was determined to do her duty regardless of all obstacles, even Alys’s obstinacy.
Despite Mrs Binat’s copious pleas for Alys to wear a new sari like Jena’s, the disobedient girl had dived into the trunk and picked out a lacklustre outfit. Couple that disgrace with barely any make-up at an event where women were wearing so much they would have to use scalpels to scrape off the cosmetics. Not that any of her daughters required any make-up, Mrs Binat thought with pride, but, still, didn’t all girls like enhancing their assets? Sometimes she feared Alys was serious when she said she didn’t want to get married. What sort of girl did not want to get married? What sort of girl did not want children?
Mrs Binat had, a few years ago, made Jena, closest of Alys’s confida
ntes, put her hand on the Quran and swear that Alys was not a lesbian. Asking Alys directly would have been useless; she would have defiantly said, ‘So what if I was?’ and given her a lecture. Mrs Binat had also considered asking Sherry, but she did not trust friends and so did not want to give Sherry any ammunition to start rumours about Alys.
Poor girl, Mrs Binat thought, as Sherry settled on a sofa. Did she have no other wedding wear but nylon satin monstrosities? The only plus going for Sherry was her skinny body, luckily for her in vogue. But a side effect of being so thin was also to be completely flat-chested, a setback given that even the most shareef – pious – of men wanted a wife with some breasts.
Mrs Binat was rescued from further rumination by Mrs Naheed and her two daughters, who were making a beeline towards them. The head teacher had on a decent Chantilly lace sari in a tolerable puce, but those stubby daughters of hers – why in the world had she allowed them to wear patiala shalwars with crop-top tunics that made their limbs look like cocktail sausages?
Mrs Binat rose to air-kiss Naheed, and she decided it was just as well that Gin and Rum displayed zero sartorial sense and sensibility, for that meant even more opportunity for JenaAlysMariQittyLady to shine.
‘Salaain-lai-kum, Mrs Naheed,’ Mrs Binat said. ‘Gin and Rum are looking like visions of perfection.’
‘As-salaam-alaikum, Pinkie,’ Naheed said. ‘They’re wearing the best of the best. QaziKreations’ new line, QaziSensations.’ Naheed turned to Mr Binat. ‘Bark, I see Pinkie continues to look just as dazzling as your daughters.’
‘Hello, Naheed, yes, Pinkie outshines us all. And how are you? How is Zaleel?’ Mr Binat asked, referring to Naheed’s husband, Khaleel, by his nickname.
‘Zaleel couldn’t make it today,’ Naheed said. ‘He was lifting weights this morning and dropped a dumb-bell on his foot.’
‘That’s dumb.’ Mr Binat guffawed at his own joke. ‘But let’s hope for a quick recovery.’ Then he returned to surveying the tent for his brother and sister-in-law.
‘I must say,’ Naheed said, ‘Fiede has outdone herself with the classy decor and arrangement. So striking, so mashallah.’
‘Striking, mashallah,’ Mrs Binat agreed. Everything was very nice: the soft lighting in the tent, the fresh flowers, the low-backed sofas with faux pearl-encrusted sausage cushions, the heaters, the fairy lights looped around the tent poles, the arrangement of the buffet to be served in a separate tent.
Naheed said, ‘A friend of Fiede’s has started event planning, and Fiede handed the wedding over to her – no charge, of course. But, then, this is how her friend will garner business in the future, for everyone will want Fiede Fecker’s event planner to plan events for them. I have always said that the most troublesome students turn out to be the greatest assets, and Fiede Fecker is a true asset to the British School of Dilipabad. Hello, Alys, Jena. What an absolutely breathtaking sari, Jena, and such lovely jewellery.’
Jena nodded thanks at the compliments.
‘Qitty, have you lost weight? I was expecting a watermelon, but you look like a cantaloupe tonight. You have such a pretty face; why don’t you try to lose some of your chunkiness? Look at Lady! Slim ’n’ trim!’ Naheed said approvingly as Lady rejoined her family. ‘But, Lady, aren’t you cold in sleeveless? Mari, you look very un-fresh compared to your sisters. Sherry, oho’ – Naheed gave Sherry a terribly sweet smile – ‘tum bhi pahunch gayee NadirFiede. You’ve also managed to make it to NadirFiede.’
Sherry flushed, but before she could answer, Gin and Rum decided to greet everyone with air kisses and cries of ‘Bon-joor, bon-joor, bon-joor.’
‘Hain? What?’ Mrs Binat said, air-kissing the fidgety girls. They had so much foundation on, she could smell the chemicals.
‘I’m so sick of the girls’ French!’ Naheed said, clearly not sick of it at all. ‘Ever since they’ve earned their fluency certificates from the Alliance Française, it’s parlez vois this and parlez vois that.’
‘Not vois, Ama, vous, vous,’ Gin and Rum said together. ‘Vous. Vous.’
Naheed swallowed a withering reprimand to her daughters. ‘I keep reminding these two future Dilipabad superstars to stop the French talk with me and wait until they go to fashion school in Gay Paree.’
‘Gaypari?’ Mrs Binat asked. ‘O kee? What is that?’
