I Almost Have What I Want Now
By Mehreen Chawla
It pleased Nina to tell herself they were a modern family. Her designer bag beat against the sides of her body as she exited the Fortuner and crossed the cement barrier next to the Karachi American School’s gate. It was the last Friday of the month, which meant it was Couples’ Kitty day; this month the kitty was hers and Ahmed’s. She would have to make dinner arrangements for the party at home.
Nina enjoyed these monthly gatherings. The kitty wasn’t just for money collection—not that any member needed money, God forbid, but it allowed people to socialize with likeminded, prosperous individuals. “Contacts” was the right word, Ahmed had reminded her that morning, trimming the wild edges of his moustache. The kitty had been his idea, filled with mutual couples he knew, with one or two single people he felt were important. As his real estate profits had doubled, Ahmed had assessed the people he and Nina currently had access to, which were upstart businessmen, lowly entrepreneurs, minor celebrities. If he continued to play the role of rich real estate owner and met the right people, then a society of politicians, prominent film stars and bank CEOs wouldn’t be too far away.
And Nina? She would be the gracious hostess, using designer shoes and bags as a rich man’s wife would, entertaining Ahmed’s guests with inviting meals and pleasant conversation.
“We’re very forward thinking,” Nina practiced to herself with a little laugh, curling her fingers at the tip as she entered the building.
The school bell rang; bobbing heads descended from the staircase ahead, towards the red lacquered benches where all mothers sat. Her daughters shuffled towards her, pushing each other as they walked.
Ahmed had wanted a son. He had even thought of names–Fawaz, Saadi, Zafeer–all meaning the same. Success. Victory. But then the twins came, both girls, one after another. That had been six years ago. Lately, he was pestering her to chart her period cycle again.
The fact was, Nina didn’t have time, nor the patience for another baby. She tried to smile at the mop of brown hair next to her.
“Fatima pushed me in breaktime today,” the mop whispered.
The elder twin, Fatima, glowered at her sister.
The whisper became a shout. “You poop-face!”
“Poop eater!”
Nina reminded herself these were her girls, her flesh and blood. Their constant squabbles did not reflect adequate sisterly behaviour. These acts needed rectification, before anyone from their social circle could notice. She told the girls if they behaved well, she would buy them a croissant chicken sandwich each from Test Kitchen on their way back. They were about to leave the school building when Nina noticed a woman in a sleeveless red top standing next to the gate, signing copies of her latest children’s books.
Her smile widened. “Shahi,” she called out.
Shahi removed her sunglasses. “Nina! Hi.” Her voice had a rough monotone to it, like she’d been up all night.
“Coming to our kitty tonight?” Nina hoped she was.
Shahi batted her mascara covered lashes. “I wish. Have to submit some edits.” She hugged both the girls. “But an invitation from Ahmed, and you…I’ll see if I can drop by.”
What a woman, Nina exclaimed to herself, with a twinge of—was it guilt? Lately, her shopping trips to Dolmen Mall or Sania Maskatiya were not as satisfying as they used to be. Weekly facials and mani-pedis exhausted her. It was always the same routine: drop the girls, meet mums for breakfast, pick the girls, buy clothes or jewelry at the mall or relax at the salon. Shahi was different from the other women she mixed with. Nina had only known her for three months since the kitty began, but she assumed Shahi made her own decisions, knew the history of things like “feminism” or “patriarchy”, could give speeches behind oak-carved podiums to standing ovations when the very thought of speaking for herself made Nina’s knees shiver. Even the oudh perfume she wore overpowered Nina like a masculine musk.
Herding the girls towards the waiting Fortuner outside, Nina was determined to stay close to Shahi. Surely, one strong woman was bound to help another.
***
It was 9 p.m.; the guests would be arriving soon. The smell of fresh lilies wafted in from the dining room, infused with faint odor from the recently painted walls. The foyer was lit in gold under the towering crystal chandelier. Grilled lamb, chicken curry and kebabs warmed in the kitchen; the catering staff filed outside in uniforms; the girls were put to bed—but where was Ahmed? It was getting dark. Nina’s dressing room light threw slanted rays onto her jade kaftan, making the sequins sparkle against her dark skin.
She heard the low echo of a thud. Nina braced herself as the bedroom door opened. Ahmed was there in his black suit, blocking the doorway, fixing his tie in front of their floor length mirror. When Nina walked over to him, he hugged her hard, cupping her breasts over her kaftan. The mirror reflected them: her face, freshly powdered, seemed to glow with happiness.
“They should be coming.” Ahmed tickled her ear. “Let’s go.”
