by Soniah Kamal
Sherry nodded. ‘Fiede’s mother would let her get away with murder.’
‘The only thing they didn’t let her get away with,’ Alys said, ‘was going to university.’
Dilipabad did not have a quality girls’ college, and Fiede’s parents did not want to send her to a boarding school. Instead, after completing secondary school, Fiede was sent on a consolation holiday to Amsterdam, to relatives who lived there. Out on the canal, Fiede’s boat bumped into Nadir Sheh’s boat. Nadir Sheh, attending university in London, was visiting Amsterdam during the spring holiday. He was attracted to Fiede’s long, bleached-blonde hair falling prettily onto her big Chanel bag. That Fiede was not bothered about world affairs or feminist rhetoric was the clincher for him.
On her part, Fiede had been enjoying Amsterdam very much – although the Anne Frank museum had made her very sad – but she was also missing her tribe terribly. Nadir Sheh’s upper-class Pakistani demeanour made her feel back home, and his genuine Hermès belt – Fiede had an eye for impostors – signalled to her that he would be someone her family would willingly accept. Though a love marriage, officially, the Feckers were telling everyone it was a purely arranged marriage so that no one could accuse Fiede of being ‘loose’ or ‘fast’.
‘That we should all have such happy endings,’ Sherry said, sighing, ‘if our boat bumps into someone else’s boat. I tell you, Fiede Fecker is not a pigeon, though she’s probably done everything but it, which makes her a part-time pigeon.’
‘I agree,’ Alys said. ‘Part-time pigeon.’
The dances began. Wedding dancing was the one avenue where girls from good families were allowed to publicly show off their moves. Lady, who loved to dance, was having a hard time remaining seated but, since she was neither family nor a close friend, she was not supposed to join in the revelry. As a guest, her role was that of spectator.
Nadir Sheh’s friends and family performed a synchronised dance they’d been rehearsing for weeks to a Pakistani number, ‘Ko Ko Korina’, which many guests would deem too obscure a choice for such a high-class wedding but, sigh, Nadir Sheh’s family was new money, after all.
Then it was Fiede Fecker’s family and friends’ turn to perform a dance. They’d chosen the double-entendre Indian song ‘Choli Ke Peeche Kya Hai’ – ‘What Lies Behind Your Blouse’ – and were greeted with enthusiastic applause. This was a siren song for Lady, and in a sudden frenzy she leapt onto the floor. Other dancers stopped to stare. Alys yanked Lady off the floor and looked at her sister so ferociously that Lady remained glued to her seat through the remaining dances.
Once the synchronised dances were over, the DJ played requests. Fiede Fecker’s friends and cousins started dancing, and Fiede decided, conventions be damned, this was her wedding and she was going to dance too. Who cared log kya kahenge – what people said – including her in-laws? And so she made history as the first bride in Dilipabad to dance at her own mehndi ceremony. Soon Nadir Sheh and his friends joined the freestyle dancing too.
Mrs Binat and the other Dilipabadi matrons looked on and tried to gauge if Nadir Sheh had delivered any fish worth hooking. Gyrating on the dance floor was a cement scion. An owner of a sanitary-napkin company. A hotelier heir. A sugar-mill proprietor – twice divorced, but so what? Money was money. Also dancing was the young owner of the British School Group, recently returned from America.
Naheed was dying to know who the BSG scion was, for Gin’s and Rum’s sake, but also because she planned to have a few words with him about the rumour that he was going to do away with school uniforms. Was the BSG scion the sweet-looking gangly fellow with a flop of sandy hair? Or the ballerina-looking guy dancing well enough to not be the laughing stock but awkwardly enough to draw chuckles? Who was the chap that looked like a cross-eyed polar bear and was jumping up and down as if he was at an aerobics class? And that elderly gentleman who kept shaking his bottom too close to the seated young girls – surely he had to be Uncle Sugar Mill. And who was that tall, good-looking boy with the fine eyes?
The food was finally served close to midnight. Ravenous guests rose en masse towards the food tent, where they would serve themselves from either side of the chafing dishes, creating ideal conditions for boys and girls who longed to accidentally flirt and fall in love, eyes meeting over sizzling entrees, fingers caressing fingers as serving spoons were exchanged. The Binats entered the tent, a smaller rainbow replica of the larger one. Lady and Mrs Binat headed straight for the buffet serving Italian food and loaded their plates with lasagna localised with green chillies and garlic bread infused with cumin. Sherry and Qitty headed for the Chinese buffet, piling their plates with egg fried rice and sweet-and-sour chicken. Alys, Jena, Mari, and Mr Binat helped themselves to the Pakistani buffet, their plates soon full of beef biryani, grilled seekh kebabs, tikkas, and buttered naan.
