Unmarriageable(11)

Alys and Jena dragged in the metal trunk that housed the Binats’ sartorial finery, collected over the years – saris, ghararas, shararas, peshwas, lehengas, anarkalis, angrakhas, shalwar kurtas, thang pyjama kameezs. Most of the outfits had been tailored out of fabrics Mrs Binat had purchased in Jeddah, aware that with five daughters to dress, they would come in handy. Thankfully she’d had the foresight to pick neutral colours that could be worn through any turn of fashion and brightened with accessories and jewellery. The smell of mothballs rose as she riffled through the trunk, only to announce that Jena and Alys were definitely getting new clothes.

‘I want new clothes too,’ Lady wailed.

‘After Jena and Alys are married,’ Mrs Binat said firmly.

‘Oh, hurry up and get married already, you two!’ Lady said crossly. ‘And Alys, no one cares if you don’t want to get married.’

‘I’ve been praying so hard for them,’ Mari said, looking up from her nebuliser. ‘Obviously God must have good reason for putting us in this predicament.’

‘I’m leaning towards new silk saris.’ Mrs Binat looked Jena and Alys up and down. ‘The other guests can wear brand-name chamak-dhamak razzle-dazzle from head to foot, but you two will have an understated, classic Grace Kelly look.’

‘Everyone,’ Lady said, ‘knows people go classic when they can’t afford brands.’

‘People who depend on brands,’ Mrs Binat said resignedly, ‘have no style of their own.’

‘Silk saris are going to cost a lot, Mummy,’ Alys said as she tried to calculate exactly how much.

‘Cost-effective in the long run. The money can come out of your father’s gardening budget’ – she ignored Mr Binat’s huge, shuddering sigh – ‘and we’ll spice up the saris with a visit to our special jeweller.’

Ganju jee specialised in artificial jewellery that could rival the real thing. He was located in Dilipabad’s central bazaar, in a pokey little alley where Mrs Binat had stumbled upon him. After she smiled at him a little too kindly, he’d always been excited to oblige with wares at excellent prices.

‘I want to wear a mohti.’ Lady grabbed the current issue of Social Lights and flipped past the pictures of people who seemed to do nothing but brunch, lunch, and attend fashion shows. She stopped at the fashion shoot where her favourite model, Shosha Darling, was wearing the garment of the moment: mohtis – miniskirt dhotis.

‘You can’t wear that.’ Mrs Binat peered at Shosha Darling’s bare legs. ‘It must cost a fortune. Look at all the hand embroidery on the border.’

‘I don’t have to buy it,’ Lady said. She turned the pages until she came to the weekly column ‘What Will People Say – Log Kya Kahenge.’ This week’s celebrity quotes concerned fashion designer Qazi of QaziKreations – Qazi had once designed an Oscar dress for a very minor celebrity, which had, back home in Pakistan, turned him into a very major celebrity – and Qazi’s latest creation, the mohti, for which he was taking orders.

Shosha Darling: I’m always given gifts!

Believe and you will receive.



‘That’s what I plan to do,’ Lady said. ‘Believe and I will receive.’

‘Please, Lady!’ Alys said, laughing. ‘These stupid skirts are severely overpriced and Shosha Darling is an idiot.’

‘You think everyone is an idiot except for yourself.’ Lady scowled. ‘If I can’t wear a mohti, then I want saris with halter tops.’

‘I wouldn’t wear a sari even if I was paid,’ Mari said. ‘Saris are for Hindus. As Muslims, our ties lie in Arab culture. We should be attending this wedding in burqas.’

‘I’d rather die,’ Lady said, ‘than go in a burqa to any wedding, let alone NadirFiede.’

‘Me too,’ Qitty said.

‘Mari, have you gone crazy?’ Alys said placidly, for after Mari’s dejection they were all quite cautious, and even Lady dared not bring up her poor grades or medical school. ‘Pakistani roots have nothing to do with Saudi burqa, or any Arab culture. Muslims have worn saris forever and Hindus have worn shalwar kameez.’

‘I despise it when you use that teacher’s tone at home,’ Mari said.

‘It’s that stupid club of yours, Mari,’ Lady said. ‘Each time you return with some holier-than-thou gem.’

‘Shut up, Lady,’ Mari said. ‘Alys, you know the club is just a bunch of us girls who want to discuss deen and dunya, religion and its place in our lives and the world. The last topic was menstruation, and we concluded it was probably a blessing for overworked women to be considered impure and so banished from cooking and other duties long enough to get a rest. We’re also starting good works, and the first good work is my idea.’ Mari beamed. ‘A food drive for Afghan refugees. After that we’re going to campaign for the abolishment of men selling brassieres and bangles and other purely female wares to women. It’s shameful the way the bra vendors openly assess our breasts and the bangle vendors hold our wrists as if to never let go.’

‘That’s truly admirable,’ Alys said. ‘And I think it’s time you also got an actual job. Come teach. Or look for an administrative position somewhere. We could do with the money, and you could do with getting out and meeting new people.’