‘Paris, Aunty, Paris,’ Rum said. ‘Paris is also called Gay Paree, because it’s fun time all the time and not because of any gay thing, in case you were wondering. Not that there’s anything wrong with anything gay. It’s becoming very fashionable these days to have at least one gay friend, and we hope to make one once we get there.’
Everyone tried their best to look impressed, except Lady, who was genuinely impressed.
‘Paris!’ Lady squealed. ‘Hai, lucky! Acha, you had better give me discounts, because I’m already booking you both for making my shaadi-ka-jora, my only stipulation being that I want motay-motay, fat-fat, diamantés on the bodice.’
‘Ah oui! Oh yes!’ the twins said. ‘Though we still have to apply to fashion schools in Paris and get in.’
‘You’ll both get in,’ Naheed said tersely. ‘Lady, aren’t you in a bit of a premature rush to book your wedding outfit? You have four unmarried older sisters ahead of you. Let’s hope the next wedding we attend will be Jena’s, inshallah.’
‘Inshallah,’ Mrs Binat said. ‘God willing.’
They were interrupted by the unmistakable dhuk-dhuk-dhuk of the hired drummers who always accompanied bride-and-groom parties and whose beating drums no one could resist, at the very least, tapping their feet to. Cries arose: ‘The boy’s family is here!’ Fiede Fecker’s cousins and friends – including Lady, who merrily joined the bridal party – grabbed platters of rose petals and lined up by the entrance.
‘Here come the eager pigeons,’ Sherry whispered to Alys as Nadir Sheh’s family and friends entered, dancing to the drummers. Laughter broke loose as petals were showered left, right, and centre. The drummers changed beat every few minutes as the family entered, some dancing, some carrying baskets of flowers and trays of mixed sweets, others candles in earthen diyas, the oil lamps illuminating excited faces. Nadir Sheh had invited a few of his London university friends, and all were keeping up well with the dholak beat.
The bridegroom’s party was led to the reserved chairs with red bows in front of the stage, and Nadir Sheh climbed up the stage and settled on one of the two baroque armchairs as if it was a throne and this his coronation. He sat with arms akimbo and legs splayed in his dandy outfit: an orange silk kurta topped with a heavily embroidered red waistcoat above a starched-to-death cream boski shalwar, and his feet were clad in the pointiest golden wedding khusse.
The guests turned for Fiede Fecker’s grand entry. Again the drummers drummed up a frenzy as the bride’s cousins and friends came in with platters of mehndi embedded with bangles, candles, and flowers. They were followed by Fiede’s male cousins carrying a palanquin, in which sat Fiede Fecker, peeping through a curtain of marigolds. They rested the palanquin at the side of the stage, and Fiede’s father helped her out and led her to the armchair next to Nadir Sheh. Fiede was wearing a vermilion shalwar kurta and a yellow dupatta pinned strategically to accentuate her long, flat-ironed hair. Fresh rosebud and jasmine hoops dangled from her ears and matched her floral bracelets.
Once the groom and bride were seated side by side, their immediate family members proceeded with the mehndi rituals. Nadir Sheh’s mother, aunts, and female cousins began to dance a luddi around the henna platters they’d brought, circling the platters to the drumbeat and changing their dance steps for each new circumambulation. The guests looked on politely, clapping and chatting among themselves and wondering when the synchronised dances would begin, after which dinner would be served.
There were quite a few BSD students with their families present at the wedding, and they kept passing shyly by Alys, Jena, and Sherry, giggling as students are apt to do when they see teachers out of context. The r
ecently engaged Tahira introduced her fiancé to them. He had an open, honest face and duly informed them that they were all Tahira’s favourite teachers. He looked like a nice person, Alys thought, and she hoped he was. She managed to slip in how nice it would be if Tahira might finish secondary school after marriage, perfectly doable, and she was glad to see that he did not dismiss the suggestion outright.
Rose-Nama, crusader for duty and tradition, was here too. She and her mother had taken one look at Alys, their faces going sour, and had begun to mutter among themselves, Alys was sure, about how the Feckers had invited every aira gaira nathu khaira – every Tom, Dick, and Harry – as if it was a mela, a funfair, and not the Dilipabad wedding of the year.
‘If Fiede sits any closer to Nadir,’ Sherry whispered to Alys, ‘she’s going to end up in his lap. Nadir’s mother looks like she’s going to faint over Fiede’s lack of decorum.’
‘So does Fiede’s mother,’ Alys said.
Fiede Fecker was clearly finding it hard to look down demurely, as befit a proper bride-to-be. She was whispering away to Nadir Sheh and boldly surveying the tent to check out who was in attendance. But, then, Sherry noted, she was Fiede Fecker, Dilipabad’s honorary princess, and therefore whatever she did would be considered proper and, soon enough, fashionable.
‘I hope,’ Alys said, ‘Lady doesn’t get any ideas from Fiede Fecker. Do you remember how Fiede was supplying marijuana to those girls at school, and the only people who got in trouble were the girls, because Mrs Naheed dared not cross Fiede’s mother, who insisted Fiede was being framed?’