Bonsais and neem trees enveloped the brightly lit, freshly mowed garden, while barbed wires protected Ahmed’s 2,000-yard property from outside interference. The group of eight sat in a circle around the polished patio table.
Nina brought out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s whisky. Pakistan’s laws did not permit alcohol within the country, but Ahmed had carefully brought back each 750-ml bottle from his business trip to Dubai.
Conversation flourished while drinks were sloshed around in glasses. “Did you hear ‘bout the Nayyer Group share prices?” someone said.
It was Alexander Rayman, a high-ranking visa officer at the British Deputy High Commission in Karachi. Shifting to a third world country like Pakistan made him a syndic, guaranteed him exclusive opportunities—it was rumored that the restaurant his wife had opened was sponsored by the UK embassy itself. He sat on the wicker armchair next to their table, twirling the tips of his moustache.
Ahmed’s lips turned up in a calculated smirk.
“I’d told everyone I know Nayyer was a bloody flop since the beginning.” Mr. Rayman wagged his finger like a three-inch sword, asserting its dominance over the indigenous guests who nodded respectfully.
Nina was aware that Mr. Rayman was an important figure, having promised to arrange 10-year UK visit visas for all the kitty guests. Even his wife, Frances, had promised to ask her ‘good friend’ Gordon Ramsay to conduct an online cooking class for the women.
The group’s conversation moved towards a recent divorce that had been making rounds: the wife, married by arrangement right after high school, had caught her new husband in bed with the bellboy on their luxurious Maldives honeymoon. Turns out, he’d been forcefully married as his desperate parents hoped a suitable girl could “fix” his wild ways.
“No one wants the girl now,” someone said, glancing casually at her nail polish. “The boy, though, he’s gone on a recovery trip to Australia with friends.”
A lady’s Botox-filled face glanced disapprovingly at her elderly husband, who had fallen asleep on the pink corner bench.
“Bloody arranged marriages,” Mr. Rayman said.
More wine was passed around.
As waiters served cakes and custard for dessert, the group separated according to gender. Pulling a chair next to the Botox-faced lady, who turned out to be Mrs. Sikander, wife of the largest exporter of denim in Pakistan, Nina observed silently while the ladies discussed new restaurants in Karachi, new shows on Netflix, bitchy mother-in-laws, the pleasures of sex. One or two elderly ladies in the group had had affairs in their youth, which they spoke about openly now.
“I wish we’d been young in the 60’s,” someone said, batting her eyelash extensions. “Wife swapping, key clubs. What an era that was!”
Initially, the sex talk gave Nina goosebumps, yet once the feeling subsided, she reminded herself that they were a group of forward thinking, liberal, affluent women. Of course, their thinking wouldn’t be like mainstream people’s. They were the rich, the influential. Meant to be different.
In the garden ahead, Ahmed probed through the recent federal budget with another important man. Under the moonlight, with his suit on and hair gelled back, Nina admired how he seemed to control the conversation—power suited him, made him more attractive.
Barely ten years ago, in his black shalwar kameez (which he had given up for tailored suits now), he’d been shifting awkwardly on the thatched furniture in Nina’s parents’ apartment. He had come to propose, to get her away from a life of cooking and cleaning and just living. So then, why was she sad every now and then, when they were on their way to success? Nina had to cheer herself up more and more these days. They—Ahmed had money. They had respect. Ahmed was fatter, his hair thinner than before, but looks didn’t matter if the man had family money and four imported cars in his garage. That’s what her mother had said. And she loved him, of course, even now, as he sauntered alongside the CEO of Nestle Pakistan and Mr. Rayman, planning his next steps.
Nina was about to ask the waiter to serve more desserts when the double doors leading to the garden opened and Shahi Naseem entered in a glittering ivory dress, her arms jingling with heavy bracelets. A fruity, feminine scent followed her, clung to Nina’s body as they hugged, making Nina feel lightheaded and restless.
“Better late than never darling,” Shahi said, a burnt cigarette in hand.
Wine glasses were refilled. Board games were brought out. Nina observed Shahi as she smiled, talked, nodded, gasped in mock horror at the other women’s stories. Her expressions were attentive, but her eyes had a faraway look to them, always on the lookout for something better.
Nina decided that both of them were similar: her duty as a respectable businessman’s wife, Shahi’s as a writer with promotional obligations, coerced them to participate in these kitties. Not that she didn’t enjoy this new company, but sometimes she did wonder if these people—her contacts, would actually be there when she needed them.
She edged closer to Shahi. “Do you need anything?”
