Austenistan Page 8

  Kamila stared icily at Murad as she tried to think of a fitting response.

  ‘But rest assured, I’m not leaving until both your ego and your pride have been restored to their former glory! And since I’m loath to stay in this dreadful city for longer than necessary, we have to go into urgent damage control mode.’

  Kamila smiled thinly. ‘I’m fine. You said yourself that my behaviour at the wedding was impeccable.’

  ‘Yes, but that was just a performance, like acting,’ said Murad. ‘Now, we have to wage a two-pronged strategy to rehabilitate you, internally and externally. Let’s call it Operation Rehab. Number one: the external element—optics. You need to see and be seen. Sparkle. Socialise. Soon, people will doubt that Faisal was anything more than a family friend in your eyes.’

  ‘Socializing in Islamabad is death by boredom,’ said Kamila.

  ‘I concur,’ chimed in Laila, ‘This place is seriously dull. Excited Aunties. NGO types. Random gora diplos. Sleazy MNA Uncles…’

  ‘Well… do your best,’ Murad said. ‘Number two: the internal element. Broaden your horizons. Try and meet people. This world is full of interesting people even if they aren’t all richer than Croesus.’

  ‘I’ve met everyone there is to meet.’

  ‘No, darling, I mean really meet people. You’ve been mentally unavailable to everyone because of your obsession with Mr Dayyan. You may find, once you start to look, that there are, in fact, plenty of fish in the sea.’

  ‘That’s actually not true, Murad,’ Laila said, happy to hold forth on a subject which was a special area of interest for her. ‘There are hardly any nice guys around. Look at all the unmarried girls!’

  ‘There are loads of guys,’ said Kamila frostily. ‘But nobody that I can marry.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Murad said. ‘You know everyone, you’re wealthy in your own right and don’t need anything from anyone—you have more choices than you think.’

  ‘No, Murad, it’s harder for someone like me,’ Kamila said in a patronizing tone. ‘A woman should never marry beneath her social class. A rich woman can only marry a rich man or the son of a rich man if she wants to be happy, that is. And there are few people around who are as rich or richer than Daddy. And so, for someone like me, the pond is actually a puddle.’

  She folded her arms and looked at him fixedly.

  ‘Sweetheart! Those views are really outdated!’ said Murad. ‘This is 2017. And you have a degree from Princeton! What happened to your dream of being an author? I can’t believe you’re talking like this!’

  ‘It’s true,’ Laila added. ‘No matter what career a woman has, in this country, you’re either known as someone’s daughter or someone’s wife. That’s why I never even bothered working.’

  ‘Ladies, if you put all these restrictions on yourselves, then yes, neither of you ever had a puddle with a single fish in it to begin with!’

  ‘I’m married,’ objected Laila. ‘I found a fish in the puddle.’

  ‘You compromised,’ Kamila said.

  ‘I did not!’ Laila exclaimed, outraged.

  ‘You married the first rich guy you met after college and bagged him without thinking. But look at your fish—he wakes up at noon, rolls into the office at two, stays till three and is drunk by four. And you spend most of your time with us.’

  ‘Are you saying I should get a divorce?’ Laila countered.

  Kamila shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘Urgh! This conversation has become way too serious,’ said Laila rolling her eyes. She clattered her way to the small fridge in the corner of the room. ‘I’m hungry. Do you have celery? Ooh! Yes, you do!’

  She bit into the celery as if it were a bar of chocolate. ‘My trainer says I just need to lose five pounds more.’

  ‘Uff, please Laila!’ Murad said. ‘If you lose any more weight, you’ll get the lollipop look!’

  ‘I know you think that just because I’m married I can let myself go—but that’s not true,’ Laila said. ‘Besides, you just said I should get a divorce. So now I need to look my best if I have to hook another guy!’

  ‘Laila, nobody said anything of the sort.’ Murad rolled his eyes.

  ‘Not only that,’ continued Laila, ‘but in case you’d forgotten, Maryam Qasim is getting married in four days and I can’t look like a beach ball. What are you going to wear to the wedding?’

  Kamila scowled. ‘Oh please! I’m not going to that wedding! I hardly know her.’

  ‘Oh, come on, we meet her all the time’ Laila said between mouthfuls of celery. ‘And Mama has extended her stay in Italy and won’t be back in time for the wedding. She says we have to represent her and—don’t freak out—that we have to go over to their place either today or tomorrow with a nice present, preferably a carpet.’

