by Soniah Kamal
‘She is good-looking. But, please, stop foisting stupid, average-looking women on me.’
In the car on their way back home, Alys announced what she’d overheard. She laughed as she recounted Valentine Darsee calling her ‘stupid’, ‘average-looking’, and ‘neither smart nor good-looking enough’. However, Alys was not one to lie to herself: his words had stung. Valentine Darsee was handsome and he was wealthy, but obviously his upbringing had lacked classes on basic manners and etiquette: he was rude, he was disdainful, and he thought altogether too much of himself.
Mrs Binat agreed. She was most indignant. Never before had a single person doubted the beauty of her girls.
‘I hate Valentine Darsee,’ Mrs Binat declared, and proceeded to inform everyone of the Darsee family’s less-than-stellar background. Valentine’s mother was a dey Bagh, this was true, the crème de la crème. But his father’s family was another story. Although the Darsee clan had accumulated an immense fortune via the army, they did not come from noble stock. They were neither royalty, nor nawabs, nor even feudal landowners like the Binats. The Darsees descended, Mrs Binat announced, from darzees – tailors – and at some point their tradesman surname of Darzee had morphed into Darsee, or else, she suggested, squinting, an ancestor must have deliberately changed Darzee into Darsee on official certificates.
‘I wish you wouldn’t bring up everyone’s lineage all the time,’ Alys said. ‘Who cares?’
‘Good society cares,’ Mrs Binat said. She turned from the passenger seat, where she sat in Qitty’s lap, in order to glare at Alys. ‘Let this be a lesson to you to never attend another function not looking your absolute best. And don’t you dare sit in the sun any longer.’
‘I like my complexion dark,’ Alys said decisively.
Mrs Binat sighed. ‘Gone case.’
‘Oh God,’ Qitty groaned. ‘If Valentine Darsee thinks Alys is not pretty and a frump, he must think I’m ugly and a lump.’
‘I can assure you,’ Lady said, ‘Valentine Darsee was not looking at you. No one was.’
‘No one looked at you either,’ Qitty said, ‘except when you laughed like a hyena or embarrassed yourself by spitting or gallivanting onto the floor like a dancer-for-hire.’
‘Shut up, behensa – buffalo,’ Lady said.
‘You shut up, “Choli Ke Peeche”,’ Qitty said.
‘Both of you, shut up,’ Mrs Binat said. ‘For God’s sake, is this why I went through pregnancies and labour pains and nursed you both and gave myself stretch marks and saggy breasts? So that you could grow up and be bad sisters? How many times must I tell you: be nice to each other, love each other, for at the end of the day, siblings are all you have. Qitty, you are older than Lady. Can’t you just learn to ignore her?’
‘I’m barely two years older than her,’ Qitty sputtered. ‘We may as well be the same age.’
‘Stop laughing, Lady,’ Alys said. ‘Between spitting and dancing uninvited, what you did was unacceptable.’
‘But “Choli” is such a good song,’ Lady said.
‘All it takes is a good song for you to lose self-control?’ Alys asked.
‘What about Fiede Fecker?’ Lady demanded. ‘She crashed her own dance floor.’
‘She’s Fiede Fecker,’ Sherry said. ‘She can do whatever she wants to do.’
‘I want to be Fiede Fecker too,’ Lady said, angry tears appearing in her eyes.
‘Fiede Fecker’s mother-in-law looked most unhappy,’ Sherry said.
‘I was unhappy,’ Mari said, ‘at the dancing and singing, especially in an unsegregated gathering.’
‘Oh God!’ Lady said. ‘The high priestess has begun!’
‘Mari, if Allah forbade mixed company,’ Mr Binat said, without taking his eyes off the road, ‘then holy pilgrimages would be segregated.’
Mari decided to use her inhaler because she didn’t know what to say.
‘Live and let live, Mari,’ Alys said encouragingly.
‘You’re such a hypocrite, Alys,’ Lady said. ‘You don’t let me “live and let live”.’
‘You humiliated us, Lady,’ Jena said quietly. ‘You humiliated me. What must Bungles and his sisters be saying about us.’
‘Jena, don’t be angry with me,’ Lady said. ‘I apologised, didn’t I? Which is more than that fat man, Jaans, did after calling me “Ladies’ Room”.’
‘Jaans is hell-bound for sure,’ Mari muttered.
‘So is that arrogant Darsee,’ Mrs Binat said, ‘darzee ka bacha, son of a tailor.’
