Unmarriageable

by Soniah Kamal

  Alys stepped into the tube-lit office. She could hear Musarrat Jr.’s booming voice from inside his office, saying, ‘Trust in God’. The receptionist looked at the recent letter Alys had received from them and told her to proceed into the office.

  Musarrat Jr. was hanging up the phone, and he beamed when he saw Alys.

  ‘Alysba Sahiba, it’s been a while! Please sit!’ He settled his paunchy self into his swivel chair. ‘Mr Binat is hale and hearty, I hope?’

  Alys assured him he was. She wished her father had not begged off coming just because money matters gave him palpitations.

  ‘Alysba Sahiba,’ Musarrat Jr. said, ‘as it says in the letter, the con man has re-entered the country and, because one of the claimants’ sons is a police officer, he is being questioned aggressively. Inshallah, soon there will be some resolution.’ He pressed a buzzer. A peon entered. ‘Check if Jeorgeullah Wickaam Sahib is back from court.’

  A few minutes later a young man entered. Alys blinked. He was film-star gorgeous, with chiselled features, dark-brown hair, and sleepy eyes the colour of rich chai. His white shirt tucked into grey trousers perfectly fit his well-muscled build. What good fortune, Alys thought as she sat up straighter and smoothed her floral sky-blue kurta over her scruffy jeans, that she wasn’t the sort of person who would be taken by looks alone.

  Musarrat Jr. introduced Alys and, with a proud smile, turned to the man.

  ‘Alysba Sahiba, Mr Jeorgeullah Wickaam, the lawyer newly assigned to your case and a rising star among youngsters.’

  Alys gave a polite, shy smile.

  ‘Wickaam grew up in Lahore, did a stint at a military academy, realised it was not for him, went to New York for studies, returned, and here is he willing and ready to serve the wronged citizens of his country.’

  Jeorgeullah Wickaam gave Alys a courteous nod, which also seemed to imply that while he perhaps deserved this flattery, it was nevertheless embarrassing.

  ‘First steps first,’ Musarrat Jr. said. ‘I suggest, Alysba Sahiba, you show Wickaam Sahib your disputed acre.’

  When they reached the Suzuki, Alys took out her keys from her bag and Jeorgeullah Wickaam sprang to open the driver’s-side door for her before he headed to the passenger side. Alys smiled to herself. Handsome, a rising star, polite. She could think of worse ways to spend an afternoon.

  As she expertly reversed the car into an onslaught of traffic, he turned towards her with a friendly smile and informed her that though the arrested man was being questioned thoroughly, the chances of monetary recompense were bleak.

  ‘Honestly,’ Alys said, stepping on the accelerator, ‘at this point a heartfelt admittance of guilt and a sorry would be very nice.’

  ‘Knowing how these rascals operate, I wouldn’t bank on heartfelt anything.’ He shrugged regretfully. ‘By the way, please call me Wickaam.’

  ‘Call me Alys.’

  ‘A-L-I-C-E?’

  ‘Pronounced the same but spelt A-L-Y-S.’

  ‘I had a kebab roll recently,’ Wickaam said. ‘It came wrapped in a magazine page with the photo of an elderly woman, and her name was A-L-Y-S …’

  ‘That’s Faiz Ahmed Faiz’s wife.’ Alys stopped at a light and glanced at him. He gave her a blank look. ‘Faiz? Poet, leader, communist, agnostic. His wife, Alys, was from England but she became a Pakistani citizen. Your meal came wrapped in her column.’

  ‘My apologies,’ Wickaam said.

  ‘No need to apologise,’ Alys said as the traffic light turned green.

  ‘True! It was a very good kebab roll.’

  Alys laughed.

  ‘Bol ke lab azad hain tere: Speak, your mouth is unshackled,’ Wickaam said, quoting Faiz. ‘Of course I know who Faiz is. I was just playing with you.’

  ‘Thank God,’ Alys said. ‘I was like, oh no, a lawyer ignorant of his country’s heritage.’

  ‘I think,’ Wickaam said, ‘you’ll be pleased to know that historical preservation is one of my great passions. Have you been to England?’

  ‘When I was much younger.’

  ‘With every step one is met by monuments to scientists, artists, thinkers. We Pakistanis have zero appreciation for anything except bargains and deals.’

