The Wedding Countdown (40 page)

There’s hassle at immigration, where Nish and Eve are interrogated several times regarding their reasons for visiting Pakistan and I have to dig out my new digital camera and show the officials all the pictures of us to prove they really are my friends and not international terrorists in disguise as babes. But the immigration officials still don’t seem convinced, even though they spend forever scrolling through the pictures and peering at Eve with great interest.

‘That’s enough!’ my father says, whipping the camera out of their hands. ‘If you have a problem with these young women I suggest you call the High Commissioner and we can take this right to the top!’

The immigration officers shrug and start to stamp the passports. What a thorough job they do too, stamping each one several times and scrutinising them through baleful eyes.

‘Now you know how it feels to be under suspicion because you happen to be the wrong religion and colour,’ Qas says to Eve. ‘Welcome to my world.’

‘It sucks,’ she says.

This conversation is interrupted by Eve having her handbag seized by Customs and struggling to keep a straight face when an official holds her Rampant Rabbit in the air and demands an explanation.

‘Bloody Hell!’ fumes Eve when, minus the Rabbit, she finally clears Customs. ‘That cost me seventy quid! What am I supposed to do for three whole weeks? I’ll explode!’

‘Take a cold shower,’ suggests Nish. ‘Or find yourself a piece of hot young Pakistani totty? Qas is looking lonely!’

‘Gross!’ say Eve and Qas together.

‘Anyway,’ adds Eve, ‘I’m not into babysitting.’

‘No, geriatric care is more your thing!’ quips Qas, and narrowly misses having his eye put out by Eve’s Louis Vuitton tote.

Their squabble is interrupted by a large woman with a great smiley moon of a face who is jumping up and down in arrivals and shrieking.

‘Shammi!’ squeals my mother, and minutes later the two sisters are in each other’s arms, tears of joy streaming down their faces and gabbling away nineteen to the dozen while a tall man with the world’s bushiest beard pumps my father’s hand up and down.

‘Amelia
beti
!’ shrieks Auntie Shammi. ‘Let me look at you!’ She holds me at arm’s length. ‘You are a beauty! Subhi will be over the moon!’

‘He’s not here, is he?’ I look around anxiously just in case Subhi is about to pop out from behind a suitcase and fling me over his shoulder.

‘Bless you! Of course not!’ chortles my aunt, chins wobbling merrily. ‘Keen aren’t you?’

No. Not really.

She pinches my cheek. ‘You’ll meet him soon enough, never fear. Now, Hamida, let’s send the men to collect the luggage and all the baggage.’

Once our suitcases are safely collected we cram ourselves into Uncle Ghulab’s people carrier. In all this time I don’t think my aunt stops talking once. I pull out my camera, thinking that I may as well start work. I’m planning an article about my first impressions of Pakistan so I’ll need some images. My photography skills are limited though and I’d love to see what Wish would make of the strange world that unwinds before my eyes. The decorative spirit of Pakistan is everywhere, shining from street vendors to mirrored shops to vehicles, and I know he’d be captivated.

As we drive out of Islamabad I snap away and Wish is never far from my mind because I know he’d love to photograph these scenes. With every image I capture I feel a bit closer to him and strangely comforted. It’s almost as though he’s here with me, pointing out floral patterns in eye-popping colours or the beautifully painted dreamscapes of lakes and mountains and sunsets. I snap artwork of veiled mysterious women, strutting peacocks, doe-eyed starlets and hundreds of blood-red hearts. There’s even poetry, and one particular verse about love and longing, beautifully written in swirling Urdu script, brings tears to my eyes. Aside from the painted surfaces, any spare space not already decorated is taken up by tinsel, streamers, pinwheels, disco-reflectors and, because the drivers are quite a superstitious lot, as a precautionary measure they’ve tied bunches of black cloth and tassels so as to flap away evil spirits on the road. Or so Auntie Shammi tells us in her breathless running commentary.

As we drive through the city I understand a lot more about my father’s kamikaze driving style. Whole familes are crammed onto scooters, mothers riding pillion with babies strapped onto their backs. There are rickshaws too, both human powered and motorised, as well as crazy yellow taxis that cut us up constantly, and every model of Nissan under the sun.

Crap!
I wish I had my laptop with me so I could start jotting things down. Nina was right: my writing is the only thing I can cling to. Actually, forget clinging to my writing, I’m occupied enough by having to cling onto the door handle for dear life. If we make it to Auntie Shammi’s it’ll be a miracle.

