Austenistan Page 9

  ‘So, my reluctant partner didn’t die!’ said Siraj smiling as he poured some water in a glass for Kamila.

  Kamila inwardly flinched. He had heard! How inconvenient.

  ‘No. I didn’t,’ Kamila said, annoyed by the sheepishness in her voice. ‘Actually, I don’t like dancing.’

  ‘Neither do I. But Malia can be very convincing,’ Siraj said, laughing.

  If by convincing you mean bossy, thought Kamila.

  ‘So, what made you think that staying here a moment longer would lead to your certain death?’ Siraj asked in good humour.

  Kamila winced. ‘Um. Nothing,’ she said as she tried to think of an excuse. ‘It’s just that, well, none of my friends are here and…’

  ‘And do your friends always have to be around for you to have a good time?’

  ‘Well, yes...’

  ‘So, you don’t like meeting new people?’

  It depends on who they are.

  ‘I heard you’re the editor of a magazine?’ continued Siraj.

  ‘The publisher. I own it.’

  ‘That sounds great. Do you enjoy it?’

  For some reason, the question irritated her. ‘Well, it’s easy,’ she responded.

  ‘So, you don’t enjoy it?’

  ‘I never said that!’ replied Kamila annoyed. ‘I just said it was easy.’

  Siraj nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘So, what do you enjoy? What are your hobbies?’

  Kamila thought for a moment. ‘Well, I’m very busy. I don’t have much time for hobbies.’

  ‘Busy with the magazine?’

  ‘Yes. And… other stuff,’ said Kamila feeling like she was under a microscope.

  Malia’s voice boomed through the room again: ‘Okay, break’s over! Come back! Nobody’s leaving till this dance is perfect!’

  ‘Uff! I want to go back to Lahore!’

  ‘Ayyan, shut up! And don’t step on my foot this time!’

  Siraj rolled his eyes and smiled. ‘Back to the grindstone.’

  They started walking back when Kamila was accosted by Mrs. Bilal and taken aside, none too subtly.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Kamila whispered, irritated.

  ‘I just got all the stats on Siraj Khan,’ said Mrs. Bilal in an excited and loud whisper. ‘He’s a lawyer, works at some fancy law firm, lives in London, has a fabulous flat in Notting Hill, both his parents are dead…’

  Kamila glowered at Mrs. Bilal. ‘And why would I be interested in this?’

  ‘My dear, he’s so eligible! And Naheed told me that he’s also very nice—kind, polite, good values—so that’s a bonus!’

  ‘Uh! Aunty, he was at school with me. He was one of the nerds.’

  ‘Darling, it’s the nerds that make the best husbands. Always marry the nerds!’

  Kamila was appalled. This talk was vulgar.

  ‘Beta, he may not be spindles and acres rich but he’s from a respectable, educated family and he’s hardworking. Lawyers make loads of money! And they have long working hours, another bonus!’

  ‘Aunty, please keep your voice down or someone will hear you!’

  ‘Kamila listen, the problem with girls like you is that you don’t know how to fish! You think the fish will simply swim your way. They won’t! Fish are dumb by nature. Remember that. They need to be baited!’

  Kamila was aghast. If she were going to go fishing, she wouldn’t cast her net at a lawyer. She hired lawyers! She didn’t marry them!

  ‘Beta, Siraj Khan’s a catch! Don’t let him swim away! I wanted him for Lamia but he’s clearly not interested in her, she’s too light-hearted and he’s the serious type. You two are more suited. Now please, go and speak to him nicely. Don’t frown. You look so pretty when you smile. I shall go into mourning if he doesn’t marry one of my girls! And you are now one of my girls!’

  ‘KAMILA!’ yelled Malia. ‘Hurry!’

  Kamila virtually ran back to the dance practice, such was her relief at extricating herself from this conversation with Mrs Bilal. She quickly took her place next to Siraj in the dance formation. Just as they were beginning though, the MP3 player stopped working. An exasperated Malia charged towards it purposefully.

  ‘I love reading,’ Kamila said suddenly to Siraj. ‘That’s one of my hobbies. You asked earlier.’

  ‘Oh!’ he replied sounding interested. ‘Who’s your favourite author?’

  Kamila thought for a moment.