  ‘Easier to commemorate history when you’ve been the coloniser and not the colonised.’

  ‘Whoa. I just meant history, not our purchases, should define us.’

  Alys gave a small smile. ‘I wrestle with how to incorporate history. Can any amount of good ever merit the interference of empire? Do we never speak English again? Not read the literature? Erasing history is not the answer, so how does a country put the lasting effects of empire in proper context? Not deny it, but not unnecessarily celebrate it.’

  Wickaam shrugged. ‘Best to concentrate on the future.’

  ‘But the future is built on a past, good and bad. It’s troubling when someone takes a book and makes a shoddy film out of it and then comes the day when no one has read the book and everyone thinks the shoddy film is the original.’

  ‘Come now.’ Wickaam winked. ‘You have to admit that films are better than books.’

  ‘Never!’ Alys said fiercely.

  Wickaam raised his hands, surrendering. ‘Tell me about yourself, A-L-Y-S. What is your great passion? Are you single? Married? Children? Am I getting too personal?’

  ‘It’s all right. Single. Happily single, much to the disappointment of many who prefer that single women be miserable. And I don’t know if it qualifies as a great passion, but I teach English literature.’

  ‘I knew I should have said I loved books! Now you’ll hate me!’

  ‘I won’t hate you!’ Alys exclaimed. ‘You were honest when most people would just say what’s expedient.’

  They arrived at the acre. Alys parked by a ditch next to a meadow. The late afternoon had grown chilly, and she took her black shawl with silver lining, which she’d flung onto the back seat, and wrapped it around herself. She and Wickaam walked onto the land, an expanse of grass with the scent of fresh earth.

  ‘What did you plan to do with this?’ Wickaam said.

  ‘My father was going to build his retirement home and homes for me and my four sisters. One big happy family till death do us part sort of a thing.’

  ‘That sounds so nice,’ Wickaam said. ‘It is a blessing to belong to a loving family.’

  ‘Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.’

  ‘Zaberdast! Wow!’ Wickaam said.

  ‘It’s from Anna Karenina. Tolstoy’s novel? Russian author?’ Alys smiled. ‘There is a film, I believe.’

  ‘I will watch it.’

  Laughing, they walked on, stopping at a small pond. A couple of boys were scrubbing buffaloes deep in muddy waters, shrieking as they flicked water at each other.

  ‘Photo op,’ Wickaam said. ‘Poor little naked brown children bathing with domesticated beasts of burden in beatific nature: an authentic exotic snapshot of rural health and happiness. I should sell such pictures abroad to make my fortune.’

  ‘I’m sure the idea has already been signed, sealed, and delivered,’ Alys said. ‘And won the Pulitzer.’

  ‘Oh well,’ Wickaam said, ‘I’m too late to every party. Mediocre luck.’

  ‘Mediocre luck is what I have too and I’m quite happy.’ Alys’s gaze followed a flame of a butterfly as it settled on a buffalo. ‘I mean, you might not be able to fly to London and Dubai for healthcare, but at least you’re not suffering because you can’t afford any.’

  ‘A-L-Y-S glass half full. I like that you’re content. Very lucky.’

  Alys blushed. ‘As content as a single girl in this country can be when all anyone ever asks her is why she isn’t married yet, and they tell her she better hurry up before her ovaries die. It’s you men who are lucky. You might be asked about your marriage plans, but everyone leaves you alone the second you mention career. If we women mention career, we’re considered aberrations of nature or barren.’

 
‘That’s because we bring home the bread and you bring home the baby and there’s no biological clock on bread and there is one on baby.’

  ‘We can do bread too,’ Alys said. ‘And as for baby, science allows for babies at any age now.’

  ‘A-L-Y-S, surely you don’t have to worry for a long time about any such thing.’

  ‘Flatterer!’ Alys laughed. ‘I’m thirty, soon to be thirty-one.’

  ‘You are not.’

  ‘I am!’

  ‘You don’t look it.’

  ‘Good, but I don’t really care. Age is just a number.’

  ‘That it is. I’m twenty-six.’

  They were quiet for a moment as they registered that he was younger than she.

  ‘Well,’ Alys said, ‘now that you’ve seen the acre, I guess we should head back.’