‘How can Eve sleep?’ wonders Nish, who suffers horribly from carsickness. ‘I just want to die.’

‘Be careful what you ask for,’ I say grimly.

Forget the thrills and spills experienced at Alton Towers; the driving here is a must-do experience for all the thrill seekers, adrenaline junkies and
Jackass
fans out there! The sheer volume of traffic by itself would be overwhelming, but couple that with the fact that there appear to be no rules of the road and you get a truly hair-raising experience. The horns are not your standard beeping sounds, more a variety of melodic musical horns and high-pitched whistles. And all the drivers use their horns liberally and sometimes in lieu of indicators. My ears are ringing and my stomach is lurching. It doesn’t help either that the roads are randomly strewn with speed bumps and potholes; we bump up and down so much I feel as though I’m in the middle of a step class.

And I’d thought London was busy.

Fortunately before too long we leave the city and head out into the stunning countryside of Kashmir. I’m amazed we’re still alive. The Almighty must really want me to marry Subhi to bring me safely through that traffic.

The journey to Mirpur is almost too much to absorb. Fleeting impressions jostle for attention and even Fizz is silenced as she gazes out of the window while the car spirals around and around the winding mountain, up and upwards towards Mirpur. The sweet-scented valleys are quilted in a hundred different hues of green, boasting dense forest, velvet plateaus and fields, agricultural foliage and shrubbery, and all sorts of flowering plants. It’s heartbreakingly beautiful, the sort of lush countryside you want to explore hand in hand with somebody special. A couple could wander for hours in their own private Eden. Kashmir is well and truly a piece of Paradise on Earth. No wonder India and Pakistan are fighting over it...

I must have nodded off at this point. One moment Wish is smiling down at me and tucking a jasmine flower behind my ear, and the next Nish is patting my shoulder. No offence to Nish but for a split second I’m devastated. Will it ever get any easier?

‘Welcome to our humble home!’ beams my uncle.

‘Humble?’ says Fizz. ‘I hope they never come to ours!’

The Sheikh family mansion is situated in the upper-class district of Mirpur and sits in the middle of an elegant street lined with rows of flame trees, jacaranda trees and hibiscus. The house is white with colonial-style pillars and a majestic sweep of steps curving up to the huge front door, and looks like somewhere the Beckhams might live. Humble it ain’t.

‘Here are my children!’ cries Auntie Shammi when two teenagers saunter down the steps. ‘Come on, you must meet your cousins!’

Everyone piles out of the people carrier, flexing their limbs and wincing when pins and needles gush into fingers and toes. Auntie Shammi is squawking with excitement and flapping her hands like a grounded bird. There’s kissing, and hugging and more tears, and eventually I find myself hauled into the thick of it so that everyone can gawk at the bride-to-be.

‘This is my second eldest, Maya,’ Shammi says, propelling a plump teenager forward. ‘And this,’ she adds pulling a blushing adolescent into the spotlight, ‘is the light of our lives! Our son, Tabish!’

Maya and Tabish good-naturedly allow my mother to weep over them and clutch them to her bosom, while the rest of us smile awkwardly.

‘This is your cousin, Amelia,’ Shammi tells her children. ‘Isn’t she pretty? She’s the one who’s going to marry Subhi.’

‘Lucky Subhi!’ says Tabish.

‘You’ve pulled, babe!’ whispers Eve, but Eve learned to whisper in a helicopter and poor Tabish looks mortified. I look away to spare his embarrassment and notice another young girl has joined us; only this one is as tall and as willowy as Maya is short and dumpy. Her skin’s as smooth as rose petals and her hair falls in a glossy waterfall to her waist. But it’s her eyes that make me catch my breath and take an involuntary step backwards. They are almond shaped, fringed with thick lashes and black as sloes, and for a split second the emotion in those eyes is raw and unguarded.

‘There she is,’ cries Shammi, and the girl’s expression instantly shifts to meek and dutiful. ‘Amelia, this is my eldest daughter, Sana! I just know you two are going to be the greatest of friends.’

But Shammi is in for a major disappointment. When Sana raises her eyes and looks coolly at me I’m shaken to the core.

The emotion that flits across my cousin’s face is pure and unadulterated hatred.

