by Soniah Kamal
Before the Binat sisters could reply, Fazool laughed as if Moolee had cracked a great joke and then she adroitly turned her husband around, pushed him inside towards the party, and led everyone else indoors.
‘What delights has Moolee been smoking?’ Darsee asked Fazool as they entered the marble entrance with its winding staircase next to a piano with a vase full of blue twigs.
‘Who knows?’ Fazool said. She led them through the entrance and into a glass-panelled corridor alongside the garden and towards the music. ‘Since it’s Happy New Year, I’ve let him off the leash a little.’ She smiled gallantly. ‘And he has let me off my leash too. Fun! Fun! Fun! For me, for him, for everyone. Anyway, he’s harmless, Valoo, you know that!’ Fazool linked arms with Darsee.
‘Val, you’ve become way too sombre,’ Jaans said tipsily, linking arms with Fazool. ‘You need to learn to live and let live.’
Darsee shrugged. ‘Live and let live does not mean living consequence free.’
Jaans sighed. ‘You used to be so much fun before you went to America, behen chod, sisterfucker.’
‘Mind your language, Jaans,’ Darsee said, as Bungles rested a calming hand on his shoulder. ‘I don’t care how much you’ve had to drink.’
‘Ja-ans!’ Sammy pouted. ‘How many times should I tell you not to say behen chod, sisterfucker. It’s so insulting to women. Use your own gender and say bhai chod, brotherfucker.’
Alys glanced at her sisters. Lady was thrilled. Mari looked about to faint. Jena and Qitty looked shaken at how casually such expletives were being bandied about. Even Bungles was looking embarrassed and Darsee’s jaw was clenched.
‘Come on now, people,’ Fazool said, laughing, ‘no fighting on New Year’s. That’s a rule. The party is in the living room, the drawing room, and out by the swimming pool.’
Alys watched as Bungles whisked Jena away and Sammy, Jaans, Fazool, Moolee, and Hammy, pulling Darsee along, gambolled towards a room pulsing with disco lights. Lady and Qitty followed them, as did Mari, who’d only come in order to observe first-hand the misguided partiers of Pakistan, so that she would know exactly which preaching methods to employ in the future to return them to the sirat-ul-mustaqim, the path of the righteous.
Alys followed her sisters into the disco room. It was full of men and women lounging on settees. All nursed obese glasses of wine, cigarette smoke clouding every face. A few shimmied on the makeshift dance floor. Clusters of friends hung out by the bar, the bottles of Scotch, vodka, gin, and wine twinkling under the bright bar lights.
The Binat sisters ordered orange juices from the bartender, a Punjab Club waiter in his white uniform with plumed turban. Once they got their drinks, Alys seated them on a sofa. Then she left to explore the other rooms, where it was all the same, except hip-hop played in the dimly lit drawing room, where billiards was in full swing, and techno pulsed by the aquamarine swimming pool, where the guests lolled under the starlit sky.
Alys looked for Jena but couldn’t find her. She wished Sherry had agreed to tag along; they would have had a fine time deconstructing this social circus. Alys circled back to the disco room. Mari and Qitty were on the sofa, watching Lady dancing by herself to ABBA’s ‘Money, Money, Money’. After Alys decided Lady was in no harm or doing any harm, she went in search of a toilet. She passed by walls full of the most insipid art: pastoral paintings of mustard fields, watercolour sketches of rowdy-haired men on horses, and Quran calligraphy, which, according to Nona, was all the rage these days for both the pious and the not-so-pious art collector.
Alys passed by one young man instructing another young man on how to most effectively snort the cocaine he’d been guaranteed was going to be the time of his life. A young woman was complaining about how her bootlegger was charging her more for alcohol than her male friends just because she was a woman. A few steps on, a cricket star Alys had only seen on TV was politely listening to a mediocre but well-connected musician telling him that, though a dud at the game himself, he had advice for the cricketer’s bowling. Passing by two men, Alys realised that one was Qazi of QaziKreations and the other was another fashion designer frequently featured in Social Lights. They were engaged in debate: ‘You’re awesome, you’re awesome,’ ‘No, you are, no, you are.’ Then she stumbled upon Sammy and Jaans in a passionate embrace, whispering urgent terms of endearment – ‘parasite’, ‘upstart’ – and Alys tapped Sammy on the shoulder: ‘Where’s the toilet?’
