Duty Free (22 page)

Sana caught my frown at Jonkers and looked from me to him. Another thing I will say about her: she’s sharp. Just like Jameela was.

Jonkers cleared his throat. “My cousin’s here to make some, er, general enquiries. She wanted to have an idea of what’s out there. She doesn’t necessarily want to book just yet. Isn’t that right, Apa?”

I frowned at him again. How many times have I told him not to call me Apa? Stuppid. Now she’ll think I’m seventy.

“Yes,” I said, “that’s right,
Jonkers.
” I bet he hadn’t told her his pet name is Jonkers. From the way her lips twitched I could tell I was right.

Jonkers’ face flashed red.

“So you’d like to fly into Dulles?” asked Sana.

“Washington, not Dallas,” I said. She might be sharp in some ways, but in others this girl was quite simple-minded, really. Poor thing.

Jonkers coughed and flashed again. Must be embarrassed for her.

Sana nodded at me and said, “Of course. My mistake.”

The drinks came. The coffee was very nice. All hot and fluffy.

“The coffee is very nice,” I said. “And office also.”

“Thanks. Glad you approve.”

“You’re not having?” I asked.

“What? Coffee? No, I have to restrain myself because with the hours I work, if I had a coffee every time a client had one, I’d be climbing the walls.”

“And going all the time to toilet also,” I added.

“Yes,” she laughed, “that too.”

“So how long do you work?”

“I’m here by nine and leave around six, sometimes seven. But luckily I live close by so I’m home in five minutes.”

“Where do you live?”

“Canal Park.”

“Oh,” I said. Canal Park is a not-so-nice area of Gulberg. Small plots, tight houses, hardly any gardens. But
chalo
, at least it’s Gulberg and not Ichhra.

“You work too hard,” said Jonkers.

“But I enjoy it,” she replied. “And it makes me relish my holidays all the more.”

“You must be going abroad on all your holidays?” I asked.

“I wish!” She laughed again. “But our last holiday was quite special. It was my sister’s tenth birthday so I managed to get a great deal on a holiday in Langkawi, in Malaysia. We swam in the sea, did some snorkelling, diving, I even organized a guide to take my sister, mother, and me on a short trek through the jungle. It was fantastic,” she sighed. “We saw gibbons and hornbills and the most amazing butterflies, big as my hand, and trees so tall they seemed endless …”

Maybe that’s why she’s so dark. All that swimming-shwimming totally ruins the complexion,
na
. Maybe in another six months, she’ll be fairer and then Aunty Pussy may even be prepared to look at her. If not, we’ll just have to take her to my spa
-waali
and ask her to do micro-dermabasement on her face. But thanks God, at least she’s been abroad. She’s not a complete villager.

I looked at Jonkers. He had his elbows on her desk, his chin in his hands and was gazing at her goofily, like some character in a Disney cartoon when they are falling in love and their eyes go all dreamy and big red hearts come plopping out of their heads. And this while she banged on and on about bore birds and bore trees. I yawned.

“Sorry,” she said at once. “Once you get me talking about nature, I get carried away. Right. Your flight. Would you like to give me your names and some tentative dates so I can start looking for you?”

“Not just now. No, Jonkers?” I said kicking him under the desk.

He woke up from his dream. “Oh? Ya. Sure. Whatever you like. Perhaps it is a bit too early. But
I’ll
be in touch with you, Sana. I’ll call this evening. Hmm?”

“If you like.” Her face became red and bending her head, she started ruffling the already tidy papers on her desk.

“Once me and my husband,” I said, “once we’ve decided exactly when to go, I’ll get back to you then. Okay? But thanks for all your help,
haan
. And the coffee.”

“No problem. I look forward to hearing from you.”

I stood up and started walking out. But Jonkers was not following. I looked back to the desk. They were looking at each other and talking without speaking. Then Jonkers slowly got to his feet. She also stood up. She was his height, same-to-same. Another minus.

