by Dar, Azma;
‘Which doggy’s that?’ asked Anwar, coming in with a cup of coffee.
‘Aah, Nathoo’s son is obsessed with doggies. He even calls Nathoo ‘doggy’ instead of ‘daddy.’’
Saika forced a laugh.
Anwar frowned. ‘I’ve never heard that.’
‘He probably doesn’t want to use vulgar language in front of you,’ said Gago. ‘I’m going now, get some sleep. Tomorrow you will be the golden couple.’
Nathoo’s predecessor had attended the Begum’s parties dressed in a butler’s outfit, in accordance with the role required of him at these events. They ranged from intimate soirées with just a few close friends to ladies-only gatherings for chai and samosas. There were children’s parties where the butler was often made the target of flying sandwiches and attacked by small pinching fingers, and to which Anwar, he shuddered to remember, wore various miniature versions of adult clothing; one year he had a tuxedo with a brown spotted bow tie, another it was a silver sherwani and silver pyjamas, fit for a bridegroom. Most famously there were what the Begum called the Grand Balls, which took place in the middle of every season, lavish occasions where the fashionable Punjabi elite were invited to enjoy a lot of complicated food and a little discreet drinking, indulge in gossip and jealousy, and make possible matrimonial introductions. The gentlemen and the braver ladies did the Twist to music from the latest Pakistani and Indian films, and the artistically minded sat on a dais and recited poetry into a microphone.
The balls were one tradition that Zareena had been more than happy to continue, even creating an atmosphere of eternal celebration in the house, the frequency of parties meaning that when one was over the preparations for the next one began. Anwar’s social calendar now consisted almost entirely of meetings, and he rarely had them at home. When he did have guests at the house it was never more than a couple of friends. Over the years the household’s workforce of servants had dwindled to what was really required, namely Gago, Nathoo, his wife, Sharmilee, and the gardener.
‘Saabji won’t like it if you don’t,’ Gago threatened Nathoo. A flash of brilliance had prompted her to dig through the trunks until she found the old butler’s tail coat, and now Nathoo, who’d never worn anything other than a shalwar kameez, was standing on a chair wearing trousers two inches too long at the bottom, and too loose for his skinny waist. Gago had clipped a clothes peg on to hold them up.
‘In the old days this is how things were done,’ said Gago.
‘You’re mad,’ growled Nathoo. ‘Let me down.’
‘Stay there, or you will expose!’ Nathoo’s bid for escape had indeed caused an unwanted slight slide downwards and he clutched the trousers in panic.
‘Get out and give me back my clothes!’
‘Nathoo, have you fixed that driveway light yet?’ called Anwar. He came into the kitchen. ‘What are you doing? Gago? Leave him alone.’
‘Saabji at the Grand Balls…’
‘It’s a valima, Gago, not a ball, and even if it were, I wouldn’t make Nathoo wear something so ridiculous.’
‘But Madam agrees with me.’
‘You leave Madam to me. If you don’t stop torturing the poor soul I’ll make you wear a dress and frilly apron.’
‘I don’t mind,’ said Gago. ‘I always wanted to look like a proper chambermaid.’
The evening did not begin well. Gago went to the tower room to bathe and dress the Begum early in the afternoon, so that they could carry her downstairs in good time.
‘Is the parlour girl here yet?’ asked the Begum, referring to the beautician that was going to do Saika’s make up.
‘Yes, she just came now. She is doing Memsahib’s hair. She’s done a very pretty style. Classic.’
‘Ask her to come here when she’s finished.’
Gago glanced at the sparse strands covering the Begum’s head as she patted her neck with Tibet Snow.
‘Do you really think it’s a good idea to backcomb?’
‘Don’t be stupid!’ snapped the Begum. ‘Did I say anything about that? I just want her to touch this up a little.’ Her fingers skimmed over her face. ‘Sometimes even the best of us can do with a little extra definition.’
‘She’ll take her time. If you wait up here for her to finish we’ll get late.’
‘She can do it downstairs. Send the boys up to get me in an hour. When she’s finished with her she can come to me.’