On the way back, Alys passed by a room with the door half open: a library. Curiosity overcame her. Which books graced Fazool and Moolee’s shelves? She was skimming a cherrywood shelf of leather-bound classics, which she found were hollow—
‘We meet again.’
‘Shit!’ Alys spun around, a hollow book almost falling out of her hands.
It was Darsee. He was stretched out in a chaise longue, a tumbler of Scotch by his side.
‘You scared me,’ Alys said, annoyed. ‘What are you doing in here?’
‘What do you think I’m doing?’ Darsee held up a tome: Betty and Veronica Double Digest. ‘I just got back to the country, and I’m in no mood yet for Jaans and Moolee, et cetera. Their entire life’s purpose has begun to boil down to “drink until you drop, preferably daily”, while Sammy and Fazool, et cetera, are getting PhDs in congratulating themselves on being amazing. Ridiculous. Prefer it here, reading.’
Alys gazed at him for a long second, then said, ‘Looks like you and I seem to share this preference, given that we’re both in here instead of out there making fools of ourselves.’
‘I don’t know if I’d say you could ever make a fool of yourself. As for me, I think definitely not.’
Alys blurted, ‘I hear it’s more your scene to force your relatives into becoming fools.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Jeorgeullah Wickaam. Your cousin. The cousin you’ve treated abominably.’
‘I treated abominably!’ Darsee’s face turned livid.
‘Wickaam told me everything.’
‘I know you have a very high opinion of yourself,’ Darsee said, ‘but you don’t know anything about Wickaam and, trust me, you don’t want to know. My advice to you is stay far away from that guy. Far, far away.’
‘Why? Oh, but of course, because he didn’t salute your highness and kiss your ass!’
‘Salute me! Kiss my ass! I find such behaviour repellent.’
‘How could you cheat your own cousin out of his inheritance? How could you betray someone who is like a brother to you?’
Darsee got up and strode out of the library.
After Alys regained her composure, she rejoined the party, keeping one eye out for Darsee in order to stay far, far away from him. In the disco room, Lady was dancing on a tabletop to Donna Summer’s ‘Love to Love You Baby’. She was dancing with Shosha Darling, who kept yelling to no one and everyone, ‘Be a winner, baby, don’t be a loser.’
Both Lady and Shosha were sandwiched between a geriatric socialite Alys recognised from Social Lights and the host Moolee. Fazool was clapping and encouraging her husband to give Lady all his tingling-mingling.
Alys yanked Lady off the table. Lady gave Alys a murderous look as Alys plonked her beside Qitty, who was browsing through a coffee-table book on Islamic art history.
Alys whispered furiously to Qitty, ‘Didn’t you see how those men were dancing with your sister? Why didn’t you stop her?’
‘I tried,’ Qitty said crossly, ‘but she started calling me fat in front of everyone, and then that senior citizen looked me up and down and said, “Mashallah, sehatmand sister” – healthy sister.’
‘Tch!’ Alys looked around. ‘Where’s Mari?’
She spied Mari standing behind the refreshments table, nibbling on mini cheesecakes, her dupatta chastely spread over her chest, her smug expression suggesting she was witnessing hell to her heart’s content.
Alys was about to go to Mari when Hammy came upon her.
‘Alys,’ Hammy said, ‘may I speak to you
for a second?’
Alys followed Hammy into the entrance, where it was a little quieter.
‘Listen,’ Hammy said, ‘I just want to let you know that Valentine left the party in a huff. I know you brought up Wickaam, and so I say the following to you with the best of intentions: there is bad blood between the two cousins, and it is not Val’s fault. I don’t know the exact details, but I do know that Wickaam is a dishonourable man and that he’s done something truly unforgivable to Val, and it’s unfair that you should annoy Val like this. Of course, Val requires no defence, but still I thought it my duty to speak up for him.’
‘I’m sure you thought it your duty,’ Alys said.
‘Wickaam is a scoundrel.’
‘According to whom?’ Alys said.
‘Valentine!’ Hammy said. ‘Valentine!’
‘I see,’ Alys said. ‘Darsee speaks and you believe.’
Hammy squinted. ‘It seems to me that Wickaam speaks and you believe.’
‘Yes, I do,’ Alys said.
