‘For all the wrong reasons,’ said the show’s host from one corner of the room. She was a pretty divorcee in her thirties, with light auburn hair. Before she arrived, Isffy had
explained that she had once been married to an abusive man. Apparently he’d called on her as a suitor one morning. When he left, she consulted the Divan-e-Hafez for guidance. She opened the
book to a page that stressed the importance of inner beauty. Aamina took this to mean that she should marry the man who had come to see her as he truly was very ugly. But he turned out, Isffy
explained, to be ‘a mean bastard: ugly inside and out’. So she divorced him and began life again. ‘You don’t just divorce in this country, if you’re a woman,’
Isffy explained. But Aamina did. She decided that religion was a purely personal thing. As part of her transformation, she began to wear Western clothes, found a job, and – this was straight
from Isffy – got a nose job. Cosmetic surgery had become popular in Port bin Qasim and the town was filled with women still fresh from their surgeries, some still with little bandages on the
bridges of their noses.
‘But still,’ Momin said, ‘better than neglect, no?’ His eyes twinkled, and his mind seemed to race. ‘All publicity is good publicity.’ A few titters went
through the room. ‘As Oscar Wilde, says, “The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about.” ’ And now he seemed to receive the response he was
accustomed to. The room rang with laughter, and Queenie, who had been sitting sulkily at one end of it until this point, said, ‘Typical fag! Quoting Oscar Wilde.’ She was dark-skinned
and very pretty, with long tresses falling evenly over her breasts. Her face was lightly made up, her lips a little glossy.
At her provocation, Momin howled with laughter. ‘Bitch,’ he snapped. Then a story stirred in him. ‘I’ve been seeing this guy,’ he said, ‘mawdel.’
‘Butt-boy,’ Isffy inserted.
‘Hawt! Hawt, hawt, hot!’ Momin said. ‘Nineteen, with green eyes and dimples from here to here.’ He described a line on his face, which stretched from his cheekbone to the
small protrusion of a chin lost almost entirely on the smooth sloping expanse of his face. ‘We’d fooled around a few times; nothing out of the ordinary; but then the other day I picked
up this weird smell on him. I swear it wasn’t there before. And I’d smelt him everywhere. The next time we hooked up it was there again. Finally, I said, “Listen, Kashif, I think
you’re hawt, but what is this smell? It’s really not working for me.” That’s when he says he’s using the new Marc Jacobs Cucumber. And it really smells of cucumber!
Kheera!
’
There were screams of laughter, and Momin, trying at once to finish his story and a cigarette, added breathlessly, ‘I can’t stand that smell. I said listen, “If you come
tonight, you can’t be smelling even one per cent of this stuff. I want a boy, not a salad!” ’
The success of this last joke had the effect of adjourning the meeting for the night. The planners of
The Fifth
Column
sent for more beers; Isffy pulled out a frozen bottle of
vodka, which stood on a speaker, the frost on its surface turning to droplets; and soon, the group was agitating for the next phase of the night. Marrakech at the Gymkhana.
The club was an old British building set on many acres of darkened grounds. The heavy trees here and there had halogen lamps in their canopies, from which scraps of bright
light fell on the well-mowed lawns below. The night air, alive with the competing and quarrelsome music of cicadas, was also infused with the scent of some nocturnal creeper, known variably from
India to Spain as ‘queen of the night’ or ‘dama de noche’. Past the club’s white-pillared entrance billiard games were underway.
In a high-ceilinged room, with wooden beams, longstemmed fans and hunting trophies on the walls, the players dived, crouched in stalking postures and sprang back again, in and out of shadow.
Uniformed waiters, Scotch and sodas in hand, threaded their way past the vivid green expanse of the tables lit by low lamps. Against the sharp clicks and muffled thuds of the balls, there was the
low murmur of men’s voices. Women, not for Islamic reasons, but for old-fashioned colonial ones, were denied access to the great hall. Their distant laughter and the clatter of their heels
was audible in the corridors encircling the room as they made their way to the woodenfloored ballroom hosting Marrakech.
Once we had parted from the rest of the group, we entered the billiard room. From the insulating light of one of the tables, Mir Anwar’s figure appeared. He had been contemplating a shot
when he saw us. He lost his concentration and smiled brightly. I was taken aback by how different he looked, now in his civilian clothes, and expectant of service, rather than providing it. As we
approached, he whispered to his billiard partners, and gingerly resting his cue against the table, picked up his Scotch and soda. We met in the central aisle of the room, through which there was a
steady stream of traffic to and from the club’s deep verandas, where a mixed group of men and women sat in rattan chairs.