Gago made sure she was comfortable. Instead of tucking her up inside the quilt, she sat the Begum on top of the new crochet bedspread, to fully display the regality of her lavender-coloured gharara.
‘A treat before you go, please,’ said the Begum. Then, as Gago gave her a disapproving look, ‘It’s all right, my number was only seven today. And it’s my son’s valima, I’m allowed to celebrate.’
‘Yes, and that means you will be eating rice and dessert. I’m sorry. No sweets now or the level will shoot up by tonight.’
Gago gave her a dry tea rusk to compensate for the disciplinary action, turned on the television, and went downstairs to organise her team of new servants. The Begum waited, flicking through the channels until she found a John Wayne film. Then, deciding it was safe, she began to wriggle. With one hand clasping the side of the bed, she moved and shuffled slowly towards the edge, massaging her legs with the other hand to get her circulation going. They were quite obedient if she was patient with them, and she swung them slowly round and over, so she was eventually sitting with her feet touching the floor. She leaned over and pulled the wheelchair towards her. The operation was made ten times more difficult than usual by the weight and bulk of her outfit, but she gave a final heave and transferred herself wheezily on to the wheelchair.
Opening the fridge was always like entering a mythical cave of delights, laden with forbidden pleasures, the plundering of which could prove disastrous. The Begum had to be careful what and how much she took. Gago would surely notice something as glaring as the disappearance of a whole piece of cake, or an entire apple or pear, so she stole her loot from here and there, two teaspoons of custard, three or four grapes, a slice of chocolate gateau, so thin it crumbled over the knife.
It was over three hours later that Gago remembered the Begum was waiting in the tower for her escorts, and she went up with Nathoo and one of the temporary staff. The Begum refused to look at her and continued staring at the episode of The Golden Girls she was pretending to be engrossed in.
‘Chale, Madam, I’m sorry, please forgive me,’ pleaded Gago. ‘First time in my life. The new girls are slow. It took me a long time to explain things to them.’
‘I buzzed five times. Then it got humiliating,’ mumbled the Begum through gritted teeth.
‘I was in the dining room,’ said Gago. ‘Maybe the others didn’t hear it. Nathoo, bring the chair.’
‘I’m not going now,’ said the Begum.
‘Everyone will be here soon.’
‘Yes, and you want me to make an exhibition of myself, being carried down like a cripple for all of them to gawp at. If anyone wants to see me they can come up here.’
Gago knew better than to argue.
CHAPTER 4
The night was cool, but nerves, bodies and an electric heater all ensured it was warm enough for the guests to be received in the garden. A red carpet had been laid down, leading from the terrace at the back of house to a few metres into the garden, where the couple stood to greet the arrivals, flanked by a pair of urns filled with pale pink lilies. The welcoming committee would normally consist of at least ten of the groom’s family members, lined up on either side of the walkway, to kiss, hug and shower the guests with flowers and confetti, but Anwar had not asked any of the few relations he did have to oblige. He wasn’t on particularly familiar terms with any of them, and wouldn’t succumb to the insincerities of ritual.
News of a wedding – the time and location – always spread quickly, particularly when it was one of importance. Beggars gathered at the gates in time to benefit from the festiv
e goodwill, adding in bribes of prayers for marital bliss to those reluctant to part with their rupees. Also lurking at the gates was a group of hermaphrodites dressed as women, their faces smothered in powder and colour, dancing and singing raucously. Anwar sent Nathoo with some money for them, but they insisted on blessing the groom themselves, and didn’t leave until Anwar went himself to be complimented and clapped at.
The absence of the Begum, of course, was noticeable. Saika and Anwar had gone up together to coax her down, flattering her gown, telling her how upset they’d be if she didn’t appear, and how, for many, the highlight of the evening would be to have her presence among them.
‘So now I am a party piece. A circus monkey.’
Anwar had looked at Saika, and she’d left him to try alone, hoping it might convince the Begum he really wanted her there. It hadn’t.
‘I’m exhausted. From waiting,’ said the Begum. ‘And the stress has made my sugar high. I don’t think it will be helped by going round and round sixty-three steps, will it? Unless, of course, you’re out to kill me now.’
