Austenistan Page 7
Haroon? My heart does a strange flip hearing his name. I spring out of bed and leap into a quick shower, frantically applying some tinted moisturiser, cream blush, and a swipe of mascara. Haroon has seen me in my pyjamas before, he’s seen me with bits of crud around my eyes. He has seen me in all stages of slothfulness—I don’t know why I’m spritzing the perfume I had specially made for me on my pleasure points.
I’m actually having to give myself a pep talk to calm down—it’s only Haroon and his parents, who I’ve only met a million times already, when I open my bedroom door and stumble backwards because he’s standing right outside.
‘Umm, hello! I’m not that late. They didn’t need to send you to get me,’ I say.
Haroon runs a hand through his hair, taking a step forward and resting his arms on the doorframe, effectively blocking my way. He’s in a well-worn t-shirt and track pants with Bata flipflops, smelling of the Body Shop shower gel he sends me into the shop to buy for him because it’s bright pink. With his arms stretched, I can see his muscles and toned stomach. He still hasn’t said anything and is just staring at me.
‘Emaan, I need to speak to you. Before you come down.’
He pushes his way into my room and walks around, absentmindedly picking up my assorted knick-knacks to occupy his hands. I hesitate and then close the door behind me.
I clear my throat and break the silence by saying, ‘You know, you’re the only boy who’s allowed in my room. Papa would go ballistic if anyone else ever came up here. Just you.’
He puts my books down and turns to look at me, his tall frame looming. I stop rambling. I realise I’m holding my breath, so nervous am I about whatever he has to say to me in private.
‘I’m getting married,’ he says. ‘My parents are going to tell Uncle over dinner, but I thought… well I wanted to tell you first.’
‘Oh!’ I respond, ‘Well, congrats! It’s about time, I guess.’
I answer automatically but my stomach drops hearing the news. I feel a weight pushing down on my chest. I draw a ragged breath and bite my lip.
Haroon looks at me, clocks my reaction, and crosses the room, taking my hands. I pull back a little but he tightens his grip and pulls me to him, tucking me into his chest and fitting me in as if I was made to fill his empty spaces. I relax and mould myself inside, my face filled with his scent and skin, my arms around his chest and back. He puts his hand behind my head, the other pushing inside my shirt and touching the bare skin of my back.
We stay like this for seconds till he tugs my hair and makes me look up.
‘I’m sorry, I should have said something sooner, done something sooner.’ He whispers against my lips.
I feel frozen and confused.
Suddenly, we hear my father coming up the stairs, his distinctive plodding outside my door but we don’t break contact.
Knocking, he asks ‘Is everything OK? Emaan? Come down, everyone is waiting! I’m going to go look for Haroon, he said he was going to get you.’
Haroon takes my face in his hand and smiles. ‘I wish I wasn’t shit with women,’ he says, opening the door. He starts to walk down the stairs, leaving me breathless.
Damn.
When did I fall in love with him?
###
London streets whizz by the window of my taxi; roads sleek with rain, a spring chill still in the air, signs for Easter sales in shop fronts. It’s cold and not the ideal time to be here, but I couldn’t stay in Karachi where the Who’s Who were preparing to attend Haroon’s wedding.
I don’t know much about her, I didn’t ask anyone anything, I didn’t forensically examine social media accounts. I just know that she’s not me. I couldn’t escape the wedding news. Every Aunty was bursting with details, from the choice of event planners and the caterer’s menus, the invitations printed in India, the singers and bands being flown in, to the bootleggers bribed to ensure only the best sparkling wine for Haroon’s wife. It seems you can arrange the wedding of the year in barely a few months when you have the financial and social backing.
Friends and family were stunned when I announced that I wouldn’t be able to make it to my oldest friend’s wedding, even if it was for a once-in-a-lifetime job interview. Haroon didn’t say anything, I didn’t expect him to. We’d not been in touch since all of this happened, there seemed to be nothing to say any longer.
After that conversation with Haroon, I’d dragged myself downstairs and smiled robotically when the wedding news was announced. His parents were ecstatic, he was finally settling down. I couldn’t look at him but felt his eyes like pinpricks on my body.