All the way home in the car Jonkers ate my head. What did I think of Sana? Wasn’t she amazing? Wasn’t she friendly?
Wasn’t she beautiful? And the way she handled that awful man? Cool, no? So I told him that yes she was nice-ish but also a bit on the dark side and too much on the tall side. And yes she wasn’t a cheapster like Shumaila but I told him flat that she still wasn’t Aunty Pussy’s cup of coffee.

“Not wealthy enough, you mean?” he said. And then he shrugged and said it didn’t matter. She didn’t have to be his mother’s type. She had to be
his
type. Crack.

“Have you forgotten everything I told you about importance of baggrounds?” I said. And then I told him only half the marriage is to your wife or husband. The other half is to their families. And he said that if Sana’s family was at all like her, then it would be absolutely fine and he wouldn’t mind being married to them at all. But, I told him, you haven’t even met them yet. And he said, “Doesn’t matter. I have faith.” Double crack. I told him that I’d gone and seen Sana because he’d asked me to but that didn’t mean I thought she was best thing for him and if anyone asked me if I knew what he’d been up to, I was going to deny, okay? And also that I wasn’t doing any pleading-shleading with Aunty Pussy for him.

“Don’t worry,” he said cheerfully. “Once my mother meets her, she’ll come round.” Triple crack.

Honestly, life is so tough in Pakistan,
na
, that don’t even ask. You have to live here to know. So many stresses and stains. All day, all night. No electricity, no gas, no New Year’s Eve and on top everyone is saying the Talibans are coming. Not the Afghan ones who are busy in Afghanistan killing Americans and blowing up NATO trucks but our own home-grown Punjabi ones who are sitting on our heads. And once they come, then
tau
everything will be over. So many times I’ve heard this now that my head pains every time someone says “Taliban.” Let them come, I say. We’ll deal with them then. Till then, please don’t chew my head off. I have enough problems to solve before then.

Now take yesterday, only. There I was minding my own business, sitting in my own house, doing my own work as I always do, when out of the bloom, my peace was shattered. I was in the middle of taking out my winter’s wardrope and putting away my summer’s wardrope when my mobile phone rang. Well, to tell you the truth, I was sitting on the sofa in my bedroom putting cream on my feet—Elizabeth Ardent’s Eight Hour Cream—and watching Ameena, sorry Shameem, bring up all the suitcases of my winter clothes from the
storeroom and unzip them on my bedroom floor and take my clothes out and hang them in my cupboard. I was telling her where to put what when Aunty Pussy called.

“I don’t know what’s come over Jonkers,” she said.

At once I became a lert. “What’s come over Jonkers?”

“I just
said
I don’t know what’s come over Jonkers.”

“Oh.”

“Do
you
know what’s come over him?”

“
Haw
, Aunty Pussy, how should I know? I’m not a smooth-sayer, you know.”

“Yesterday he came home in a wonderful mood, smiling and humming to himself even more than usual and being so nice and friendly with me I thought, he looks like he’s seeing sense at last. And then he said, ‘Please call Zeenat Kuraishi and tell her that I don’t want to marry her daughter.’ What’s come over the boy? Why would he say that?”

“Er, I don’t know. Maybe because he doesn’t want to marry her. Maybe you should let me tell Baby that he’s found someone else.”

“What? Has he?”

“No, no, Aunty Pussy, it’s just a way of getting rid of Zeenat you know. It’s better than saying to them that no, we can’t marry your girl because she’s a gay and rude also.”

“We don’t have to say anything. It’s not done to tell people like Zeenat that you don’t like their girl. Best is not to say anything. She’ll get the hint.”

“But, Aunty Pussy, Jonkers doesn’t want—”

“I know,” she cut in. “I
know
he doesn’t want to marry Zeenat’s
girl. I’m not going to force him. I’ve given up on that proposal already. But when I think of that house …” And then she sighed and said, “It’s already November, you know, and we still haven’t found a suitable girl.”

