Moni Mohsin - Duty Free

“Zeenat Kuraishi?” shrieked Aunty Pussy down the phone. “Zeenat Kuraishi of New Dawn School Syndicate? But she’s worth crores and crores . She has schools in every city. At least forty thousand children go to her schools. She makes more than all those sugar mill -wallahs and those steel factory owners. The girl will inherit so much, so much that Jonkers won’t need to lift a finger ever again.” And then she started asking me about the girl.

I told her I hadn’t even slapped eyes on her. All I knew was that she was foreign-educated and that her parents were not after money and that Zeenat had asked us for dinner the next night and that we mustn’t say anything to the girl because she would hit the ceiling if she knew we were there to check her out. These foreign-educated types are a bit funny that way, na . They want everything in life to be their own choice. Aunty Pussy said she always knew her Jonkers would make a match made in heaven and that this was God’s way of making up to them for that two- paisa piece, Miss Shumaila. And hanging me up, she rushed off to tell Jonkers and to get her hair died and set for tomorrow.

But Mummy was a little bit more precautious.

“Zeenat got married at least fifteen years after me,” she said. “So her daughter must be in her early to mid twenties. The girl is rich, young, and foreign-educated. Why would she want to have an arranged marriage with an older man who’s been married before, isn’t half as rich as her and let’s face it, darling, is no Carry Grant either?”

“That’s what I’m wondering also. But Mummy, just think, if the marriage does happen, how fantastic the wedding will be and how expensive the presents from the girl’s side will be to all of us and how heavy our name will become in the world. Everyone will want me in their kitty group. Natasha will tau come on her knees.”

Jonkers was also a little bit septic about it.

“I don’t get it,” he said.

“What’s to get, yaar ?” I said.

“Why would a girl like that from that sort of liberal family be up for an arranged marriage?”

“All I know, Jonkers, is that she is and if I were you I’d just think of how nice it would be to have a nice young rich wife and not take out faults in her.”

“But even our backgrounds, which you put so much store by, don’t match. She’s far richer than me.”

“Oho, Jonkers you don’t understand anything! Baggrounds don’t match when the other person’s less than yours. They match perfectly when they are richer than you. Okay, I’ll admit it is always better when girl is poorer than boy because that way she always looks up to him but don’t worry about it, yaar . Just like your name will become hers once you get married, her bagground will also become yours. Life’s all about give and take, na . Let others give and you take.”

“I don’t know if she’ll be my type. I bet she’s spoilt and wilful.”

“Now don’t be bore, Jonkers.”

Of course we didn’t tell Janoo anything. Because if he’d known he’d never have come in a million years to Zeenat’s house. He thinks we should just let Jonkers find his own wife. What does it matter if she’s a secretary or poor relation, as long as he’s happy? I told you, na , that Janoo is crack.

“What do you know about what makes people happy?” I asked him after he’d been banging on and on about letting Jonkers find his own happiness.

“Indeed. What do I know about marital happiness?” he said with a twisted-type smile.

So anyways, we told him it’s just a dinner and because he admires Zeenat’s business brain, even though he thinks Shaukat, her husband, is a time-waste, he agreed. So we’re going to check out bride number one.

“Now this is what I call a driveaway!” sighed Aunty Pussy as the gates swung open and we drove into Zeenat’s property.

The drive was like an aeroplane’s runaway. I swear three trucks could drive side by side for five hundred yards till they reached the porch. Along the way were parked Mercs, and BNWs, and big, big Range Rovers and all the drivers were in uniform with caps like in Hollywood films.

The house was huge. Huger than huge. Three storeys high and so much of glass and steel, that don’t even ask. The garden was all land-escaped with palms and fountains and flowering shrubs and not even ordinary shrubs like motia or chambeli but strange, erotic ones from foreign countries.

The bearers were dressed in starched white shalwar kurtas with black velvet caps. I decided there and then that when I got home, I’d also put all my servants in black velvet caps. The sitting room was totally fab. Marble floors. White leather sofas with steel arms. Glass tables. Palm trees. And on the walls everywhere, Art. Big, big Art. All modern, modern, trendy, trendy. And statues also. With twisted noses and hands like frying pans. Reminded me of Janoo’s sisters, Psycho and Cobra.

There were three split-unit air conditioners in the sitting room. Three. Each costing forty thou. I know because I just put a new one into Kulchoo’s room. If there are thirty rooms in the house you can do calculations for yourself — I can’t because I failed in Maths in Class 7 at the Convent of Jesus and Mary — how many ACs they have like that. And also how many generators they need to run them. And how much of diesel each generator drinks. And how much it costs to buy that much of diesel. I told you, na , Zeenat is stinking rich.

Aunty Pussy’s head was snivelling around like an owl’s. Every now and again she’d budge me in the ribs and say, “Look at this, look at that.” Like a total villager, I’m sorry to say. Jonkers was fiddling with his tie and kept clearing his throat every two minutes. So embarrassing, honestly. Thanks God, Janoo wasn’t being too over. In fact, he looked like he was least bothered.

“Welcome, welcome!” said Zeenat. She must be in her fifties but she looks like she’s in her late thirties. Max. Forehead smooth. Cheeks smooth. Neck smooth. Hair streaked toffee and chocolate. (Mulloo says she lives in Bathing Beauties Spa on Jail Road where she takes buttocks injections on her forehead like other people take vitamin pills.) She had diamond solitaires big as rupee coins in her ears. And another as big as a ping-pong ball on her finger. Otherwise plain shalwar kameez in green raw silk. Her husband, Shaukat, looked like his own photo negative — white hair, dark skin. Big paunch. Bags — no, suitcases — under his eyes. A carpet of grey, curly chest hairs springing from his shirt that had not one, not two, but three buttons open. Cheapster. He was scrawled in an armchair. Didn’t even bother to get up for us. Just raised his glass in our direction and went on chatting to a couple sitting on the sofa opposite.

“You know Zafar and Shehla?” said Zeenat. Apparently they live in Swizzerland where Zafar works for a bank called Golden Sacks. Shehla was in cheetah print, which is a little bit last year, but carrying fab Gucci bag. I wished Aunty Pussy hadn’t worn her purple and gold Benarsi sari and her gold necklace. She looked so over. Chalo thanks God at least I was properly turned on in my cream Manish Arora outfit with my coffee-coloured Jimmy Choose and my Channel bag.