  ‘What?’ Kamila said in horror. ‘Why can’t we just send it with the driver?’

  ‘Because Maryam’s father is the new Interior Minister so Mama said we have to go to their house and give the present personally. And attend the wedding.’

  ‘See and be seen!’ said Murad brightly.

  ‘Murad—you haven’t been to a real Isloo wedding—you only see and are seen by judgemental, sanctimonious Aunties!’

  ‘Sweetie, this wedding won’t be that dull. Trust me,’ Murad said. ‘Yours truly has designed the bride’s mehndi outfit and I’m told loads of people from Karachi and Lahore are coming. And if Zehra Bilal, your new relative, is sending her three remaining unmarried daughters to the bride’s house every day so that they can feature prominently in all the mehndi dances, believe me, this isn’t an event to dismiss so lightly! That woman is the best social barometer of everything!’

  ‘Not only that,’ said Laila, ‘But Mrs Bilal is also the major-domo of the wedding! She’s helping Naheed Aunty with everything!’

  The acerbic comment forming on Kamila’s lips was interrupted by her phone buzzing.

  ‘It’s from him!’ she said, surprised. Her heart started beating annoyingly fast.

  ‘Ooh, what does he say?’ Laila asked walking behind Kamila’s chair to read the message. ‘Is he fed up of Erum already?’

  Kamila read the message aloud:

  ‘Kamila, please do me a small favour. As you know, I’m a private person and feel uncomfortable having images of my wedding splashed across the society pages. I would, therefore, be grateful if you would not cover the wedding in Pink. I know you’ll understand.

  Best,

  Faisal’

  ‘He thinks he’s Prince William!’ Laila jibed. ‘Going on about being private!’

  ‘How should I respond?’ Kamila asked, typing out her reply. ‘How’s this?’

  ‘Dear Faisal,

  Of course, I understand. I’ll scrap the feature. However, please do me a favour and explain this to your MIL. She’s sent me ten photo albums and made me promise to do a cover story. Since she’s also my brother’s MIL, you understand that the situation is delicate. x’

  ‘Ooh! Good reply!’ Laila said, smiling. ‘Press Send.’

  ‘No, Kamila!’ Murad said firmly. ‘Keep it short. Just write, “Sure.” One word. Nothing else.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t give him that much importance by writing reams and reams.’

  Kamila hesitated. Reluctantly, she deleted her message and wrote, ‘Sure.’

  The curt response left her feeling most unsatisfied. Murad stood up and quickly switched off the projector. ‘Uff! Thank goodness! Now, please go to Mariam Qasim’s house with the present, attend all her functions, dress to kill and sparkle!’

  ‘But we can’t stay too long,’ Laila said, playing with her Cartier Love bracelets, ‘because then people will think we have nothing else to do.’

  ###

  Maryam Qasim’s place epitomised a shaadi ka ghar. Guests strolled in and out; electricians were busy putting up fairy lights; a shamiana was being erected in the garden; white sheets covered the floor of the lounge where two mehndiwalis sat applying in
tricate designs surrounded by ladies waiting their turn; the dining table was laden with silver chafing dishes of haleem, biryani, halwa, puri and small clay bowls of kheer. A samovar of Kashmiri chai was on one of the tables as well as baskets containing colourful glass bangles, multi-coloured silk dupattas and an assortment of mithai. The latest Indian film song was blaring as girls and boys practiced the synchronised dances meant to entertain the guests at the mehndi. It was open house and everyone was welcome to partake in the jolly chaos.

  ‘I can’t believe we’re doing this!’ whispered Kamila grumpily to Laila as they strutted up the driveway. Their driver followed holding the carpet which was wrapped in a shiny green cloth.

  ‘Did you remember to put Daddy’s card on the present?’ Laila hissed.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Kamila, irritated.

  ‘So, do you really think I should get a divorce?’ Laila whispered.

  Kamila rolled her eyes. ‘Not now Laila!’ she said in an angry whisper.

  Maryam Qasim saw the girls from her lounge window and excitedly told her mother. Naheed Qasim rushed to the front door to greet them.

  ‘Hello girls! How wonderful to see you!’

  The girls smiled their standard fake smiles. They took in the buzzing activity around them with mild disdain and the driver was relieved of the carpet by one of the bearers.