At the dessert table, Jena, Alys, and Sherry wished they’d eaten a little less dinner. Still, they managed to sample everything: gulab jamuns in sweet sticky syrup, firni gelled in clay ramekins and decorated with edible silver paper, snow-white ras malai, tiramisu cups and lemon custard tarts, kulfi ice cream and sweet paans from a kiosk preparing them fresh on the spot, the bright-green betel leaves stuffed with shredded coconut, betel nuts, fennel, rose-petal jam, sugar syrup, and then folded into perfect triangles.
Jena was taking a dainty bite of an unsweetened paan when she was approached by two girls with cascades of highlighted hair. Some extensions, for sure, she thought, and a healthy amount of make-up, just shy of too much. They were dressed exquisitely in heavily embroidered lehenga cholis with their flat midriffs bare, and diaphanous dupattas, clearly the work of an established designer. Jena noticed their single-strap matte-silver heels. She’d been searching for shoes like these, but all she’d been able to find were horrendous wide-strapped glittery platforms.
‘Where did you get your shoes?’ Jena asked, smiling her admiration.
‘Italy,’ one of the girls said. ‘I love the detailing on your sari blouse and border. Whose is it?’ She rattled off a few designer names.
Jena shook her head. ‘No designer. My tailor, Shawkat. He has a small shop in Dilipabad Bazaar.’
‘Oh, I see.’ The girl’s face fell for a second. ‘I’m Humeria Bingla – Hammy.’
‘And I’m Sumeria Bingla – Sammy,’ said the other girl. ‘Actually, Sumeria Bingla Riyasat. I’m married. Happily married.’
‘Jena Binat,’ Jena said. She proceeded to introduce Alys, Mari, and Sherry. Hammy turned to Sherry with a huge smile.
‘Are you Sherry Pupels from the Peshawar Pupels clan?’ she asked. ‘The politician’s wife?’
‘No,’ Sherry said. ‘I am Sherry Looclus from Dilipabad, born and bred.’
Alys would swear Hammy-Sammy’s noses curled once they realised that Sherry was not the VIP they’d mistaken her for.
‘Hi.’ It was the sweet-looking sandy-haired fellow.
‘And this,’ Hammy said, turning as if the interruption was preplanned, ‘is our baby brother, Bungles.’
‘Fahad Bingla,’ he said.
‘Bungles,’ Hammy said firmly. ‘Because, when we were children, he kept bungling up every game we’d play, right, Sammy?’
‘Right, Hammy,’ Sammy said.
‘And,’ Hammy said, ‘he’d still keep bungling up if Sammy and I didn’t keep him in check.’
Bungles laughed and shook his head. He held his hand out to Jena. Jena shook it and Bungles held on for a second too long. Jena blushed. Bungles shook hands with Alys and Sherry, but Mari wouldn’t shake his hand, because, she said, Islam forbade men and women touching.
‘Are you all very Islamic?’ Hammy said.
‘Clearly not,’ Alys said, a little annoyed, though she wasn’t sure whether it was at Mari’s self-righteous piety or Hammy’s supercilious tone. ‘Anyway, this is Pakistan. You’ve got very religious, religious, not so religious, and non-religious, though no one will admit the last out loud, since atheism is a crime punishabl
e by death.’
‘What a font of knowledge you are, babes!’ Hammy said. ‘Isn’t she, Sammy?’
‘She is,’ Sammy said, as she turned to a stocky man lumbering towards her with a cup of chai. ‘All, this is my husband, Sultan “Jaans” Riyasat. He’s thinking about entering politics. Jaans, all.’
Jaans gave a short wave before plopping into a nearby chair, his stiff shalwar puffing up around him. He patted the empty seat beside him. Sammy glided over, perching prettily, ignored the fact that Jaans was taking huge swigs from a pocket liquor flask. She proceeded to take elegant sips of her chai.
The out-of-town guests had come to Dilipabad to attend the mehndi ceremony tonight and the nikah ceremony the next day and were staying at the gymkhana.