‘The truth is,’ Sherry said, balancing on Alys’s knees in the cramped car as Mr Binat swerved to avoid a donkey in the road, ‘whether Darsee descends from darzees or dhobis is immaterial because, at present, he is A list, and who can blame him for being proud and thinking no one is good enough for him?’
‘I’d allow him a smidgeon of an ego,’ Alys said, ‘if he hadn’t destroyed mine.’
‘He was having a private conversation, Alys,’ Jena said. ‘Not that any of what he said is true, but you weren’t meant to hear it, and I’m sure he’d be upset to know that you had and were hurt by it.’
‘Jena,’ Alys said, ‘can you please stop supposing people are nicer than they are?’
‘Our Jena is such a sweet soul,’ Mrs Binat said.
‘Doesn’t Darsee know pride comes before a fall?’ Alys asked. ‘Who the hell does he think he is!’
‘Your boss’s boss,’ Sherry said solemnly, ‘as it turns out.’
‘I’ll resign,’ Alys said.
‘You’ll do no such thing,’ Mrs Binat said sharply. ‘Barkat, tell your brainless daughter that she’d better not do anything impulsive. If anything, she should be asking for a raise.’
Mr Binat caught Alys’s gaze in the rear-view mirror.
‘Alysba, my princess,’ he said, ‘why are you letting some spoilt rich boy cause you a single second’s upset? You are not stupid. You are not unattractive. You are so smart. You are so beautiful. Let him look down on Reader’s Digest and Good Housekeeping. You should be proud that you are an equal-opportunity reader and will read whatever you can get your hands on – highbrow, middlebrow, lowbrow.’
‘Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him,’ Mari said, ‘is said to have said, “He who has in his heart the weight of an atom of pride shall not enter paradise.” In my humble opinion, pride is a fairly common sin, because everyone thinks very highly of themselves. And vanity is no different. We are vain because we want others to regard us as highly as we regard ourselves. He’s hurt your pride, Alys, because you are vain. In that respect, you and Darsee are the same.’
‘Be quiet, Mari,’ Mrs Binat said. ‘How can you compare your sister to that egotistical descendant of tailors, no matter how elite his schooling. But, his friend, Fahad Bingla – ahahahaha, perfection. All the girls were looking at him, and he was looking at you, Jena.’
Jena blushed.
‘Bungles seems very sweet,’ Alys said. ‘But his sisters are not as nice as they pretend to be.’
‘I disagree,’ Jena said. ‘I thought Hammy and Sammy were very nice.’
‘They were very nice to you,’ Alys said, ‘and when someone is nice to you, of course you are bound to think they are nice.’
‘Bungles’s parents,’ Mrs Binat said, having got the full story from gossiping matrons, ‘live in California. His mother is an anaesthesiologist and very active in the Pakistani community, and his father made a fortune in start-ups. Fahad Bingla’s elder brother, Mushtaq, works with their father and is married to a lawyer named Bonita-Hermosa.’
Years ago, the Bingla family had made a trip to Lahore to get in touch with their roots, and the parents had decided to leave behind the eight-year-old Hammy-Sammy and seven-year-old Bungles, under their grandparents’ tutelage. The siblings had returned to America for university, but after graduating they’d returned to Lahore, because that was home for them.
Hammy and Sammy had long noticed a need for affordable feminine hygiene products in Pakis
tan and, with Bungles on board, the three siblings ‘borrowed’ money from their parents and set up Modest. The company soon outperformed their modest expectations, thanks to God’s blessings, their hard work, and the demand for good-quality, reasonably priced sanitary napkins and adult nappies. Also, Mrs Binat had been told, they regularly threw good parties and get-togethers and thus became popular on the social scene.
However, not hailing from a pedigreed background could have its drawbacks, no matter having attended the best of schools, and so Sammy had married Sultan ‘Jaans’ Riyasat, a shabby-chic nawab – meaning he came with a coveted surname but zero money. The union turned Sammy and her future children into Riyasats and, thanks to her, Jaans came into money once again. Hammy was on the lookout for an equally illustrious catch.
‘As for Fahad Bingla, he has chosen Jena.’ Mrs Binat beamed. ‘And mark my words, by tomorrow, inshallah, she will be engaged to him. We’ll throw a fancy func—’
‘Pinkie,’ Mr Binat said. ‘Can you please wait until this Bungles fellow proposes before planning functions.’