  ‘It’s such a shame your mother can’t come,’ Naheed said sadly. ‘But I told her, you have to send the girls!’

  Kamila and Laila managed a smile but didn’t reply. Of course, the Qasims wanted a Mughal to attend their wedding, thought Kamila. It was a matter of social prestige!

  ‘Girls, please come and put on some mehndi?’

  They politely declined. Naheed Qasim then entreated them to try the haleem assuring them it was to die for, which they also declined. She then picked up two sets of glass bangles from a basket and gave them to Kamila and Laila who received them with muted contempt.

  She then ushered them into the lounge where they were somewhat taken aback by the rather effusive greeting from the bride-to-be who hugged them both and thanked them profusely for coming. Seconds later, they were gushingly greeted by Kiran and Lamia, their new sisters-in-law.

  ‘Kamila! Laila!’ they squealed in unison. Laila and Kamila winced as they were treated to kisses and hugs.

  ‘Ooh! Kiran look!’ cried Lamia. ‘Zaki and Adnan are here! Come! Let’s go bug them!’

  The two of them scurried towards two young men who had just arrived, leaving Kamila and Laila with the bride-to-be.

  ‘Please take a seat,’ said Mariam gesturing towards one of the sofas. ‘I think you might know some people…’

  No sooner had she said this, a deep-pitched female voice interrupted, ‘Oh my gosh, Kamila?’

  Kamila looked up and saw Malia Ahmad, whom she often met on the Lahore social circuit, walking into the lounge barefoot, wearing a crushed lawn outfit with her hair in a messy topknot. Her husband Ayyan was heir to a textile empire.

  ‘Malia! What are you doing here?’ asked Kamila, surprised to see ‘one of her own.’

  ‘Maryam’s my cousin, yaar,’ replied Malia. ‘Ayyan and I drove down yesterday but he wants to go back to Lahore and return day after tomorrow for the mehndi! Uff, it’s impossible to tear a Lahori away from Lahore—even though it’s a furnace these days!’

  ‘Lahore is Lahore!’ Ayyan said from one of the sofas where he was relaxing. ‘There’s nothing to do here!’

  ‘Shut up, Ayyan!’ Malia said, ‘Look at the hills!’

  Malia then took Kamila and Laila aside and said sotto voce: ‘Achha yaar, we didn’t get a chance to talk after Faisal’s wedding, but are you okay? I mean, we all thought the two of you would marry?’

  Kamila blushed. ‘I don’t know why everybody keeps saying that!’ she whispered back. ‘He was just a friend! If I had wanted to marry him, I would have.’

  Malia nodded. ‘Yes, of course. Well, I mean, people talk nonsense. Don’t worry about it,’ she said kindly. ‘I’m going to go try the haleem . Ayyan, come, get up! Let’s have some haleem.’

  ‘I don’t want haleem, I want a Kobe steak,’ complained Ayyan as he followed Malia into the dining room next door.

  ‘Shut up, Ayyan! This is a shaadi ka ghar! Where are you going to find a Kobe steak?’

  At that moment, they were assailed by the sound of a shrill voice: ‘Girls!’

  It was Zehra Bilal. She hurriedly walked towards them and nearly tripped on her oversized dupatta in the process.

  ‘Do we make a run for it?’ Kamila asked Laila snidely.

  ‘Too late,’ said Laila between gritted teeth.

  Too late indeed, for they were soon being greeted by perfumed hugs and kisses.

  ‘How wonderful to see you! I haven’t seen you both since the wedding! Kamila beta, did you get the wedding albums I sent you?’

  ‘Yes, Aunty’ replied Kamila, her voice like steel. ‘But Faisal messaged and said he doesn’t want any photos published.’

  ‘Really? Why?’ Mrs. Bilal was incredulous.

  ‘He says he wants privacy.’

  ‘Privacy? What nonsense! A wedding’s such a public thing!’

  ‘Maybe he’s embarrassed?’ suggested Kamila coolly. ‘I can’t think why.’

  Mrs. Bilal sighed. ‘Anyway, Kamila, it’s your turn next,’ she said putting her arm around Kamila.

  Kamila felt a pang of disgust. ‘For what?’ she replied, even though she knew perfectly well what Mrs Bilal meant.

  ‘Why marriage, of course! You’re almost thirty, beta,’ said Mrs Bilal earnestly. ‘I told your mother that Kamila is now no different from one of my own daughters and I won’t rest till she finds herself a good husband!’