‘So basically, babes, we’re bored,’ Hammy said. ‘We got into Dilipabad two days ago, because Nadir wanted to make sure everyone was here, but there’s literally nothing to do. We went to that thing this town calls a zoo, with its goat, sheep, camel, and peacock. And we went to the alligator farm and stared at alligators, who stared back at us, and I told them you can’t eat me but I’ll see you in Birkin. And Nadir and Fiede arranged for a hot-air-balloon tour over what amounted to villages and fields.’
‘The hot-air balloon sounds like fun,’ Alys said. ‘A bit of Oz in Dilipabad. You know, The Wizard of Oz?’
‘Babes, for real, it was all green and boring,’ Hammy said. ‘What do you locals do for fun in D-bad?’
‘We have three restaurants,’ Jena said. ‘And a recently opened bakery-cafe, High Chai.’
‘Oh dear God!’ Sammy said. ‘Fiede took us there yesterday.’
‘There was a hair in my cappuccino,’ Hammy said. ‘A long, disgusting hair.’
‘And the place smelt like wet dog,’ Sammy said.
‘We’ve been multiple times and everything was quite lovely,’ Jena said. ‘Nothing but the scent of freshly baked banana bread. And the staff wore hairnets and gloves.’
‘Oh my goodness, Jena!’ Hammy took Jena’s hand and stroked it as if she was speaking to a child. ‘The hair was bad enough, but the Muzak was some crackly throwback tape that played “Conga” and “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” on repeat. Get with it, D-bad. It’s the year 2000.’
Alys was suddenly offended on behalf of ‘D-bad’.
‘I’m sure the hair was an aberration,’ she said. ‘And you should have asked them to change the songs.’
‘Oh,’ Hammy said. ‘We abhor being a bother!’
‘Yes,’ Sammy said. ‘We’re guests. Passers-through. If you locals are happy with the state of things, why should we try to change anything? We can live without fun for a few days. Right, Hammy?’
‘Right, Sammy,’ Hammy said. ‘Boredom is a bore, not a killer.’
‘And what,’ Alys asked, ‘according to you constitutes fun?’
Before Hammy-Sammy could answer, Lady, Qitty, and the fine-eyed guy on the dance floor descended upon the group at the same time. Alys glanced at him. His eyes were intensely black, with thick lashes their mother always claimed were wasted on men, as was his jet-black hair, which fell neatly in a thick wave just below his ears. He was taller than Bungles and had broader shoulders. He frowned and glanced at his expensive watch, and Alys noted that he had sturdy forearms and nice strong hands. Lovely hands.
‘Hello,’ Lady said. She was carrying a bowl full of golden fried gulab jamuns. ‘Have you tried these? To die for. Isn’t this the best wedding ever? I have a good mind to tell Fiede to get married every year.’
‘Is that so?’ Hammy said. ‘I’m sure Fiede will be thrilled at your suggestion. And who are you?’
‘Aren’t you,’ Sammy said, ‘the girl who crashed the dance floor?’
Lady nodded, unabashed, even though her sisters cringed.
‘I’m Lady, their sister.’ Lady pointed to Jena, Alys, and Mari. ‘And this is our other sister, Qitty.’
‘I can speak for myself,’ Qitty said. ‘Hello.’
‘But a moment ago,’ Lady said, ‘you told me you’d eaten so much you could no longer speak.’
‘Because I didn’t want to speak to you,’ Qitty said.
‘Qitty!’ Alys said. ‘Lady!’
‘Ladies’ Room,’ Jaans called from his chair. ‘Everyone wants to go to the Ladies’ Room. Is it open?’
‘Oh, you!’ Sammy smacked her husband on his hand. ‘Such a joker.’
The guy with the intense eyes and lovely hands, Alys noted, was watching as if he’d decided the entire world was a bad comedy and it was his punishment to witness every awful joke.
‘Bungles,’ he said, ‘if you’re done entertaining yourself, can we—’
Bungles interrupted him. ‘This is one of my best friends, Valentine Darsee.’
‘Valentine,’ Hammy said, ‘say a big hearty hello to the sisters Binat and their friend Cherry.’
‘Sherry,’ Sherry said, flushing.
‘Sherry,’ Hammy said. ‘My sincere apologies.’
Darsee seemed to be taking his time giving them a big hearty hello, Alys thought, but before he could get to it, Lady began to laugh uncontrollably.
‘Valentine!’ Lady doubled over. ‘Were you born on Valentine’s Day?’
Spittle sprayed out of Lady’s mouth, and Darsee and Hammy jumped out of the way, revulsion on their faces.
‘Lady!’ Jena said, mortified.
‘Oops!’ Lady wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘Sorry. Sorry.’
