Austenistan

by Laaleen Sukhera

  ‘So how are you finding it here?’ she asked.

  He seemed to consider that question for a while. ‘I’m not sure. It’s definitely a transition. My family are pretty in-your-face. I’m trying to get used to the intrusiveness, not to mention the constant discussions about the servants. Don’t even get me started on the load shedding.’

  ‘You know, I’m worried about the very same thing for my daughter. Masooma…remember her? She’s studying at Columbia right now, but she’ll be graduating this summer, and hopefully, returning home. I’m sure it’ll be tough on her, too.’

  ‘I’m sure it will.’

  ‘Perhaps you could meet for coffee when she’s back and give her some tips on how to make the adjustment.’

  ‘Sure. I’d love to meet her. It’s been a while. I think the last time I saw her was when she was nine. Wow, I can’t believe it’s been twelve years since then.’

  He touched Saira’s arm gently. ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘I’m all right, thank you. It’s been a tough year but…I’m a survivor.’ She smiled.

  ‘Yes, you are, aren’t you?’

  After an awkward pause, Saira tried to cheerfully retreat. ‘Well, it’s been so lovely to see you. You must come visit us, when Masooma is back.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, hugging her warmly and without impropriety. She walked over to join the hordes of well-wishers who had started to gather round the bride and groom for pictures. Thank God, he hadn’t made any reference to their past exchanges. At that instant, it felt to Saira as if nothing of any consequence had transpired between her and Azaad. Maybe she had dreamed it all up in her head.

  She thought about getting in line for a picture with the bride and groom. She thought about saying goodbye to the Qureishis, or checking in with Nina or Shahana. But she didn’t do any of those things. She swerved back in the direction of the entrance and walked out of the marquee.

  Saira was driven home by her part-time driver who she excused for the rest of the day. She had a part-time cook and cleaning lady as well, but they too had gone home. Saira relished the thought of an empty house; all she wanted was to get out of her heels and crawl into her bed for a late afternoon nap. Or perhaps, a cup of hot tea first. Yes, she thought. A cup of tea would be perfect on this chilly day.

  She let herself into the hallway, which led to a dining room on one side and a kitchen on the other, and opened up into a formal living room at the opposite end, and then a smaller, more intimate family room where she kicked off her heels. She walked barefoot towards the middle of living room. Closing the doors that separated the living room from the hall and the family room, she turned on the gas heater and sat in front of it till she felt the room warm up around her. Saira felt the heat melt away her tension, felt her muscles relaxing. In that moment, she felt possessed by a delicious sense of freedom with all her staff away, her parents in their own home, her husband gone.

  Overcome by a feeling of lightness, she began to turn slowly, unspooling herself out of her sari. She let it fall in gauzy layers at her feet, and stepped over the silken sprawl in just her blouse, with its plunging neckline, and her petticoat. It had warmed up enough for her to roam about like this.

  Saira stood for a while, walking around the room, trying to imagine where to place her new furniture once it arrived, and where to hang her paintings. The thought of not having to ask somebody else’s opinion on redecorating felt like a strange sort of new pleasure. She would convert the house from being her husband’s home to her own, a reflection of her adult self and all the changes she’d gone through in this last year. She wanted the place to look rich with works of art and foliage, not dourly lined with black and white family portraits of three generations of the Qadir family.

  She knew decorating it at all was reckless; apart from this house, her inheritance included Iqbal’s limited assets and a small pension. She’d probably have to sell the house but she didn’t want to think about that now. The alternative was thinking of ways to earn an income, with an unfinished college degree.

  The sound of the doorbell disrupted her thoughts. She wasn’t expecting any visitors. Irritated, she grabbed her shawl from the sofa and wrapped it around her shoulders and chest. Upon opening the door, she was astonished to discover Ghalib, tipsy and teetering a little on his feet.

  ‘Ghalib? What are you doing here? Is Shahana here, too?’ she asked, looking over his shoulder for her sister.