  As they walked to the car, Wickaam said, ‘If you’re free, Wagah border is not far from here, and if you haven’t had the pleasure yet of witnessing the Pakistani–Indian closing-of-the-border-gates ceremony, it’s truly an experience I recommend.’

  ‘My father took me as a birthday present ages ago,’ Alys said, ‘but I’d love to go again.’

  Alys and Wickaam chatted amiably about films and foods as she drove out of Lahore and entered the border village of Wagah, where the ceremony took place on the Pakistani side. On the Indian side, it took place in Attari village, which connected to the bigger city of Amritsar, home of the Sikh Golden Temple. Alys drove past sun-wrinkled women slapping dung patties to dry onto the outer walls of their mud huts, and she and Wickaam waved back at matte-haired children in bright sweaters who paused their play to wave at them.

  At the venue, Alys parked outside the red-brick amphitheatre overlooking the border gates. Last time she’d come, the stand had not been segregated, but now Wickaam entered the men’s enclosure and she the women’s. Climbing the stairs to the backmost row, she sat down at the end of an aisle beside a woman whose elaborate mehndi patterns on her palms and up her gold-bangled wrists indicated that she was a newly-wed. A crow swooped over their heads, startling them. Together they watched it fly between the trees on the Indian side and the trees on the Pakistani side, its guttural caw-caw-caw reverberating freely in the open air.

  The Pakistani and Indian spectators were sitting a stone’s throw away from each other – or a flower’s toss away, depending on international relations between the two countries on any particular day. The ceremony began. On the Pakistani side, a soldier beating a drum walked from the gates towards the audience. He was followed by mascot Chacha Pakistani, with his pristine white beard, holding aloft a Pakistani flag, the green representing the Muslim majority in the country and the white stripe the minorities. On this side, handheld flags fluttered green and white. On that side fluttered the tricoloured green, white, and saffron flags. The crowds on both sides cheered and roared their patriotism.

  ‘Pakistan Zindabad!’

  ‘Jai Hind!’

  Two giant soldiers from either side, rendered taller by their plumed turbans, stamped past each other in a mutual display of power. The two countries’ flags, hoisted over their respective gates, were rolled down in unison, until the next morning, and, with that, the gates to the Wagah–Attari border crossing closed for the evening.

  After more cheering and slogans, the audience headed out of the amphitheatres. Alys was milling outside the men’s enclosure, on the lookout for Wickaam, with a crowd swarming around her, when she bumped into somebody.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ Darsee said, his momentary confusion replaced by a quick smile. ‘What a surprise.’

  ‘I happened to be in the vicinity, believe it or not,’ Alys said, also flustered for a second, ‘and decided to see the ceremony.’

  ‘Bungles and I,’ Darsee said, nodding at Bungles, who appeared beside him, ‘are in charge of sightseeing for Nadir’s wedding guests from abroad.’

  Alys exchanged congenial hellos with the guests: Thomas Fowle, Harris Bigg-Wither, and his girlfriend, Soniah. She asked them if they were enjoying Pakistan, and they assured her that they were loving it. Pakistan was beautiful, Thomas Fowle said. The people were so friendly, Harris Bigg-Wither said. It was far from the mess they saw on the news, Soniah said. Alys smiled. She pointed to the shopping bags in Soniah’s hand.

  ‘I see you managed to squeeze in my mother’s favourite activity.’

  ‘Yes! We went to handicraft stores and open-air shops in A-naar-kaa-lee Bazaar. Darsee and Bungles were very helpful with the bargaining, they tell me. I got choo-naa-ree doo-pa-tuss, embroidered wallets, velvet-coated glass bangles, and some pure henna, different from the one I get back home in Addis.’

  ‘We’ve been to the Badshahi Mosque and the Sikh Temple,’ Bungles said. ‘Shalimar Gardens, the Wazir Khan Mosque, and now here.’

  ‘All in one day! I’m impressed!’ Alys said. ‘But you must be exhausted.’

  ‘Our feet,’ Soniah said, pointing to her sneakers, ‘are killing us, but so worth it.’

  Bungles peered over Alys’s shoulder. ‘Are your sisters with you?’

  ‘No,’ Alys said, grinning at his supposedly subtle enquiry about Jena.

  ‘There you are, Alys.’ Wickaam appeared, holding two bottles of chilled Pakola. ‘I was looking for you outside the women’s section.’