The music of Marrakech was audible in the distance. Indian film songs. Seeing it bring some enthusiasm to my face, Isffy said, ‘Do you want to carry on? I’ll join you inside in a few
moments.’
‘No,’ I said, then caught in Mir Anwar’s face the special over-civility of a man who wishes to talk in private. Neither wanting to go back on what I’d just said nor to
prevent them from speaking, I added, ‘I’ll stay for a bit and then catch the action inside.’
‘A lot of actresses,’ Mir Anwar said with studied suggestiveness. Then an expression of true sadness entered his face. ‘I only
wish,’ he continued, ‘that that silly boy, Bilal, would partake in this young people’s fun. I keep telling him, “Go out, meet some friends, chat to some girls.” But
no: mosque, prayer, prayer, mosque, Koran. That’s it. I say to him when I was young, we went out to dances, we learnt to twist and jive, we had girlfriends. It was all healthy fun. He tells
me, “It’s because of your generation that the country is in the state it is today. Unanchored, adrift, slaves of the West.” Talk to him, Isffy. He’s wasting his youth on
this religious nonsense. It won’t come back, you know.’
Isffy nodded thoughtfully.
Mir Anwar continued, ‘And he’s harming himself at the workplace. Your beloved uncle . . .’
‘Not my beloved uncle.’
Both men laughed. ‘Well, anyway, whatever he might be . . . the grand vizier . . . the Jafar . . .’
‘The court eunuch!’ Isffy said forcefully. ‘In the book I’m reading, the Byzantine emperor has a parakoimomenos, literally the eunuch who sleeps next door to him, and I
thought that is what our Narsu is: Abba’s parakoimomenos. No?’
Mir Anwar laughed warmly. ‘Good one, good one. I must remember that, para what?’
‘Koi as in “koi hai”? And momenos, like momin and “os”.’
‘Koi-momenos,’ Mir Anwar repeated. ‘Anyway, what I was saying is that as long as he keeps that damn beard of his, the para-whatever is never going to let him rise in the
office. And he’s a smart boy. In fact, you know what I really think his problem is . . .’ Mir Anwar dropped his voice to a whisper and Isffy leaned in.
But then Mir Anwar said loudly and clearly: ‘He needs a good fuck. His problem is that he’s twenty-nine and still a damn virgin.’
Isffy threw his head back and laughed. ‘We’ll arrange it, we’ll arrange it. Not to worry, Meeru.’
Now feeling truly that more had been said in my presence than should have been, I rose to leave. Mir Anwar shook my hand energetically. ‘Good to see you again, son. Come soon to Aylanto.
All Tabassums are welcome.’
Isffy said, ‘I’ll see you inside, bro.’
I left them on the veranda. Isffy I was sure was about to do something stupid. It was written into his face, a childish transparency which I could see now must always have
betrayed him. It was as if Isffy’s rebellion against our father had stunted him, leaving him still a child at thirty-seven. But he was not playing with children, and entering the ballroom I
had an awful fear of what he might do.
Inside, amid disco lights and the occasional strobe, were bellied men in bold shirts and women who hid their discomfort in Western clothes with the safety of black dresses. There was no bar, but
waiters in fezzes carried steel trays between the tables. Some people danced in groups, in the manner of a middle school dance, but most stood around and watched. Occasionally, a big Bollywood hit
song brought everyone to the floor, in a frenzy of raised arms and emphatic expressions. Then it would subside and the waiters would resume their activity. I had come around to one end of the room
when I heard my name called in a long languid voice. I turned around and saw Queenie.
‘So boring, no?’ she said as I approached. ‘I’m used to the clubs in Dubai, so this is so boring for me. I’m sure you know what I mean. I was saying to Isffy,
“Let’s just not go.” I have a friend who has a hot tub on his roof. I said, “Let’s go there instead. We can drink champagne in the hot tub.” But Isffy
didn’t want to.’
‘Why?’
‘He said, “Port bin Qasim was itself a hot tub.” ’ At this, she laughed loudly, then said sharply: ‘I’m joking. Actually, he thought you would think it was
cheap. Do you think hot tubs are cheap?’
‘No,’ I mumbled, trying to muffle my answer in the noise of the music.
But she wasn’t really interested; she had something else on her mind. ‘He cares for you a lot, you know,’ she said, ‘I’ve never seen him give a shit for anyone
before. But he does for you, for some reason; I don’t know why!’ I began to see that this was her distinctive style; flirty provocations and confidences. Then looking deep into the
crowd, she said, ‘Look, Momin’s found his gay-boy. Kheera-smell not bothering him too much now.’ With this, she let out a peal of clear laughter.
Momin, aware of our eyes on him, looked over and trotted up. The boy melted into the crowd.