‘Suit yourself.’ Hammy raised her brows. ‘Well, do enjoy the party, and see you around, I guess. Happy New Year.’
Alys watched Hammy head towards the pool. She certainly didn’t sound the way the sister of a man who was about to propose should sound to the sister of the girl he was going to propose to.
‘Alys!’ It was Jena. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’
‘I was looking for you,’ Alys said.
‘I want to leave. We need to leave. Why did we even come?’
‘What’s wrong?’ Alys frowned. ‘What’s happened?’
Jena’s eyes filled for a second, but she hardened her face. ‘Darsee dragged, and I mean dragged, Bungles out of here ten minutes ago. After which Sammy tells me that they’re all so exhausted attending NadirFiede that she, Jaans, Hammy, Bungles, Darsee, and his sister, Jujeena, are going to the Maldives for rest and relaxation. She hopes to announce Bungles’s engagement to Jujeena Darsee when they return, and she’ll send me an invite.’
‘She’s bluffing.’
‘He didn’t propose, Alys.’ Jena’s voice cracked. ‘All these days, all these opportunities. I want to go home. I’m so tired. I never thought I’d say this, but I want to return to grading papers and making lesson plans and not dreaming about more.’
Alys and Jena quickly rounded up their sisters, despite Lady’s objections to leaving minutes before the New Year was going to be rung in, and they wished each other a Happy New Year in the car, quietly, without knowing when the stroke of midnight officially arrived and when it officially passed.
PART TWO
JANUARY–AUGUST 2001
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
What Will People Say
Log Kya Kahenge
PARTY SEEN: Fazool and Moolee Fazal of Cockatoo Interior Designs pulled off yet another rocking New Year’s Partay for 151 of their closest friends. The hip and happening crowd revelled till dawn. Funtastic music and a poolside countdown under the stars made this the scene to be seen. Eat your hearts out, the rest of you.
RIP MELODY QUEEN OF PAKISTAN: A little bird tells us that tempers were high in some quarters over the televised tribute to the late and great Madame Noor Jehan, whose sonorous voice has been wooing hearts for over six decades. ‘It should not,’ said one wannabe songstress, whose voice routinely scares the alley cats, ‘have been scheduled at the same time as my live concert.’
BIRTH OF A STAR: Demand is so high for up-and-coming designer Boobee Khan’s Nangaparbat Lawn Collection, we hear two eager customers slapped each other to be first in line. Congrats, Boobee! Watch out, Qazi! There’s yet another contender in town for the crown.
CHARITY POLO MATCH: Every lady should have a knight as gallant as eligible bachelor Fahad ‘Bungles’ Bingla to come to her rescue. Wouldn’t you agree, Jena Binat, damsel du jour?
The long school day finally ended, and Alys sat in the school van between Jena and Sherry. Outside, a late January drizzle abated, and Alys wound down the window for fresh air, only to be assaulted by the stench of burning rubbish. Jena was sitting with a hand to her head, her eyes shut tightly, and she barely shifted.
Mrs Naheed had called Alys in today. Alys thought Rose-Nama’s mother had lodged yet another grievance or was demanding yet another apology. Instead, to Alys’s shock, Mrs Naheed said she was getting complaints about Jena. Jena was zoning out during class, and, at times, leaving class altogether and not coming back.
Was Jena okay? Naheed had asked, her teeth gleaming. Did it have anything to do with that delicious fellow mentioned in Social Lights?
They’d been back in Dilipabad right after New Year’s and Alys – in fact, all the Binats – had hoped that with the school semester starting and life returning to its usual routine, Jena’s sadness would subside, but that had not been the case. Even worse, teachers would bring celebratory sweets to the staff room every day, and Alys wondered if, each time Jena was offered a ladoo or a barfi for a son’s promotion or a grandchild’s birth or some other happy occasion, it reminded her anew that, had things turned out differently, she’d also have been offering teachers celebratory sweets.
Jena had not cried or railed, at least not in front of them, but she’d been inordinately quiet on the subject, except to say that it was their mother who had promised that Bungles would propose and that he himself had never promised her anything. Mrs Binat was one minute full of ill will for Bungles, who, she claimed, had toyed with Jena, and the next minute upset with Jena, who, she accused, had thoughtlessly let him slip off her hook.
