Moni Mohsin - Duty Free

Aunty Pussy got up and patted Tasbeeh on the head. Even though Aunty Pussy is not, you know, specially tall, Tasbeeh hardly went up to her shoulder. Aunty Pussy gave her three more pats, but she still stood there, eyes downcasted. So Aunty Pussy also stood there stiffly like a rooster, until I patted the sofa besides me.

“Come sit with me, Tasbeeh.”

Tasbeeh looked at her mother and only when she nodded, she came over and sat besides me. She moved her bottom backwards on the sofa until her brown rubber-souled sandals were hanging three inches off the floor. Aunty Pussy sank thankfully back into her chair.

A strong smell of fried meat came into the room.

“Oh, good. Tea is coming,” beamed Farva. “I hope you like kebabs. Tasbeeh’s father always says my kebabs are best.”

“Are you at college?” I asked Tasbeeh.

“No, I—” she began.

“She’s finished,” said Farva from across the room. “Did it in Islamiyat and Geography. BA. Good marks she got. By grace of Almighty Allah.”

“When did you graduate?” I asked.

“Full one year and four months it will be at end of this month,” replied Farva. “No, Tasbeeh, daughter?”

Tasbeeh nodded.

“So you’ve been at home since then?” I lowered my voice so that Farva couldn’t hear and answer again.

“Mostly,” whispered Tasbeeh, looking at her lap.

But Farva had the ears of a labradog. I swear she could probably make them stand up if she wanted.

“No you’ve been to Makkah shareef with us to do Umra and after that we took both you sisters to Dubai to buy your dowries,” said Farva. “All those diamond sets we bought you, you’ve forgotten, hmm?”

Tasbeeh’s reply was drowned out by a loud rattling and creaking as if an old gate was being forced open and Siraj and the other servant arrived pushing a wooden tea trolley with big golden wheels. The tea cosy was in the shape of a smiling blonde girl wearing a big bouncy skirt and a wide hat. The downstairs bit of the tea trolley was loaded with fried food— pakoras, samosas , kebabs, jalebis , and a huge bottle of tomato ketchup. There was also a cake. Farva put a hand up the blonde’s skirt and pulled out a teapot and without asking if we took milk or not poured out three cups with lots of milk and told Tasbeeh to give to us. Then Siraj pushed the fried food under our noses. When I saw those long oily roles of meat, my tau stomach almost came rushing up my throat so I said that no thank you, but I’m a vegetarian. So then Farva insisted I have the potato samosas but I told her that I can’t take either samosas , or pakoras , or jalebis because of my cholestroils.

Farva frowned and then she looked at Mummy and Aunty Pussy who had also said no. “I know what you are doing. You are being formal. Please take, otherwise I will mind. Tasbeeh, daughter, give to Aunties.” Then she said if we didn’t have cake, she wouldn’t talk to us.

So I had a tiny slither. It was dry inside.

We sat for another half-hour drinking her milky tea and hearing all about how many sheeps they slaughtered at the last Eid — and that also on their driveaway, imagine! — and how her husband liked doing it himself with his own hands because it was duty of every good Muslim man to do it himself with his own hands and how much meat they had given to their neighbours and how much they had frozen themselves and that these kebabs she was giving us now were made out of those very same frozen minced sheeps.

In all of this she never for one second asked anything about Jonkers or us because I think so she must have taken all details about bagground — bank account, real state, age, job, degrees, looks, previous marriage, everything — from Mulloo before only. And nor did she let Tasbeeh say one word.

In the middle, the electricity went away and Farva shouted at Siraj to switch on the generator. Throughout she kept talking and laughing happily and Tasbeeh sat still and silent as if she’d slipped into a comma. I’d given up by now trying to get Tasbeeh to talk and so I also just stirred my tea and stared at the big circles of grease going round and round on top. Aunty Pussy looked fakely interested in Farva’s conversation but Mummy’s face was like a shop whose metal shutters had been pulled down and locked up and the shopkeeper had gone home for the night.

At last when Farva put her tongue inside her mouth for five minutes, Mummy and I jumped up and said thank you and that we must go home now. Please.

“So quickly?” said Farva.

“No, it hasn’t been quick at all,” said Mummy heavily, frowning at Aunty Pussy who was still sitting in her chair.

When she was seeing us all to the door Farva held my hand and said, “You know I’ve already started thinking of you like a big sister. So much I’m looking forward to seeing you again and again.”

What cheeks! Big sister, my shoe! She must be at least ten years older than me. I smiled stiffly and took my hand back. No way was she becoming my relative. Money or no money.

Night had fallen down by the time we left. All the lamps had come on in Farva’s empty garden. Outlined against the dark sky, her glittering white house looked like it was made of salt.

On the way home we were quiet for a bit and then in a fakely cheerful voice, Aunty Pussy said, “That wasn’t too bad, was it? Of course they aren’t classy like the Kuraishis and not so educated also, but girl seems a sweet, respectful type. The mother’s a bit—”

“For God’s sake, Pussy!” Mummy burst out. “They are not right and you know it.”

“Why? What’s wrong with them?” Aunty Pussy lifted her thin, pencilled eyebrows at us.

“Wrong?” shrieked Mummy. “What’s right? The father is a drug smuggler. No there’s no point denying, Pussy, I can tell from just looking at the house. Tell me, who has nine guards in his house? Nine! And why the black-out windows and those searchlights? And he slaughters sheep on his front drive with his own hands and the servants are unshaven and I’m sorry but they have no class. At all!”

“And I suppose you are perfect!” snapped Aunty Pussy. “From everywhere.”

“Why did you take me if you don’t want to hear what I have to say?” snapped Mummy back. “You’ve just sniffed money, Pussy, that’s all. Be frank.”

“You want my Jonkers to marry a fakir ? Is that what you want? You’re jealous. Be frank yourself.”

“Please!” I cried. “Honestly, look at you! Such fighter cocks you two’ve become. Mummy shouldn’t have said like that, Aunty Pussy, but what she says is right. They are not right. I don’t know about the drugs-shrugs but they are not from our bagground, that much I could tell from their drawing room only. And if poor old Jonkers, at the age of thirty-seven, has to go and hide like a schoolboy every time he wants to drink a drink, what’s the point of getting married and having your own set-up and everything? And anyways, I don’t think so the girl will suit him. She tau poor thing is not even on her own side, let alone being on anyone else’s side.”

Aunty Pussy didn’t say anything after that. She turned her face away and stared out of the window. I think so she was skulking. And Mummy in her corner was also skulking. Her mouth was a tight, little line. Thanks God I was sitting in front with the driver and didn’t have to sit in between and take all the tension they were giving off. Inside my heart I thought, haw, look at Mulloo. I knew she wouldn’t hand us a pretty, rich rellie, that much I was ready for, but I wasn’t expecting a powder-pasha’s dwarf daughter who has a fundo for a mother. Honestly. And she calls herself my friend. I bet she must be getting some bribe from Farva for finding her a nice, decent son-in-law from oldish family. Well, I’ll also see how Farva becomes Jonkers’ mother-in-law and Mulloo gets her bribe!