  ‘No, I just dropped her home,’ he said. ‘I needed to see you. To talk to you.’ He took a few steps inside, and then stood awkwardly in the middle of the hallway, looking out of place. She wondered what he could possibly want.

  ‘Is everything okay, Ghalib? Is this about Shahana? Please tell me that she is right in assuming there will be a wedding in October.’

  ‘We need to talk about it, Saira.’

  Saira led the way to the living room and gestured for him to sit down. He look puzzled at the sight of her sari strewn on the living room floor, but said nothing.

  ‘Well?’ she asked, still standing. ‘Out with it, Ghalib.’

  He cradled his head in his hands and said, ‘I can’t do it, Saira. I can’t marry her.’

  Saira waited for the shock of those words to hit her, but it never quite came. She supposed she had been expecting this very moment, ever since the pair had got together. She knew Ghalib couldn’t be trusted. He had always been both flirtatious and vain, even when they were in college. This had been why, in spite of being tempted, she’d never responded to his attentions. She sighed and sat down at the opposite end of the sofa.

  ‘It’s not what you’re thinking,’ he said.

  ‘How could you possibly know what I’m thinking?’

  ‘I know you, Saira. I’m aware of the fact that you don’t trust me. But you must also be aware of the fact that I love you. I loved you when we were in college, and I love you now. It has always been you that I wanted. And now that you’re…well…alone, I thought perhaps…’ He looked at her with such earnestness, she almost felt bad for him.

  ‘You thought perhaps what?’ she asked, coldly. ‘That I would gladly betray my one and only sister and walk off into the sunset with you? That I’d forget the fact that you are the scum of the earth and so beneath me and my sister, that I’d throw away my integrity and self-respect to be with you?’ She jumped to her feet and walked through the adjoining family room, towards her bedroom door. ‘Just go, Ghalib. What are you doing here? Leave before I say something I’ll regret.’ She strode into her dark bedroom and slammed the door behind her, boiling from within. She snatched the first thing she saw — her pillow —and started thrashing it against her bed. What did he think of himself? Her sister would be heartbroken. And her parents! First the death of their son-in-law, then the broken engagement of their daughter – what further tragedy would they have to endure?

  She soon tired of expending her anger onto the pillow. She slumped onto the corner of her bed.

  She heard a gentle knock on the door. ‘Saira,’ he said. ‘I’m leaving. I just wanted to apologize. Please, open the door, and let me explain. I didn’t mean to upset you.’ His voice was timid, slightly slurring. He’s drunk, she thought. That’s why he is saying all this nonsense. He’s just drunk.

  ‘Saira, please,’ he said, pleading. ‘I never meant for things to turn out this way. I wasn’t thinking of it so much as a betrayal of Shahana. I guess, I was thinking of it more as an opportunity. For you and me. A fresh start. Something I’d dreamt of years ago. I thought it might still be possible.’

  He grew silent for a few minutes. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll go. Just please know, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Wait,’ she said, opening the door. ‘Just wait.’

  He turned back and looked at her. She walked past him, back into the hallway, and through a swinging door on one side that led to the kitchen. He followed her there. She filled the kettle with water and placed it on the stove. Then she lit the flame beneath it, and reached for t
wo mugs from the cupboard to her right. She opened the canister of tea leaves and placed a spoon at the ready. The ritual calmed her down.

  Turning around, leaning against the kitchen counter, she said, ‘You caught me off guard, Ghalib. I need time to process what you’re saying. Let’s just cool down and have a cup of tea. Then we can talk.’

  She gave him an awkward smile, then turned back to making the tea. As she stood there, with her back to Ghalib, she could feel him move closer. His arms wrapped around her waist from behind as he slid one side of her shawl to the side and began to kiss the sensitive skin between her neck and shoulder. Her eyelids closed momentarily in unexpected pleasure, but then she pushed his cheek away and told him to go sit.

  ‘I said we can talk, Ghalib. Nothing else.’ He looked sheepish, then turned towards the living room. He would sit and wait for her, and hopefully sober up.