The first to arrive were the group of friends that had visited earlier in the week, followed by Saika’s parents and sister, Nadia, who sat down not far from them, in the garden, so she could observe her sister playing both wife and hostess.
On the wedding she’d had to sit coyly and be stared at, but tonight she was expected to entrance and smile. Grinning inanely wasn’t her forte even on a normal day, let alone when she was the centre of attention. As the next couple meandered down the path, she began to feel hotter and her body tensed slightly, but Anwar seemed to sense it and slipped his arm lightly around her waist, comfortable, reassuring. Again she thought she’d misjudged him. She’d imagined him naturally reserved and conservative, the last person to flout convention by being openly physical, even in the subtlest way. She smiled when he looked at the middle-aged couple approaching and whispered:
‘Here comes love’s young dream.’
Rafeeq was wearing a dinner jacket with satin lapels and a red cummerbund, while his wife wore a purple Banarsi sari with a white rose tucked in her short curly hair, henna-orange at the roots. They were the only couple to have arrived holding hands, although how much Rafeeq was comfortable with this was questionable. Every few seconds he tried to disengage himself, but the woman was a human handcuff.
‘This is Rafeeq, the son of my mother’s cousin,’ said Anwar.
‘Mubarak ho, Anwar saab, Mubarak ho,’ said Rafeeq. He looked at his wife. ‘Just a minute, dear.’ She released him so he could hug Anwar. ‘My dear wife, Dolly.’ She kissed Saika, dismissing Anwar with a nod. They passed into the house, taking bottles of fizzy drinks from Nathoo on the way.
‘Oh, it’s quite sweet, really,’ Saika said to Anwar.
‘Hmm, yes, sweet, but I’m not sure how much of it is down to his newly-acquired medication.’ Saika spluttered a laugh when she realised what he meant.
‘How do you know?’ she asked.
‘He does my accounts. I went into his office one day and his secretary was giggling about it with the cleaner. The cleaner found the tablets in his drawer when she was trying to steal his Vaseline.’
The conversation stalled as another family strolled up to them, and more cars began to pack into the driveway, but Saika was already more relaxed. Anwar was enjoying himself, keeping up a quiet banter of silly comments, and after a while her jaw began to ache from laughing at them.
The starters of tandoori chicken and kebabs were just being served in the dining room, and Saika was thinking how much brighter the place looked full of light and people, despite its drab décor, when Gago appeared at her elbow.
‘Aunty’s here,’ she said into her ear.
Before Saika had time to reply, Rabia came striding up to the table.
‘Sorry we’re late,’ she said, leaning over the other diners to kiss Saika. ‘I heard dinner was at eight. I didn’t get the card, but I told your father of course they must have invited me. How can it be? I arranged everything. I introduced. I said to your uncle Munir, you stay at home, but at least someone should go or it doesn’t look nice. I brought Pervez with me to drive. Chal Pejoo, come and say salaam.’
Pervez smiled at Saika. Anwar had risen to greet Rabia, the wicked fairy at the banquet. As Pervez congratulated them, Anwar seemed frozen, until Saika tugged at his sleeve and he extended his hand.
‘Haa, there’s a space over there,’ said Rabia, spotting a gap between a little girl and her father. ‘Pejoo find a space and sit down, they’ve started giving it out.’ Nathoo produced some chairs, placing them at the unoccupied ends of two of the tables, but Rabia moved hers to a place more to her liking, into the midst of the action.
When the meal had been cleared, the party dispersed into the rest of the house. A karaoke machine was set up in one of the larger reception rooms, and a young married couple, amateur entertainers hired by Gago, sang film and pop songs. Saika and Anwar sat together on the sofa, and the cameraman made a video as the guests took turns in sitting next to them and handing over either gifts or cash. One of them had brought along a large bouquet of flowers, which Anwar had to pose with for about twenty minutes. Saika was glad he hadn’t objected to having the video made – at least the Begum would be able to watch the whole event later.