He left town the next day, ‘travelling for work,’ he said. And that marked the beginning of us avoiding each other. We were both very good at it. I tried to pin down when I’d started feeling more for him than friendship, maybe after my divorce when I’d be feeling desperately lonely and self-piteous at 3 a.m. and he’d pick me up for ice cream and coffee. Or perhaps the first time I had to go to a party alone, nervous without a plus-one, worried about what people were saying about me and he’d spent the whole night by my side, spilling secrets into my ear to distract me. Or the times I’d call him to come over at midnight to watch a movie, both of us in our PJs, eating kettle corn with sticky fingers.
He became my person, and though he usually had some sort of relationship on the go, it never spilled over into our special space. Till he announced his marriage.
I’d turned on my laptop that very night and updated my CV, emailing it to everyone I knew outside Pakistan. Within a few days, an old college friend working at Facebook had messaged me saying there was an opening at Instagram’s London office in Communications and that they wanted to talk to me. By some miracle, my finance and writing background, and love for social media mixed with some sort of diversity push at Instagram meant they liked me. Today had been the last interview and it didn’t go so badly. It was ridiculous that instead of thinking of a career – finally – that might actually mean something to me, I was moping over a boy.
My phone pings, I fish it out of my bag quickly, thinking it might be something about my interview and when I see the message I stare, feeling my heart beat out of chest.
Haroon
Hi
Emaan
Hi
Haroon
What are you doing?
Emaan
Nothing, in a taxi, getting back to the flat. Wasn’t it the nikkah part of your wedding today?
Haroon
Yup
Emaan
Well, congratulations!
Haroon
Yup
Emaan
Look, I’m sorry I couldn’t be there but it’s for the best. I’ll talk to you soon but I’m home now and have to pay the taxi. Good luck with the wedding, OK?
I turn my phone off before I can see his reply and put it in my bag. I’m thanking the driver and opening the taxi door to the narrow street our flat is located on, when I hear a familiar voice.
‘Here, let me. It’s bloody raining, so hurry up and come out. I’m freezing.’
Haroon grins nervously at me. My brain fills with white static and my smile splits my face open, the silliness of it echoing on his face now. He more or less pulls me out of the car.
‘What! What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be getting married!’ I stutter at him as he pulls me into him.
It’s so cold I can’t feel my fingers but I can feel the warmth of this embrace.
‘I didn’t. I got on a plane instead. I don’t even have bags! We‘re going to have to go buy me some underwear. Now, kiss me, you stupid girl. I love you. I’ve loved you for so long.’
And so, I did.
The Mughal Empire
Saniyya Gauhar
“Miss Bingley was very deeply mortified by Darcy’s marriage”
—Pride and Prejudice
It was a truth universally acknowledged and widely gossiped about through the length and breadth of high society, that Kamila Mughal,
the proud, beautiful publisher of the glossy society magazine, Pink, had been deeply humiliated.
Only two weeks ago, Faisal Dayyan, one of Pakistan’s most eligible bachelors and the man who had been the object of her unwavering attention and very obvious admiration for the better part of a decade, had married Erum Bilal, a girl from Islamabad whom no one had ever heard of before.
This was a source of even greater horror to her than the fact that Kamila’s own brother and Faisal’s best friend, Chengiz, had married Erum’s elder sister Jahanara, meaning herself and the unknowns were now related, no less.
Both couples were currently honeymooning in the Seychelles while Kamila was seated in her office overseeing the layout of the magazine feature on the double wedding!
Upon entering her all-glass office wearing her darkest Chanel sunglasses, she was confronted with inflated images of the wretched wedding, as her graphic designer had helpfully enlarged his proposed layout of the feature on a large screen. The remaining photographs were left on her desk for approval and it had taken every ounce of courage to bring herself to look at them.
Jealousy is a lonely emotion that cannot and must not be shared with anyone. Kamila hadn’t expressed her bitter disappointment. True, she may have said a word or two about the unsuitability of Jahanara and Erum but everyone felt that way about them. Her own sense of being overlooked by Faisal was too shameful to put into words. It was too private, too primal, too ugly to even discuss with her closest friends. It must be treated like a terrible secret.