‘You proposed to me at first sight,’ Mrs Binat said with quiet pride. She had lucked out on looks alone, and it was the defining moment of her life.
‘That was a different era,’ Mr Binat said. But he smiled blissfully, for he was forever tickled at having pulled off a love-at-first-sight marriage in a time where arranged marriage was the norm.
‘You watch,’ Mrs Binat said, with a knowing nod. ‘Fahad “Bungles” Bingla will propose to Jena tomorrow during the nikah ceremony. I am certain of it – otherwise, I promise you, I will eat my shoe.’
CHAPTER SIX
The next day dawned sunny but cold. Mr Binat decided that he needed to recover from the previous night’s stimulations and was not going to attend the nikah. Mrs Binat did not argue, for if she allowed him to miss this, then he would have to agree to attend the final ceremony, the walima, in Lahore. Mr Binat, oblivious to his wife’s calculations, happily went into the garden to inspect his spider plants, his fingers tenderly smoothing the variegated, long leaves as he wiped them free of debris.
The Binat girls spent the morning beautifying themselves in the courtyard. Mrs Binat was very strict when it came to beauty regimens and only allowed home-made products. She’d risen early and whipped up face masks of rosewater and ground chickpeas for Jena, Alys, and Lady, who had oily skin, and for Mari and Qitty, who had dry skin, she added a drop of almond oil into the mixture.
Mrs Binat sat her daughters before her and vigorously massaged their hair with organic cold-pressed mustard oil, on which she’d spent a pretty penny. Jena wordlessly took the special hand mask made for her from oatmeal and lemon juice, which would soften her hands since, her mother insisted, they were going to be the focal point tonight on account of the soon-to-be-acquired engagement ring. The waxing woman arrived and duly waxed each girl, gossiping the whole time, whether they cared for it or not. Tailor Shawkat arrived in case their outfits required last-minute alterations.
Mrs Binat’s choices for the girls’ attire this evening were long flowy chiffon anarkalis with mukesh- and zari-embroidered bodice and hem, matching dupattas paired with matching silk thang pyjamas and jewellery courtesy of Ganju jee, and topped with expensive shawls. Mrs Binat wanted Jena to once again stand out as the epitome of purity and had picked for her white chiffon – paired, however, with a real diamond set. Hillima was handed the five outfits to iron and, because she wanted the girls to dazzle, she diligently pressed out each wrinkle.
After she was done, Hillima laid out each girl’s outfit on her bed. Jena was finishing up her prayers, and after folding the prayer rug, she thanked Hillima. She was terrified, she said. She should be, Hillima replied; grabbing a man was much harder than it sounded, but all their combined prayers should deliver positive results, and, reciting a quick prayer, she blew it over Jena.
Closer to mid afternoon, as the girls began to bathe, Mr Binat scrubbed the soil off his hands and prepared to drive his daughters to Susan’s Beauty Parlour for their hair appointments. Although Mrs Binat had been willing to spend money on a driver’s salary, she’d ultimately decided against the hire, because having Mr Binat drive the girls around was one of the few ways she could compel him to leave the house. Alys was the only one not going to Susan’s for a blow-dry. Anyway, Alys seldom went to Susan’s for anything. In fact, Mrs Binat was quite sure that her silly daughter would discard the teal chiffon she’d picked for her and instead choose something dowdy. Clothes were women’s weapons, Mrs Binat often told Alys, but God forbid that girl heeded her words. And so Mrs Binat was enormously surprised and delighted when she saw Alys take an interest in her appearance for the first time in a long time and hand Hillima the teal chiffon to iron.
Alys found herself slipping into her mother’s chosen outfit, jewellery, and black pashmina, one of ten in various colours Mrs Binat always thanked God she’d had the foresight to purchase when she’d had money to spend on pure pashminas and shahtooshes.
Alys sat before her dressing table and applied liquid cat-eye liner on her upper lids, a nice flick of mascara, and painted her lips with a red pencil that deepened her tan. Unlike her sisters, who were getting their long hair blow-dried into the desirable waves or straightened, Alys rubbed lavender-scented gel though her hair and finger-dried her tight curls. Lady, returning from the parlour in big hair, took one look at Alys and whistled, a compliment she usually reserved for Jena, who was looking ethereal in her white chiffon ensemble and diamonds.
Come evening, Alys drove them through a thick fog to the gymkhana. Since Mr Binat and Sherry were not going – the potbellied suitor was scheduled for a look-see that evening – there was plenty of space in the car, which automatically quelled a few spats between Lady and Qitty. Also, the sisters had tacitly agreed to get along tonight on account of it being the night one of them was finally going to get engaged.
