Duty Free (14 page)

“Wrong?”
shrieked Mummy. “What’s right? The father is a drug smuggler. No there’s no point denying, Pussy, I can tell from just looking at the house. Tell me, who has nine guards in his house?
Nine!
And why the black-out windows and those searchlights? And he slaughters sheep on his front drive with his own hands and the servants are unshaven and I’m sorry but they have no class. At all!”

“And I suppose you are perfect!” snapped Aunty Pussy. “From everywhere.”

“Why did you take me if you don’t want to hear what I have to say?” snapped Mummy back. “You’ve just sniffed money, Pussy, that’s all. Be frank.”

“You want my Jonkers to marry a
fakir
? Is that what you want? You’re jealous. Be frank yourself.”

“Please!”
I cried. “Honestly, look at you! Such fighter cocks you two’ve become. Mummy shouldn’t have said like that, Aunty Pussy, but what she says is right. They are not right. I don’t know about the drugs-shrugs but they are not from our bagground, that much I could tell from their drawing room only. And if poor old Jonkers, at the age of thirty-seven, has to go and hide like a schoolboy every time he wants to drink a drink, what’s the point of getting married and having your own set-up and everything? And anyways, I don’t think so the girl will suit him. She
tau
poor thing is not even on her own side, let alone being on anyone else’s side.”

Aunty Pussy didn’t say anything after that. She turned her face away and stared out of the window. I think so she was skulking. And Mummy in her corner was also skulking. Her mouth was a tight, little line. Thanks God I was sitting in front with the driver and didn’t have to sit in between and take all the tension they were giving off. Inside my heart I thought, haw, look at Mulloo. I knew she wouldn’t hand us a pretty, rich rellie, that much I was ready for, but I wasn’t expecting a powder-pasha’s dwarf daughter who has a fundo for a mother. Honestly. And she calls herself my friend. I bet she must be getting some bribe from Farva for finding her a nice, decent son-in-law from oldish family. Well, I’ll also see how Farva becomes Jonkers’ mother-in-law and Mulloo gets her bribe!

Because it was evening time when most people come out, there was a big traffic jam on Cavalry Grounds main road.
Cars, motorbikes, minibuses, donkey carts, rickshaws, bikes were all mixed up on the thin road leading to Gulberg Bridge. We were standing still but everyone was running their engines—accept the bikes and the donkeys—and the air smelt of petrol and dust and chicken
tikkas
from roadside stalls, so I put up my window and switched on the AC. I thought to myself what if someone was to burst a suicide bomb now. What would become of us? We would all become
tikkas
, that’s what. For a moment I wanted to open the door and run out and run and run and never come back. But then I took a big breath and told myself everything was okay.

What
a fab bash my friend Sara threw for her jewellery. She lives in Hong Kong, na. Her husband is a banker there and she has all these diamond rings and bangles-shangles made in Chinese factories and then comes and sells them here in Lahore. Very modern and trendy her jewellery is. But despite of that, she told me that in Hong Kong it wasn’t selling as well as before. Because of big economic slum that’s come there
na
, Chinese have become misers. They think diamonds are luxuries. Stuppids!

But in Pakistan, by grace of Allah, her business is blooming. Because for us,
tau
, diamonds are necessity,
na
. For instant, your daughter-in-law has baby boy. You don’t give her diamond earrings she immediately becomes angry and goes off home in a huff.
Chalo ji
, your son’s home destroyed. You get your daughter married, you don’t give her mother-in-law diamond bangles, she immediately sends your daughter home.
Her
marriage finished. So for happy family life, like food and water, diamonds are must.

Anyways,
all
of Lahore was there at Café Aylanto. At least three hundred people. Sunny, Baby, Faiza, Nina, Natasha, Maha, were all there, wearing designer
joras
and carrying big, big handbags with lots of buckles and zips and fringes and
studs and all. Totally fab. They were trying on the jewels and going “hai Allah, how
cute
,” and posing for pictures for
Good Times’
photographer.

And guess what? Madam Mulloo was there. At first
tau
I thought I should do total ignore and act all cool and all but then I thought, I damn care. So I made a bee-hive for her and asked her what her cousin fundo Farva was giving her for helping her to unload her dwarf daughter on us. She acted all innocent-type.

“
Haw
, what am I hearing?” she said. “I suggest my rich, young cousin for your aged, bald, die-vorced cousin and you say this to me?”

“At least my cousin’s not four-foot-eight and nor does his father slaughter sheep with his own hands on his driveaway. And besides my cousin didn’t make his money yesterday and that also doing shady export.”

“What are you suggesting,
ji
? If you want to say that my cousin’s husband is a drug smuggler then why don’t you just come out and say it?”

“Okay,
ji
, he’s a drug smuggler.”

“
Haw
. Look at you! Saying such mean, nasty things about an honest, God-fearing Muslim. Who told you to say them,
haan
? And besides, nice coming from you, whose own aunty and uncle robbed the central revenew with both hands for I don’t know how long.”

“At least they didn’t do it in drugs. And just because you act all holy, don’t think I don’t know what goes on in your home.”

“What do you mean by that?
Haan?
Tell?”

I was about to tell her about her daughter, Irum, who I’ve heard is roaming around with a cheapster shop
-wallah
type who has no bagground and no future prospectus either but just then the
Good Times
photo
-wallah
came near us and Mulloo and I immediately turned to him and putting our arms around each other, smiled at the camera. The minute he moved away, we jumped apart to pick up the fight where we’d left it, but Sunny and Maha came to do whispered gossip and say how much Faiza was buying and from where was she getting the money when her husband’s bottled juice business had dried up so much he couldn’t even pay his employees,
haan
? And Sunny said, maybe that Senator Carry who is bringing all this American aids from America, is also giving her some.