Shahi laughed hoarsely, putting her empty custard bowl aside. “Darling, you’ve done very well.”
Nina opened a game of Sequence and gave Shahi a deck of cards. “Let’s play,” she said.
Shahi’s bracelets jingled as she shuffled the cards, then distributed five cards and different colored counters each to the group of ladies.
“See Shahi, we’re red,” Nina said, looking Shahi straight in the eyes. “We’re on the same team.”
They began to play.
“Tell us, Nina,” someone said. It was Frances, Mr. Rayman’s wife, drunker than her husband, but equally important. “Do you and Ahmed have fun together?”
The image of Ahmed cupping her breasts before the party clouded Nina’s mind. “What do you mean?” she said.
“Oh, hush darling, you know exactly what we mean.” Mrs. Sikandar laughed, a tittering cow in diamonds.
As a respectable wife and liberal member of high-end society, Nina knew exactly what to say. “Yes.” She smiled at the agreeable folk ahead. “We have lots of fun together.” On the boundary of her vision, she saw Shahi’s smile widening. For the first time that night, she looked like she was having fun.
***
Before her marriage to Ahmed, she had been Sakina, not Nina Ahmed, a respectable wife and mother, but the only daughter of an ageing civil servant. She’d grown up in the shabbier side of Nazimabad, in a two bedroom, foul-smelling, iron-gated apartment, the walls of which could barely hide her mother’s shouting. From the beginning, Nina understood her mother to have been wronged in marriage, sold by her family to a man so humble he could hardly afford the lifestyle Nina’s mother deserved, let alone sustain what they already had. She understood that a guinea coin, gifted to family members on special occasions, costed Rupees 28000, which was three-fourths of her mother’s monthly pocket money. A diamond locket set would require her mother to save carefully for six months; a formal, embroidered outfit needed three months of sacrifice.
It simply wasn’t enough.
The only recluse from their fighting Nina found in the summers, when she and her mother visited her grandfather’s haveli in rural Khatri. With pebble-coated walls and peacock drawings on stained glass windows, Neem Bungalow was a zamindar’s dream, built on 6000-yards, complete with an empty deer cage, a small library filled with decaying editions of Persian and Urdu poetry, bedroom curtains made from mirror embroidered ajraks.
With her grandfather dead, and the remaining family scattered throughout Pakistan, it was only Nina’s mother and ageing grandmother around. The women were interested only in idle gossip. Moments for Nina were solitary, her thoughts scattered. The ground outside the haveli burned her feet; blades of grass attacked at intervals. Wrapping a chaadar around her face and body, she settled on a spot near the Nara canal nearby, watching familiar arabesque patterns dancing on the surface. Village boys nearby cut logs for the night fires, or filled buckets for their homes, absorbed in reveries and tunes of madness. Nina saw their dirty shalwars, wondered if any of these boys could keep her happy if she married him. Her mother’s sallow face and hoarse voice crossed her mind, as did the shame that burned her cheeks to watch her grandmother casually offer them gold coins, once even an old Mazda, when there was never any occasion to do so. A casual donation to sponsor the poor. No, none of these boys would do, they weren’t enough for her.
There was never any danger, though: no one offered her a second glance.
***
The bedroom lights were switched on at 2 a.m. Ahmed entered after seeing off the last of the guests. His broad shoulders shone as he took his shirt off, then his trousers. Standing naked before Nina, his figure taut, he smiled.
“Looking good eh, janoo?” he said.
Nina nodded. She wasn’t in the mood for sex, not that there had been any lately. She planned on inviting Shahi over for a game night soon, so they could relax together and chat about their lives. Ahmed worked late these days, sometimes staying out till past midnight with potential contacts. By the time he came home, she’d put the girls to sleep, watched the latest drama serial on Hum TV, had her green tea and slept, her hair carefully arranged onto a silk pillowcase.
“You were good today. Very sophisticated.” A grin spread across Ahmed’s face. “I guess my training paid off after all.”
Over the years, Nina had questioned why Ahmed had married her, out of all people. He was a distant relative, the way people in their community turned out to be. The family had new money. Ahmed’s father had mortgaged their house to set up a spinning mill; the business struck gold. The family reinvested their profit to launch a real estate company for Ahmed to lead. His mother, Nina learnt, wanted him to marry a good girl, from a decent family. A girl, now Nina understood, who was too poor herself to ever be equal to her in-laws.
When Ahmed had entered the apartment, Nina served him tea as her parents watched.
He spoke to Nina’s mother about their mutual relatives, how his gracious father had enabled them to afford better lifestyles.
