Moni Mohsin - Duty Free

“Didn’t someone say he did import — export?” I asked.

“This looks more like the house,” said Mummy, “of someone who only exports , Pussy, if you get my meaning.”

“It’s not nice to judge people like that,” said Aunty Pussy with a holy look, “before you’ve even done hello — hi with them.”

I wondered inside my heart whether Aunty Pussy would be as holy if the house had been small and poor-looking.

A tiny window in the big iron gate opened and someone from inside checked us out. Then seeing it was us, rich-type ladies from good baggrounds in nice salon car, the armed guards — nine of them, I counted — opened the gate and we drove in. The house was big and it had taken over most of the plot, leaving only stripes of lawn on the sides, like thin sideburns on a very fat face. There were no trees in the garden but lots of lamp-posts and a plaster statue of a girl in a bonnet and skirt. I think so she was Little Bore Peep or maybe Little Miss Muff It. Also parked in the drive were three big Land Cruiser jeeps with black windows. Mummy looked at the cars and gave me a look.

Mulloo was supposed to meet us here but at last minute she called and cancelled. She said her tummy was feeling upset. But that her cousin was expecting us.

The front door was opened by a barefoot servant man who needed a shave. He took us into the sitting room. It was a big room with big golden sofas spread with white crochay mats where you’re supposed to rest your head and hands. There were no paintings on the walls, only a big print of a verse from the Holy Koran in a golden frame. There were no flowers and no decoration pieces on the tables, accept for a family of smiling Sarvoski hedgehogs. Mother with four babies.

Mulloo’s cousin was shortish and plumpish and dressed in a long-sleeved, high-necked shalwar kameez . Around her neck from a gold chain, not a chain, more a rope, hung a big Allah pendant with big diamonds entrusted in it. Her head was covered in a polyester hijab that sat low on her forehead.

“Assalam aleikum,” she said, raising her hand to her forehead. “I’m Farva, Mulloo’s cousin-sister, and I am sorry I was not standing at the door to greet you but I was saying my prayers.” She gave a happy little laugh. “My prayers are a little longer than other people’s because I have so much to thank Almighty Allah for. Even if I lie with my forehead to the ground all day, all night before Him, it would not be enough. So much He has blessed me. Will you take something cold?”

Before we could tell her she called loudly for the servant.

“Siraj! Siraj! Siraj! ” When he didn’t come she stamped off into the kitchen and from there we heard her shouting. “Where do you all disappear to? What do I pay you for? Why haven’t you given drinks?” Then she came back into the room followed by the unshaven Siraj and also another manservant with greasy hair and asked with another happy laugh, “Coke? Sprite? Fanta?”

We said no but she said no, no we must have something and told Siraj to get three Cokes.

“You must be Mulloo’s friend,” she said turning to me. Her eyes wandered disprovingly over my naked arms. “So much she has told me about you. And you must be boy’s Mummy?” she asked Aunty Pussy.

“Yes, I am Parisa. My son—”

“Oh yes, yes, Mulloo told me. Jehangir his name is, no? Has degree from foreign college. Has English pet name. Conkers? Bonkers?”

“Jonkers,” said Aunty Pussy coldly.

“Oh yes, sorry, sorry,” Farva slapped her forehead. “What to do? My memory is going away.”

“I don’t know if Mulloo has told you,” began Aunty Pussy. She stopped because Siraj had come back with the Coke. He gave us a glass each with a soggy tissue half stuck to the underneath. Aunty Pussy quickly dropped the tissue into an ashtray. She put the glass down and began again, “I don’t know if Mulloo has told you, but my son was married before. It is best to be frank from the start so there is no misunderstanding later. Marriage didn’t last long and, Allah was merciful, there were no children.”

Farva nodded. “Why did marriage break?”

“She was not, er, suitable.”

“How?”

Aunty Pussy looked at me.

“She wasn’t from our bagground,” I said. “Didn’t fit us.”

“And because she didn’t fit,” added Mummy, “we thought, why waste time? So we quickly did die-vorce. Best is not to drag these things along.”

“You can do die-vorce,” said Farva, nodding hard. “It is in Islam. You are allowed. Please don’t worry. I am very understanding that way. Tasbeeh, my elder daughter, also had a nikah you know. But we had to break it. Even though he was Tasbeeh’s cousin-brother — her father’s own brother’s son. Because we discovered that he was not nice, even though he had grown up in front of our own eyes. He drank. Yes, I know you will not believe it, but he drank. Kept bad company, men who kept drink in their houses. As soon as I found out, I told Tasbeeh’s father, ‘I know he is your brother’s son but I cannot have a son-in-law who drinks. My daughters have had a strict, religious bringing up. I am not going to give them to men who drink.’ So next day, we broke it. It wasn’t easy you know. Because we had to go to courts and all, but we did it. Without telling Tasbeeh even, we just went and broke it. And Tasbeeh accepted because she knows what we do is always best. She is a good girl, my Tasbeeh.”

“What does Tasbeeh’s father do, if you don’t mind telling?” asked Mummy

“By the grace of Almighty Allah, he has import — export business.”

“And what does he import and what does he export?”

“You will not believe but I have never even asked. So little interest I take in worldly matters. What Allah gives, He gives. Why to question? You are not drinking your Coke. Why they are taking so long with tea? Servants! So lazy, no?”

And again she shouted for Siraj. When he came, she barked at him to bring tea.

“With everything, okay?”

“Er, can we, um,” I asked quietly, because you never know with these hijabi types, “meet Tasbeeh? Is she inside?”

“Surely, surely. I am very modern that way. I will go and fetch her.” She went off, her bottom bouncing like a basketball behind her.

Mummy, me, and Aunty Pussy, we all looked at each other.

“You know, Pussy, don’t you, that the Coke was flat?” Mummy said in a low voice. “And those tissues!”

“Don’t be such a snob, Malika.”

“And we still don’t know what the father does,” I whispered.

“Why must you be so suspicious?” Aunty Pussy snapped at me softly. “After all, Jonkers also does export. Are you meaning that Jonkers is also doing hanky-panky?”

“He exports towels , Aunty. There’s a difference between towels and—”

“And what?”

“You know what!” said Mummy.

“ And she wears hijab and the furniture is so tacky and— ”

“Here she is.” Farva came back. Behind her was an even shorter but thanks God not plumper person than herself. “Tasbeeh, daughter, do salaam to aunties.”

“Assalam aleikum,” mumbled Tasbeeh staring at the floor. She was also wearing high-necked shalwar kameez . It was brown with big, big orange flowers. She was not in hijab , thanks God, but her head was covered in a brown dupatta . She wore her long hair in a plait like that traitor, Jameela, used to. Her only make-up was some black under the eyes and very wrong orange lipstick.

“Do special salaams to that aunty.” Farva pushed her at Aunty Pussy.

With bowed head, Tasbeeh went to Aunty Pussy’s armchair and said salaam again.