The Wedding Countdown (41 page)

Naashta
, or breakfast, is a grand affair and Auntie Shammi has pulled out all the stops. If I eat like this every day I’ll be bursting out of my
shalwars
!

‘Now,’ says Aunt Shammi, beaming at all of us, ‘I’ve got some very exciting news. The Jamshaids have called! They’re popping over tonight with Subhi to formally ask for Amelia
beti's
hand!’

When I hear this a piece of my toast goes down the wrong way and for a good few minutes I gasp and splutter while Eve slaps me on the back.

‘See how excited she is!’ cries my Aunt.

Excited? Can’t she see I’m choking to death here?

Once my eyes have stopped streaming and I can breathe again I discover my appetite has pushed off. In fact I’m feeling rather queasy. This afternoon I’m going to meet my future hubbie-
ji
, the total stranger with whom I’ll share the rest of my life.

And that suddenly feels like a very, very long time.

It’s early evening and I’m alone in the bedroom. There’s great excitement downstairs because the legendary Dr Subhi – who, if my aunt is to be believed, is a mixture of Omar Sharif’s looks with the intelligence of Professor Stephen Hawking and the business acumen of Lord Alan Sugar thrown in for good measure – is due to arrive at any moment. To try to still my mounting hysteria I’m watching the blades of the fan whirring above my head but it’s no use. I’ll end up permanently cross-eyed if I keep this up for much longer.

Downstairs the sound of happy, excited voices can be heard. That’ll be the in-laws then. And of course my future husband, Dr Subhi Jamshaid. I think I’m going to be sick. If it were Wish and his folks coming over to ask for my hand (and the rest of me) then I’d be sick with excitement, not terror.

‘We’ve seen him!’ shrieks Eve, running into my bedroom and hurling herself onto the bed. My sisters and Nish follow suit. I sit bolt upright waiting for the verdict. And I don’t have to wait long because they all start yapping at once.

‘He looks really clever,’ says Roma,

‘He’s very polite,’ adds Nish.

‘He might even be fit under that moustache,’ giggles Fizz.

Upon hearing the dreaded ‘tache’ word my blood turns to iced water and my mind rewinds to that horrible nightmare that I had all those months ago when I almost married Cousin It. Only it wasn’t just a silly dream, was it? It was a premonition…

‘Are you listening?’

Fizz is shaking my arm so rigorously I almost expect it to pop out of its socket, and if it did that would be a good thing. A night in the hospital would be preferable to a night with the in-laws.

‘Come on!’ says Fizz. ‘Don’t freak out on us now. The Ali family
izzat
’s on the line here!’

‘Leave her alone!’ Roma pulls Fizz off. ‘Since when have you cared about our
izzat
?’

The twins glower at one another, but before a full-scale row can erupt Mummy-
ji
arrives and breathlessly announces that it’s time for me to make my grand entrance.

I start to shake.

This is it.

I just need a minute to get my head together and to bid farewell to all my hopes and dreams of a soul mate. Once I’ve met Subhi there’ll be no going back, no more life as a single girl.

And no more dreams about Darwish Rahim.

After final good-luck hugs from the girls and Mum, I take a deep breath and leave the room to make my way down to meet my fiancé. Unfortunately this is the point in the proceedings where Fate decides to pull a moonie at me. Just as I’m walking past the narrow galley that leads to the kitchen I bump smack into Sana carrying a tray full of
chai
stuff. Crash goes the tea tray. Smash go the cups and saucers.

‘Ouch!’ shriek Sana and I as the hot tea spills all over us.

‘I’m so sorry!’ I gasp, brushing biscuit crumbs off my tea-stained clothes and swiftly adjusting the
dupatta
to cover the massive stain flowering right over my crotch. Somehow I don’t think the just-toilet-trained look will go down well with my new in-laws.

Sana gives me an evil glare before crouching down to scoop up the debris.

If in doubt, kill her with kindness…

‘Let me give you a hand,’ I say.
Sheesh
, that girl has an attitude problem, I think to myself.

‘Don’t bother,’ hisses Sana, scooping fragments of bone china into her hands. ‘I can manage. Isn’t there somewhere you have to be?’

Ungrateful cow! Leaving her to it, I swallow my nerves and make the final steps towards the sitting room. Taking one last deep breath I turn the door handle and walk in. Every molecule of my being is screaming ‘Run!’ and it takes all the self-control I possess not to flee. Only knowing my father has given his precious word stops me.