Saika’s cousins and friends had felt Anwar might think them insensitive if they expressed too much excitement and fulfilled all the traditions, but now that Nadia had sat next to him at dinner, she’d concluded he wasn’t as grumpy as his reputation and decided he wouldn’t be averse to a little fun.
‘I have some unfinished business,’ she announced. ‘Anwar Bhai got off lightly on the wedding day. He’ll be fined double today.’
This was met with cheers from the ladies in the room, and they instantly crowded round the sofa to watch Nadia pull off Anwar’s shoe. Anwar made a half-hearted show of trying to prevent her, but was quite happy to let her take it, and start negotiating the amount of money he would have to give her.
‘A thousand rupees!’ exclaimed Nadia, counting it out. ‘But there are four of us!’ There was more clapping and whooping from the girls, mostly from Saika’s friends. Eventually Anwar handed out five thousand rupees, and encouraged, his own cousins suddenly remembered the rituals they should have performed as members of the groom’s family. One of them fetched a jug of water, and made circles with it around Anwar’s head, the idea being that she had to try and drink from it, while he tried to stop her. If she succeeded, he had to pay up. Anwar lost another two thousand in the next half an hour.
Over the evening people had gone up to the tower to pay their respects to the Begum in small groups. As tea was brought round, Saika slipped away with her sister, excusing herself by saying she needed the bathroom.
Nadia flopped on to the bed.
‘Don’t like the wallpaper. Don’t tell me you do,’ she said.
‘We might change it,’ said Saika. She wasn’t fond of the floral pattern either.
‘ ‘We’ might change it…’ Nadia laughed. ‘Seem to be getting quite cosy. You should be ashamed of yourself for enjoying it so much. So… how was it?’
She eyed the bed. ‘Was the old guy up to it?’
Saika threw a cushion at her. She had no wish to describe the way she was feeling to Nadia. All her adult life she’d mocked the idea of herself getting married. There were too many things to do, learn and think about, much more than could be done once you had enclosed yourself in that all consuming garb of wife and mother, and for most, daughter in law. Ideal love, she was certain, was entirely imaginary, the fabulous invention of poets and painters, a creation that she admittedly spent many hours contemplating and admiring, yet still a slippery chimerical thing that rarely reared its pretty head in her world. She’d seen acceptance, devotion, compromise, pity, infatuation and fear glue people together for life, the dishonesty dying out only when they did.
When she’d agreed to the proposal, she’d imagined what t
he worst outcome could be – the possibilities were brutal. The best she’d hoped for had been a comfortable friendship.
But now she faced defeat. Not only was she married, but she was also acting like a smitten young heroine. She felt vague pangs in her stomach when Anwar left the house, waited in private impatience till he returned. She loved to watch him for no reason and devoured even the most transient of his touches.
‘If you’re not going to use the bathroom, I will,’ said Nadia, getting up. Saika checked her appearance, resetting the angles of all the pieces of jewellery on her head, and put a little gloss on her lips. She went out on to the balcony, turning off the light so as not to illuminate herself to all those milling around in the garden. There were plenty who had escaped the trials of the musical revolution inside – the karaoke machine had been stormed by guests who thought they could do better than the current performers, and the microphone surrendered. The dull beat of the bass was chugging out of the open French windows.
Saika gulped in the night air, scented with raat ki rani, letting it swish around inside her. The trees looked enchanting, haphazardly spangled with tiny gleams of light by Gago. As she turned to go back, thinking that Nadia might see the room was dark and think she had rejoined the party without her, a movement not far from her window caught her eye. Two figures were outside Anwar’s study, which was directly beneath the room next to her bedroom. Though talking in lowered voices, one of them was making vivid hand movements, whilst the other stood still. Then the more animated of the two turned away and strode across the lawn and into relative brightness. It was Pervez. He looked back over his shoulder twice, an expression of sly defiance on his face.
Suddenly someone tickled her in the ribs, a silly trick from her childhood.
Saika uttered an involuntary exclamation and stepped away from the edge of the balcony quickly, telling Nadia to stop giggling, but the man by the study looked up in their direction. She wasn’t sure if he’d seen her, but with the mottled glow of fairy lights cast across his features, she’d recognised him quite clearly as her husband.
