Faceless..
Fakes
By
Nadia Nisar
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The week starts
out badly. Sadly actually. Bina walks in after a late dinner
to find Pa on his musallah in sajdah. He expresses his unfounded
concern, albeit very gently, about his only daughters increasing
fakeness.
He says she no longer sees
the people she should be seeing around her. That she's getting
sucked in more and more in the waterbed that is yuppiedom.
A funny pink and blue cloud clutches at her rib cage before
she scoffs. Yuppie, Pa? Me? I fed close to 50 street kids
this Ramadan near the QT wala roundabout with my own hard-earned
money (and my equally bored friends she scoffs not.) He
smiles sadly and backs off. A deep yearning arises like
smoke does from grills used to make tikkas at the French
beach that he'd scream and bring her back to her senses;
senses flown far far away into the sky like Mary Poppins
did much to their chagrin in the blissful, 'unfake' days.
Amma smiles and tells
her to go to bed or she'll miss her 8:30 class in the morning.
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"Hae
baji! Itnee pyaree lagree ho!" A faintly patronizing
satisfied smile covers the lower region of Bina's face. Its
lovely really how these maids manage to flatter you without
the nakhraaz that others normally employ. Sarah Maasi has
been her maid for 12 years and wouldn't bull. So the 2 hours
in front of the mirror to get that careless 'I'm-so-not-bothered-with-looks'
look paid off. Bina is now the epitome of sophistication.
She offers to drop Sarah Maasi at the bus stop on her way
to lunch. Her face brightens at this act of utter generosity
and she says she'll be two minutes. In the car she chatters
on and on about her brand new grandson to which Bina listens
with interest as she fixes her white chicken Dopatta. Conversationally,
mention of her youngest and only unmarried daughter Nasima
comes up. Bina sees a fascinating change take over her Maasi's
features. From delight at the 20-minute walk saved in the
sun, her features grow small as awareness of the eternal unfairness
that is part and parcel of the special deal that is poverty,
takes over. Nasima you see has Polio; Sarah Maasi was unable
to get her shots when she was a kid because she had to have
the roof redone as the other daughters were growing old and
had to be framed properly. Bina reminds herself to clean the
bursting cupboard with wrought iron legs and send some bangles
for that quiet young girl who is her age. Bina, eccentric
little thing, collects bangles of all shapes and colors, but
never wears any. Too girlish. Bye Bye Sarah Maasi.
Lunch with friends at Déjà vu, a hip place at
the heart of Karachi's fakeness (do excuse if this word is
used excessively- it amuses immensely and makes one cry so).
A well-done place, the prices are more than what the five
stars, heck, five crescents would charge. But so lovely. All
the friends are in town for their summer vacations. Saboo
from Purdue, Sam from UPenn, Mareee from Columbia, Kino LUMS,
Candy U of T, Gulloo NUST. You see a pattern, o gentle reader?
It's called distortion power. Gives screwed up people like
Bina and her pals a sense of belonging. The rest are here
in Karachi at equally good schools where you dope like you
breathe with the exception of Bina. Attention deficient and
an innate desire to be 'hut kae', sends her to the University
of Karachi where she mingles with the scum of the town. Of
course she never says so. When teased gently about 'that ghetto
place' she hot bloodedly defends it, arguing that she mixes
with people none of 'us' would even bother to look at twice
in normal circumstances. Getting into the sprit of the performance
she improvises, people who we wouldn't even realize were around
us and whom we look right through. They feel grand and she
noble. These people that she talks about blend into the city
like a Rambo poster does universally in a video store. Now
they, stand out. Like Gwenyth Paltrow would at Empress Market.
Bina also tells them, when in an overly generous mood, that
her Dads workers daughters are in the same class as her. That
clinches the conversation as awe overtakes them all. Everyone
around smiles and tousles her hair. Such a nice girl, this
one. Dementia has many forms.
Saroo and Bina decide what they'll order. Cappuccino and Chicken
Fritters. A Cinnamon roll for Samuel who might be a little
late he had said. Should come to some 1400 rupees. It'll leave
just enough to buy that deal for unlimited net hours. One
must budget in these times, really.
Sarah Maasi hobbles to her house with the tin roof that makes
it hot and clammy, all the while deciding if she should buy
Nasima her dawaee or flour. A short stout figure in a white
shalwar kameez and Peshawari chapals walks in. "Gullzz!"
Hugs and kisses like he were the long lost brother they never
had. But all met last night only at a play that featured the
who's who of the city. There they, and probably every other
person present, had passionate discussions about Jhumpa Lahiri
and Mohsin Hamid. It was that kind of a setting, the kind
where you feel ugly and poor if you have no flesh on display.
Doesn't matter if you're an aunty with an aesthetically killing
hole smack at the back of your kameez showing the hair on
the back that didn't quite fade away with the Wella Bleach.
"Bina doll!" Enveloped in a hug she giggles trying
to see who it is. "Kino!" Hug again. "Come
sit next to me," he pats the seat next to him motioning
to Sarah to scuttle over. These people, they hug and kiss
a lot.
Express their fondness for each other explicitly. So much
love, why not spread some? Sarah Maasi enters to see Nasima
writhing with pain clutching her tummy. She ignores her, a
new deep hate and loathing filling her empty tummy. She walks
into the washroom, which is really just a hole in the ground
to relieve herself while Nasima, sobs in her Dopatta.
Hoor walks in late, Dopatta-less like always. Stoned out of
her skull too, if one is taking the law of averages into account.