“How lovely,” Nina’s mother said, noticing his Italian loafers, his Egyptian cotton shalwar kameez, the titanium band on his stubby finger. She nodded in approval at her husband, who was made to sit in silence on the seat across them, lest he spewed forth his monthly income while talking.
After the engagement, Nina had washed out the oil from her thick braid and had plucked half her eyebrows out with a tweezer. She was almost seventeen then, managing the only decisions she could take for herself. The wedding night was six months later. She remembered small details: rose petals on the satin gold bedsheets, stale incense coating the air, shudders at an unknown touch, the feeling of withdrawal, of gritted teeth and immense self-control, of not knowing what-went-where and the shame at being told she should have been told these things before. It was wrong of him, though. He was thirteen years older than her. He didn’t know much himself. It was she who had found out about lube, had told him they could use it instead of forcing themselves together.
Nina rubbed her eyes as Ahmed emerged from the bathroom in a dressing gown. He grinned, lit a cigarette, kept the lighter next to her lipstick tray. “We will have another party in two weeks, jaan.” He took out a Snickers bar from their bedroom fridge and lay next to Nina, bringing his body into a supine position and farting.
“Oops.” He caught her eye and laughed. “Don’t make that face, janoo. It doesn’t smell.” Ahmed unwrapped the Snickers bar, chuckling slowly to himself. “Uffh. You were too good today,” he kept saying. “Just too good.”
Mundane, with a spattering of glamour—that was how marriage was, Nina thought, staring at the coarse hair on Ahmed’s bulging stomach. A faint stench still lingered; in the beginning she’d found his habits repulsive—he left the toilet unflushed, belched loudly after meals, left cigarette butts scattered atop the sink. She remembered their early fights. She had wanted them to stop with the late worknights so they could do things together, watch movies together, have sex. He had promised that once he made contacts, he’d be there, always naked for her, always ready.
Now she, too, was busy, occupied with the girls’ schooling, managing the housework, attending breakfast plans and birthday parties, marking her societal presence. Her and Ahmed’s lives were shared but different. They were both happy with their kitty parties, their family vacations abroad, the eventual life they were both investing in. Nina’s pocket money was two lakh rupees a month, more than her mother’s. Still, a Dior saddle bag, owned in various colors by other mothers at the girls’ school, costed six lakhs. Nina had pressed Ahmed to increase her monthly once his business expanded.
By next year, Nina promised herself, she would be richer than the other women in her kitty, richer even, than that independent, self-made Shahi. They were all friends, but some friends could be better off than the rest. Nina almost had what she wanted now.
***
The next party was a fortnight after the first. Since their kitty was over, and they had no other excuse for hosting, Ahmed had suggested to plan a pre-Christmas party, so they would appear fresh and modern.
Silver flashed as the cutlery moved back and forth, illuminated by the low ceiling lights in the dining room. The chatter was lively, eclipsed occasionally by a booming laugh. A fir tree from the garden had been moved into the foyer, decorated with fairy lights and baubles.
Nina wore a low-cut silk blouse and a diamond choker, illuminating the skin above her breasts with Tom Ford highlighter. She passed by the guests, winking at Ahmed across the table as she flew ahead, light as a breeze, offering bits of banoffee, strawberry cheesecakes and kulfi (for the Desi-hearted) to the overwhelmed guests. “No, your plate is empty,” she found herself repeating. “Please, let me fill it for you.”
Once the guests had dispersed onto the patio for drinks, Nina gathered her skirt and ordered the houseboy to clean the table. Today, she was dynamic, energetic. The Christmas tree’s fairy lights casted their celestial approval upon her as she rushed ahead, carrying boxes of various board games.
She noticed Shahi sitting next to some men, her crimson dress and enameled bracelets a contrast to her milky complexion. The men chatted amongst themselves—something about the latest Fortuner model—and Shahi nodded, boredom from the last party now replaced by a new, unfamiliar expression that seemed to disfigure her face.
Nina sat down next to her. “Having a nice time?”
“Everything’s lovely. Thank you.”
Blotches of concealer matted Shahi’s under eyes. “You look a little off,” Nina said.
“Just tired.”
Nina patted Shahi’s bare shoulder for comfort.
Shahi wriggled away. “I think I need a smoke,” she said.
The men and women around them were busy chatting over kulfis and pudding.
“We’re on the same team, remember?” Nina said.
She noticed Ahmed staring at them, frowning, and supposed she should be catering to the guests instead of sitting in a corner.
Shahi smiled a slow, watery smile that dissolved her features into unrecognizable wrinkles. She stood up, clearing her throat. “I’ll be off—for a smoke then.”
