Duty Free (25 page)

“So why do you think she’s up to no good then?”

So I told him then that the baggrounds didn’t match.

For a long time he looked at the ceiling. He looked for so long that I also looked up. Were there some cracks in it? Holes? Spiders’ webs? Then Janoo suddenly stopped looking. He held me by the elbows and said: That. Did. Not. Matter. What mattered was that the girl seemed nice and that Jonkers seemed to like her. And that was enough. They should be allowed to figure it out for themselves without other people jumping in with their wrong-headed suggestions. And what, I asked, if Jonkers was wrong like before? Then Jonkers would have to deal with it, he said. Had Jonkers asked me to deal with the fallout after Shumaila? No, I said, Jonkers didn’t say one word even. But Aunty Pussy did. But did
Jonkers
? Janoo asked again. No, I said.

“Well then, let him be. It’s important that he marries a partner. Someone with whom he feels at ease and whose company he enjoys and with whom he shares interests. Otherwise marriage can be a very lonely experience.”

I looked at him. Then I asked, “Are you lonely?”

He didn’t reply for a while. I could hear the gardener watering the plants outside our window. And then Janoo said, quietly, “Sometimes.”

“I am also lonely,” I whispered. “Not all the time. But sometimes.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

He took a step towards me and touched my cheek. He tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. I covered his hand with my own and held it against my cheek. Just then, my stuppid mobile rang. Janoo shook his head at me but it was too late, I’d already picked it up. It was Mummy.

“Get over to Pussy’s immediately.” Her voice was so loud, I’m sure Janoo could also hear every word. “I’m on my way there also. She called me two seconds ago screaming and wailing, ‘If you want to see me alive, come over at once.’ Apparently Jonkers has found yet another blow-dryer and already proposed to her also and she’s said yes and the marriage is tomorrow and Pussy says she’ll kill herself before she attends.”

Janoo stepped away from me. I didn’t want him to go away. I wanted him to stay near me and talk to me and touch my face again and look at me like he had just before Mummy called. But suddenly I was shy. I also felt angry with Mummy for calling at that time.

“Oho, Mummy,” I snapped, “the marriage is not tomorrow.” But she had already put down the phone. “Listen,” I said to Janoo. “I have to go now but when I come back we’ll talk. Wait for me, please?”

I stopped only to put on some lipstick (Mac Russian Red) and spray on some scent (Channel No. 19) and put on some blush (Nars Terra Cota) and brush my hair (never know whose car you will pass on the way) and to tell Shameem to iron my grey sari with the blue flowers for tonight’s dinner at Sunny’s and also to put out my blue heels, not the Gina ones, the Prada ones, and then I was rushing out of the room. As I was rushing, Janoo called out behind me, “Remember what I told you! It’s
his
life!”

Worst luck! Sana’s mother wants Sana to marry
and
she wants to meet Jonkers’ family. As Aunty Pussy said, “Why would she say no? It’s not every day that a towelling empire and so much real state suddenly falls into your lap.” Jonkers of course is being like the cow in that nursery rhyme. The one who jumped over the moon. Or did she jump over the spoon? Anyways, you know what I mean. That he is happy. Very, very happy.

He told me that Sana’s mother wouldn’t hear of her not marrying for her and her little sister’s sake. She said that Sana had sacrificed enough already. Apparently when she came top in English Literature in her BA at Lahore College her father had really wanted Sana to go for her Masters to America. But after he died, she quietly dropped her studies and got this job and since then she’s spent every penny she’s earned on them and Sana’s mother has always felt hugely guilty about that. So if now she’d found a man who liked her and she liked him, then her mother insisted she must marry him. Nothing would give her greater happiness. She and the little girl would be absolutely fine. Also, it seems, she’s about to take over from the headmistress of her school who is retiring and so she’s
getting a raise and she feels she will be able to cope in that easily for her little daughter and herself and so Sana mustn’t worry about them but think of herself. Jonkers is so happy, so happy that don’t even ask.

Not like that night when I went over to his house after he’d told his mother and she was threating to slit her throat with the fruit knife and Jonkers quietly said, “Go ahead,” and went to his room and shut the door. I wanted to run after Jonkers into his room because I think so he has an electric heater in there. But no, I had to sit with Mummy and Aunty Pussy in Aunty Pussy’s freezing, dark lounge. There was this gas heater-type thing there which I think so she bought from a second-hand shop when Jonkers was born. It made gugglingtype noises and gave off a gassy smell but no heat. I asked Aunty Pussy if we could bring in another heater, but she gave me an angry look and said, “The whole country’s got no gas.” I wanted to tell her that my house is also in the same country and we have gas, lots of gas, but Mummy gave me a warning look and so I didn’t say anything but inside I thought to myself, “No wonder Shumaila ran away.”

I think so when Jonkers told Aunty Pussy to go ahead and slit her throat if she wanted, he also knew that his mother being the miser that she is hadn’t changed her knives for so long that they can’t even slit the skin of a grape let alone her leathery old neck. Or maybe he really meant it. Maybe he’s decided like Janoo said, that it’s his life and his mother can do what she likes. He damn cares. That night Mummy and me, we sat there till one o’clock trying to talk with Aunty Pussy.
By the time I got home not only had I missed Sunny’s dinner but Janoo was also asleep and I had such a spitting headache that I took two Lexxos and slipped into bed besides him. “Mmm, good to have you back,” he murmured, and took me in his arms.

