Moni Mohsin - Duty Free

The house was small. Even smaller than I was fearing it would be. On Aunty Pussy’s insistence, we went in Janoo’s Prado jeep to show them what’s what. I swear the road — no, alley — on which Sana’s house is, is so narrow, so narrow that a cyclist who was coming the other way from us had to get off his cycle and press himself into a hedge to make room for us and our Prado to pass. I don’t know why Sana and all bother to have a gate because it’s so small, even I could jump over it. In my D&G platforms. Janoo’s driver got out and rang the bell and when no guard came, gave the gate a good shake and it looked as if would fall off its winges. So thin and weak it was.

“Are you noting?” said Aunty Pussy, wrinkling her nose as if she’d smelt a bad smell.

Then a maid — not a guard, but a maid — came out drying her hands on her dupatta and she opened the gate and the drive was so narrow and so short that our car took up the whole of it and the maid could hardly close the gate behind us. In front of us was parked one white Suzuki like we have at home for our servants to go and do shopping in the bazaar. The front garden — I don’t think so there’s a back one — was the size of my bathroom at home. But if I was to put my hand on the Holy Koran I’d have to say that it wasn’t too bad. A big shady-type tree, jasmine bushes, a wooden bench and half tap, half fountain-type thing set into a wall that flowed into a stone basin. Sound of water was all tinkly, tinkly, soft, soft.

“Let’s get this over with quickly,” muttered Aunty Pussy, leading the way.

I wanted to tell her to please be nice-ish but just then the same maid opened the door. God knows where their other servants were hiding. A tall, middle-aged-type woman with short, grey hair stood in the hall. I say hall, but it was actually the size of my wardrope back home. She was wearing a plain biscuit-coloured shalwar kameez and a woollen shawl with brown stripes on it. Not shahtoosh . Or even pashmina. Just plain wool. She greeted us nicely and told us she was Zahra, Sana’s mother. She led us into her sitting room.

Windows were big. Walls were white. Sofas and chairs were also covered in white cotton. Bright cotton dhurries were scattered on the floor. There were four or five big paintings on the walls — all of skies. Dawn skies. Dust skies. Morning skies. Night skies. And lots and lots of lilies in vases all round the room. I think so they must have been given by Jonkers because he’d given the same buffet of foreign lilies to me when I’d had my counter with the beardo. Aunty Pussy scowled when she saw them because I think so she also guessed. Must be doing mental sums of how much they must have cost. Room didn’t have too many decoration pieces. A few things of old brass, not silver, but nicely polished. One thing I will say, but. Room was very, very clean. The floor beamed, the table tops shone, walls were spotless. Poor things, must have scrubbed and scrubbed, getting ready for us. Couldn’t be getting too many important guests.

We sat down and then Sana and her little sister came in. Little sister wore braces and glasses and a blue frock. Not a beauty from anywhere. Aunty Pussy’s eyes narrowed when she saw Sana. So did Mummy’s. Sana was dressed all in white. Like a nurse. All she needed was a white cap on her head and a clock pinned to her chest. But thanks God, hair was loose. She looked better that way, nose didn’t look so long and face not so bony. She smiled and greeted Aunty Pussy and Mummy and they replied with small unsmiling nods. Sana came up to me and I got up and kissed her on the cheek. Behind her back, Aunty Pussy gave me a cold stare. I hope so Sana’s mother didn’t see.

Zahra said how nice it was that the winter had finally come. Didn’t they think that the summer had been unusually long this year?

“No,” said Aunty Pussy.

Zahra laughed and said it must be her imagination then.

“Yes,” said Aunty Pussy.

I asked the sister who was sitting beside me, what her name was.

“Noor,” she said. “I’m eleven. I’m in Class 6 at New Dawn School. Do you have any children?”

“Yes. One. He’s fifteen.”

“What’s his favourite subject at school?”

“I think so he likes doing computers best.”

“Mine’s art. Like my Ammi’s. She’s an artist, you know. She painted all these.” Noor nodded at the pictures on the walls.

Zahra shook her head. “Thank you, darling, but I’m no artist. I just put these up to cover the walls. Actually I’m an art teacher,” she said to us.

“Where do you teach?” asked Mummy.

“New Dawn School. The Gulberg branch.”

“I know the owner,” said Aunty Pussy. “Zeenat Kuraishi. One of my closest friends.”

Haw , look at Aunty Pussy. What a show-offer. And liar also, I’m sorry to say.

“Mrs. Kuraishi’s been very kind to me,” said Zahra. “When Noor was little she suffered from bad asthma and I had to take time off school whenever she was ill, which was often. But not once did Mrs. Kuraishi dock my salary or put any pressure on me. She knew my circumstances and was endlessly understanding.”

“You can always tell people from a good family,” sniffed Aunty Pussy.

“And now Mrs. K. is making Ammi headmistress,” said Noor. “She will have her own office with air conditioner. And a secretary also.”

“Shush,” laughed Sana.

The maid came in with drinks. It was freshly squeezed pomegranate juice. Aunty Pussy sighed as she took hers, as if she was being offered medicine. I took a small sip of mine. It was cold and sweet in a sharpish way. Better than I expected. At least they know how to make juice, I thought. When the maid left I asked Sana how her friend — Shabnam’s daughter — was doing since her die-vorce. Sana said that she was quite shaken up and a bit depress also, but that was only to be expected. To have such a talk-of-the-town wedding and then such a public die-vorce must be very difficult.

“If people are going to rush into unsuitable marriages without looking left or right,” said Aunty Pussy heavily, “they should prepare themselves for disasters.”

There was a short silence after that and then Sana’s mother said how lovely it had been to meet Jonkers and what a sensitive and generous man he was and how proud Aunty Pussy must be of him.

“He brought Sana all these flowers,” said Noor. “And a big slab of Toblerone for me. Biggest I’ve ever seen.”

Aunty Pussy looked as if she’d been stabbed. “Unfortunately, he’s always wasted money. Doesn’t know with what difficulty it is made.”

Sana turned red — or as red anyone can get if they are darkish — but she didn’t say anything.

Mummy quickly asked Zahra how long she had worked at Zeenat’s school.

“Seven years. Ever since my husband passed away.”

“Jonkers told me your husband died in a car accident,” I said.

“Yes,” replied Zahra. “He was driving back from Multan. It was late at night. He crashed into a tree. After all these years, I still can’t understand how it happened. He was such a careful driver. Either he must have swerved to avoid some unexpected object on the road or he must have fallen asleep at the wheel.” Her voice wobbled a bit.

Noor got up from besides me and went and sat next to her mother. She put her hand on her mother’s knee. Zahra covered it with her own.

“Noor must have been very small then,” I said.

“She was four,” said Zahra.

“Big age difference between your daughters,” said Mummy.