“It’s for us civilians this time,” she said, “not for army. Army’s been hogging all the aids for ever but now it’s our turn.”

And then when the girls left I looked around for Mulloo to pick up the fight again but the coward, she’d left. She’d snaked out when I wasn’t looking because I think so she was afraid that I would beat her in the argument. Bubble and Sunny showed me the lockets and rings they’d got and I thought to myself why am I not buying? Am I any less than them? So I also bought small cute diamond locket and then I hid it in my bag because I couldn’t tell Janoo. He disproves of nice things like diamonds and emeralds and gold and every time I buy some jewellery he says how much more do I need. He is very bore like that. I think so he must be having some Chinese blood from somewhere.

My and Mullo’s fight has been dissolved. She admitted that Farva had promised to ask her husband, Sheikh Ilyas, to help her husband, Tony, with a car dealership if she found a nice boy for Tasbeeh quickly. Now that she’s finished her studies and her
nikah
is also broken, Tasbeeh’s just sitting at home and ageing and Farva is so worried, so worried that she’s saying prayers five, five times a day and getting sheep slaughtered left, right, and centre, to get Tasbeeh married off quickly before people start saying that she’s a left-over. And so Mulloo said that please couldn’t Jonkers just marry her. Tasbeeh’ll get such a big dowry. House. Cars. Servants. Jewellery. Plots for more houses. Foreign exchange in numbered accounts in Swizzerland also. And Tony would be so grateful—his sanitary towel business has also gone
thup na
because of the slum—and if Jonkers could do Tony this small, little favour then he’ll almost gift Jonkers a brand new Honda salon to displace the one Miss Shumaila took.

So I said to Mulloo that Tasbeeh was nice and all, but one thing: she was too much on the short side.

“She’ll wear heels,” said Muloo. “Platforms are so much in fashion.”

She also didn’t do any talking.

“Once she’s married she’ll talk and talk. I give you guarantee.”

And Farva was bossy.

“I’ll ban Farva from visiting.”

What about the sheep slaughtering?

“They’ll become vegetarians. And you know, they might even give Tasbeeh a flat in London.”

“Haan,”
I said, “knowing them it’s probably in Eeling-Sheeling or Southall or some poor place in the back of behind.” I know all these cheapster Pakistanis who show off about their flats in London and then you discover that they are in Hound Slow or Hack Knee or some place where you wouldn’t even send your servants for a holiday—should you ever give them one.

“No, no, their flat is in Knightsbridge. Two streets from Harrods. Four bedrooms. Lying empty all the time. They never go. Can’t bear to leave their country for one second even. Except to Saudi for Hajj of course.”

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m not lying. It’s true. I swear on Irum’s head.”

“Near Harrods?”

“And Harvey Nicholas. And also Pak embassy, in case you lose your passport.”

And then I thought about how I have to beg Janoo every summers about renting a flat in London so I can also go and do my little London trip, like Sunny and Maha and Faiza do, and how much fighting we do over it when he says no he wants to do a safari instead—as if there aren’t enough beasts in his own family. Sometimes he wants to go to some bore
place like Cambodia to see temples—look at him, as if we were Hindus off to do
puja
—and I have to beg and beg. Now I’d have my own place, well, almost, and that also on the backside of Knightsbridge. How jay Sunny would be. How Faiza would burn with envy.

So I called Jonkers and I said that he should think again.

“But Apa, you said her father was a drug smuggler.”

“Who knows who smuggles what, Jonkers? It’s not nice to be so judging. Maybe he’s just a
seedha-saadha
, honest-type smuggler who only smuggles nice things like Bosh washing machines and Samsonnight suitcases. You can make good money with that also, you know.”

“But what about the girl herself? You said she was a mouse and that she was completely under her mother’s thumb.”

“Maybe it was just a not so good day for her, Jonky. Maybe she got shy in front of us. Or maybe she’d just seen a sad film. I remember after I saw that Indian film Paa, you know in which Amitabh Bachchan is a little boy with a big bald head, I remember I was depress for a whole week. Maybe she’s also too sensitive like me. Otherwise
tau
she’s probably, you know, real joking laughing type.”

He was quiet for so long after that I thought he’d hanged up.

“Hello, Jonkers? Have you gone?”

“Apa,” he said at last. “I’m sorry but I have to ask you something. Please don’t get angry, but is there something in this for you?”

“Meaning?”

“Please don’t mind my asking, but are you being bribed?”

“
Haw
, Jonkers! Bribe?
Me?
And after everything I’ve done for you. Imagine! You saying such a thing … to your Apa.”

“Look, I’m sorry but just the other day you were saying that they were completely different to us and the mother was a bully, the father was a criminal, the house was ghastly, the girl was hopeless, the servants were shabby, the food inedible. There wasn’t a single thing about them that you liked. Except that they were loaded but even their
crores
couldn’t make up for their lack of background. And now you’re saying that the father’s straight and the girl is the life and soul of the party and no doubt you’ll say in a minute that the mother’s a delight. And if I needed any further proof that the girl’s not for me, it’s my mother’s wholehearted approval of the family. I don’t expect my mother to look for anything other than money, but you’re meant to be looking out for my soulmate. I’m sorry but I smell a rat.”