The van went over a bump and Jena’s eyes fluttered open. Alys gave her a big smile. Jena replied with a tiny smile. There were dark circles under her eyes and she looked beaten. Alys sighed as she recalled how Jena had blanched at seeing her name, fodder for a gossip column, in Social Lights. She wondered if girls from Jena’s classes might be asking her invasive questions and if this was the reason for her erratic behaviour. She glanced at Qitty and Lady. Had anyone said anything to them?
Alys caught Sherry’s gaze. Sherry continued to insist that Jena should have asked Bungles point-blank: ‘Am I just a time pass or are you planning to marry me?’ While Alys believed in being upfront, she was glad that Jena had not debased herself, and she was sure that Jena too was relieved to have not embarrassed herself.
The only bright spot in these bleak weeks was Wickaam’s visits. The first had been on the pretext that Mr Binat’s signatures were required on the Fraudia Acre case papers and Wickaam did not trust the mail. He’d used a similar excuse for his second visit. But the third was simply the result of Mrs Binat’s open invitation to visit them anytime. In fact, she’d since urged him to stay the night, given how tiring a four-hour round trip from Lahore to Dilipabad could be, and he’d cheerfully accepted: a sleepover!
More time for Wickaam to captivate all with the story of his childhood, his becoming a full orphan, BeenaDeenaWeena, Valentine Darsee’s betrayal. He’d been amused and appreciative when Lady began to call Darsee ‘Dracula’, and before long, all the Binats were referring to the traitorous cousin as Dracula.
Wickaam was installed in the cosy guest room, and the only awkward moment was when Alys had to send Lady to change her nightsuit, with the admonition that she was not allowed to wander around the house in such a sheer nightie when they were hosting a male guest.
‘Jeorgeullah is no mullah,’ Mari had said gravely. ‘Be careful, Lady.’
‘You be careful, weirdo,’ Lady said. ‘Mullahs aren’t all saints, and I know you have flutters for Fart Bhai.’
Lady pronounced Kaleen’s first name, Farhat, so fast she’d transformed it into ‘Fart’.
‘I do not.’ Two bright splotches appeared on Mari’s face. ‘Alys is right about the negligee. It’s obscene. Go and change.’
Lady had gone weeping to their mother. Mrs Binat told Alys and Mari to mind their own business. Lady wasn’t naked. A nightgown was a nightgown. When Alys had appealed to her father, Mr Binat had declar
ed, red-faced, that he was gladly relegating all matters of nightwear and nighttime activities to Mrs Binat’s expertise.
The school van stopped outside the graveyard, and the Binat girls and Sherry got out and sprinted to their homes to avoid the sudden downpour. In the Binat living room, Hillima laid out steaming chai and deep-fried pakoras, always a staple comfort food on a rainy day. Mr Binat rose from the crackling fireplace, where he’d been reading a book on ornamentals, and kissed each of his daughters on the forehead.
The girls kicked off their shoes and settled onto sofas. Alys climbed into the window seat, enjoying the dark bubble of a sky. For a long minute, there were few sounds but the rumble of thunder, the sipping of chai, and the chewing of piping-hot pakoras. Mari finished up her prayers in the corner of the room and blew blessings of prosperity and peace on each of her sisters, spending a few seconds longer on Jena.
Mrs Binat came into the living room. She beamed as she replaced the cordless on its cradle. She hadn’t beamed like this since they’d returned from Lahore. Sometimes she felt she’d never recover from Jena’s failure to grab Bungles, and she was beginning to believe that truly of what use was beauty without a brain that could plot and scheme.
‘We are to receive a special visitor,’ Mrs Binat said. ‘He will be arriving tonight in time for dinner and plans to stay for a few days.’
Everyone smiled.
‘It’s not Wickaam,’ Mrs Binat said. ‘It’s Farhat Kaleen.’
Everyone’s smile faded. Except Mari’s. Her heart pattered at the thought of being under one roof with the good doctor. Perhaps, together, they could inject some righteousness into her sisters’ heads. Then he would see how perfect she was for him, and he would propose to her, and they would live happily ever after. Mari shook herself and asked God to forgive her the Farhat fantasy, in case it was untoward of her. But, God, she bargained, if you make me the first sister married, then I swear to thank you by starting to wear a hijab.