  ‘Well it may sound trite, but it’s Jane Austen.’

  ‘Oh! Pride and Prejudice!’

  ‘Among others,’ Kamila said, smiling. This time with genuine pleasure.

  ‘Mr. Darcy!’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied wearily.

  ‘Uff, you know!’ interrupted Ayyan, overhearing their exchange, ‘Mr. Darcy has done more to ruin marriages than any other man in history!’

  This comment was met by audible horror from all the ladies present, all of whom started arguing with Ayyan; Lamia and Kiran started playfully hitting him with cushions.

  ‘What? It’s true!’ cried Ayyan, revelling in the reaction he’d provoked.

  ‘Ayyan, shut up!’ said Malia, still plugging and unplugging things. ‘What do you know about Mr Darcy? You’ve never read a book in your life.’

  ‘I saw the movie,’ he said. ‘And all I’ve heard since I got married is, “Mr Darcy this, Mr Darcy that!” Yaar the guy’s ruined it for the rest of us!’

  The room erupted into animated discussion, with everyone talking heatedly at the same time about the merits and demerits of Ayyan’s comments.

  Siraj turned to Kamila. ‘I think you’ve sparked a revolt!’

  She laughed. Just then, she heard her phone buzz and walked over to the sofa to take it out of her handbag. There was a text message from Murad:

  ‘I’m on my way. And Siraj Khan’s a hottie!’

  ####

  Everyone at the well-attended mehndi held in the Qasims’ large garden concurred that Kamila Mughal was dazzling. Her clothes were elegant and she had danced beautifully with that lawyer from London.

  Along with dancing, Kamila had cheerfully socialised with people she would have ordinarily looked down on; Siraj introduced her to some of his friends—they were jovial and warm. Everything was going well and then suddenly, just like that, it all went to pieces.

  Faisal entered with Erum.

  Kamila froze.

  She heard lots of squealing as people rushed towards the newlyweds. From what she could make out, Faisal, knowing that Erum and Maryam were friends, had surprised Erum by flying them in his Gulfstream to Islamabad to make an unexpected appearance. They would stay until the wedding and then resume their honeymoon, this time in Santorini.

  For a moment, Kamila and Faisal’s eyes met. He gave her a slight nod and then continued to talk to the people around him. Kamila went inside as steadily as she could, resisting the urge to run.

  Siraj came in looking for her and found her sitting at the foot of the stairs.

  ‘Is everything alright?’ he asked with some concern.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Kamila said, trying not to look flustered.

  ‘Did something happen? Did someone say anything to upset you?’ Siraj asked, sitting down beside her.

  ‘No. I upset myself.’

  ‘Not that this is any of my business,’ Siraj said after a moment’s reflection, ‘but does this have anything do with Faisal Dayyan’s appearance? You went kind of… funny once you saw him.’

  ‘No!’ replied Kamila firmly. She did not want to discuss this with him.

  Siraj nodded as he struggled to find tactful words. ‘It’s just that—well—you kind of had a thing for him even at school.’

  ‘A thing?’ Kamila said, not sure whether to laugh or cry.

  ‘He’s your answer to Mr Darcy?’ asked Siraj smiling.

  ‘No!’

  Yes, she thought.

  ‘Come, let’s go outside,’ said Siraj. ‘Everyone’s on the dance floor. And even though, a
ccording to you, I was born on the wrong side of the tracks, I’d be honoured if you’d dance with me without wanting to die this time.’

  Kamila burst out laughing.

  The mehndi was now in full swing—people were dancing, others were enjoying the buffet, the Islamabad Aunties seemed to be having a great time, clearly in an ecstasy of judging everyone present. Murad had turned up and was standing in the courtyard near the tables with Laila.

  Mrs Bilal rushed over to them. ‘Mission accomplished!’ she said breathlessly to a bewildered Laila. ‘I think Siraj is hooked!’ she added.

  Laila rolled her eyes at Murad who didn’t respond. She placed a teaspoon of biryani on her plate. ‘I think I should get a divorce’, she said. ‘After all, I’m thirty-two and need to think about getting married again.’ And then it was Murad’s turn to roll his eyes.

