Duty Free (5 page)

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.

And then there was Baby and her husband Jammy (his real name’s Jamal). Poor Baby, she’s like Zeenat’s poor rellie. Always hanging about quietly and saying “Yes Zeenie Apa, no Zeenie Apa.” And Jammy not speaking until spoken to.

Anyways Aunty Pussy was gushing at Zeenat about her lovely house, her lovely garden, her lovely art, her lovely sofas.

“You forgot her lovely husband,” Shaukat called out.

“Oh shush,” laughed Zeenat. “You mustn’t mind Shaukat. He loves to shock.”

“Not just shock, shock and awe,” and he laughed in a snarling-type way. I think so, he’s jealous that his wife is better known than him. Mulloo says when they married, he was the rich one because he had lands. But he sold his lands to play golf in Singapore and do gambling in Monty Carlo. Now he just lives off her.

We all sat down on the leather sofas. Zeenat, I noticed, sat
next to Jonkers who was still gulping and swallowing like a goldfish.

“So as I was saying,” said Shaukat in a loud voice, “all these bombs, these are not the work of the fundos.”

“Why not?” asked Janoo.

“Because,” said Shaukat, “the Talibans were all more-ons, who couldn’t even do two plus two. They were even more stuppider than
him
,” he said, pointing to his bearer who was serving Janoo a drink. Janoo’s eyes narrowed into slips like they do when he’s about to blow up. Inside I thought to myself, please God don’t let Janoo throw a fit now. The bearer carried on serving quietly but when he left the room Zeenat told Shaukat sharply to watch it because times were bad and last thing she wanted was to be murdered in her own home. Aunty Pussy said no, no, you couldn’t trust servants these days and she
tau
even kept her sugar and rice under lock and key. And then Janoo said that if it wasn’t the Talibans doing the bombing, who was it. Shaukat said it was the Americans. Zeenat meanwhiles was trying to ask Jonkers about where he studied.

“I was at Hull,” said Jonkers. “Then I worked for Coopers in London for two years before coming back.”

“Did very well,
mashallah
,” said Aunty Pussy. “Came top.”

“Why?” asked Janoo.

“Because he’s very clever, by grace of God. And hard-working also,” smiled Aunty Pussy.

“Actually, don’t tell me. Let me guess. It’s to destabilize Pakistan and break it up into little pieces and then move in and take our nuclear weapons.”

I hate when Janoo becomes like this. He gets into so many arguments. He’s quarrelled with Tony, with Akbar, with everybody.

“And now?” asked Zeenat from Jonkers.

“I run a small business exporting textiles.”

“You know, towels and tablecloths and napkins. He’s about to get into bed-sheets now,” added Aunty Pussy. “And we have another family business besides.”

“Exactly! That’s what the Americans want. They can’t stand the idea of an Islamic bomb. They’re taking orders from Israel.”

“And the other family business is—?” asked Zeenat.

“Er, a bit of real state.”

“Jesus! I can’t believe my ears!” said Janoo.

Thanks God just then the drawing-room door was flung open and a girl thumped into the room. She was barefooted with shoulder-long, frizzy hair, like a cloud of mosquitoes buzzing round her head. She was wearing jeans that just covered her bottom and a crumbled T-shirt on top that showed a tire of meat between hem of shirt and waste of jeans. And no make-up also.

“Mom, Dad, have you seen my Blackberry?”

“Come, darling,” said Zeenat. “Come and meet everyone. I was about to send for you. Jehangir, this is our daughter Tanya. She graduated from Smith a year ago. She was in New York for a short while and now she’s home, to help me out a bit. Isn’t that right, sweetie?”

“Have you seen my Blackberry?” the girl repeated without so much as giving Jonkers a single glance. Or a smile to anyone.

I looked at Aunty Pussy. Her mouth was hanging open like a labradog’s. I quickly budged her in the ribs with my elbow.

“How the hell should I know where your Blackberry is?” asked Shaukat. “Am I its keeper?”

Tanya rolled her eyes but just then one of the bearers brought it to her on a silver tray. He said she’d left it in the pantry.

“You’re a star, Nazeer,” she said to him and winked. A wink! At a bearer! Honestly, these foreign-educated types are also too much. Next they’ll be sitting down to eat with servants.

Zeenat managed to seat Tanya next to Jonkers but Tanya might as well have been sitting next to a dustbin. So much attention she gave to him. The whole time she just texted on her phone and replied with “uh-huhs” to the questions Aunty Pussy kept firing at her. Was she enjoying being home? Uh-huh. Must be nice, no, to be back with her Mummy, Daddy? Uh-huh. Had she seen
Three Idiots
? Uh-huh. She must, it’s such a nice film. Uh-huh. At last Aunty Pussy gave up and shut up. But when she thought no one was watching, Aunty Pussy frowned at Jonkers and jerked her head towards Tanya. So Jonkers cleared his throat again and asked Tanya what she’d been doing in America and Tanya said without taking her eyes off the phone, “Partying. Clubbing. Living, basically.”