  Her breathing had quickened; her face had flushed, too. She could still feel tingles in different parts of her body. It had been a while since someone had touched her that way. She took a deep breath and allowed herself to think for a moment about her and Ghalib. She didn’t dislike him. He’d always been charming and sweet, when sober.

  She couldn’t deny the fact that it would be nice to have someone love her again, to pamper her, and listen to her, and keep her warm at night.

  She felt a stab of guilt in her gut for even thinking this way. Poor Shahana! If Saira took this step, her sister would most likely cut herself off from Saira altogether. Despite their differences, she loved Shahana deeply. But the reality of the situation was that Ghalib was likely to leave her no matter what. Whether he disappeared or entered into a new relationship, he and Shahana were over. So why couldn’t her sister’s misfortune be an opportunity for someone else?

  Saira was the victim of so much misfortune herself, with Iqbal gone, and their former friends ostracising her. Her own daughter wanted to abandon her. If Masooma married Azaad, Saira would never have to worry about her daughter anymore; she would consider her motherly responsibilities over and could start her life afresh.

  The thought was so pleasing that she unconsciously smiled to herself as she spooned tea leaves into the ceramic teapot and added water. Setting it onto a tray with matching cups and milk and sugar, she carried it into the living room. Bending down to place it on the coffee table, one end of her shawl fell off her shoulder, revealing a glimpse of cleavage. Hurriedly, she picked up the shawl to cover herself, but she saw in Ghalib’s eye a look which confirmed to her that her sister was the furthest thing from his mind. She poured milk and added sugar to his cup, before placing it in his hands. Their fingers briefly touched and she experienced that tingly sensation all over again.

  Taking her own mug, she sat down next to him. ‘Okay’ Saira said, taking a deep breath. ‘Let’s talk.’

  Emaan Ever After

  Mishayl Naek

  “If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more”

  —Emma

  Not only am I dressed and out at half past eight, I’m in fashion sportswear. I’d bought it to encourage myself to go to the gym, which is where I’d actually been headed this morning, before deciding to stop for a power smoothie at my favourite bistro first. Well, one thing led to another, and now I appear to have ordered a rather large breakfast and scrapped the idea of the gym. I love Xanders with its grass green and slate grey interior but I’m unused to being here this early, and find myself surrounded by Karachi’s top one per cent nibbling at their egg-white omelettes and granola bowls with imported berries. I’ve slunk into a booth with my iPad, partly because since I’m here, I may as well get some work done, and partly because I’m not sure I have the courage to be seen wolfing down scrambled eggs, with yolks, and a fair amount of butter, by women emaciated to the point of not getting their period any longer.

  And speaking of emaciated women, I’m flicking through pictures from a recent society wedding that I have to caption. Working at Panache comes with its perks—FROW at seemingly endless local fashion weeks­—but having to deal with the hysteria of designers whose clothes didn’t make the cut is undoing the effects of my recent (super-secret) Botox. Being thirty-two and divorced in Karachi society requires your dermatologist and personal trainer on speed dial. Don’t judge—the competition is twenty-two. Not that I’m dying to remarry, mind you. Far from it. My friends tell me, kindly, I fear, that I have pretty almond eyes, a rosebud mouth and that I go in and out in all the right places. But all you think about standing next to some sort of twenty-nothing Barbie at a party is how you wish you could go back in time and make better decisions regarding carbohydrate intake.

  I’ve made a lot of questionable decisions over the years if I’m honest. Although I did Economics at the LSE, I’ve somehow ended up becoming the deputy editor of a lifestyle magazine in Karachi. I gave the banking sector a shot in London after uni. More than a shot. I did it for seven miserable years before realising that if I hadn’t failed, I hadn’t exactly succeeded either. Bless my Punjabi papa and his unfailing humour! My mother passed away when I was a baby, and being an only child, I have definitely tested his patience. Along with the Economics degree ending in a job that wouldn’t cover my bills if I actually had to pay them myself, there was the princess-level wedding followed by a divorce. I feel the change in career was more upsetting to my ambitious father than my divorce – he owns textile mills he hadn’t inherited, and growing up, while all the Aunties were trying to get me married off, he was all about my education.