And so, upon entering her office, Kamila pulled down every single blind.
A photograph of Erum in her breathtaking wedding couture caught Kamila’s attention first.
That outfit alone would have cost at least twenty lakhs.
She thought about how, before marrying up, Erum and her sisters would get their clothes embroidered by cheap karigars in Islamabad’s F-10 market who copied designer outfits from magazines.
From rags to riches.
And what riches! For not only had Faisal’s mother assembled a barri comprising outfits from some of Pakistan’s top designers, she had also flown Erum and her mother, Zehra Bilal, to London in the Dayyans’ private Gulfstream. Here, she had bought Erum luxuries that most girls could only dream of: handbags from Hermès, Chanel, Bottega Veneta and Prada; shoes for every possible occasion in an assortment of styles and colours from Manolo Blahnik, Christian Louboutin, Jimmy Choo, Saint Laurent, Roger Vivier and Dior; lingerie from Rigby & Peller, Agent Provocateur and La Perla, and a designer wardrobe from some of the finest stores on Sloane Street. To add to this was a diamond set from Graff that Erum had worn at her wedding. And how it had glittered!
It was this last thought that broke Kamila’s inward composure. She felt her stomach lurch at the reminder of the glint of the pavé diamond necklace.
It should have been me.
The thought was not unreasonable in her circles. Erum’s father was some sort of undistinguished civil servant, whereas Kamila was the daughter of millionaire businessman, Jahangir Mughal.
She had known Faisal since they were children. As her brother’s best friend, he’d always been around. Unbeknownst to him, she had decided fairly early on that she would marry him and only him. He was handsome and charming, and also sole heir to one of the largest fortunes in Pakistan. The Dayyans owned practically everything and were cultured and enlightened to boot. In short, Faisal was perfect husband material. How proud she would have been to walk into a room as his wife—everyone would have looked at them in admiration and envy!
How had her plans gone so horribly wrong?
‘Islamabad,’ she thought to herself. ‘The trouble started when we moved to this awful city.’
A year ago, Kamila’s father had accepted the position of Special Advisor to the Prime Minister on Finance. This had caused dismay among his wife and daughters as it involved moving to the capital, which they considered a small, stiflingly dull city populated by tedious provincials. The situation was made slightly more palatable by the fact that Jahangir Mughal had bought the largest, grandest house on the Margalla Road, one that, in his daughters’ view, befitted their status. The Mughals became the fulcrum of Islamabad high society—such as it was—more or less the moment they moved in, with invitations to their house the most sought after in the city.
Amongst their first visitors were Fahad and Zehra Bilal, who had wasted no time in introducing them to their five daughters: Jahanara, Erum, Maya, Kiran and Lamia. That was when Chengiz met Jahanara and became positively smitten, much to the horror of his mother and both his sisters, Kamila and Laila. Our own flesh and blood, they lamented, being taken in by this gold-digger! However, their attempts at talking sense into him had failed. Chengiz was a reserved young man, innocent of any understanding of social hierarchy. He had never shown any serious interest in anyone until he laid eyes on Jahanara, whom he saw as a breath of fresh air. His mother’s tears and the long chats with his sisters amounted to nothing and so they were forced to swallow their pride in a grand gulp and accept the match with as much good grace as could be mustered.
Soon after they had moved into the big house on Margalla Road, Faisal had flown in on some business and had stayed with them as the Serena was fully booked by the entourage of a visiting head of state. It was during the course of this visit that Chengiz introduced him to Erum, Jahanara’s younger sister. The rest, as they say, is history.
Those Bilal girls worked fast.
Kamila’s thoughts were disturbed by the clickety-clack of approaching stilettoes in the corridor outside. Flinging open the door, her elder sister Laila entered in her customary cloud of Chanel N°5.
