Ali nodded to a guest, who was awaiting a reaction to his latest political observation, excusing himself to answer the doorbell.
"Well, late as usual. Yaar, show some enthusiasm for my parties!"
Haroon shrugged apologetically, moving forward to hug Ali.
"Sorry but Islamabad’s changed so much…all these new roads."
Ali interrupted keenly, "Yes, it’s all part of the new development scheme. These bloody dictators know how to get the job done."
Haroon shrugged again, losing interest.
"Where’s Babhi?"
"In the kitchen, probably at the poor cook’s throat! But you’ve never met her, have you? She’s really quite sweet."
Ali introduced him to his guests as a ‘close friend recently returned from America’ and rushed off to find some refreshment for the latecomer. Haroon sat down on the nearest sofa, aware that people were looking at him closely. One man, a middle aged business associate of Ali’s, leaned forward and uttered in a tone of awe, "The tomatoes are that big in America," and he cupped his hands in an exaggerated way to demonstrate his point.
Haroon broke out in a childish laugh. Ali came back, with servant in tow who offered him a glass of pomegranate juice. Sensing Haroon’s displaced amusement and guessing the reason behind it, Ali tucked him away in a comfortable corner, monopolizing that interesting disinterestedness for himself.
"So what now? A job, like the rest of us? Everything’s going to be a come down after Ivy League."
Haroon circled the rim of his glass with his middle finger. He wasn’t holding back; it was like he was short on information about himself. Somehow the facts of his life: wealth, good background, American degree, good looks, and connections, all appeared to be convenient descriptions of many happy people. But Ali was waiting…
"I don’t know. I honestly don’t."
"You can always join me. We could do business together."
A spark flew from Haroon’s eyes.
"And make more money?'
"Yes, why not? What’s so bad about money?"
Haroon thought hard for a moment. Money, strange friend-strange because he never knew it’s true value, friend because it would always be at his side.
"You’d be no one if it weren’t for your father’s money." Ali was answering his own questions. This was disingenuous of Haroon, playing the consummate renouncing Buddha. I’d like to call his bluff; give me all you have, you son of a bitch, thought Ali viciously.
"Jaan, shall I order dinner to be served?"
His wife’s insistent voice crashed through the tunnel of Ali’s mind, scaring off the intrepid flash of honest hate.
He was back to complacent host.
"Come over here, Salma. There’s someone special I’d like you to meet."
Salma really was sweet. She had almond shaped eyes that smiled in unison with her full lips and already discernible laugh lines. A diamond nose stud that tucked itself neatly behind the flare of an aristocratic nostril accentuated the perfection of her aquiline nose. Pretty package, thought Haroon.
"Babhi, pleasure to finally meet you." Haroon surprised himself by parroting a few more pleasantries, ones that he had heard from his father’s lips to women who were anything but a pleasure. Ali looked on, very pleased with the effect his wife had on his fastidious friend.
"I told you she’s sweet."
"Yes, very."
"You know, I used to dread marriage. Thought it’d be so inconvenient." Ali gave a knowing nudge to Haroon.
Haroon knew what Ali was referring to: Saba, Ali’s ex girlfriend, the one he practically got engaged to but broke it off because she was in a hurry to get married whereas he was interested in reaping the benefits of a private, exclusive world that sloughed off it’s traditions at particular times of the night and in special spots in the city. This was a world that couldn’t wait for rules and values to evolve; in a single evening, it would catch up with the fun that its inhabitants imagined the rest of the world enjoying. But something of the old world would linger in that temporary microcosm and that was the cause of Ali’s frustrated escapades. Modern Pakistan meant girls hanging around ice cream parlours in tight jeans and even tighter T-shirts in the hope that predatory males would take one look at them and propose marriage the next day. The trouble was that both ends of the equation weren’t interested in adding up but subtracting what they could from the other. So Ali never really got to test the modern Pakistani woman’s liberation whereas the girls lost interest after the initial leading questions.
Ali, counting on the male advantage in society, embroiled himself in what he hoped would just be a casual affair but his inexperience with the opposite sex rendered him a fool for feminine charm and very soon Saba was discussing marriage as a foregone conclusion. That was when his worldly wise parents came to his rescue, convincing him that girls who trust themselves to be intimate with a man prior to marriage cannot qualify as wife material. Ali got out of that one but his one mistake was sufficient to alarm his parents who hastened to arrange a suitable match for him. He took one look at Salma and decided that they knew best.
But even though Ali’s bachelorhood had been as inconvenient as his initial conception of marital life, in retrospect he still chose to view it in light of the colouful intentions that he had entertained during that phase in his life.
He really is quite naïve, Haroon thought with amusement and felt vaguely happy that his friend had found some measure of happiness.
"Looks like she’s done you a world of good."
Ali led the way into the dining room, holding the door for the guests who filed past.
"Yes. My parents are so pleased with her."
Haroon was well acquainted with Ali’s parents, knew that they had spent their whole lives keeping surprise out of their precious son’s life. There were times when Haroon wondered how that steely net of security had allowed him to enter their son’s womb-like world. He guessed it was his money; that outweighed the dysfunctional influence that very often accompanied the very rich.
"Well, considering they arranged the whole thing, that hardly comes as a surprise."
Ali looked sharply at Haroon but couldn’t quite make out the context of this remark. It sounded vaguely critical yet a second ago, there had been a compliment somewhere.
"Last time I met uncle and aunty, they were anxious to get you settled." That’s all he allowed himself. Fighting over parents was the last thing Ali wanted to get involved in; they were best left as sacred territory, immune to questioning and discussion.
