Unmarriageable(19)

Everyone tried their best to look impressed, except Lady, who was genuinely impressed.

‘Paris!’ Lady squealed. ‘Hai, lucky! Acha, you had better give me discounts, because I’m already booking you both for making my shaadi-ka-jora, my only stipulation being that I want motay-motay, fat-fat, diamantés on the bodice.’

‘Ah oui! Oh yes!’ the twins said. ‘Though we still have to apply to fashion schools in Paris and get in.’

‘You’ll both get in,’ Naheed said tersely. ‘Lady, aren’t you in a bit of a premature rush to book your wedding outfit? You have four unmarried older sisters ahead of you. Let’s hope the next wedding we attend will be Jena’s, inshallah.’

‘Inshallah,’ Mrs Binat said. ‘God willing.’

They were interrupted by the unmistakable dhuk-dhuk-dhuk of the hired drummers who always accompanied bride-and-groom parties and whose beating drums no one could resist, at the very least, tapping their feet to. Cries arose: ‘The boy’s family is here!’ Fiede Fecker’s cousins and friends – including Lady, who merrily joined the bridal party – grabbed platters of rose petals and lined up by the entrance.

‘Here come the eager pigeons,’ Sherry whispered to Alys as Nadir Sheh’s family and friends entered, dancing to the drummers. Laughter broke loose as petals were showered left, right, and centre. The drummers changed beat every few minutes as the family entered, some dancing, some carrying baskets of flowers and trays of mixed sweets, others candles in earthen diyas, the oil lamps illuminating excited faces. Nadir Sheh had invited a few of his London university friends, and all were keeping up well with the dholak beat.

The bridegroom’s party was led to the reserved chairs with red bows in front of the stage, and Nadir Sheh climbed up the stage and settled on one of the two baroque armchairs as if it was a throne and this his coronation. He sat with arms akimbo and legs splayed in his dandy outfit: an orange silk kurta topped with a heavily embroidered red waistcoat above a starched-to-death cream boski shalwar, and his feet were clad in the pointiest golden wedding khusse.

The guests turned for Fiede Fecker’s grand entry. Again the drummers drummed up a frenzy as the bride’s cousins and friends came in with platters of mehndi embedded with bangles, candles, and flowers. They were followed by Fiede’s male cousins carrying a palanquin, in which sat Fiede Fecker, peeping through a curtain of marigolds. They rested the palanquin at the side of the stage, and Fiede’s father helped her out and led her to the armchair next to Nadir Sheh. Fiede was wearing a vermilion shalwar kurta and a yellow dupatta pinned strategically to accentuate her long, flat-ironed hair. Fresh rosebud and jasmine hoops dangled from her ears and matched her floral bracelets.

Once the groom and bride were seated side by side, their immediate family members proceeded with the mehndi rituals. Nadir Sheh’s mother, aunts, and female cousins began to dance a luddi around the henna platters they’d brought, circling the platters to the drumbeat and changing their dance steps for each new circumambulation. The guests looked on politely, clapping and chatting among themselves and wondering when the synchronised dances would begin, after which dinner would be served.

There were quite a few BSD students with their families present at the wedding, and they kept passing shyly by Alys, Jena, and Sherry, giggling as students are apt to do when they see teachers out of context. The recently engaged Tahira introduced her fiancé to them. He had an open, honest face and duly informed them that they were all Tahira’s favourite teachers. He looked like a nice person, Alys thought, and she hoped he was. She managed to slip in how nice it would be if Tahira might finish secondary school after marriage, perfectly doable, and she was glad to see that he did not dismiss the suggestion outright.

Rose-Nama, crusader for duty and tradition, was here too. She and her mother had taken one look at Alys, their faces going sour, and had begun to mutter among themselves, Alys was sure, about how the Feckers had invited every aira gaira nathu khaira – every Tom, Dick, and Harry – as if it was a mela, a funfair, and not the Dilipabad wedding of the year.

‘If Fiede sits any closer to Nadir,’ Sherry whispered to Alys, ‘she’s going to end up in his lap. Nadir’s mother looks like she’s going to faint over Fiede’s lack of decorum.’

‘So does Fiede’s mother,’ Alys said.

Fiede Fecker was clearly finding it hard to look down demurely, as befit a proper bride-to-be. She was whispering away to Nadir Sheh and boldly surveying the tent to check out who was in attendance. But, then, Sherry noted, she was Fiede Fecker, Dilipabad’s honorary princess, and therefore whatever she did would be considered proper and, soon enough, fashionable.

‘I hope,’ Alys said, ‘Lady doesn’t get any ideas from Fiede Fecker. Do you remember how Fiede was supplying marijuana to those girls at school, and the only people who got in trouble were the girls, because Mrs Naheed dared not cross Fiede’s mother, who insisted Fiede was being framed?’

Sherry nodded. ‘Fiede’s mother would let her get away with murder.’

‘The only thing they didn’t let her get away with,’ Alys said, ‘was going to university.’

Dilipabad did not have a quality girls’ college, and Fiede’s parents did not want to send her to a boarding school. Instead, after completing secondary school, Fiede was sent on a consolation holiday to Amsterdam, to relatives who lived there. Out on the canal, Fiede’s boat bumped into Nadir Sheh’s boat. Nadir Sheh, attending university in London, was visiting Amsterdam during the spring holiday. He was attracted to Fiede’s long, bleached-blonde hair falling prettily onto her big Chanel bag. That Fiede was not bothered about world affairs or feminist rhetoric was the clincher for him.