  Darsee and Wickaam set eyes on each other. Darsee blanched. He looked as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. Wickaam turned red. He squawked a hello. Darsee turned and marched away. Bungles mumbled a weak hello in response to Wickaam’s greeting and then, telling Alys he was looking forward to seeing her sisters at the NadirFiede walima, he hurried after Darsee, the visitors in tow.

  Alys took her Pakola and sipped slowly from the neon-green soft drink. Clearly something was amiss. Should she ask Wickaam directly? But how to ask without being intrusive?

  ‘Out of all the places to meet my dear cousin.’

  Alys nearly choked on her Pakola. ‘Valentine Darsee is your cousin?’

  ‘My first cousin. Our mothers are sisters. How do you know him?’

  Alys told Wickaam about meeting Darsee recently in Dilipabad at the NadirFiede wedding.

  ‘I see,’ Wickaam said. ‘I went to school with Nadir too, you know. I’m invited to the walima, but I’m not sure I’ll attend what with Darsee being there. There’s the myth of close cousins and then there’s Darsee and me. I bet you found him wonderful at the wedding.’

  ‘I certainly did not,’ Alys said. ‘No one did.’

  Wickaam brightened. ‘I’m not surprised. Darsee is a dreadful person who pretends to be a saint. He betrayed me. The betrayal is hard to talk about, though I’m perfectly happy to tell you.’

  ‘It would be my honour,’ Alys said, ‘to hear your story.’

  ‘Are you hungry?’ Wickaam said. ‘Pak Tea House cafe is close to the law offices on our way back. Have you ever been there?’

  Alys had always wanted to go to the illustrious Pak Tea House, established in 1940, and she eagerly followed Wickaam through the doors and into a snug hall. Men were seated at a few of the wooden tables. One was reading a newspaper, a cigarette smouldering in a glass ashtray. Another two were playing chess. Alys and Wickaam settled in a corner and Wickaam ordered chai and chicken patties. Alys gazed at the walls lined with photos of famous male novelists, poets, and revolutionaries who had once congregated here.

  ‘Where are the women writers?’ she asked.

  ‘Upstairs, I think,’ Wickaam said. ‘So, how does it feel, Miss English Literature, to be sitting here surrounded by Local Literati Legends?’

  ‘A little sad that they might have as much, if not more, to say to me than Baldwin or Austen, Gibran or Anzaldúa, but since I can’t read Urdu fluently, though I do try, that’s that. Anyway, hurrah for translations.’

  ‘Too much is lost in translation,’ Wickaam said. ‘I used to have an ayah, Ayah Haseena, whom I affectionately called Ayah Paseena. But while in Urdu the riff on Haseena/Paseena made perfect sense, in English tr
ying to rhyme “Beautiful” with “Perspiration” was nonsense.’

  ‘You gain in translation by opening up a new world unto others,’ Alys said. ‘Anyway, a translation is better than nothing. We ourselves are works in translation, in a way.’

  ‘You sound like Valentine Darsee.’

  ‘Do not insult me.’ Alys frowned.

  ‘My cousin is an insult!’ Wickaam grinned. ‘I’m planning to write a novel to expose him, and not because it’s fashionable these days to be a writer, ever since that Indian woman won the Booker Prize for the Small Thing something—’

  ‘The God of Small Things.’

  ‘Yes, that one,’ Wickaam said. ‘I haven’t read it. I don’t think I’ve read a novel since, oh, I don’t know, years.’

  ‘You’re planning to write a novel but you don’t read them?’

  ‘How hard can it be?’ Wickaam said. ‘We all jot down words. Just a matter of finding time.’

  ‘Since we all have a brain, I plan to perform brain surgery as soon as I have a spare moment.’

  ‘You’re funny,’ Wickaam said.

  The waiter arrived with their order. Wickaam poured chai into their cups and Alys added a splash of milk to hers. She bit into the rich flaky pastry with the spicy chicken filling.

  ‘Delicious! Listen, Wickaam, if you’d rather not tell me about Darsee—’

  ‘I have nothing to hide. I’m an open book. In fact, I believe it’s my duty to tell everyone what my cousin has done to me.’ He took a deep breath. ‘My maternal grandparents, as you know, are dey Baghs, descendants of royal gardeners and luminaries of this land. They had three daughters. The eldest is Beena, then Deena, and lastly Weena.