‘Come in, Amelia
beti
,’ smiles my mother.

That cotton-wool feeling is back and I feel as though I’m seeing the room through the wrong end of a telescope. I must take care not to knock into the coffee table and make a total tit of myself.

This is the last thought whirling through my mind before I’m plunged into darkness. At first I think my eyes have screwed themselves shut to block out the horrible reality but then I realise that they’re still open.

‘
Oof
,
another blackout!’ I hear Auntie Shammi wail. ‘When will they sort the electricity supply out?’

‘Don’t panic,’ says my uncle. ‘The backup generator will kick in soon.’

But wouldn’t you know it? At the very nanosecond the lights go off and the room turns inky black I catch my heel on the edge of the Persian rug and stumble. I can’t see to save myself and I go flying.

I sprawl on the floor and before I get a chance to recover from the shock, never mind pick myself up and try to retrieve what shreds of dignity I have left, the lights flicker back on again. Why couldn’t the blackout have lasted for several hours? That would have given me enough time to creep out of the room, tear upstairs, grab my suitcase and hitch a lift back to the airport, which has to be a better scenario than lying flat on my stomach with my face only inches from someone’s highly polished shoes. Slowly I look up at the person attached to them.

And I really wish I hadn’t.

Talk about falling head over heels for my future husband.

My first view of Subhi is a nostril’s view of his moustache.

At least I think that’s a moustache. It could well be another life form. Eugh! How come I never realised before that I have a moustache phobia? Everything else in the room goes blurry as I stare and stare at it until my mother breaks the trance by hissing, ‘Amelia! Get off the carpet!’

‘Sorry!’ I pick myself up and brush my
shalwars
down. Then I check out the rest of Subhi, which I’m glad to say is nothing out of the ordinary.

But I’m going to marry the guy! Surely he
should
be something out of the ordinary? I wait for the stomach aeronautics to begin. And wait. And wait some more, but it’s no good. Subhi does absolutely nothing for me.

It’s not that he’s ugly. If your thing is Pakistani doctors with moustaches and beady black eyes then you’d be jumping for joy. But if you like green eyes, caramel skin and curly raven’s wing hair then Subhi just isn’t your bag. 

I smile at Subhi while our proud parents make the introductions but inside I’m yelling ‘
Nahin
!’ just like in my nightmare. He’s bland and utterly sexless; no wonder my parents are captivated. While Subhi speaks to them with just the right amount of deference I check him out and try my hardest to find something positive to say.

His hair is perfectly cut, and his nails are perfectly buffed, and his moustache is perfectly trimmed. His glasses are perfectly shined and sparkling and his clothes are perfectly ironed. He doesn’t wear the local traditional garb either, which would suggest he’s a modern kind of a guy – except that Subhi’s ‘western’ attire is more Marks & Sparks than Paul Smith. You can’t blame a girl for being slightly put off by her fiancé dressing like her Daddy-
ji
. I can’t imagine Subhi in a tight white tee shirt or biker leathers or even in the buff–

Oh Allah-
ji
!

I bet he has a hairy back too, if the thicket sprouting from the tight neck of his shirt is anything to go by. And I’m going to have to…to have to…

Breathe
saheli
, you don’t need to go there.

Yet.

Subhi and I make stilted small talk like the total strangers that we are. Within minutes we grind to a painful halt.

‘Isn’t this a beautiful house?’ I say quickly, dying of thirst in this conversational desert.

‘Yes indeed,’ says Subhi, and then studies the toes of his shiny shoes with great interest.

This is going to be a very lonely marriage. I have a vision of myself in twenty years’ time talking to the wall like Shirley Valentine. In fact, forget twenty years, I’ll be chatting to the wall in twenty minutes.

We sit in total silence. Subhi takes his glasses off and polishes them. I try again.

‘What books do you like?’

Subhi looks at me as though I’ve grown two heads.

‘Beg pardon?’

‘What do you read? Thrillers? Classics?’ For a moment I’m back in the cool stillness of Eldred House and Wish is throwing back his head with laughter.

Something flickers in Subhi’s beady little eyes. It looks like irritation.

‘I read medical journals. I do not waste time on fiction.’

