Austenistan

by Laaleen Sukhera

  Some evenings, when Hashim couldn’t drop by, he’d call instead, and we’d talk through the night – sharing silly details of our lives till daybreak when the call for Fajr prayers rang through a languid city.

  At times I couldn’t understand Hashim’s interest in me and wouldn’t return his phone calls or messages. I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that someone other than my mother thought I was nice to be around.

  I was falling for him. It felt steady and warm.

  Letting my guard down felt good. But at the same time I felt exposed and vulnerable. Every stupid love song reminded me of Hashim – his brown eyes, his neatly cropped beard, and most of all, his attentiveness.

  But just as magically as it had started out, Hashim disappeared, almost as if he had never existed. An excrutiating week went by. Then two.

  Not one to chase a man, I called Hashim twice and even sent him a few WhatsApp messages – I tried to keep it cool, not frantic. Nothing. No response. Had he gotten back together with his wife? Was it something I had done, said? I was a wreck. But why was I surprised? Didn’t they always leave?

  In the third week of Hashim’s radio silence, my phone beeped with a message from Sobia. I was terribly disappointed it wasn’t Hashim.

  Sam,

  I miss you! I know you’ve been home for days in your PJs being a bum (Aunty tells me everything, btw), so get off that ass and come visit Asad and me in Nathiagali for a few days – the weather here is beautiful, misty evenings and all that! Please come!!

  Love you,

  Sobz.

  xoxo

  ###

  She came dashing down the patio of her picturesque, one-storey holiday home as soon as she saw my cab pull into the long, S-shaped driveway.

  Dressed in faded blue jeans and a snug red cashmere sweater with her hair in a messy bun, my cousin shrieked as I stepped out of the car, a tad disheveled, my grey hoodie pulled over my head.

  Paying off the driver, I fell into Sobia’s welcoming, bony arms. If my cousin had a spirit animal, it would have to be a friendly, glossy Labrador.

  ‘Oh I’m so happy you made it, Sam! I thought you’d never snap out of hermit mode! God! Okay listen, Asad’s in the kitchen whipping up some lunch for all of us,’ Sobia said, linking her arm in mine as her guard carried my oversized knapsack and satchel into the house.

  ‘Hashim got here a few hours ago by the way; I thought you guys were going to come together?’

  Hashim? I felt pinpricks of excitement at the thought of seeing him, or was it dread? How embarrassing, would he have come if he knew I’d be here? I quickly told Sobia something along the lines of staying back to meet the deadline for a doctorate school application. Which, in a way, wasn’t far from the truth. Since Hashim’s disappearance, I’d decided to apply for a PhD program overseas.

  Chatting away, Sobia whisked me into their expansive living room complete with Persian carpets, deliciously creaky wooden floors, large windows overlooking the mountains, and a huge floor to ceiling bookshelf lined with books on art, fiction, history and little artsy trinkets aesthetically placed on top and in between.

  I plonked myself down on a beige leather sofa with a Sindhi print throw, Sobia ran off into the kitchen to get me a mug of hot chocolate.

  ‘Hiiiii!’ Asad blazed into the room with a wooden spatula in his hand. Wearing a black apron over khaki pants and a cream-coloured turtleneck, the glittering print on his apron read Kiss The Cook!! with two exclamation marks.

  ‘Sobia’s been fretting all day, Sam,’ Asad said jovially, like an Aunt jokingly complaining about her silly daughter, ‘She was like oh my God oh my God oh my Goddddd, Sam’s sooooooo not going to make it! But I was like tsk tsk, don’t be stupid jaanu, of course she will! And look! Here you are!’ With that Asad did a little twirl, waving his spatula in the air like a wand.

  I laughed and gave him a high five, visibly taken aback. His energy was infectious and sparkly – a far cry from Mr. Snorefest on his wedding day.

  Motioning with his spatula to follow him into the kitchen, I perched on a chalky white stool as Sobia placed a steaming mug of hot chocolate on the counter before me. In it, miniature marshmallows floated about. It was delicious and hazlenutty.

  As Asad and Sobia chatted with me animatedly while chopping onions, selecting spices and placing a pot of rice on the fire, I couldn’t help but notice how they got along like school BFFs. Even when I tried to catch Sobia’s eye, a quizzical expression secretly hidden in my expression only for her, she didn’t take the bait.

