by Dar, Azma;
‘You’re worrying me. Have I really been that bossy even in the first week?’
‘No not at all. And if you have, well, you’ve a right to. We should take turns in being bossy. But you haven’t. Before you ask me again.’
‘You’re beginning to understand me.’ She laughed, trying to disguise her nerves as she worked up to the next question. ‘Did you do that with her as well? Guess what she was thinking? Your first wife, I mean.’
Anwar looked wooden.
‘I don’t remember, I don’t think so. It was a long time ago.’
‘Do you have any photos of her?’
‘No.’
‘I… went in to her room yesterday. It’s quite pretty. She had some lovely clothes, too.’
He didn’t look at her, but stared over her shoulder, and then at the painting. Saika knew she couldn’t say anything about her dressing table discovery yet. It was possible that he already knew of its existence, particularly if he paid the room regular visits. She pictured him sitting there amongst his dead wife’s relics, stroking the duvet, sniffing at her clothes, perhaps even nuzzling up to the voodoo doll, either oblivious to or regardless of or even welcoming its objective. She felt her skin crawl at the idea.
‘It’s very loyal the way you’ve left her things the way they were,’ she said.
‘As I said to you before – you can do what you like with any of the rooms, that one included,’ said Anwar. ‘I should have had it cleared out myself before you came.’
He stood up.
‘No, there’s no need,’ said Saika quickly. ‘I didn’t mean that…’
He turned and went back into the house, leaving her to pick up her brushes and paints, the colours looking like smears of grey under the darkening sky.
Saika knew that dwelling on what she’d found in Zareena’s bedroom and why it was even still there despite its former occupant being dead and buried for twenty years, wasn’t going to be conducive to the blossoming of a successful relationship between her and Anwar. She was still very disturbed by the thought of the grotesque little figure lying in the drawer just a few doors down the corridor. She didn’t believe it had any sort of power, but she would still much rather it wasn’t anywhere near the house. She was also determined to accept Anwar’s offer, regardless of whether or not it had been sincere, to clear out Zareena’s possessions, and the doll could go with them. However, it would have to wait until life settled down into some sort of normality. For the moment, the household was filled with movement and activity as preparations for the valima party took place.
There were two days left until the party. The food was being cooked by the nai, a barber who, like others in his profession in Pakistan, moonlighted as a chef catering for special occasions. The party was going to be on a much smaller scale than the wedding. The guests totalled thirty six. Apart from Saika’s parents and sister, and a couple of close cousins, the list consisted of Anwar’s friends and colleagues, and the few relations that he had no choice but to invite.
‘I’m surprised you’ve gotten away with it. How did you get Mother to agree?’ said Saika. They were on the terrace, drinking cups of spiced tea.
‘It was one of my conditions. Make it small or I won’t do it,’ said Anwar.
‘You know how to make a girl feel good,’ smiled Saika.
‘Well, it’s not as if I…’ He stopped.
‘Haven’t done it before? It’s all right, you can say it.’
‘Yes. We did it all… then. But that’s not to say this is any less important.’ He surprised her by taking her hand and giving it a gruff little stroke, despite the maid, Sharmilee, being close by, helping the gardener with some weeding.
‘Thanks,’ said Saika, touched but a little unsure of what else to say.
‘Maybe…less of all the pomp and glamour will make us focus on the things that really have some meaning.’
The guests being fewer than those at the wedding, there was no need to erect an extra tent, and dinner was to be served indoors, with seating also provided in the garden. Nathoo was ordered to shift the furniture so Gago and Sharmilee could scrub, polish and air, and the currently disused formal dining room was opened up.
‘There was no point in me sitting in this huge place by myself,’ said Anwar, explaining why he and Saika ate their meals at a table in the lounge.
Nathoo put new bulbs into the light fittings, and opened the windows.
‘The curtains look a bit mouldy,’ said Saika.
‘Buy new ones,’ said Anwar.
‘Can I? You don’t mind? Or your mother?’
‘I’ve told you. Do what you like.’