“We haven’t?”

“You know full well we haven’t. Unless, you know something I don’t.”

“
Haw
, Aunty Pussy why are you always accusing me,
haan
? After everything I’ve done for you. Going here and there and everywhere looking for a girl. Fighting with my friends for you, arguing with my family for you, telling lies for you. Honestly!” And then I thought, maybe I should tell her about Mulloo and Irum. I know Aunty Pussy won’t want but at least afterwards if she finds out through Mulloo or someone she won’t be able to say that I hid anything from her.

“Actually, Aunty, there is someone else who maybe you can think about.”

“Who?”

“Mulloo’s daughter, Irum. She’s young, I think so seventeen and not bad-looking. Fair also. Mulloo’s looking for a decent boy and when I told her we weren’t interested in Tasbeeh she offered her own daughter.”

“No! I’m sorry but they’re not good enough for my Jonkers.”

“Anyways, I’ve already refused because I didn’t think so it was suitable. Just thought I’d tell you, so you knew.”

“I’m worried that if we don’t find a good girl for him quickly, he’ll go and find someone for himself again. Another secretary or a hairdresser. If he hasn’t done it already.”

“Aunty Pussy, you know, your voice is breaking up. I can’t hear. No, sorry, not even now. Still can’t. I’m putting my phone down. I’ll call you back, okay? Of course I’ll do it immediately.” And with that I switched off my mobile phone. And also hanged up my landline. And went back to my winter’s wardrope and Shameem.

Two hours later I switched on my mobile phone and the second I did, it rang. The number looked familiar but since it wasn’t Aunty Pussy’s, I picked up. Never know
na
, someone might be calling up with an invitation to a party or at least a dinner.

“You cow. You’ve stolen my maid, haven’t you?” It was Faiza.

“
Haw
, Faiza—”

“Don’t you dare ‘
haw
Faiza’ me. I know you stole Ameena. So don’t bother denying.”

“I don’t have any Ameena in my house. My maid’s called Shameem.”

“Liar! I know you’ve stolen Ameena.”

“Cross my heart and hope to die, my new maid’s Shameem. If you don’t believe me you can ask all the servants in my house.”

She fell silent. Then she said, “Where’s Ameena gone then?”

“How should I know?”

Another pause. Then she sighed and said, “I’m sorry,
yaar
. I was sure you’d taken her.”

“Who told you?” If it’s that bloody Mulloo, I’ll go and strangle her with my own hands only.

“No one. You’d said your maid had walked out on you.
Shortly after, my maid went missing. I put two and two together and came up with seven. Sorry,
haan
?”

“No probs,
yaar
. Friends are for forgiving.”

I put down the phone and told Shameem that next time Faiza comes she’s to go inside the servants’ quarters and stay there till Faiza leaves, even if Faiza takes fifteen hours. Okay?

Honestly! So much of stress, so much of tension. I don’t know how I survive here. Anyone else would have had a nervous break-out.

Yesterday we went to a GT at Mulloo’s. It was small, because GTs are small, na. Otherwise they’d be dinner parties. Baby and Jammy, Sunny and Akbar, Janoo and me. That’s all. Oh and Mulloo and Tony and Irum also. Because, after all, it was at their house.

Anyways, we walked into their lounge and there was nobody there except this man whom I’d never seen before. He looked youngish, maybe eighteen or twenty with longish hair and T-shirt and jeans and two or three of those colourful woven bracelets like Prince Harry wears and sneakers and no socks. But, thanks God, shaven and with clean clothes and washed hair. Not dirty and greasy-looking, like so many teenagers. He got up and said hello and that his name was Zain and he shook Janoo’s hand which was odd because if teenagers greet you at all, they just dig their hands in their pockets and shrug and say hi in a sulky way as if they are being forced to say. Someone had given him a good brought-up.