***
After the party, Nina lay in bed, switching through various channels on the TV. She knew the party had been successful, for Mr. Rayman had raised his eyebrows at the Christmas tree and said, “Very progressive, Ahmed. I’m impressed.”
She took out a jar of Vaseline and rubbed some onto her aching feet, thinking about the things she would do when Ahmed’s business would expand. A trip to the Maldives. Five lakh rupees for her pocket money. Maybe she would become a fashion designer, while away her free time into doing something useful. Oh no—she’d completely forgotten—the nanny had told her Ayesha had a cold.
The girls’ room was dark when Nina entered. They were both asleep, their faces aglow under the moon-shaped nightlamp. Her, no—their girls. Beautiful Ayesha and Fatima, both with a lavish future ahead of them. She promised to give them what her mother had always wanted for her family.
Nina descended the staircase. The patio was empty. Ahmed was probably in his cigar room, blowing smoke rings and watching the news. She reached the entrance door. It was unlocked. That was strange. Ahmed always locked the main door and armed the alarm system each night. Nina called out his name. No response. He must have forgotten, she thought, locking the door.
She went to the kitchen to get water for herself. On her way back, she checked the cigar room. Empty. A strange uneasiness descended upon her. She checked the drawing room, the formal dining room, and was about to go back upstairs to call Ahmed when she heard the slight jingle of—was it bracelets?—from the library.
The door was slightly ajar. Hushed voices resonated; inaudible if Nina had only been a few feet further.
Two figures she saw through the gap in the library door, between the looming bookshelves, whispering to one another. Shahi’s face was pink and tear stained. She stood with her arms crossed; her usual elegance and poise replaced by the untamed look from that day’s party.
“Baby—baby,” he said.
“Fuck you, Ahmed.”
“But we’re so good together.” Ahmed was murmuring into Shahi’s disheveled hair, wiping fresh tears from her face. “And besides,” his voice was barely a whisper, “If you do this, how would I help you with your book tour?”
A slight pause.
The bracelets jingled again. “Where is she?”
“Asleep, baby. She always is.”
Nina took a step back, her vision cloudy. When she looked again, they were kissing.
No, she thought, running towards her bedroom. Whatever she saw must have been a dream. Why would Ahmed do this to her, throw away their shared future together? And with that fucking bitch! Nina slammed the door behind her and covered her face with shaking hands. Tears streamed down her face and the lump in her throat was stifling. No, she reminded herself, this wasn’t about Shahi. It was about her family. Yes, she would divorce Ahmed, would take away the girls and her jewelry and go back to her mother’s house.
Then she imagined her mother’s disappointment at the thought of having a divorced daughter and two grandchildren to support in that battered apartment. More than that, Ahmed’s desperate expression lingered in Nina’s mind. He had been a different man in the library, far from her farting, ear-tickling, breast cupping husband. Hell, he wasn’t even scared that anyone could notice him like this. And why would he be? He was in his own house.
With each step back and forth the room, Nina thought of the things she would lose after her divorce. Her pocket money. Her status as a rich man’s wife. The ability to educate her daughters at the best schools. Her trips abroad, her designer bags and shoes, her diamond earrings, her villa, her maids and drivers, her trips to the malls and the beauty parlors. Everything.
She lay in bed for a long time, until she heard the whir of an engine, and the slow creak of the gates opening. A few minutes later there was a ting-ting of the alarm system being armed. It was almost 2 a.m.
Ahmed entered the bedroom, took off his suit and tie, and went to the bathroom.
Soon the water was running.
Nina lay with her arm flung across her head. Her vision was still cloudy, and the headache had no sign of going away. This new reality, she knew, would take some time getting used to.
When Ahmed lay beside her, freshly showered, he said, “you were good today.”
Nina stared at the fan whirring above their heads.
“You’d locked the main door. Didn’t know you were still up. Actually, Mr. Rayman asked me to drop him home afterwards.”
All these lies, and he hadn’t faltered for a second.
“Last time,” Nina said, swallowing the pain that bubbled in her throat. “You said you almost had what you wanted. Do you have it now?”
Ahmed hugged Nina, and it was strange, wasn’t it, that for the first time after all these years, she noticed how pink and large his hands were. She knew his answer. It was almost that, all that, and more.
THE END
Author Bio: Mehreen Chawla’s writing has appeared locally in DAWN and The Express Tribune, and internationally in The Establishment and Crack The Spine magazines. Mehreen is also an alumni of the Tin House summer writing workshop.