Moni Mohsin - Duty Free

“It’s more commercial and bits of it are way over the top,” said Zain, “like the birth scene which I’d have chucked out, but still it’s interesting. You should watch more Indian cinema, Uncle. Not everything, because a lot of it’s still escapist crap but here and there you find some good films. Have you seen Mr. and Mrs. Iyer , for instance?”

My hand shot up. “I have!” When all their eyes turned on me, I quickly put down my hand. “ Hai , so sad, so sad. Those horrid Hindus, you know, what they do to us poor Muslims. But most saddest, their love, unspoken …”

“See, you should use Aunty here as your guide,” Zain told Janoo. “She seems to have her finger on the pulse of Indian cinema.”

“It seems she has,” said Janoo, nodding slowly and looking at me as if he was seeing me for the first time ever. Crack.

Zain is such a shweetoo and he has so much of knowledge also. But between you, me, and the four walls, he doesn’t seem like a poor DVD -wallah . In fact, he almost seems like one of us. If you know what I mean. I think so there’s something dishy going on here.

Mulloo called us all in for dinner and one thing I will say for Mulloo, food’s always been good in her house, even now she’s poor. It was a sitting-down dinner and in the middle of the table was a huge dish of mutton karahi with slithers of fresh ginger and spring onion and sliced raw chilli spattered on top and seekh kebabs with imli ki chutney and aloo zeera and khutti daal and cucumber and mint raita and pipping hot tandoori rotis studied with sesame seeds. So we all sat down and tucked in and tucked in and tucked in and no one spoke except to say “pass the daal ” and “one more kebab yaar ” and “this is seriously good.” And so on and so fourth.

Finally Akbar pushed back his chair, I think so, to give rooms to his belly, and said, “ Wah! Mulloo, that was the best meal I’ve had all year.”

“Isn’t she just the most brilliant cook?” said Zain.

“ You made this?” asked Baby, raising her eyebrows.

Mulloo flashed and looked a bit uncomfortable. I thought, haw , poor thing, now she’s been caught. I was about to take pity on her and say something about Kulchoo’s tuition to change the subject, when Zain spoke up again.

“You should try her nihari , and her shahi tukras , and her lemon cake. I’ve been telling her and telling her to start a catering company like this Pakistani lady did back home in Toronto. She started off real small. Just her and a friend. Now she’s h-u-g-e. Huge.”

“Fat, you mean?” asked Sunny.

“Uh-huh, she’s model thin. And always in designer gear. No, I meant her business is huge. She has a TV show and she’s written cookery books and she’s all over the glossies.”

“You live in Toronto?” I asked.

“Yeah. I’m here for six months, till spring, minding my cousin’s store, while he finishes up a project in Karachi.”

So he is not a DVD -wallah . And he lives in Toronto. And he probably has a Canadian passport also. And a house in Missy Saga. It’s not fair.

“So, Mulloo, what’s stopping you?” asked Janoo. “If I could get food like this at a party of mine, I’d hire you in a second.” Look at him. As if he throws parties ten times a day.

“Well,” said Mulloo, looking uncertainly at Tony. “Tony and I, we’re thinking about it. It’s just that …”

“Actually,” said Tony, clearing his throat in that bore way he always does before making some bore speech, “Mulloo was already doing some catering on the side. In fact, she’s been a rock for me these past few months. But the type of catering she was doing was small-scale stuff. It wasn’t until Zain here started pointing out the potential, that we both looked at it seriously. I’ve given it some thought and done some sums and my mind is pretty much made up. If Mulloo takes on the food, I’m ready to look after the business side of things.”

“Great! Event management,” said Janoo, and thumped Tony on the back. “Good thinking.”

“Go for it, yaar ,” said Jammy and he raised his glass and said, “To Mulloo and Tony’s business. May it prosper.”

Everyone picked up their glasses and said the same, even Sunny and Baby, who, if you ask me, were looking a bit shelf-shocked. And Mulloo still wasn’t meeting our eyes but then suddenly Sunny seemed to make up her mind about something and she leaned over and put her arm around Mulloo.

“I book you first!” she said. “For our twentieth-wedding anniversary party in Feb. Can I have this divine karahi for it?”

Mulloo nodded and gave her a shaky-type thank-you smile.

“As soon as my A-levels are over I’m going to join Ammi’s business full time,” announced Irum.

“No, you’re not!” said Mulloo at once. “You’re going to apply to colleges both here and abroad and go on with your studies. After you finish you can decide what you’re going to do. But not one second before.”

“ Aw , come on.”

“No come-on, shum-on,” said Mulloo. “You’re going to college.”

“You could always apply to university of Toronto,” said Zain, winking at Irum.

Irum flashed, and then gave him a sideways smile.

While everyone was saying goodbyes later, Baby whispered in my ear, “Who’s the cute boy?”

“I think so, Irum’s friend.”

“Mulloo has all the luck!”

This morning I woke up and stretched my legs. They were paining. I stretched my toes. They were paining. I tried to sit up. My head was paining. Then I knew. I was dying of dengue fever. As usual, Janoo had got up at dawn time and gone out. So from my bed only I rang Mummy to ask her to come over immediately with doctor and ambulance. But she wasn’t at home. Maid said she’d gone to the bazaar. So I called her mobile and same maid answered and said, “Begum Saab has forgotten her phone at home.” Honestly, I think so Mummy’s gone sterile. She forgets everything. So then I called Janoo’s mobile. He was at his lawyer’s office sorting out some property papers or something bore like that.

“Come home,” I croaked over the phone. “I’m taking my last breaths.”

“What’s the matter with you?”

“I have dengue.” And I hanged up the phone.

So he came. Took my temperature. And, I’m sorry to say, he did it a bit impatiently. Considering I was dying and all.

“Dead normal,” he said, peering at the glass tube.

“But I have dengue,” I whispered. “You get pain in your bones when you get dengue. My feet feel like they are breaking and my calves feel like someone has been sitting on them all night. And I’m so tired I can’t even lift my head.”

“I’m not surprised you’re tired. We came home from Mulloo’s at 1 a.m. and then you sat up till 3 watching your recorded serial.” He got up from my bedside and tripped over my six-inch Jimmy Choose stilettoes I’d been wearing the night before. He held them up and said, “This explains the pain in your feet and calves. Some sensible shoes and a decent bedtime and you’ll find your dengue fever will disappear magically.”

Stuppid. What does he know? It’s not as if he’s a doctor or something. Anyways, I was in bed looking after myself because no one else will, when who should come in but Madam Mulloo. She was carrying two huge boxes of chocolate brownies, all done up with ribbon and things, that she proudly announced she’d made herself. The brownies, not the ribbons. She asked what I was doing in bed. I almost said dengue but then I thought maybe it is a disease that only poors get. I mean no one I know has died from it. So I said I was just feeling a bit tired and runned down. That’s all.