‘Hawt, hawt, hot,’ Momin said, as if pre-empting us, then added quickly, ‘let’s go out and have a fag.’
We followed him into a courtyard bordered with shallow stone steps. The tracery of backlit screens fell long over the floor. Momin sat down on one of the steps and leaned against a column. His
face glistened with sweat, and he took the first few drags with the urgency of a man catching his breath. Then buttressing his voice with the casual authority of a smoker, he said, ‘You know,
I’m really glad you’ve come into Isffy’s life.’
‘That’s just what I was saying!’ Queenie interrupted, in a surprisingly energetic tone.
Momin nodded, as if to silence her. His eyes partially closed, the cigarette burned brightly. ‘Because,’ he continued, ‘he needs an ally. It’s been very tough for him.
Narses, that bitch, has his father wrapped around his finger, and he’s constantly trying to edge Isffy out, so that his sister, nieces and nephews can inherit everything. They’ve
already cheated him out of the Flood Street flat . . .’
‘What’s that?’ I said, finding its mention familiar.
‘It’s Sahil Tabassum’s flat in London. They’ve put it in their name. They did it when Isffy and Sahil were on non-speaks. It’s awful. And the father . . . your
father . . . I hope you don’t mind my speaking like this . . .’
I shook my head.
‘. . . really screwed him up.’
He was quiet now, but it was only for dramatic effect. He wanted me to become more implicated in the confidence he was about to make.
I hesitated, then obliged him. ‘How?’
Momin looked up at me from where he sat, his face cut in half by the shadow of an inward-sloping eave. ‘Well,’ he began, ‘he seemed always to crush his selfconfidence. And I
think he was quite rough with him. Remember that in those days, ST was not a rich man himself. He was under a lot of pressure. In jail for fighting Gul and what not. But I remember this one story
Isffy’s mother told me, which I never forgot. It made me very sad. Even now, telling it, dil bhar jata hai, the heart swells, you know?’ At this, he looked at Queenie, who nodded in the
gloom.
‘This was when portable cassette players – do you remember them? – had just come onto the market. And Isffy, apparently, was dying for one; “obsessed” his mother
said. He kept pleading with his parents to get him one, and they kept saying that it was too expensive. So Isffy started saving his pocket money; and he must have saved, I imagine, for a year at
least. You know when you’re a child, you get a few hundred roops a week. Max. But finally he had enough, and he goes out, without telling his parents, to buy one on the black market. Remember
those electronics black markets that used to exist everywhere in the eighties?’
Both Queenie and I nodded.
Momin continued, ‘Anyway, he buys the thing and brings it home, totally secretly. Listens to it for a few days, playing all his faves, Abba, Queen, and whatnot. Then forty-eight hours
later, the damn thing conks out.’
Momin brought his face into the light, and taking a last deep drag, flicked the cigarette across the courtyard. Its embers scattered, and the little
butt landed some distance away. Only the paper of its cylinder burned now.
‘It was a fake-o, a dud!’ Momin exclaimed. ‘Isffy panicked. To lose a few thousand roops when you’re a kid is no small thing. And in a moment of trust, he went to his
father, and confessed everything. He must have been hoping that ST would help him catch the guy who’d sold it to him, or at least recover part of the money. Naturally this was not happening,
but when you’re a child you think your father can move mountains. So, anyway, he tells his father.
‘And Sahil Tabassum, when he hears . . . Now remember, this is from Isffy’s mother so it might be biased, but according to her, when ST hears, he not only does not console the boy,
he starts thrashing him to within an inch of his life. Isffy’s mother said she had to throw herself between the belt and her son because ST was beating him so hard, yelling all the time,
“Useless, good-for-nothing, failure. Dope. Bozo. Idiot.” All this to an eightor nineyear-old child!
‘No,’ Momin said resolutely, as if alarmed by his own words, ‘no doubt about it. Isffy’s been through some tough shit. No doubt about it. When he was sixteen, ST, by then
married again, packed him off to Eton. ST barely had the money, but he didn’t scrimp on his son’s education. The problem was that it was never for Isffy’s sake; it was always done
so that the son would add to the glory of the father. He sent Isffy to Eton so that he would make influential connections. Aristos: Bruftys and Buckys and Tollys, God knows who ST had in mind. But
for one, England then was not what it is today. And two: Isffy was not the Maharaja of Jodhpur’s son. He was a small Qasimic businessman’s son, and people treated him like dirt. When he
went back home for the holidays, he returned to his father’s growing disappointment and a stepmother who wasn’t much older than Isffy. So, yes, no doubt about it, Isffy has paid his
dues. If, now, he’s a little screwed up, fucking the women his father’s fucked and filming it, I don’t blame . . .’