Moni Mohsin - Duty Free

As soon as I put the phone down I completely forgot Jonkers and gave myself up to the goss about the Khans and the Butts. And I must admit, I tau enjoyed myself very much because I thought serve Shabnam right for being such a meanie to me. Wearing her gody necklace and treating me like I was some maid or something. She’d got her just desserts. Of course I didn’t say because, to be frank, her husband is still important, na , and you don’t want it getting back to her. And then her getting back to me.

But Mulloo, I think so, had the best of times because when all the money was pushed towards her, her face lighted up like a thousand-what bulb. She quickly slipped the money into her purse, shoved the purse deep inside her bag, zipped the bag and tucking it under her arm, said to me, “Ready?”

On the way home along the canal bank we saw all these fruit -wallahs parked under the trees with their carts heaped up with guavas and oranges and bananas.

“ Hai , stop, I want to buy some fruit for my baby,” said Mulloo. I wanted to ask her why she doesn’t send her cook to buy fruit for her baby like all of us do but then I thought maybe she’s had to let her cook go also. So of course I didn’t mention. And why? Because I’m sensitive like that.

So I told Muhammad Hussain to stop, but far away from the fruit -wallahs because I didn’t want any flies coming into the car. When he’d parked by the side of the road, Mulloo gave him some money and asked him to go and get her some bananas and oranges.

“Haggle, don’t pay first thing he asks,” she shouted at Muhammad Hussain’s back. “These people think we are made of money.”

You know, na , at that time of day there’s not so much traffic on that road — the school rush has finished — and so thanks God we didn’t have any beggars-sheggars bothering us and also cars were passing in ones and twos. So she put up the window and she turned towards me and I towards her and we settled down to a good old goss about whether the girl was rigid or the boy was prevert when we heard a tap on the drawn-up window on Mulloo’s side and without looking up I waved to Muhammad Hussain to put the fruit into the boot. Mulloo also didn’t turn around to look at the window but again the tap came so she put the window down and said, “Put it into the back side.”

Except that it wasn’t Muhammad Hussain but some strange man with a beard, turban, and small, red eyes. Thinking he was the fruit- wallah come to complain, Mulloo said, “I’m not paying one paisa more, sumjhay ? So give if you want and don’t give if you don’t want. You aren’t the only fruit wallah in the world.”

“Open your purse,” he hissed, bringing his face close up to Mulloo. Little spots of his spit landed on her cheeks.

“ Hai bhai , what’s the matter with you?” said Mulloo shrinking back.

So then I also looked properly and saw this crack-type with darting eyes and strange pulse tickling in his forehead. He had his head pushed through the open window so his face was only a few inches away from Mulloo’s.

“You want me to use this? Haan? ” He half opened the wastecoat-type thing he was wearing and in the inside pocket was a pistol. And not plastic toy like Kulchoo used to play with but real pistol just like they have in James Bond films. Except that this man looked nothing like Pears Brosnan.

Mulloo tau froze. Her eyes became wide, her face white as salt. She just sat there clutching her bag to her chest. He reached in and snatched her bag.

“ Hai , please,” she yelped, tugging at his arms.

“Shut up, kutti ,” he said through gritted teeth, slapping her hands away.

I don’t know what happened to me then but seeing him hitting Mulloo like that and calling her a bitch suddenly made my blood bubble over.

“Stop that!” I yelled. “You want money? Take the money, but don’t you dare touch her.”

“You want me to use this, haan , you want this ?” he said to me, patting his wastecoat pocket and scowling at me.

“I’m not scared of you, okay?” I opened my wallet. Luckily there were only two thousand-rupee notes in it. I took the money and flung it at him. “This is all I have. Take it and go,” I said.

“Give me the wallet.”

“Here!” I flung that at him also. I never carry credit cards, so I reckoned, what do I loose, except a Gucci wallet.

He blinked. I don’t think so he had expected me to reply back like that. That made me even more braver.

“Now get lost!” I said.

“Not without these ,” he snarled. He put his hand in and tugged at Mulloo’s pearls. For one second, the back of his hairy hand was pressed against Mulloo’s throat. Then the string snapped and pearls splattered into her lap. He gathered the string with the few remaining pearls still hanging from it and put it in his pocket. Then he leaned over and grabbed at the pearls that had fallen in her lap, his hands moving all over her thighs. Suddenly his hands slowed down. Then, the bastard, he put his right hand between Mulloo’s legs and kept it there, all the while staring at my face. His mouth was open, his lips wet. He was breathing hard. Mulloo sat there as if turned to rocks. His hand dug deeper. I watched in shocked silence. Then someone honked and he looked over his shoulder. I followed his gaze and saw, about thirty yards away, under a tree another man was waiting on a motorbike with its engine running. He was also turbaned and bearded but wearing dark glasses. This other man signed to him to hurry.

“And you,” he barked, at last removing his hand and pointing at me. “Give me your rings and earrings.”

“The ring is stuck on my finger. I can’t get it off. See for yourself.”

“Wish I had a knife so I could take your finger off. Give me the earrings! Hurry! Before I tear them out.”

Slowly I began to loosen the screws at the back of my earrings.

The man on the motorbike honked again and made hurrying signs to the man at our window, but more harder this time.

“Hurry up, kanjri ,” he shouted at me.

“I’m doing my best,” I said calmly, even though my fingers were shaking and inside I was shouting, “Don’t you dare call me a whore, you pimp, you bastard.” And then in the car mirror I saw Muhammad Hussain, paying the fruit -wallah and turning back towards the car with two bulging bags of fruit in each hand. I saw him frown at our bearded guest, confused. I know from the TV news and from friends to whom these things have happened, that when things like this happen it’s always the guards and drivers who get killed. Muhammad Hussain’s been with us fourteen years, from when Kulchoo was a baby. He used to carry Kulchoo on his shoulders and whenever he went home on leave, he brought Kulchoo dates from his village. He still does. He’s a bit slow and stuppid but he’s ours.

“Oh look,” I said loudly, budging Mulloo in the side and pointing to a big black Land Cruiser with black-out windows that was coming down the road towards us, “there’s Iqbal Bhai’s car. He’s seen us. Look he’s stopping.” Inside I was terrified that Mulloo might say something stuppid like “Iqbal Bhai, who?” But thanks God she didn’t. She just stared at the approaching car, her chin trembling, her eyes staring.

The man also looked. I didn’t know whose car it was but it was slowing down for the speed bumps that are all down that road. It was just the kind of car that drug dealers or big feudals with wandettas in their families have. Cars like these are usually packed inside with bodyguards carrying Kalashnikovs. Drops of sweat broke up on the man’s forehead. I prayed underneath my breaths, my shaking hands still at my ear. Mulloo sat like a statue beside me. A statue with silent tears rolling down its cheeks.