‘Waste time? Reading?’ I’m gobsmacked. What are my parents thinking, lumping me with this philistine? ‘What about Dickens? Or Chaucer?’

Subhi shakes his head. ‘Only medical textbooks. To advance my knowledge.’

I’m starting to despair. We have absolutely nothing in common. It’s a disaster.

Ironically it also feels as though Subhi is here against his will. His expression isn’t exactly miserable but it’s certainly pained and I haven’t got a clue what the guy’s thinking. I feel increasingly on edge and before long I’m chewing my nails for dear life. How can I spend the next fifty years with a guy who talks less than a mime artist? I’ll go
pagal
!

‘Tell me about your work,’ I say desperately and, bingo, it’s like I’ve flicked a switch: the man beneath the moustache comes to life at long last as he lectures me about his beloved medicine. While Subhi drones on about the latest medical discovery I switch off and my eyes start to glaze. I nod my head for effect and say ‘Mmm,’ every now and again while mentally replaying far more interesting conversations I’ve shared with Wish. Luckily I’m never put on the spot to prove that I’m paying attention. Subhi is a monologue kind of guy. He never asks my opinion because he’s not interested in what’s going on in my head and heart.

And it gets worse.

Apart from medicine the only other topic that gets him going is politics – India versus Pakistan to be precise, or anything anti-India to be even more precise…

This is so not a good thing. I loathe racism in any form and Subhi gets louder and louder as he warms to his subject. Uncle Mutti joins in too and as they discuss Kashmir they become more insulting by the minute.

‘Please, that’s enough!’ I interrupt.

Uncle Mutti’s caterpillar eyebrows shoot into his silver hair and Subhi’s mouth stays open mid word.

‘Amelia!’ says my mother, aghast at my lapse of manners. ‘You know better than to speak so disrespectfully before your elders.’

‘Sorry,’ I say, not feeling anything of the sort, ‘but Nish has Indian parents.’

Subhi scowls. ‘That is one friendship you will discontinue when we are married.’

I gawp at him, furious and dismayed. I can’t protest because he’s my fiancé and as such he calls the shots, but inside I’m seething. How dare he? If he upsets Nish I’ll tell him exactly what I think, and never mind Dad’s
izzat
. The guy is a dick.

But dick or otherwise Subhi is very clever. He doesn’t target Nish or make it obvious he can’t stand her. Oh no. He does it in a very subtle way by snubbing her whilst making an effort to talk to everyone else. Had this been any other guy I would have told him to take a hike like I did to Micky when he was so vile about Eve. But now I’m helpless simply because word has been given.

The guy’s a jerk. I can’t marry him!

But what choice do I have?

As I listen to my parents discussing the
shaadi
arrangements with such excitement I realise, with a horrible twisting of my guts, that I don’t have any choice at all. They’re seriously taken with Subhi for some bizarre reason known only to themselves.

It’s OK for them, isn’t it? They don’t have to marry the guy. Or sleep with him. Or bear his children.

This is one nightmare that I won’t be waking up from.

After the Jamshaids drive away, Mirpur’s electricity supply gives up again, which offers me the perfect chance to slip away unnoticed to untangle my thoughts.

I open the French windows and push through the tangle of muslin, loving the silky touch of the night air on my hot face and the way the breeze stirs my clothes. Invisible crickets chirp, and chatter drifts from the
baithak
.

Everyone is occupied. No one will notice I’m missing.

Once my eyes adjust to the darkness I make out white gravel paths meandering between the plants and flowers. Roses scatter waxy petals under my feet and swathes of jasmine brush against my legs. Jasmine is one of the most popular wedding flowers in Asia and my generous aunt has already offered to cut as much as I want for my
shaadi
.

But I’m trying not to think about that.

Turning left, my sandals scrunching on the gravel, I follow a path through the jasmine beds. The milky flowers only open after dusk. I trail my hand through the petals and inhale waves of fragrance. Auntie Shammi swears jasmine has magical healing powers. Nature’s antidepressants, if you like. Maybe I should pick a bloody big bunch? I’ll be mainlining the stuff soon. A tear trickles down my cheek and splashes onto the gravel. Why didn’t I speak to my parents sooner? I’ve only got myself to blame for this mess, which is why I can’t cause a scene now by refusing to spend a minute more in Subhi’s company. The shame of changing my mind now would be immense.