Chapter 34

Once inside my aunt’s house I start to wonder if my exhaustion and fragile state of mind are playing tricks on me. Maybe I was hallucinating in the heat of the relentless sun, because now we’re seated in the
baithak
Sana is politeness itself. She’s helping her mother serve us glasses of
nimboo pani
, a refreshing drink made from limes, sugar and soda, and even fetches Eve mineral water. Not once though does she look my way and I find her way of moving eerie. She glides over the marble floors and appears silently behind me on several occasions, making me jump and spill my drink. I have the strongest feeling she’d love nothing more than to sink a knife between my shoulder blades, which I know is ridiculous! I’ve scarcely met the girl.

I must be even more exhausted than I thought if I’m having paranoid delusions. Maybe it’s my exhausted brain playing tricks, because I don’t think I’ve ever felt this tired. When Aunt Shammi claps her hands and announces she’s going to give us the grand tour of the house I feel like howling with despair. But not wanting to show disrespect I try to dredge up some enthusiasm.

‘What an amazing house!’ gasps Nish. ‘It’s like a mini palace!’

She isn’t wrong. This is no simple shack but a spacious and elegant mansion, cool and restful with the latest in air conditioning blasting our sticky limbs with arctic breezes. All the rooms have high vaulted ceilings and are painted white, with long windows that overlook stunning gardens or the courtyards where fountains play merrily, needles of water sparkling in the liquid sun. It’s stunning.

‘I expect you’re tired,’ says my aunt eventually. ‘I’ll give you a tour of my jasmine garden tomorrow and show you to your bedrooms now. Besides, we can’t wear Mills out. Young brides-to-be need all the rest that they can get!’

As everyone laughs and as I blush scarlet I feel Sana’s eyes burning into my back. Just what is her problem?

My aunt throws open a pair of double doors. ‘This is your room, Amelia. You’re sharing with your friends, if you don’t mind?’

I actually prefer this idea. There’s safety in numbers after all. And besides, the room is amazing, all pink and white marble, with two massive king-size beds and a bathroom suite that makes Raza’s look like a public toilet. But best of all are the floor-to-ceiling windows, framed with billowing white muslin drapes, which lead onto a balcony. Beyond the window is a stunning rose and jasmine garden; as the drapes lift in the breeze the most heavenly scents fill the air.

‘It’s amazing!’ I say. ‘Thank you.’

Shammi dimples. ‘Only the best for a beautiful bride!’

This has to be the most romantic room I’ve ever seen, like something out of a Bollywood movie. I should be reclining against the pillows, wearing baggy silk trousers and a yashmak, with jasmine flowers in my loosened hair, waiting for my handsome sheik lover to take me in my arms. He’ll be wearing flowing white robes and a jewelled turban, and when he sees me his emerald eyes will fill with passion…

‘Mills?’ Eve says. ‘Are you all right?’

‘She’s exhausted,’ says my mother. ‘It’s been a very intense few days.’

That’s true. Fizz is still quiet and tearful.

Shammi nods and her body wobbles like a big jelly. ‘What am I thinking? And there’s a big day for her tomorrow, meeting Subhi! The child needs to rest.’

I could rest for a hundred years and still not be ready for good old Subhi but I can’t tell my aunt that, can I? So I smile dutifully, trying to ignore the animosity coming in a tsunami from Sana, and at long last my extended family shut the door. It’s a measure of how bushed Eve, Nish and I are that no one squabbles about who is sleeping where. I don’t even remember deciding; I think I just flop onto the nearest bed, and the next thing I know the
Adhan
seeps into my dreams, rousing me from sleep just as surely as it rouses the faithful to their prayers. Then I hear the roosters crowing and the birds singing their heads off in the fragrant garden below and I’m awake.

I open my eyes. Nish is still asleep, her face pressed down into the pillow, while Eve lies on her back snoring loudly. I must have been tired to have slept through that din.

As my eyes adjust to the cool shadows my gaze wanders to the balcony and I watch the first pink fingernails of dawn scratch the sky. I wrinkle my nose as the strong scents of the flowers waft upwards from the garden, and breathe in the wonderful perfumes, feeling grateful that my aunt’s house smells nothing like Islamabad airport. I’d have had to have my nose cut off if it had. Outside, the new day is coming alive and it’s as though the birds have put on a mini Glastonbury just for me. One bird sounds like it’s rapping, while another makes a strange siren sound, then others join in like backing singers. Over and over again they sing until my breath rises and falls in time with their tune and I start to feel that just maybe I am ready to face the day and whatever weird and not-so-wonderful experiences it throws at me.