‘Good idea,’ said Gago. ‘But you won’t get them in time. They will have to be made to measure.’
‘Even if we drive into Islamabad?’ said Saika.
‘No guarantee. These are giant windows.’
Saika twisted the curtains to see if they could be arranged to sit in a way that would hide the dirt, but the pink damask was speckled all over with spots of grey.
‘I suppose we could just take them off.’
‘Memsahib, why don’t you look through the trunks? In the old days the mistress kept many spare sets. Maybe you will find something there.’
‘The store’s upstairs,’ said Anwar. ‘I’m going to pop out for a while later but Gago can take you up there this afternoon.’
Farzana’s middle child, a boy, was on his fifth plate of kheer, having rejected the main meal of daal and roti. He slurped greedily at the rice pudding, the milk dribbling down his face and on to his clothes.
‘Shut up will you?’ said Pervez. ‘I can’t hear myself think.’
‘Yes, slow down,’ said Arshad.
‘Can’t, Papa, it’s too tasty!’ babbled the boy.
‘Let him enjoy himself,’ said Farzana, stroking the child. ‘Eat, beta, khaa.’
They were in the courtyard, having dinner on a large floor mat. Rabia came in, a dead lamb slung over her shoulder.
‘The butcher was late for his payment again so I took this as a deposit,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t be bothered to wait while he skinned it. Farzana can do it later.’ She swung the lamb off and put him in the corner. Farzana let out a little squeal.
‘Never!’ she said. ‘I’m thinking of converting to a veggie.’
‘You ate a plate of fried kidneys for breakfast,’ said Pervez.
‘That’s different. I didn’t catch them myself. They were from next door.’
‘I’ve finished,’ said Munir, standing up.
‘Where you going, handsome?’ said Rabia, whacking him on the back with a bloody hand. ‘Sit down and spend some time with me.’ She pushed his shoulder down and his legs folded beneath him. She pulled her burkha off over her head, and sat beside Munir, sliding her plate to Farzana across the woven mat. She tapped Munir’s knee and motioned to her neck. He began to pummel daintily with his fists. Pervez handed her back the now food-laden plate and she slapped Munir’s hands away. She began to eat, using a fork and knife to dissect the roti.
‘Very modern,’ said Pervez, who was eating with his fingers.
‘You should all learn some manners if you want to move up into high society,’ said Rabia. ‘I lunched with a nawab from Gilgit today at the Pearl Continental.’ She didn’t explain that she’d tracked down one of her debtors, a local businessman and friend of the nawab, to the hotel, and had stood by his table sweetly smiling unspoken threats until she was invited to sit down with them, which was almost immediately. The businessman was familiar with both her ruthlessness and her penchant for fine dining.
‘You could start with that animal over there,’ said Pervez, looking at the boy, who was still stuffing himself at a rate of knots. Munir tapped him and pointed to the kheer.
‘You’re not allowed, Abba,’ said Pervez.
‘Let him have two spoons,’ said Rabia. ‘As we’re celebrating, I have some special news.’
‘So have we,’ beamed Farzana. ‘Go on, Arshad
.’
‘Let’s hear what Ami is saying first,’ said Arshad.
‘I’ve decided to buy another hotel,’ announced Rabia.
‘Dadi’s playing Monopoly!’ said her grandson, scraping dried tomato ketchup off the bottle cap with his nails.
‘Yes, beta, grown-up’s Monopoly!’ Rabia gave him an indulgent squeeze. ‘Stop being dirty.’
‘What are you going to do with another hotel? Don’t make much with the one we’ve got!’ said Pervez. ‘I don’t want another headache.’
‘You won’t have one. Arshad is going run the new place. It’s going to be high class, just like the PC. Luxury hotels are in demand now. Hand in your resignation and leave that crappy job tomorrow, Arshad.’
‘He can’t do that.’ Farzana flashed her eyes, trying to tell him that now was the time.
‘What do you mean? He doesn’t want to stay a clerk for the rest of his life. This is what I’ve been planning for him all this time.’