  Kamila was aghast; she couldn’t decide whether she was more appalled by Mrs Bilal’s familiarity or the suggestion that she was now like one of her daughters!

  Mrs Bilal went on. ‘I’m so glad you girls came today. Kamila, you must take part in the dances!’

  ‘I don’t dance,’ Kamila said, visibly annoyed.

  ‘Oh, come on! Be a sport! Maryam beta, ’ she said. ‘Please make sure that Kamila’s included in one of the dances!’

  She rushed off, leaving Kamila absolutely dumbfounded. Maryam, delighted at the prospect of Kamila dancing at her mehndi, grabbed her hand and started pulling her towards the corner of the lounge where the dance practice was taking place. ‘Oh, come on, Kamila! It’ll be fun!’

  Kamila was flabbergasted. She was not used to people being so overly familiar with her.

  ‘No, Maryam! I don’t dance. I just came to drop off the present.’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Kamila!’ Malia said as she walked back into the lounge carrying a bowl of haleem. ‘We need a partner for Siraj.’

  ‘Who is Siraj?’ Kamila asked, exasperated.

  ‘He’s my cousin. I think he was also in school with you. That’s what he said.’

  ‘I don’t remember a Siraj.’

  ‘That’s probably because you never noticed,’ said a man’s voice from behind her.

  She turned and found herself face to face with a man who was tall, handsome in a rugged sort of way, and oddly familiar.

  ‘Er…Siraj Khan?’ she ventured.

  ‘Kamila Mughal,’ he smiled.

  ‘Um…it’s been years,’ said Kamila with a forced smile.

  The last time she had even noticed Siraj Khan, he had been a foot shorter than her and had accidentally spilt potassium permanganate on her uniform when they were in the tenth grade. This had caused such consternation in both that neither had spoken to the other for the remainder of their time at school, Kamila out of contempt and Siraj out of embarrassment.

  ‘Rest assured, I’m not holding any purple liquids in my hands today,’ he said, holding his hands up.

  Kamila’s fake society-smile grew wider. ‘Yes. Well, thank heaven for that.’

  He laughed.

  Malia explained the dance. ‘It’s a couples’ dance and the
re’ll be eight of us, four guys and four girls. Me, you, Kiran, and Lamia. The guys are Ayyan, Zaki, Adnan, and Siraj. It’s very easy. Don’t worry, none of us are great dancers. Just follow my lead.’

  Kamila could not believe this was happening and was even more irritated at her complete inability to excuse herself.

  ‘I just need to make a phone call. I’ll be back,’ Kamila said.

  ‘You have two minutes,’ Malia called after her, in full sergeant major mode.

  Kamila left the room and stood underneath the spiral staircase outside. She took her mobile phone out of her handbag and tried to call Murad but there was no reply, so she left a message.

  ‘Murad, where are you?’ she began in a loud whisper. ‘I’ll kill you! Operation Rehab ends now! I’m dying here. I’ve been roped into dancing, and that too with some nerd from school. Siraj Khan. You probably don’t remember him. I certainly didn’t. This isn’t funny! I’ll die if I have to stay here a moment longer!’

  She angrily tossed her phone into her bag and looked up to see Siraj Khan a few feet away from her. He had been dispatched to get some dupattas for the guys to wear around their necks during the dance. She felt a moment of panic and confusion as she had a dreadful feeling that he might have heard what she had said. He did not, however, seem to give any indication that he had and merely walked back into the lounge. Kamila followed after a moment or two.

  ‘Finally!’ said Malia when she saw Kamila walk into the room. ‘Now take your places. Stand in a line. Your partners will stand behind you.’

  Malia demonstrated and explained the routine and everyone followed her lead. There were lots of laughs as most people kept forgetting their steps; Malia and Ayyan bickered, Zaki and Adnan could not keep up; Lamia kept bumping into Kiran; only Siraj and Kamila seemed to be in sync. Much to her surprise, Kamila actually started enjoying herself. Even Laila, watching from one of the sofas, became part of the laughter.

  After about an hour, the dance team stopped to take a break. Ayyan collapsed on the sofa; Lamia and Kiran went off into the dining room with Zaki and Adnan; Malia was called to inspect the fairy lights, while Siraj and Kamila went to get some water from the round table in the corner of the lounge.