least bothered as if he couldn’t care less if he came or not. I said to him sharply, I said, “I’m doing this for you, okay?” So he thanked me and said he was very grateful to me for taking time out like this. I asked if he had any last requests. Nothing really, he said, except that girlmust be nice person and must be someone who would be on his side. That’s two things, I told him. And anyways, what did he mean by “on his side”? Supportive, he said. I told him we were going to look at a girl, not a sports bra, okay?
28 October
Mulloo’s cousin lives in a powder-palace. It has two storeys and is plastered everywhere in white plaster—white pillars, white dome, white triangle, paper-hat-type thing on front porch. All powder-pashas—drugs smugglers,
na
—have houses like this. I think so they must be having a textbook of house designs for drug smugglers from which they all copy. Also house is in Defence Phase V, on the very edge of Lahore, where all the upstarters live. The army only started making it into plots and selling to people five years ago. Before that it was boarder with India.
“What did Mulloo say her cousin’s husband did?” asked Mummy, as the driver honked at the gate.
“All Mulloo’s told me is that girl is called Tasbeeh, she is in her early twenties and that the family is well off,” Aunty Pussy told her. “And she’s got a broken
nikah.
”
“Didn’t someone say he did import–export?” I asked.
“This looks more like the house,” said Mummy, “of someone who only
exports
, Pussy, if you get my meaning.”
“It’s not nice to judge people like that,” said Aunty Pussy with a holy look, “before you’ve even done hello–hi with them.”
I wondered inside my heart whether Aunty Pussy would be as holy if the house had been small and poor-looking.
A tiny window in the big iron gate opened and someone from inside checked us out. Then seeing it was us, rich-type ladies from good baggrounds in nice salon car, the armed guards—nine of them, I counted—opened the gate and we drove in. The house was big and it had taken over most of the plot, leaving only stripes of lawn on the sides, like thin sideburns on a very fat face. There were no trees in the garden but lots of lamp-posts and a plaster statue of a girl in a bonnet and skirt. I think so she was Little Bore Peep or maybe Little Miss Muff It. Also parked in the drive were three big Land Cruiser jeeps with black windows. Mummy looked at the cars and gave me a look.
Mulloo was supposed to meet us here but at last minute she called and cancelled. She said her tummy was feeling upset. But that her cousin was expecting us.
The front door was opened by a barefoot servant man who needed a shave. He took us into the sitting room. It was a big room with big golden sofas spread with white crochay mats where you’re supposed to rest your head and hands. There were no paintings on the walls, only a big print of a verse from the Holy Koran in a golden frame. There were no flowers and no decoration pieces on the tables, accept for a family of smiling Sarvoski hedgehogs. Mother with four babies.
Mulloo’s cousin was shortish and plumpish and dressed in a long-sleeved, high-necked
shalwar kameez
. Around her neck from a gold chain, not a chain, more a rope, hung a big Allah pendant with big diamonds entrusted in it. Her head was covered in a polyester
hijab
that sat low on her forehead.
“Assalam aleikum,”
she said, raising her hand to her forehead. “I’m Farva, Mulloo’s cousin-sister, and I am sorry I was not standing at the door to greet you but I was saying my prayers.” She gave a happy little laugh. “My prayers are a little longer than other people’s because I have so much to thank Almighty Allah for. Even if I lie with my forehead to the ground all day, all night before Him, it would not be enough. So much He has blessed me. Will you take something cold?”
Before we could tell her she called loudly for the
28 October
Mulloo’s cousin lives in a powder-palace. It has two storeys and is plastered everywhere in white plaster—white pillars, white dome, white triangle, paper-hat-type thing on front porch. All powder-pashas—drugs smugglers,
na
—have houses like this. I think so they must be having a textbook of house designs for drug smugglers from which they all copy. Also house is in Defence Phase V, on the very edge of Lahore, where all the upstarters live. The army only started making it into plots and selling to people five years ago. Before that it was boarder with India.
“What did Mulloo say her cousin’s husband did?” asked Mummy, as the driver honked at the gate.
“All Mulloo’s told me is that girl is called Tasbeeh, she is in her early twenties and that the family is well off,” Aunty Pussy told her. “And she’s got a broken
nikah.
”
“Didn’t someone say he did import–export?” I asked.
“This looks more like the house,” said Mummy, “of someone who only
exports
, Pussy, if you get my meaning.”
“It’s not nice to judge people like that,” said Aunty Pussy with a holy look, “before you’ve even done hello–hi with them.”
I wondered inside my heart whether Aunty Pussy would be as holy if the house had been small and poor-looking.
A tiny window in the big iron gate opened and someone from inside checked us out. Then seeing it was us, rich-type ladies from good baggrounds in nice salon car, the armed guards—nine of them, I counted—opened the gate and we drove in. The house was big and it had taken over most of the plot, leaving only stripes of lawn on the sides, like thin sideburns on a very fat face. There were no trees in the garden but lots of lamp-posts and a plaster statue of a girl in a bonnet and skirt. I think so she was Little Bore Peep or maybe Little Miss Muff It. Also parked in the drive were three big Land Cruiser jeeps with black windows. Mummy looked at the cars and gave me a look.
Mulloo was supposed to meet us here but at last minute she called and cancelled. She said her tummy was feeling upset. But that her cousin was expecting us.
The front door was opened by a barefoot servant man who needed a shave. He took us into the sitting room. It was a big room with big golden sofas spread with white crochay mats where you’re supposed to rest your head and hands. There were no paintings on the walls, only a big print of a verse from the Holy Koran in a golden frame. There were no flowers and no decoration pieces on the tables, accept for a family of smiling Sarvoski hedgehogs. Mother with four babies.
Mulloo’s cousin was shortish and plumpish and dressed in a long-sleeved, high-necked
shalwar kameez
. Around her neck from a gold chain, not a chain, more a rope, hung a big Allah pendant with big diamonds entrusted in it. Her head was covered in a polyester
hijab
that sat low on her forehead.
“Assalam aleikum,”
she said, raising her hand to her forehead. “I’m Farva, Mulloo’s cousin-sister, and I am sorry I was not standing at the door to greet you but I was saying my prayers.” She gave a happy little laugh. “My prayers are a little longer than other people’s because I have so much to thank Almighty Allah for. Even if I lie with my forehead to the ground all day, all night before Him, it would not be enough. So much He has blessed me. Will you take something cold?”
Before we could tell her she called loudly for the
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