So much has been happening in my life lately with this Jonkers thing that I’d almost forgotten that big Eid was on top of our heads and that I hadn’t done anything about sacrificing any sheep. Janoo wanted to give the sacrificing money to charity, to the IDPs or something, but I said no. We have to kill two sheep to keep evil eye off us. Of course I didn’t say this to Janoo because he would have gone up in smoke but until Jonkers is married I’m not taking any risks with Kulchoo. I know Aunty Pussy is our relative and everything, but still. Thanks God, that’s one thing Janoo’s mother, the Old Bag, and I agree on: there’s nothing like killing sheep to make God happy. And also, as good Muslims it is our duty to give sacrifice at Eid ul Azha. In fact, this time, what with my lucky escape and bombs everywhere and threats to Kulchoo’s school and everything, I told the Old Bag to sacrifice three sheep. Not two. It’s extra insurance.

The Old Bag took care of the sacrifices in Sharkpur, otherwise we would also have had to kill the sheep on our driveaway like fundo Farva and her powder-pasha husband and runaway daughter. But just look at Tasbeeh! That quiet little mouse turning out to be such a sharpie. But you know what? Good for her. In her place I’d have done same.

But big news is I’ve managed to convince Aunty Pussy there’s no harm in meeting Sana’s family. That way at least she could tell Jonkers honestly that she had done her bit and she’d gone along and seen the family and the girl and that she had
tau
even liked them as people, but that she didn’t think they’d make a good match. And what to do, these things were in Allah’s lap and what He didn’t want, how could we force? And then Jonkers couldn’t also say to her that she never gave it a chance. And maybe he’d give Sana up for his mother’s sake. And maybe not. But of course, I didn’t say it there. Mummy gave Aunty Pussy Mulloo’s example who’d taken the wind out of Irum’s sale by embracing her boyfriend with open arms. And she told Aunty Pussy that sometimes children do these things out of stubbornness and that best way is to always call their buff and go along pretending you are doing what they want but from inside doing the opposite.

Next morning when Janoo had asked me what had expired at Aunty Pussy’s that night I’d told him that I’d convinced her to meet Sana’s family. He patted me on the head and said, “Good girl.” Like I was Lassie.

Jonkers says he’s already met Sana’s family. And they all love him and he them. Between you, me, and the four walls, I’m a bit double-minded about Sana. I don’t have anything against her personally, but I feel maybe Jonkers could do a little bit better. Not much, but a little bit. And if you make me put my hand on the Holy Koran and swear on Kulchoo’s life, then I will say that Sana is much nicer than both Tanya and Tasbeeh and with Miss Shumaila
tau
there is no
comparison and obviously Irum doesn’t count, but it’s just the bagground, if you know what I mean. When all the girls in my kitty will ask, “So who did your cousin marry then?” and I say Sana Raheem, I know what they’ll say. “From which family?” And I’ll have to say “From no family.” And they’ll think, “Poor things, couldn’t even get a decent family.” Anyways, tomorrow we are to go and have tea with them. The Raheems, not my kitty group. I swear I’m getting quite fed up with having tea with Jonkers’ in-laws. Bore.

The house was small. Even smaller than I was fearing it would be. On Aunty Pussy’s insistence, we went in Janoo’s Prado jeep to show them what’s what. I swear the road—no, alley—on which Sana’s house is, is so narrow, so narrow that a cyclist who was coming the other way from us had to get off his cycle and press himself into a hedge to make room for us and our Prado to pass. I don’t know why Sana and all bother to have a gate because it’s so small, even I could jump over it. In my D&G platforms. Janoo’s driver got out and rang the bell and when no guard came, gave the gate a good shake and it looked as if would fall off its winges. So thin and weak it was.

“Are you noting?” said Aunty Pussy, wrinkling her nose as if she’d smelt a bad smell.

Then a maid—not a guard, but a maid—came out drying her hands on her
dupatta
and she opened the gate and the drive was so narrow and so short that our car took up the whole of it and the maid could hardly close the gate behind us. In front of us was parked one white Suzuki like we have at home for our servants to go and do shopping in the bazaar. The front garden—I don’t think so there’s a back one—was the size of my bathroom at home. But if I was to put my hand
on the Holy Koran I’d have to say that it wasn’t too bad. A big shady-type tree, jasmine bushes, a wooden bench and half tap, half fountain-type thing set into a wall that flowed into a stone basin. Sound of water was all tinkly, tinkly, soft, soft.

“Let’s get this over with quickly,” muttered Aunty Pussy, leading the way.

I wanted to tell her to please be nice-ish but just then the same maid opened the door. God knows where their other servants were hiding. A tall, middle-aged-type woman with short, grey hair stood in the hall. I say hall, but it was actually the size of my wardrope back home. She was wearing a plain biscuit-coloured
shalwar kameez
and a woollen shawl with brown stripes on it. Not
shahtoosh
. Or even pashmina. Just plain wool. She greeted us nicely and told us she was Zahra, Sana’s mother. She led us into her sitting room.