  ###

  Mrs Bilal was right. Two weeks after Maryam’s wedding, Kamila left for her summer vacation to London and got in touch with Siraj. Discovering that London for Kamila meant Knightsbridge or Sloane Street, Siraj took her to his favourite haunts and she found herself falling in love with the city in a whole other way. London wasn’t the only thing she fell in love with.

  A year later, they were married in an elegant ceremony at Chatsworth House.

  ‘How is it that all the mean girls get the nice guys?’ Erum Dayyan whispered to her sister Jahanara Mughal as they sat together at Kamila’s wedding.

  Laila got her divorce and in a turn of events that surprised everyone, most of all herself, she started her own home furnishing company, which eventually opened retail outlets in every major Pakistani city.

  Kamila sold Pink shortly after her wedding. She decided to pursue her original dream of being an author. She was nervous as anything about how her book, The Problem with Mr Darcy, would be received but she needn’t have been, as it sold truckloads of copies just as Siraj had told her it would, and landed a film deal.

  Ayyan received special thanks in the acknowledgments and was thrilled to have his name mentioned. He even attempted to read it.

  The Autumn Ball

  Gayathri Warnasuriya

  “To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love”

  —Pride and Prejudice

  Maya longed to go to the ball.

  The problem was Prince Charming, or at least Prince Charming-once-upon-a-time, her husband, Hugo, who’d developed an aversion to socialising, in general, and to dancing, in particular.

  It hadn’t always been like this, they’d met at a club in London and gone out dancing on their first few dates. He wasn’t the most romantic or expressive man she’d come across but Maya was drawn to his solid and quiet demeanour. Maya sensed he didn’t say things unless he meant them. This was proven a few months later when he proposed, albeit rather prosaically. One evening at dinner, he asked her if she’d like to get married as he had been assigned his first posting in the Foreign Service and she could accompany him as his wife. He had not got down on one knee, he had not arranged a string quartet, he had not even bought a ring. It was much more practical, in Hugo’s viewpoint, to buy a ring after Maya accepted. She did. She was thrilled to.

  London was the centre of the world and she loved it, but she’d been living there ever since her family left Pakistan when she’d been nine. She was ready for a change. London had its perks but it also ground one down, she thought. So many of her friends were looking for work abroad for a better quality of life after all. She liked her job as a deputy editor at The Journal of Forensic Sciences but there would be other opportunities. She told Hugo the next day over dinner how she’d try to find a job at a science institute in Abuja. It would be a problem, Hugo said, as a ‘trailing spouse’, the wife of a diplomat, she wasn’t allowed to work unless it was for a charity or the embassy. That didn’t sound too bad, Maya thought, though it would be strange to not have her own salary. But with a science background, she could edit a journal for a charity, even brush up on her research skills. Besides, she thought, she wasn’t going to complain about the opportunity to be a lady of leisure for once, by the side of a handsome and charming man whom she was going to spend her life with. Her family felt much the same way. While they had been hoping Maya would meet a nice Pakistani boy, when she had refused to be introduced to any more following a series of mortifying meet-ups and rishtas from distant cousins and sons of friends, they had accepted it. While it would take Maya further away from them, they were happy for her.

  Hugo’s first posting had been to Abuja, a new, purpose-built capital in the centre of Nigeria. They arrived as newlyweds and the first year of meeting people and exploring the country had seemed like an extended honeymoon. They sat outside at midnight, eating spicy roast Nile Perch at the city’s ubiquitous fish bars, went to weekend parties at the British High Commissioner’s Residence in Kaduna, and danced all night to Femi Kuti at the New Africa Shrine in Lagos. Maya felt relieved she didn’t have a job because the diplomatic scene was so social, and Hugo so busy that it was a given that she would set up and run the house. It wasn’t remotely unsatisfying, this is how she discovered the city, by sourcing things she needed for home. She went on a series of adventures during the day, and in the evening when Hugo came home, they would swap stories and guffaw at mishaps. Keen to be the perfect wife, Maya made a real effort to make friends among the diplomatic and expat community. They were both invited out a lot and she felt it her role to make sure everyone’s hospitality was repaid beautifully in her home. Hugo would praise her dinners, her presentation, and her knack for making conversation with some fairly stodgy diplomats to the high heavens, and she would beam.