‘They need at least three weeks’ notice,’ said Farzana. ‘Tell them the other news, Arshad.’
‘Yes, go on,’ said Rabia, ripping a chicken thigh in half with a single swift pull.
‘Nothing really, Ammi,’ said Arshad. ‘Just that the company is pleased with me. I’ve been promoted.’
Farzana, who had been nibbling on a whole tomato with her rice in a bid to keep up the five-a-day the doctors were recommending these days, squashed the fruit so hard it burst into a purée in her hand.
Later, while Pervez remonstrated with his mother, and told her she was mad to entrust the inexperienced Arshad and his calculating wife with the new enterprise, Farzana buried a small square of leather beneath his mattress, under the watchful eye of a passing cockroach.
The first box was full of shoes, their days of twirling and tripping, sashaying and stepping eternally arrested. There were silver high heels glittering with crystals, enchanting Turkish-style slippers in rainbow silks, sensible flat sandals in frigid black suede, stern brown loafers hinting at something else with their flirty little gold bows. Saika couldn’t be sure if they had belonged to the Begum or to Zareena, but judging by some of the styles, she suspected they belonged to the older woman. Her guess was confirmed by the hoard of evening clothes inside the next box. The short kameezes with thick borders of metallic lace, with either bell-bottom trousers or skin-tight pyjamas were indicative of the fashions prevalent in the Begum’s youth. She was surprised to find sleeveless blouses and plunging necklines, suggesting that her mother-in-law had been happy to show off more flesh in public than she herself was.
More crates, boxes, trunks. A delicate china tea set depicting a bashful shepherdess, a collection of old clocks, some chunky silver jewellery, blackened and set with nuggets of turquoise and amber, patterned with dots and circles.
The curtains were piled inside a steel trunk. There were several pairs. She didn’t want to open them – there was no space to unless she laid them all out over the dusty contents of the room. She dragged the trunk slightly to one side to separate it. She would ask Gago which of them was the right size for the dining room and then have them taken downstairs.
The job was done but the treasures of the store room enticed her to linger and hunt though them. She found a pair of etched metal vases that she liked and a small painting of a boat and palm trees at sunset, black silhouettes against a flame-coloured background. Her mother’s house was full of such landscapes. Saika was used to dismissing them as unimaginative, old-fashioned and overly pretty, but now there was something endearing and familiar about it. She would put it on display alongside some of her own little pieces – mainly her own work, a few gifts from friends, and a couple of purchases made on a rare trip to Karachi.
She put the painting and the vases by the trunk, and was about to leave when she noticed a pair of suitcase handles jutting out from under a pile of woven rugs. Attracted by their battered, vintage appearance more than anything else, she pulled them out, raising a torrent of dust. She wrapped her shawl over her face to shield it from the miniature explosion, the swirling particles of age. The cloth also muffled her scream as a fat grey rat darted out from under the rugs and vanished into the clutter.
Saika wasn’t scared of spiders, scorpions, snakes – creatures that could quite possibly kill her – but she had what she knew was an irrational fear of rats and mice, mostly because of the way they darted around so quickly.
Feeling farcical, she found a spot of safety by climbing on to one of the trunks, having armed herself with a pair of brass candlesticks and a marble goblet. Praying that none of the objects was valuable, she threw the candlestick at the rug pile, to see if there were any more miscreants still lurking. A smaller, blacker rat dashed and headed for a darker corner of the room.
‘Go away!’ she shouted pathetically, feeling like the faceless, brown-legged maid in Tom and Jerry. She was tempted to pull up her shalwar just to complete the effect. Saika threw her remaining missiles at the suspect weavings, but nothing else moved.
She waited a few moments, then climbed down. She quickly pulled out the suitcases and wiped them down with the damp cloth she’d had the foresight to bring with her. They were unlocked. The first was full of old paperbacks, a few in Urdu, but more in English: a few Mills and Boon romances, Agatha Christie mysteries, and other titles by Dennis Wheatley and Ian Fleming. The second suitcase contained an envelope of pictures, three packets of letters and a pair of bound photo albums. She put this case with the other things to go downstairs, and hurriedly got up to leave before any more whiskered apparitions popped out. The door was only half shut and she was startled when a dark shape stepped in front of her.