Tanya put her bare feet on the glass table in our faces. The souls of her feet were black, I tell you,
black
. But I think so it must be some latest fashion in New York. I know from the TV channels that Kulchoo watches that some very fashiony people go about with unwashed hair and loose jeans hanging
from their hips as if they had a huge soaking pamper inside. They call it “hobo-cheek.” I think so this must be that also. But I wonder if it’s also “hobo-cheek” to not thread your upper lips, especially if they look like Saddam Hussein’s.

Meanwhiles Janoo and Shaukat and Jammy and Zafar had got back to discussing politics and Zafar was saying it was impossible for a Muslim to kill another Muslim. That’s why he was sure it wasn’t the Talibans who were doing the bombings. Janoo said okay then who did all the killing in the Iraq and Iran war in which a million people died and Zafar said that was
tau
hundred per cent the Americans. And then Jammy said it was the Israelis and I said to Zeenat that her highlights were very nice and who had done them and Shehla asked Tanya if she’d come and stay with them in Swizzerland and she replied, “No offence but Geneva sucks.”

Zeenat looked hard at Tanya but Shaukat laughed as if she’d just cracked best joke in the world. I don’t think so I like Shaukat. Tanya opened a can of beer, took two huge gulps, and rubbed the back of her hand across her mouth. Jonkers cracked his knuckles and stared at the ceiling and Zeenat and Aunty Pussy gave each other fake smiles.

Then the bearers came and said dinner was ready. Food was a mix-up of local
desi
and western. Green salad and lamb roast and
haleem
and prawns tempura and chicken shashlik and
rogan josh
and
biryani
and the crockery was Herend (I checked) and the glasses were heavy crystal and Tanya piled up her plate and spoke only to the servants. “Water,” and “More ice,” and “Thanks,
yaar.
” Everyone else she ignored. Zeenat kept
trying to get her to talk to Jonkers but she ignored them both. The only time she said anything to anyone of us was when Aunty Pussy asked her how she was passing her time in Lahore and Tanya said, “Doing sweet FA.”

“You are doing your FA?” asked Aunty Pussy. “But your mother said you’d already done BA?”

And Shaukat hooted with laughter, spraying poor Baby with chewed-up rice and roast. Didn’t say sorry even. Even Jonkers’ and Janoo’s and Zafar’s lips twitched but Zeenat scowled at Tanya and said, “Tanya’s actually helping me in the admin of my schools.”

“Yeah, you wish,” Tanya muttered and threw her napkin to the floor and thumped out. Didn’t say goodbye even.

Now you will say I can’t even go to the toilet without asking Mulloo first. I swear I don’t ask her about anything except society stuff—you know, who’s up to what and why and with whom and so on and so fourth. And that’s also only because Mulloo is a suppository of all the local goss. You can ask anyone. They will all say it is Mulloo. Because she makes it her business to find out. So if you want the inside story about anyone, ask Mulloo.

So I called her the next morning and after doing full half an hour of innocent-type
gup-shup
to kill her suspicions, I asked her about Tanya.

“What do you think of Zeenat’s daughter, Tanya?” I asked super-casually.

“Why?” At once she became a lert, her voice all sharp and pointy like my D&G heels.

“Just like that, Mulloo.”

“Is your Aunty thinking of sending
proposal
for her?”

“
Haw
, Mulloo, Aunty Pussy hasn’t even heard of Tanya.”

“It would be totally useless.”

“Why?” and now I became a lert.

“Because she’s not like that.”

“Like what?”

“Bridal type.”

“Meaning?”

“She is a gay.”

“A gay? Haw, how do you know?”

“You can see for yourself. The upper lips. The clothes. The hair. Besides, everyone knows she was dating this girl—American, even worse, Christian—in New York.”

I wanted to say that at least Christians were people of the Book and it wasn’t as bad as a Hindu or something but then I didn’t, one, because Mulloo would become suspicious if she thought I was taking Tanya’s side and two, because I didn’t know whether that people of the Book thing applied to gays.

And then Mulloo told me about how Tanya had been living with this girl called Holly or Holy, whatever she was, like husband and wife. In one-bed flat. Imagine. Apparently Nina’s sister-in-law’s daughter’s best friend had been in that all girls’ college with them and she says everyone there knew. But I tell you these American girls’ colleges, they are also too much. Everyone who goes there becomes a gay. My cousin Sabeena had a daughter who also went to one and she also became that way. Not fully gay. But definitely gayish. When she came back she wouldn’t wash her hair or wear deodrant and kept saying things like “Fat is a Femnist Issue.” I think so Femnist Issue was their college newspaper. Anyways, thanks God she grew out of it and now she’s married with three kids and living with her engineer husband in Jeddah in an
abaya
.