  Two years into their posting, Maya found herself pregnant, which only added to her happiness. Her parents told her to come home to them for the birth but she didn’t want to leave Hugo, and he’d promised to be as hands-on as his work hours allowed, which, it turned out, wasn’t very much. He had a hard job, she thought, he was always travelling within the country and meeting people and his colleagues spoke so highly of his work. Besides, he’d take the baby off her hands for a few hours on weekends, unless Armaan was crying, in which case, he wouldn’t know what to do and would return him promptly. Still, they had staff, she thought, and she’d trained them well. How much harder this would have been in London with her cooking and cleaning and running errands on top of it. The last year of their Nigeria posting passed in a blur of childminding, and before she knew it, Hugo was offered another post – Pakistan.

  Life was nothing if not unexpected, she had never thought marriage would bring her back to the country she’d left during her childhood. While her parents had returned occasionally for weddings and funerals, money had been tight when they’d immigrated to England, and they’d not been able to take her home for holidays, much as she’d cried and pleaded. As time passed, they felt the country had changed beyond recognition and rather than home, it began to feel like a scary, violent foreign place which most of their relatives and friends had also chosen to leave. Going as Hugo’s wife made her feel both excited and nervous. In England, she’d never quite shaken that feeling of being too Pakistani to be British. She wondered now if she was desi enough for Pakistan.

  The leafy suburb of Islamabad she found herself living in with Hugo was very different to her childhood memories of Rawalpindi. There were no auto-rickshaws and snarls of traffic. No bazaars crammed with people and wares, and few street-side vendors selling kulfi and chaat. Islamabad’s streets were virtually empty, wide, tree-lined and astonishingly clean compared with its twin city. The houses were large and palatial and property prices were the steepest in the country.

  In the cosmopolitan echelons of the Pakistani elite and international expatriates, she was not entirely at ease. In Nigeria, she had clearly been a foreigner and an expat; in Islamabad, the lines were blurred. The city was a grid of alphabetical sectors and street numbers. At a weekend retreat in the Murree Hills, she’d heard someone joke about the sectors of Islamabad
. ‘E is for the elite, F is for the foreigners, G is for government, H is for hospitals, and I is for the idiots who think they’re living in Islamabad but are actually living in Pindi,’ a scion of the landowning aristocracy had drawled, for Rawalpindi, though adjacent to Islamabad, was a different version of urban Pakistan altogether, where anywhere other than Westridge was beyond the pale. Maya was acutely aware that where she had grown up was very much outside the bounds of fashionable society but she had guffawed along with everyone else for she lived in F-sector now. Her parents had told her about relatives that she had to visit and though her two cousins, several times removed, and their parents, had greeted her warmly, it was an afternoon tea of awkward silences as she absorbed their entirely different lifestyles and mentalities. She searched out school friends on Facebook and found two, most were lost to changed surnames. They too seemed to be from another world, more conservative, more traditional, more family-oriented, it seemed, from photos. She sent out messages and was warmly invited over by both – this was one aspect in which Pakistan never failed – but had yet to take up the invitations for fear of how little they’d have to say to each other.

  Though she often felt like an impostor in Islamabad’s high society, she was slowly getting accustomed to socialising with school-mum cliques from the American school, who met up for 8 am coffee mornings and pre-school-run lunches. There, they discussed their children, whom they then paired up for playdates, the new butcher or carpenter they’d discovered, or the private residence you could buy fresh cheese from in the mornings.

  It was strange to treat Pakistan like a foreign country. A year in, she was getting used to it. It was all made easier by the many cocktail parties and diplomatic receptions which Maya loved. She’d enjoyed going out in Abuja too, but now with a young child and a busy husband, these felt like a lifeline—dressing up, feeling like a woman and not just a mother, and enjoying some grown-up company.

  The Autumn Ball was the event of the Islamabad social calendar, a mishmash of international diplomats, do-gooders, and the generally well-heeled and well-connected. It wasn’t a dinner or cocktails, it was a ball. Maya longed for an opportunity to dance. Her friend Marco had two spare seats at his table. She had said yes immediately but when she’d mentioned it to Hugo, he’d said ‘we’ll see’, which she’d come to recognise meant ‘no.’ She didn’t usually push him on things because recently, overwork had meant he could be rather short with her. This, however, mattered and she was going to bring it up again.