‘Nathoo! How long have you been standing there?’ She didn’t like the way he was looking at her, with a creepy half smile on his face. Whenever he entered a room he stood surveying it for a minute or so, his eyes sliding from side to side and his nose twitching.
‘I just came now,’ he said.
‘Well, what’s the matter?’
‘Dinner’s ready. Saabji phoned to say he’ll be late.’
‘All right. Bring these things down, and you can get the curtains later.’ He picked up the bag of albums and the ornaments. She left without saying anything. She didn’t want his company on the walk through the long, empty corridors.
The curtains finally chosen were peach, woven with a jacquard rose pattern. Saika wasn’t particularly fond of the colour but they helped lighten the room more than either the crimson velvet or the chocolate brocade. Two more dining tables were set out in addition to the main one. Saika persuaded Gago to put away her box of shiny decorations, promising her that her reputation as a party organiser with style would benefit if she was adventurous and used only vases of fresh flowers, and clusters of the many candlesticks that could be found all over the house. As Saika had hoped she would, Gago agreed on the condition that, if it wasn’t too impertinent of her, and not too strenuous for Memsahib, Saika help her with the displays, floral art being an area she was inexperienced in herself, and that Saika accept some of the blame if the guests complained about lack of paper and foil embellishments.
The barber arrived with his two assistants and set up four piles of logs in the part of the kitchen-garden that was used for domestic purposes. When the fires were burning, huge metal cauldrons were placed on each one, and mountains of sliced shallots were thrown into sizzling ghee. In the meantime the butcher appeared with a goat and chickens, and slaughtered them on the premises. The air was soon filled with the aromas of kofte and korma, and the oniony, meaty stock for the pilau rice. The food was double the amount needed to feed forty people, but it was customary to make extra and distribute it amongst the poor.
Anwar had given Saika a collection of twelve outfits on the wedding and it was the most heavily embroidered of these that she was going to wear at the valima, a shimmery pale green lehnga, a patchwork of faceted beads and silver cornelli squiggles.
‘Memsahib will look like an angel,�
�� said Gago, who’d come up to collect the clothes to be ironed downstairs in Nathoo’s room while they all watched the Indian version of Who Wants to Be A Millionaire?
‘And perfect choice for Saabji too,’ she said. ‘He looks like a prince in black.’
‘Yes, I think it suits him,’ said Saika
‘The first memsahib…’ Gago’s voice trailed off.
‘What about her?’ Saika snapped.
‘She used to dress him to match with her.’
‘What, in Jamavaar saris and gold jewellery?’
‘You are very funny, Memsahib.’ Gago made herself comfortable on the floor. ‘She liked them to be co-ordinated. One party they went to, she wore a lemon-yellow suit and he wore a mustard-coloured shalwar kameez. Another time she was in red and he was in a maroon sherwani with golden embroidery on the sleeves.’
‘I don’t believe it!’ laughed Saika. ‘Anwar in technicolour!’
‘Well he was young…’
‘Was she very beautiful?’ Saika asked suddenly.
‘Yes, she was pretty.’
‘I suppose they were very much in love.’ Saika knew she was making herself look paranoid, but she needed to know a little about how they had been, and Gago was honest, with a good memory.
‘Well, yes, they were, but I know he felt silly,’ said Gago, settling into the subject. ‘He was frightened of upsetting her. Madam was furious. She told him to stop acting like a fool and take control.’
‘Didn’t they get on, Madam and Zareena?’
‘At that time, twenty two years ago, Madam’s health was good. She did all her duties – visiting people, receiving, entertaining. Memsahib didn’t care as long as she was allowed to arrange the parties. Madam let her, but Madam has experience, sometimes she wanted to contribute her ideas – very good ideas, but Memsahib wouldn’t listen to a single word. Saabji did his best to make them love each other. He might have succeeded, if it hadn’t been for the doggy.’