Hugs all around. Too tight. We all have our faults. She doesn't
whine about theirs and they don't gripe about hers. All just
keep coming up with a steady flow of distorted versions of
each other's names and continue hugging kissing hugging. It's
all good, they say. Candy landed this morning only he tells
Maree as he hands Bina the Pringles and Tweety socks he got
her. Squeal squeal hug kiss. Anyone coming in from abroad
knows what to get her. Imported chips that are just as easily
available where she lives and that very fact coupled with
her ability to buy ten of them herself only adds to everyone's
amusement and her charm. The Tweety socks go into her ever-growing
collection of pink, green, red, yellow, striped, spotted,
glow in the dark, and Winnie the Pooh socks. "People
die of hunger and you collect socks!" Adil playfully
admonishes. Eccentric, isn't she? "Fake," Pa says.
"Ma," Nasima silently says. Feeling guilty about
the mehengee dawaee Ma has to buy, she pretends to eat her
dinner every night, slipping the roti in Babloo's plate. 5
days of meatless gravy are now taking its toll.
They sit, smoke, nibble and yak away, soaking in the feeling
of everything being so right. Someone called it the 'peak
experience'. A transient, non-striving state of perfection
characterized by happiness and fulfillment. Their life, is
one big peak experience. Hoor blows smoke in Bina's face delighting
in her role of the vamp, complete with scarlet nail color
as Bina coughs exaggeratedly playing to the hilt her part
of this maverickish scene as the intelligent Mary little brat
who will not put make-up because its 'so stifling really'.
They like to label everything, they the utterly screwed. Avoid
chaos and follow a well set out pattern. Such is their life,
one big performance. They don't come from ministers or MPA's
or big big Generals. Actually, Puppy is the Governors daughter
but never mind that. It is from upper-middle class and middle-middle
class families that these individuals originate, creeping
into moulds made for them by those before them as they slither
from the 'We will change the world' to the 'Jeeeeez, the system
so does not work. Lets talk it over some Pina Colada.' Maree
sips at her diet coke. 109 rupees a goblet, 8 sips in all.
Oasis plays in the background.
Ma yanks her up, and then softly asks if her battered child's
leg hurts. "Ma saans nahin lae jaree hae." Roti
be damned, she takes out the 100 rupee advance bajee gave
her out of the purse nestled in the cleavage of her bosom
and shouts out to her son playing outside in the gutter water
to come in and get his sister her dawaee.
Somebody asks Sam, nestled in Choo Choo's armpit if Auntie
Rukoo is making daal chawal anytime soon. She nods, stuffing
her face with the Spanish rice, 600 a plate. The mushrooms,
they say on the menu, are from Madagascar. But it isn't 'daal
chawal bhaaai.' They eat food in one sitting that is worth
the daily helps monthly allowance all the while salivating
after the undernourished chaps staple diet. That each of them
could walk into the quarters at the back of the house any
day of the year to find this cooking doesn't dare come near
their suppressed, repressed, depressed minds Because they
can afford to have three bloody steaks a day, they look forward
to the occasional Daal Chawal with a kind of perverse pleasure.
The irony of it all flies over their pretty lil heads. Freud
would have died of joy analyzing them.
Hopping and skipping to the doctor at the newly established
health center, he spots a budhee kae baal wala. Heart skips
a beat. To resist or not to resist. But Baji was hiccuping
so hard in the pillow when he was in the washroom cum hole
in the ground this morning. Then when he came out she had
wiped her face and was smiling. She even asked to see the
new gulail. She asked him to make one for her too. Doctor
will be two minutes little boy.
Plans are made to go to Botal Galli the next day. Such quaint
lanes. "Oh but my car won't fit into those narrow alleys,"
laments Saroo. It doesn't help to call attention to oneself
anyways, Maree reasons. No, we will not take our cars. Kino
will drive everyone in his green foxy with the white daisies
painted on it. The girls will please wear clothes that cover
properly and Saboo and Hoor will try to keep their red and
green hair hidden from sight. How they went about it delicately,
like a dupatta is something from Jupiter that they are so
not able to handle, is another sad story. And there are so
many.
She throws up clots of red that look like the mithai her susraal
wala's had brought when she was betrothed 2 years ago. "Ya
Allah," Sarah Maasi screams. They part after the usual
Hug Kiss Hug routine. Their cars are the sophisticated models
with a sticker or two discreetly screaming to the world what
wonderful Ivy League Universities each is associated with.
No vulgar Pajeros for them. White cars with white chauffeurs
are the only way to do it. On the way to dropping Bina home
Saroo asks what "Bunny wants for her burday," in
her Daffy Duck voice, swaying to Lata Mangeshkar. "Richard
Gere eyelash plizz," Bina baby talks right back as the
driver keeps a straight face. With three daughters yet to
be married off and a wife who leaves home at the slightest
pretext, poor chap needs the money they give him. Screams
with laughter. Hysteria takes over as the car fades into the
sunset.
Trembles in Sajdah. Make the child hurry. Have mercy.
At night, when there is no Led Zeppelin or inane conversation
to divert as she prays, a deep feeling of confusion and despair
followed by fury overwhelms while in sajdah. It passes as
normalcy takes over this brief insane moment of dysfunctionalism
in the performance that is her and their lives. She sobs,
does Sarah Maasi. Little boy with telltale signs of budhee
kae baal on his chin and gulail in his pocket shakes. He liked
bajee. He misses her already.
Tomorrow will herald another day- another performance. Such
is the life they lead. They, the twisted. Demented some will
say. Screwed up you say? The fake, unanimously agreed. But
in starkness, sick. A deep ingrained throttling sickness.
A sickness of the heart, mind and mostly a disease of the
soul. No cure. And Nasima dies.
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