Moni Mohsin - Duty Free

Because it was evening time when most people come out, there was a big traffic jam on Cavalry Grounds main road. Cars, motorbikes, minibuses, donkey carts, rickshaws, bikes were all mixed up on the thin road leading to Gulberg Bridge. We were standing still but everyone was running their engines — accept the bikes and the donkeys — and the air smelt of petrol and dust and chicken tikkas from roadside stalls, so I put up my window and switched on the AC. I thought to myself what if someone was to burst a suicide bomb now. What would become of us? We would all become tikkas , that’s what. For a moment I wanted to open the door and run out and run and run and never come back. But then I took a big breath and told myself everything was okay.

What a fab bash my friend Sara threw for her jewellery. She lives in Hong Kong, na. Her husband is a banker there and she has all these diamond rings and bangles-shangles made in Chinese factories and then comes and sells them here in Lahore. Very modern and trendy her jewellery is. But despite of that, she told me that in Hong Kong it wasn’t selling as well as before. Because of big economic slum that’s come there na , Chinese have become misers. They think diamonds are luxuries. Stuppids!

But in Pakistan, by grace of Allah, her business is blooming. Because for us, tau , diamonds are necessity, na . For instant, your daughter-in-law has baby boy. You don’t give her diamond earrings she immediately becomes angry and goes off home in a huff. Chalo ji , your son’s home destroyed. You get your daughter married, you don’t give her mother-in-law diamond bangles, she immediately sends your daughter home. Her marriage finished. So for happy family life, like food and water, diamonds are must.

Anyways, all of Lahore was there at Café Aylanto. At least three hundred people. Sunny, Baby, Faiza, Nina, Natasha, Maha, were all there, wearing designer joras and carrying big, big handbags with lots of buckles and zips and fringes and studs and all. Totally fab. They were trying on the jewels and going “hai Allah, how cute ,” and posing for pictures for Good Times’ photographer.

And guess what? Madam Mulloo was there. At first tau I thought I should do total ignore and act all cool and all but then I thought, I damn care. So I made a bee-hive for her and asked her what her cousin fundo Farva was giving her for helping her to unload her dwarf daughter on us. She acted all innocent-type.

“ Haw , what am I hearing?” she said. “I suggest my rich, young cousin for your aged, bald, die-vorced cousin and you say this to me?”

“At least my cousin’s not four-foot-eight and nor does his father slaughter sheep with his own hands on his driveaway. And besides my cousin didn’t make his money yesterday and that also doing shady export.”

“What are you suggesting, ji ? If you want to say that my cousin’s husband is a drug smuggler then why don’t you just come out and say it?”

“Okay, ji , he’s a drug smuggler.”

“ Haw . Look at you! Saying such mean, nasty things about an honest, God-fearing Muslim. Who told you to say them, haan ? And besides, nice coming from you, whose own aunty and uncle robbed the central revenew with both hands for I don’t know how long.”

“At least they didn’t do it in drugs. And just because you act all holy, don’t think I don’t know what goes on in your home.”

“What do you mean by that? Haan? Tell?”

I was about to tell her about her daughter, Irum, who I’ve heard is roaming around with a cheapster shop -wallah type who has no bagground and no future prospectus either but just then the Good Times photo -wallah came near us and Mulloo and I immediately turned to him and putting our arms around each other, smiled at the camera. The minute he moved away, we jumped apart to pick up the fight where we’d left it, but Sunny and Maha came to do whispered gossip and say how much Faiza was buying and from where was she getting the money when her husband’s bottled juice business had dried up so much he couldn’t even pay his employees, haan ? And Sunny said, maybe that Senator Carry who is bringing all this American aids from America, is also giving her some.

“It’s for us civilians this time,” she said, “not for army. Army’s been hogging all the aids for ever but now it’s our turn.”

And then when the girls left I looked around for Mulloo to pick up the fight again but the coward, she’d left. She’d snaked out when I wasn’t looking because I think so she was afraid that I would beat her in the argument. Bubble and Sunny showed me the lockets and rings they’d got and I thought to myself why am I not buying? Am I any less than them? So I also bought small cute diamond locket and then I hid it in my bag because I couldn’t tell Janoo. He disproves of nice things like diamonds and emeralds and gold and every time I buy some jewellery he says how much more do I need. He is very bore like that. I think so he must be having some Chinese blood from somewhere.

My and Mullo’s fight has been dissolved. She admitted that Farva had promised to ask her husband, Sheikh Ilyas, to help her husband, Tony, with a car dealership if she found a nice boy for Tasbeeh quickly. Now that she’s finished her studies and her nikah is also broken, Tasbeeh’s just sitting at home and ageing and Farva is so worried, so worried that she’s saying prayers five, five times a day and getting sheep slaughtered left, right, and centre, to get Tasbeeh married off quickly before people start saying that she’s a left-over. And so Mulloo said that please couldn’t Jonkers just marry her. Tasbeeh’ll get such a big dowry. House. Cars. Servants. Jewellery. Plots for more houses. Foreign exchange in numbered accounts in Swizzerland also. And Tony would be so grateful — his sanitary towel business has also gone thup na because of the slum — and if Jonkers could do Tony this small, little favour then he’ll almost gift Jonkers a brand new Honda salon to displace the one Miss Shumaila took.

So I said to Mulloo that Tasbeeh was nice and all, but one thing: she was too much on the short side.

“She’ll wear heels,” said Muloo. “Platforms are so much in fashion.”

She also didn’t do any talking.

“Once she’s married she’ll talk and talk. I give you guarantee.”

And Farva was bossy.

“I’ll ban Farva from visiting.”

What about the sheep slaughtering?

“They’ll become vegetarians. And you know, they might even give Tasbeeh a flat in London.”

“Haan,” I said, “knowing them it’s probably in Eeling-Sheeling or Southall or some poor place in the back of behind.” I know all these cheapster Pakistanis who show off about their flats in London and then you discover that they are in Hound Slow or Hack Knee or some place where you wouldn’t even send your servants for a holiday — should you ever give them one.

“No, no, their flat is in Knightsbridge. Two streets from Harrods. Four bedrooms. Lying empty all the time. They never go. Can’t bear to leave their country for one second even. Except to Saudi for Hajj of course.”

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m not lying. It’s true. I swear on Irum’s head.”