  I decided then not to snoop and just enjoy their company and the strange niceness of the situation I was in.

  But when Asad excused himself from the kitchen to go to the loo, I finally had my chance and pounced on my cousin.

  ‘Sobia, what the hell is going on? He’s gay isn’t he, and you know it!’

  My voice, I realized, was verging on the hysterical.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Sobia said softly as she carefully sliced through freshly washed coriander and green chillies. She didn’t look up at me as she spoke.

  ‘I’m giving it some time,’ she said, weighing her words, ‘I don’t know what to do right now, I was thinking I may...well, we get along so well…’

  Hashim strode into the kitchen, with Asad following closely behind. Hashim’s eyes met mine briefly.

  ‘Hashim! I was just going to call you over to join us! I’m so glad Asad fetched you! Did you have a nice nap?’ Sobia said, her tone a pitch too high, ‘I’m um, just going to get something from the garden for the chicken, Asad’s planted a whole row of organic tomatoes! Asad, can you come give me a hand?’

  Before waiting for an answer, Sobia grabbed him by the arm as they practically ran out the door.

  ‘What’s up with them?’ I laughed awkwardly.

  I couldn’t hold his gaze for long and looked away, putting the yellow mug to my nose and then quickly taking a scorching sip.

  Pulling up a stool next to mine, Hashim looked ahead while nervously adjusting the collar of his black corduroy jacket. He cleared his throat.

  And right then, I felt the same, familiar sensation of resentment bubble up into my chest, rapidly making its way into my throat.

  ‘Was it something I said? Or did?’ I sputtered, unable to control my hurt and rage.

  Tears sprang in my eyes as I tightened my fingers around the mug handle. I wanted to break it off and fling it into his poker face.

  I knew what was coming, some half-arsed excuse. Then the rejection.

  Placing my mug on the counter, I quickly got up. My emotions were feral and I didn’t want to make a greater fool of myself.

  Hashim continued to look ahead, his face tense, controlled.

  And then, I was almost immediately enveloped by arms; my face against a warm chest, a heartbeat.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered in my ear, ‘I just needed to think. I was scared too.’

  As the afternoon mist rolled in, as Sobia and Asad’s footsteps got louder in the hallway, and in the warmth of his embrace, I thought of a poem in the book that Papa had sent me; I’d been reading it on my drive up to Nathiagali:

  she asked

  ‘you are in love

  what does love look like ’

  to which I replied

  ‘like everything I’ve ever lost

  come back to me. ’

  On the Verge

  Laaleen Sukhera

  “One cannot be always laughing at a man without now and then stumbling on something witty’’

  —Pride and Prejudice

  Three months ago, if you’d told me that I’d be spending my wedding night meeting a blind date, I’d have laughed. I’m not laughing now.

  My love life could’ve passed for an indie film, one cast for diversity. The kind that starts out with a quirky situation, continues with a dose of hope, and concludes with an ambiguous ending. It’d be rated PG-13, limited to kissing and some mild expletives.

  The storyline would
go something like this: A reasonably accomplished, fairly attractive heroine with a functioning uterus experiences the downside of approaching thirty, with a fledgling career, no baby, no savings, and no man.

  One magical evening, the heroine encounters a dashing prince who spurns his legion of admirers and proposes marriage to the endearing heroine after a whirlwind courtship.

  Plot twist: In the midst of her Big Fat Pakistani Wedding preparations, the heroine discovers that there are other women in her prince’s life. And so, to his utter disbelief, and slightly to hers, she calls off their splashy wedding and goes sailing into the sunset, solo.

  End credits roll to emo song.

  OK, so the actual ending was a little different. I was left to the mercy of the fickle Pakistani beau monde and greeted with inquisitive questions, snide remarks, and cruel snickers. I was handed a box of Xanax by well-meaning matrons and a taveez by my masseuse to ward off the envious eyes that undoubtedly caused my fiancé’s errant ways. I was advised to lose a few more kilos, as if my slight love handles were to blame. ‘One can never be too thin,’ hissed a fashion designer acquaintance at a soirée.