The dining room was dressed like a bride. The huge crystal chandelier twinkled its welcome at the guests and huge vases with gladiolas were placed at strategic points in the room. A bunch of white roses sat right in the center of the dining table, mingling their perfume with the spicy aroma of kebabs and chicken biryani. A large mirror on a sidewall magnified the chandelier’s light and the guests could watch themselves captured in sophisticated greed. On one of the side tables, there lay an ornate navy blue egg, which found its way into a child’s pocket.
Polite offers of hospitality were made, guests were guided to the tastiest dishes and reluctant servants were ordered into efficiency. Ali was a natural host, inviting all to share in his bounty. Haroon took in the generous display of delicacies, gazed at their doubles in the mirror and felt full.
"Bhai saab, you must taste the lamb curry. The cook spent all day preparing it."
Haroon turned around to face Salma. Yes, so sweet, he thought. If only that sweetness were reserved for him, he might just head home, tell his parents to find one such bride for him. But she had already transferred that sweet solicitude towards a fretful mother, who was juggling between her plate and sleepy infant.
The male guests were growing somnolent with each sip of Kashmiri tea. Each had had his turn at pontificating over the recent political debacle, but the truth was that Emergency or otherwise, it felt safe that the responsibility was in someone else’s hands. Someone picked up on the waning interest and threw in a scandalous tidbit concerning a socialite. Their husbands’ social batteries recharged, the wives had no choice but to console their wailing infants that Papa was going to take them home, very soon.
Ali glanced with disappointment at Haroon’s untouched cup of pink tea.
"Can I get you some coffee?"
Haroon shook his head. Ali sat himself down on the sofa opposite him, and without preamble launched into his personal mission, "Time you settled down. I told aunty I’d look up a few good families for you."
"Why, isn’t mine good enough?"
The irony was lost on Ali. Stupidly he blundered into an offer, "Salma has a cousin-spitting image of her. Just younger but whose complaining?"
Haroon felt like bursting into rude laughter but he knew his friend was in earnest. With a hint of mirth in his eyes, he decided to test the extent of Ali’s crude generousity.
"Really? Did you mention her to my mother?"
"Yes I did actually. She had doubts. You being picky and all that. I could introduce her to you. At a party maybe? Salma, come over here."
"What is it?"
Husband and wife consulted each other over the desirable but absent cousin. Ali was gesticulating, as was his habit when in the grips of excitement. Salma was cool and smiled at Haroon to convey her tacit approval of him as her cousin’s soul mate. If only that smile was for me, just me, not for every bloody guest in this room, thought Haroon. Then I would run home, tell my parents to find me a sweet bride and we could all live happily ever after. With a business like nod that dismissed the discreet matter of matchmaking, Salma sped off to nag the cook.
"Well, that’s settled. Next Wednesday. Hope that’s OK with you? Mashal-her name-will be at my place. A couple of family friends to lend decency and-"
"You’re so stupid."
Ali felt as if he’d been slapped in public. He looked round to see if others had heard Haroon. But it was said very quietly. It felt like the whole room had grown silent but it was only the hush inside Ali’s head, the retreat of carefully constructed defenses of contentment, the absent hum of complacency.
"At least I’m happy’ was all he could say weakly. ‘You don’t even try."
"I don’t want to have to try. Is it too much to expect to like someone, to think about her day and night, to love without expecting to be loved?"
"Your parents just want you to be happy-to have a woman who’ll look after your needs. Care for you."
"Another mother, eh?"
"You ungrateful bastard! What is it you want? Do you even know?"
Panic stirred in Ali’s guts. It usually overcame him in melodramatic movies. Scenes in bad movies that made horrible sense. It was as if someone was getting away with maudlin truths without provoking the relief of laughter.
"I think you should leave."
Haroon got up, embarrassed yet relieved that dignified insincerity had failed him for once in his polite lifetime. He almost felt affection towards Ali now that the curtain of condescension had been torn down. It was a source of comfort to him that Ali looked down on his unhappiness; that meant it was real, not a luxury of his idle brain.
As he walked through the drawing room, a few of the guests wished him goodnight in weary tones. The servant let him out. Walking to his black BMW, he thought of the hidden roses whose sweet scent pervaded the night air. He couldn’t see them but knew they were around somewhere, in some corner of the garden.
Ali emptied the ashtray in the kitchen bin. The servant was stacking the dirty dinner plates on a tray after separating the cutlery from the wasted, half eaten chicken legs. It would take him the better part of the night cleaning up the mess. But he was singing something out of tune and Ali felt tempted to ask him if he was happy.
The drawing room was littered with lipstick stained paper napkins and empty teacups. A guest had left his lighter on a coffee table. Tomorrow this room will look the way it always has, Ali said to himself and switched off the lamps one by one. Back in his room, he sat down a minute before the nightly ritual of undressing. He wished that everything wasn’t quite so quiet. Salma walked in with a towel over one shoulder, her hair tied up in a messy ponytail and her complexion newly scrubbed. Without her heels, she appeared quite short.
"What, still in your party clothes? Remind me to ask the cook for the lamb recipe. Mrs. Israr was asking me for it."
Ali sat very still. At the dressing table, Salma untied her hair, brushing her wiry curls vigorously.
"Tired?’ This time she was angling for an answer."
Ali got up, turned around to face her reflection in the mirror and announced in a polite, distant tone,
"I’m going for a walk."
"At this time of night?"
Ali slowly turned the door handle. She tried to keep the panic out of her voice, "When will you be back?"
"I don’t know." He shut the door after him.
Publication: Leap Anthology, Nottingham Trent University, 2008
Education: MA English, Punjab University, 2007
MA Creative Writing, NTU, 2008
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