At the gymkhana, a red carpet led the Binats to the main entrance, where Mr and Mrs Fecker welcomed guests into the great hall. The hall was festooned with curtains of golden gauze and marigolds galore, and illuminated by bright yellow lighting. Round tables were topped with pleated cream cloths and crystal and yellow rose centrepieces. A perk of the Binats’ punctuality was being able to choose a good table, and Mrs Binat headed for one close to the wedding stage, where the nuptials would take place. Once her daughters were seated, she caressed Jena’s cheek and declared that it wouldn’t be long now and she was sure it would be a big and sparkling solitaire.
Waiters in white uniforms with gold buttons were serving fresh seasonal juices, and soon the Binats were sipping foamy pomegranate juice. Slowly, the hall began to fill up. Men arrived in suits and ties and women in multitudinous loud hues, their ears, necks, wrists, and fingers drowning in gold, diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and emeralds. As Mrs Binat suspected, her daughters once again stood out, this time like graceful nymphs among the gaudy and the gauche.
‘There should be a mandatory note,’ Mrs Binat mumbled to her daughters, ‘on wedding invitations, saying: “Please do not try to out-bride the bride.”’
‘Mummy,’ Lady said, starting in on her third glass of juice, ‘you are always so right. We will put that note on Jena’s wedding invite and also on mine.’
A ripple went through the guests at the news that the governor, or at least one of his family members, was to make a special guest appearance, as was a general who might or might not be harbouring dreams of coups and presidential palaces. But Mrs Binat had eyes only for Bungles’s arrival.
The groom and his retinue arrived respectably late, amid the customary fanfare of beating drums and rose-petal shower. Nadir Sheh, in a custom-made sherwani with a tall crimson turban, graced the stage and sat on a velvet sofa. Fiede Fecker, soon to be Fiede Sheh, had all this while been secreted away in a bridal waiting room with her excited friends, impatiently anticipating Nadir’s arrival. When Fiede made her grand entrance, everyone fell silent.
‘Someone
must have had a few words with Fiede Fecker,’ Lady whispered to Qitty, because Fiede was walking with her head bowed like an obedient bride, or else the bulky crimson dupatta she had pinned to her bouffant was weighing her down.
Flanked by her parents, Fiede took her time walking down the red carpet all the way to the stage, because one only walked this walk once. The usual murmurs from the guests accompanied her: ‘beautiful bride’, ‘stunning outfit’. Though the truth was, Mrs Binat muttered to Jena, Fiede’s crimson-and-gold gharara was too ornate for her small frame. She looked like a child hiding in a pile of brocade curtains.
Fiede’s mother picked up her daughter’s voluminous skirt and helped her up the stage steps and seated her next to Nadir Sheh. It was announced that Fiede had not asked for the right of divorce on her marriage certificate, since to ask for this right was to begin one’s marriage inauspiciously. It was also announced that Fiede had agreed to an amount of haq mehr equivalent to the sum given during the Holy Prophet’s time by grooms to their brides and that she had agreed to this now-paltry figure because she was a pious woman and not at all money minded.
‘Easy to accept pennies and not be money minded when you have money,’ Mrs Binat snorted, ‘especially when you are the sole heir to your parents’ fortune.’
As soon as the bride and groom were seated and professional photographers began taking group shots, members of Nadir Sheh’s entourage were free to do as they pleased, and Bungles’s eyes sought out Jena.
‘Here he comes,’ Mrs Binat said, squeezing Jena’s arm as she nodded at Bungles striding towards them with his sisters at his heels. ‘Here he comes with the ring.’
Such was their level of expectation that all the Binats were shaken when Bungles did not drop to one knee and ask Jena to be his wife. Jena was so disoriented that it took Bungles saying hello thrice before she was able to respond.
Hammy and Sammy, looming behind their brother, took Jena’s delayed response as an obvious lack of interest and hoped this would jolt Bungles out of his crush. Last night the sisters had made enquiries into Jena’s family. Jena’s own reputation was blemish-free, but unfortunately, thanks to her parents, she still came stained. Jena was a Binat from her father’s side, but they were the penniless Binats of the clan; her father was ineffectual at business and estranged from his successful elder brother, which implied that Jena’s family did not value family ties. As for Jena’s mother’s lineage: beyond disastrous.