Laila wore an immaculate white lawn kurta with matching cigarette pants, a red Hermès Birkin cradled on her arm. Her hair was immaculately blow-dried and her earlobes flashed the fire of the two-carat diamond solitaire studs that Jahangir Mughal had given his daughters to mark the occasion of their brother’s wedding. Accompanying her was one of Kamila’s closest friends, Murad Aziz.
‘Ouch!’ Laila exclaimed, seeing the enlarged photographs on the SmartBoard. ‘That’s a bit in-your-face, isn’t it?’
‘Ouch is the word!’ said Murad dramatically. ‘Sweetie, do you really think that plastering life-sized images of Faisal and his provincial bride all over your wall is going to help you move on?’
Murad was a successful fashion designer and man about town. He and Kamila had been BFFs since school. Though he recognised that she could be standoffish, catty and snobbish, he found these traits amusing and wouldn’t have it any other way.
‘This is for Pink. There’s nothing for me to move on from,’ Kamila replied petulantly.
‘Oh, come on, sweetie.’
Kamila winced. The three-day events for the double wedding had been the hardest of her life. Not only had she endured the pain of seeing Faisal with Erum, she had been even more mortified at the thought of being perceived as a woman scorned. The very idea was repugnant. She had, therefore, made up her mind to sparkle and pretend that she was having a marvellous time in an effort to dispel the notion that she had ever held a candle for the groom.
‘Ooh!’ squealed Laila at the photographs on Kamila’s desk. ‘Make sure you print nice ones of me!’
‘There are ten more albums on over there if you want to see,’ Kamila said dryly, indicating her coffee table. ‘Cut the nonsense!’ Murad said as he and Laila sat down on the two chairs opposite Kamila’s desk. ‘Everyone knows that you wanted to marry him!’
Murad’s brazenness rendered Kamila temporarily speechless.
‘I don’t think everyone…’ she eventually said.
‘Everyone knew,’ Murad said sharply. ‘Everyone who’s anyone, that is. But your magnificent performance at Faisal’s wedding went a long way in confusing people.’
Murad immediately jumped up and grabbed an album each.
‘Oh my gosh, Anaya looks so fat in this one—you must print it!’ squealed Laila delighted.<
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‘Eww, what’s Sakina Aunty wearing?’ Murad said, jubilantly. ‘Print this too!’
Ordinarily, Kamila would have gleefully gone over every detail of the society photos with a merciless eye, delivering cutting asides all the while but today her heart just wasn’t in it.
A loud ping made everyone jump. Laila fished her phone out of her bag.
‘Ooh! I got a WhatsApp message from Chengiz!’ she said.
‘Seychelles is beautiful. Jahanara sends her love xx’
‘He sent a picture! Look…’ She handed the phone to Kamila who felt an immense wave of irritation when she saw the photograph of her brother and the woman who was now her sister-in-law smiling on the beach.
‘She’s wearing Valentino sandals!’ said Laila. ‘Remember those hideous chappals she was wearing from Paradise Shoe Palace when we first met her?’
‘Just imagine!’ Kamila sneered.
‘These convent girls are really tez,’ Laila said,
not for the first time, as she put her phone away. ‘They know how to hook guys. They can flirt with a man with simply a look. We’re really straightforward in comparison!’
‘I heard that Humayun Uncle is transferring their 16th Arronidessements apartment in Paris in Erum’s name. As a wedding present,’ said Murad.
Kamila’s heart sank further. It should have been me.
‘OK listen, we need to stop talking about how wonderful the Dayyans are,’ said Murad decidedly. ‘Kamila sweetie, I’ve been in this godforsaken city for two weeks now at your request…’
‘You’re not leaving!’ Kamila said coolly.
‘Eventually, love, I have to return to Karachi—I have a business to run. And, even though you never actually articulated it, you and I both know the reason why you wanted me to stay…’
‘What’s that? To cheer me up after my heart was left broken?’ Kamila said flippantly with a smile.
‘Not your heart, sweetie. Your pride.’
‘My pride?’
‘Yes, my dear, your pride,’ said Murad. ‘If it had been your heart, trust me you’d have recovered by now. In fact, if you ask me, a wounded ego is much worse than a wounded heart.’