‘I’m sure you are,’ Hammy said. ‘But I’m not sure I’m getting the joke. Valentine is such a romantic name.’
Everyone waited for Darsee to say something, but after several moments Bungles spoke up.
‘Valentine’s late mother,’ Bungles said, ‘was a big fan of Rudolph Valentino, and she named him Valentino. The staff at the hospital mistook it for Valentine and, by the time anyone checked, the birth certificate was complete and so that was that, right, Val?’
Valentine Darsee gave a curt nod. It was unclear to Alys whether he couldn’t care less if they knew the origin story of his name or whether Lady’s spittle had caused him severe trauma.
‘Same thing happened with Oprah,’ she offered in a conciliatory tone.
‘Pardon me?’ Darsee said, as if he was seeing her for the first time and not liking what he saw.
‘Oprah. She was named Orpah, after a character in the Bible, but her name was mistakenly recorded as Oprah.’ Alys added, ‘I read it in Reader’s Digest, I think, or Good Housekeeping.’
Darsee turned to Bungles. ‘I’m going to check in with Nadir for the night and then head back to our room.’
He left without a smile, without a ‘pleased to meet you’, without even a cursory nod. Hammy at least nodded at the group before running after him. Lady decided to get more gulab jamuns and dragged Qitty with her. Sammy and Jaans turned to each other. Bungles explained, sheepishly, that Darsee had recently arrived from Atlanta, where he’d been studying for an MBA, and was still jet-lagged. Alys and Sherry exchanged a look: Valentine Darsee was the British School Group.
‘Jena,’ Bungles said. ‘Can I get you some chai? Dessert? Anything?’
‘Jena,’ Sherry said, ‘why don’t you and Bungles Bhai go get chai together?’
Bungles thought this a fabulous idea, and Jena, with no reason to refuse, walked with him to the tea table, where teas, pink, green, and black, were being served.
‘That was obvious,’ Alys said. ‘A great “grab it” move. My mother will be so proud of you.’
‘You and Jena need to listen to your mother once in a while,’ Sherry said. ‘Clearly Bungles Bhai is interested in Jena, and she needs to show a strong interest in return.’
‘She just met him,’ Alys said. ‘Two minutes ago.’
‘So?’ Sherry said. ‘If she doesn’t show interest, a million other girls will.’
‘If he’s going to lose interest because she’s modest, then perhaps he’s not worth it.’
‘Of course he’
s worth it. And aren’t you the sly one to use the word “modest”.’
‘Huh?’
‘“Modest sanitary napkins for your inner beauty, aap ke mushkil dinon ka saathi, the companion of your hard days,”’ Sherry said, spouting the jingle that played during the animated advertisement for Modest sanitary products. ‘Bungles, Hammy, and Sammy are Modest. They own the company. I recognise them from interviews. And soon our Jena will be Mrs Modest.’
‘You’ll be naming their children next.’ Alys shook her head. ‘They barely know each other.’
‘Plenty of time for them to get to know each other once they’re married.’
‘I think,’ Alys said, ‘better to get to know each other before deciding to get married.’
‘Big waste of time,’ Sherry said. ‘Trust me, everyone is on their best behaviour until the actual marriage, and then claws emerge. From what I’ve gleaned, real happiness in marriage seems a matter of chance. You can marry a seemingly perfect person and they can transform before your eyes into imperfection, or you can marry a flawed person and they can become someone you actually like, and therefore flawless. The key point being that, for better or for worse, no one remains the same. One marries for security, children, and, if one is lucky, companionship. Although,’ Sherry laughed, ‘in Valentine Darsee’s case, good luck on the last.’
‘I can’t believe Lady!’ Alys said. ‘No one deserves a spittle spray. Actually, I take that back. Hammy probably does deserve it.’
Ten minutes later, Alys believed Darsee deserved it too. She’d gone to congratulate Fiede and was about to climb down off the stage when she heard Bungles’s and Darsee’s voices. Their backs were turned to her and, despite knowing it was a bad idea to eavesdrop, Alys bent down to fiddle with her shoe.
‘Reader’s Digest?’ Darsee was saying. ‘Good Housekeeping? She is neither smart nor good-looking enough for me, my friend.’
‘I read Reader’s Digest,’ Bungles said, laughing.
‘Yes,’ Darsee said, ‘sadly, I know.’
‘You have impossible standards in everything,’ Bungles said. ‘Alysba Binat is perfectly attractive. But you’ve got to admit, Val, her elder sister is gorgeous.’