  If he hates what I do, he hasn’t said anything. My father isn’t the most expressive person, but I know he understands how much I needed the change of scene when I returned to Karachi to rebuild my life after my divorce. I came back confused and hurt – even though marriage hadn’t been wonderful – and filling up my days with TV and listless shopping trips was making me even more miserable. A school-friend whose father owns a publishing house offered me this job as a lifeline. Admittedly much of my work involved coming up with different ways of saying ‘socialite’, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy it. I’d been at it for a year and along with editing copy, I was writing things for the first time. The thrill of seeing my byline alongside my pieces, sometimes being shared on social media, hadn’t got at all old. The only thing getting old, as I was saying earlier, was me.

  I chew on my bottom lip and think about dinner later this evening. A school-friend and her husband are having dinner and drinks for twenty at their place. Both bankers, they spend a great deal of time travelling and don’t entertain often, so I don’t know beforehand – as with most Karachi gatherings – who to expect. I allow my mind to flirt with the possibility of an interesting single male, though I know the chances are slim, even slimmer than the girls who’ll be lining up to bag him if he exists. Men at these things are usually aged, often crass, and typically pickled in whiskey. What is about Pakistani men that allow them to be hideous, both in looks and in nature?

  As if to prove the exception to the rule, my WhatsApp pings with a message from the only single man I know who isn’t a complete troll. He’s also the last man I’d get involved with, so he doesn’t count anyway.

  Haroon

  Stop obsessing over how you’re looking. Are you going to this dinner tonight?

  Emaan

  Are you reading my mind now?! Yesssss I think so.

  Are you?

  Haroon

  I am now. See you tonight. Wear something skimpy so I can tell your father. Ta.

  I fork up some more scrambled egg, smiling. He’s such an idiot. I check my phone to see if I can waste some more time on social media and am rewarded with ample opportunity. I spot a hashtag for a charity brunch, where, from what I can see, everyone was excruciatingly badly dressed. They’re wearing hats as if they’re at Ascot! I feel better.

  I snuck into an evening Spin class at Studio X, and now I’m lying on my bed in sweaty gym clothes, ruminating over how my lady bits are numb from the bike sea
t and how that’s probably the most action they’re going to get this year. It’s only a few months away from the December wedding season and I wonder, not for the first time, how people are continuing to pair up and get married, when there’s no one out there to so much as exchange promising glances with. Of course, I know the answer, they’re getting married without really knowing who they’re marrying. I did that once, and here I am, divorced and back at my father’s house, with the only big change in my life being that I gave my old bedroom a makeover. I may be lying here in my room like I did when I was a teenager, but at least I’m lying on my upholstered princess bed with mirrored side tables facing my antique writing desk, staring at the fabulous oil painting I picked up with Haroon at the Indus Valley thesis show last year.

  I know it’s not Aunty-acceptable, but my marriage ended because we just didn’t like each other anymore. I’d married London’s preeminent party boy. We’d met at a Members Only club where he’d seemed to know everyone and draw people he didn’t know to him with his molten hot charm. It was the age at which my friends had been getting married, and when he proposed, it felt like an accomplishment. I didn’t know him all that well but he was handsome and popular and always up for a laugh, and I had friends with relationships built on much less. Sadly, it didn’t take long to realise he was more substance abuse than substance, that too on the monthly bank transfer his father sent him from home. We parted ways on a sour note. Luckily for me, he had also slept with his yoga instructor (oh, the lack of imagination!) so I left as the clearly wronged party with all the sympathy. Frankly, I didn’t really care who he slept with any longer, as long as it wasn’t me. I’d never been properly in love with him. I’d been infatuated, as I had been with one or two other guys in my teens and early 20s, but I’d never really been in love.