  ‘Good riddance,’ said Ayana, my BFF, who’d been amazing as usual through all this. ‘Can you imagine how awful it’d have been if you woke up two babies later and discovered him cheating then? You were lucky, Roya!’

  ‘I sure don’t feel lucky,’ I muttered. She gave me a hug.

  ‘Look, I’d tell you to get on Coffee Meets Bagel but it’s Lahore. You know that Tinder account I made in London over the holidays? Well, when I logged back in here, it showed up my cook and my driver. I had to swipe Dildar and Razakat!’

  We screamed with laughter.

  Over many girls’ nights over drinks and take-out, my friends and I vented, soul-searched, analysed, and overshared until we ran out of stories and theories, and I felt almost normal again. I’d been worried about my work; as a blogger, I’d had to rely on my own incentive to set deadlines and get things done, and I’d just not been up to it since things went south with Princey. I felt even more awful because I was losing the followers, the momentum, and the advertising I’d managed to get when I’d been doing regular posts about planning my wedding to a proper B-list celebrity. Some of Princey’s friends had been the absolute height of tack, and while I never named them, a few of their more ostentatious flourishes made for great copy. I wasn’t sure if anyone would be interested—after months of designer togs and nightclub interiors with Princey’s flashy posse—in my current state – pyjamas, greasy hair, and Netflix. I needed to cover a splashy event to shake things up, to not be Sad Single Roya.

  My Fairy Godmother came in the form of Sweetie Aunty, a friend of my mother’s. She literally got me invited to a ball, and in the English countryside! Sweetie Aunty was a society doyenne, always in the right place at the right time, knew everyone, and was invited to everything. Not just here in Lahore, but around the world, wherever desi society congregated. I knew another prince would come my way, I thought, trying not to get too excited about it. ‘Avondon Ball would be great for my blog,’ I said.

  ‘Blog?’ Sweetie Aunty said in disgust. ‘Do you know what Saqnain Tanvir is set to inherit?’ she said, as we settled in her drawing room for a cup of Nespresso. Her tea trolley groaned with carblicious treats which neither of us dared touch.

  ‘They have only just started moving properly in society in the last few years, ever since his father literally made a killing with their halal burger franchise in England. He went from Jameel Tanvir Butt of Gujranwala to Sir Jimmy Tanvir of Surrey. I’d promised your mother I wouldn’t rest until I had settled you with a well-to-do, khaata peeta family. Chances like this don’t come every day. If you wait any longer, you’ll only have those awful divorced men with three children and three double chins left to choose from.’

  I had to admit that the thought of meeting a man with three chins wasn’t very tempting.

  ‘He doesn’t look very tall in his pictures’ I said, a little doubtfully, looking him up on my phone as we spoke. ‘I’ve always wanted to look up into a man’s eyes, not have him look straight into my chest…’

  ‘Don’t be so naïve, beta! Stop Googling him, look for Avondon, their Surrey estate. They’ve filmed BBC dramas and Shah Rukh Khan movies there. He’s having a ball to celebrate his 30th birthday! Imagine how grand-shand he is! So, what is an inch or two here and there with a house like that? You’re a

  lovely girl, Roya beta, but do you know how many girls with decent backgrounds, anorexia, and designer clothes are waiting to pounce on him?’

  Stopping for a sip of coffee, she continued, ‘Men look at your chest whether it’s at their eye level or not. These things are not important in the long run. Look what happened to your poor sister! Bechari Myra, still single at thirty-five and working like a drudge, refusing to let me find her anyone.’

  Myra had decided to pursue a career early in life and barely got the time to meet men, plus she had almost no patience for fools, which was the commodity largely on offer. She’d been engaged once in her early 20s but that hadn’t worked out, and after that she’d poured herself into caring for our mother who’d raised us alone since our father’s death many years earlier. They’d both insisted that I not drop my degree halfway. I’d come back from Boston straight after though, we’d both looked after her till the end. Myra would go to her Corporate Communications job in the day and be with our mother in the evenings. I started blogging because the timings were totally flexible and because expressing myself helped me through this horrible time. When my mother died, it felt like our lives were over. Numb, we moved into a smaller flat, largely funded by Myra, and tried to make our lives feel like they mattered again.

  Two weeks after meeting Sweetie Aunty, I was packing while Myra watched me with faint disapproval clouding her face.

