Moni Mohsin - Duty Free

“So then why did she—?”

He put the volume high up to shut me up. I knew I shouldn’t have married him. At least he could have done some “look-at-her-what-a-back-stabber-may-she-rot-in-hell” talk with me. Like Mummy did. Like Aunty Pussy did. But no. He has no feelings for me. Not even this much of sympathy. Even now after seventeen years of marriage, after everything I’ve done for him — working myself to the bones making sure nice, nice food is on the table, the generator is full of diesel, his computer, his TV, his everything is working first class, Kulchoo is having the best tuitions and our comings and goings are with the nice, rich, sophisty old-family-types of Lahore — and still, all he can think of is that snake Jameela’s wellfear. One thing I know, I shouldn’t have married him.

“You know something?” I said to his back. “You don’t deserve me.”

“Hmm?” he said, changing the channel.

“I said you don’t deserve me.”

“You can say that again!” he muttered to the TV screen.

“You should have married your Oxen memsahib . Both of you could have been good and holy together, always thinking of the wellfear of servants rather than your own families.”

“Oh for God’s sake! Is this tantrum because I expressed some sympathy for—”

“It’s not a tantrum, okay? And just because I’m not an Oxen doesn’t mean you can speak to me as if I was three years old. Tantrum, my shoe.”

“If I’d known that this was what was awaiting me in Lahore, I wouldn’t have bothered to drive three hours through horrendous traffic—”

“So who asked you to come? You should have stayed in your stinky, bore village. That’s where you are happiest anyways. Why bother coming here at all? It’s hardly as if you come for my company. The second you come here you switch on the TV and that also to bore BBC. Do you ever ask me what I want to see? Or ask me about where-all I’ve gone, who-all I’ve met, what-all I’ve done? Never. Not for one second. And why? Because you don’t give two hoops about me. That’s why. You care more about the servants’ wellfear than you do about your wife’s. Admit it.”

“God almighty! I really don’t think I deserve this barrage of criticism—”

“No no, you can criticize me all day and all night and that’s fine. I don’t read newspapers, I don’t do work, I don’t know politics, I don’t know econmics, I buy too much jewellery, I do kittys, I am total time-waste. But I can’t say one word against you. If I’m such a time-waste why did you marry me then, haan ?”

“It’s a question I’ve often asked myself.”

“You think I am happy with you ? With your bore lectures and your stuppid village and the embarrassing fights you have with everyone everywhere. And over what? Iraq. Obama. Osama. America. Stuppid time-waste. As if you can change anything. A dead body is more fun than you.”

“All I want is to watch a bit of TV and then have a bite and go to sleep. Is that too much to ask?”

“No. No. Nothing is too much for you. It’s me who can’t do this and can’t do that. Can’t go to coffee parties, can’t find brides for Jonkers. But you’re right. I shouldn’t find brides for Jonkers. Because what do I know about happy marriages, haan ?”

I’m so depress, so depress, that don’t even ask. I have no maid to take my clothes out of my wardrope and lay them out in the morning. No maid to pick them off the floor at night and take them away for washing. No maid to straighten my shoes in lovely long lines in my dressing room. No maid to sort up my underwears drawer. No maid to bring my tea in the morning. To pull the curtains. To plumb up my cushions. To hand me my bag as I leave the house. To take my bag as I re-enter the house. To press my legs and massage my head. To get my shawl when I feel cold. To switch on the AC when I feel hot. To tell me who-all is doing what-all in Kulchoo’s room upstairs when his friends come. To always tell my mother-in-law I’m out whenever she calls. To give me goss about Sunny, Mulloo, and all that she’s heard from their maids. Never to tell my goss to anyone. Ever.

On top, I’m not speaking to Janoo. Because of our fight, na. Hai , I’m so depress, so depress that don’t even ask.

Sunny says desi maids are all back-stabbers like this only and that I should get a Filipina. They cost as much as a middle manager-type in a small business but they don’t say please get my husband a job, and my son admission in school and my father out of jail and my mother into hospital. They just do their work and after two years they go. Done. You never even know how many brothers and sisters they have. Locals tau eat you alive with their demands, demands, demands. Unlike locals, Filipinas also know English and can help your children with their homework and because everyone knows how much they cost, they make you look rich. They also call you Madam which sounds more modern and classy than Baji .

I also used to have one. She was called Maria and she was from Vanilla, Filipines. She was always smiling but when the tsunami came in Vanilla she cried and wept and howled and said she had to go home, so being the soft-headed and gentle soul that I am, I gave her five hundred dollars and time off for two weeks and she never came back. I think so she got another job somewhere else. Very selfish they are, I must say. And then I found Jameela and so I thought chalo , never mind, if God takes with one hand He gives with the other. Even if He takes English-speaking smart Filipina and gives Punjabi-speaking illitred desi . One shouldn’t complain because He is like that only.

Now Sunny is after me to get another Filipina but Mulloo says Natasha is tau still really anti them even three years after her Filipina left. She gave so much of trouble that don’t even ask. Apparently she was having an affair with both the driver and the cook and also taking money from them both and when they found out about each other there was a huge phudda in her house with both of them rushing at each other with kitchen knives and car-jacks. Police had to come. So embarrassing. No, no, I think so I’ll wait for a desi . At least she will have the decency to have one affair at a time. First cook, then driver, then bearer, and then guard. Everyone has a turn and everyone is happy. Mummy is right, you know, all these people think about is You Know What.

Kulchoo’s been home all day reading Facebook, because schools and colleges are all closed. Again. This time because the fundos have attacked Islamic University in Isloo and killed six students. Janoo’s been muttering non-stop about Kulchoo’s disrupted education. But I said (we’ve started speaking now but only little, little) he’ll only get educated if he lives, no? Even though he’s an Oxen, sometimes Janoo says such crack things.

Even when schools open danger won’t go away. Because the fundos tau are here to stay, na. Where will they go? Kabul? Kashmir? Waziristan? And then they’ll be back because they like it here with Sat TV and bazaars full of olive oils and imported cheeses. So I’ve told Kulchoo from now only that I won’t let him out of my sights even. He’ll go to school, with driver and armed guard, and come straight back and that’s it. No roaming around, no friends’ houses, no Pizza Hut, no DVD shops, no mini-golf, no nothing. Not even tuition. Of course he shouted and screamed and said I’m polaroid about the Talibans but I say better polaroid than dead. No?