  ‘I’m just worried about you,’ she said. ‘Tell me you’re OK?’

  ‘Yes, I promise. I’m giving it my best shot or Sweetie Aunty will slaughter me!’

  ‘Are you sure you aren’t running away from your feelings about Princey?’ Myra persisted. ‘Do you really need to meet someone new this fast? It’s only been a few months since you were engaged.’

  ‘I’m not going to meet someone’, I lied, ‘I’m going because this is a great work opportunity for me.’ Plus, what’s wrong with a nice, single millionaire, Myra?

  Myra hummed. She hadn’t trusted Princey’s bedazzled lifestyle either.

  My phone beeped.

  ‘Can’t wait to meet you!’

  It was him again! He’d been texting me regularly since Sweetie Aunty told him about me, he was so much warmer than I’d hoped. I blushed with pleasure each time he got in touch. It helped that I’d found a mention of him in one of my favourite gossip websites.

  The DailyTale

  Avondon Park is let at last! Developer Scott Tanvir, the son of Sir Jimmy Tanvir of Halal Burgerland, purchased the 12-acre Surrey property from Lady Avondon in 2015

  After a £4 million restoration, Scott Tanvir Properties are hosting the Avondon Winter Ball to celebrate his 30th birthday

  TittleTattle magazine’s Top Toffs of 2017 expected to attend including minor European and Arab royalty, oligarchs, celebutantes, and trustafarians

  Link: Scott Tanvir ranks #3 on the BritAsian Eligible Men List of 2017

  ‘Isn’t it a bit desperate to travel 6, 300 km to blog about a ball and err, meet a blind date?’ I asked Ayana, who’d sweetly offered me her family’s flat in London to stay in while I was there.

  ‘Hell no!’ she retorted. ‘The ball will be super happening, yaar! You know I’d go with you if my cousin’s engagement wasn’t happening! I’d go based on that invitation alone!’ she joked, referring to the beautiful gilt-edged, thick, off-white card that had been couriered over, embossed with the words ‘Avondon Park’. A small notecard accompanied the envelope with ‘Scott Tanvir Properties’ inscribed in silver. Handwritten in blue were the words: ‘Can’t wa
it to meet you!—Scott.’

  I wondered how Princey would react if he knew that I was being introduced to Scott. I could just imagine him curling his lip with…disgust? Jealousy? Indifference? Jealousy, I hoped, though I figured I’d never know one way or another.

  I headed straight for Ayana’s flat in St John’s Wood from Heathrow. The key was waiting for me with the doorman. I deposited my luggage in the tiny flat decorated in dove-grey and cream, took a quick shower, and though still exhausted from the flight, left for the salon appointment I’d booked before my departure.

  I felt a lot better after a double espresso and a sleek blow dry. My styled hair fell in pretty layers that swished as I walked back to the flat to get ready for the ball.

  I shook out a shimmering dress from my suitcase. It had been part of my trousseau. I didn’t earn a great deal as a blogger but it came with certain perks, and fashionable attire was one of them. I could borrow from local designers, as long as I could squeeze into their sample sizes –– luckily, I was the right height too. Because they knew I was sure to get photographed, I could also order customised styles at a fraction of the prices quoted to the shopping-mad wives of Faisalabadi industrialists.

  I finally perfected my smoky eye and paired it with coral lipstick, ending with a dusting of shimmery strobe powder along the bones of my brows, cheeks and collar, and a whiff of Carolina Herrera’s stiletto perfume bottle aptly called ‘Good Girl’ I’d bought at Dubai Duty Free in my jet-lagged stupor. I slipped on the transparent Valentino lucite wedges embedded with crystals that had maxed out my credit card and took a look in the full-length mirror. Not bad, if I may so myself. Loss of appetite following Princey’s betrayal meant I no longer had a stomach to suck in at all, and my eyes looked bigger and my cheekbones higher. I felt a nervous shiver at what I was about to do. Best-case scenario – I was going to a ball to meet Prince Charming. But what was the worst-case scenario?

  I hadn’t had very good experiences with fix-ups so far, usually a complete lack of chemistry. I hadn’t had very good experiences with love in general. Before Princey, there were your usual arrogant, swaggering men who thought women were put on this earth to look after them.