Unmarriageable(20)

On her part, Fiede had been enjoying Amsterdam very much – although the Anne Frank museum had made her very sad – but she was also missing her tribe terribly. Nadir Sheh’s upper-class Pakistani demeanour made her feel back home, and his genuine Hermès belt – Fiede had an eye for impostors – signalled to her that he would be someone her family would willingly accept. Though a love marriage, officially, the Feckers were telling everyone it was a purely arranged marriage so that no one could accuse Fiede of being ‘loose’ or ‘fast’.

‘That we should all have such happy endings,’ Sherry said, sighing, ‘if our boat bumps into someone else’s boat. I tell you, Fiede Fecker is not a pigeon, though she’s probably done everything but it, which makes her a part-time pigeon.’

‘I agree,’ Alys said. ‘Part-time pigeon.’

The dances began. Wedding dancing was the one avenue where girls from good families were allowed to publicly show off their moves. Lady, who loved to dance, was having a hard time remaining seated but, since she was neither family nor a close friend, she was not supposed to join in the revelry. As a guest, her role was that of spectator.

Nadir Sheh’s friends and family performed a synchronised dance they’d been rehearsing for weeks to a Pakistani number, ‘Ko Ko Korina’, which many guests would deem too obscure a choice for such a high-class wedding but, sigh, Nadir Sheh’s family was new money, after all.

Then it was Fiede Fecker’s family and friends’ turn to perform a dance. They’d chosen the double-entendre Indian song ‘Choli Ke Peeche Kya Hai’ – ‘What Lies Behind Your Blouse’ – and were greeted with enthusiastic applause. This was a siren song for Lady, and in a sudden frenzy she leapt onto the floor. Other dancers stopped to stare. Alys yanked Lady off the floor and looked at her sister so ferociously that Lady remained glued to her seat through the remaining dances.

Once the synchronised dances were over, the DJ played requests. Fiede Fecker’s friends and cousins started dancing, and Fiede decided, conventions be damned, this was her wedding and she was going to dance too. Who cared log kya kahenge – what people said – including her in-laws? And so she made history as the first bride in Dilipabad to dance at her own mehndi ceremony. Soon Nadir Sheh and his friends joined the freestyle dancing too.

Mrs Binat and the other Dilipabadi matrons looked on and tried to gauge if Nadir Sheh had delivered any fish worth hooking. Gyrating on the dance floor was a cement scion. An owner of a sanitary-napkin company. A hotelier heir. A sugar-mill proprietor – twice divorced, but so what? Money was money. Also dancing was the young owner of the British School Group, recently returned from America.

Naheed was dying to know who the BSG scion was, for Gin’s and Rum’s sake, but also because she planned to have a few words with him about the rumour that he was going to do away with school uniforms. Was the BSG scion the sweet-looking gangly fellow with a flop of sandy hair? Or the ballerina-looking guy dancing well enough to not be the laughing stock but awkwardly enough to draw chuckles? Who was the chap that looked like a cross-eyed polar bear and was jumping up and down as if he was at an aerobics class? And that elderly gentleman who kept shaking his bottom too close to the seated young girls – surely he had to be Uncle Sugar Mill. And who was that tall, good-looking boy with the fine eyes?

The food was finally served close to midnight. Ravenous guests rose en masse towards the food tent, where they would serve themselves from either side of the chafing dishes, creating ideal conditions for boys and girls who longed to accidentally flirt and fall in love, eyes meeting over sizzling entrees, fingers caressing fingers as serving spoons were exchanged. The Binats entered the tent, a smaller rainbow replica of the larger one. Lady and Mrs Binat headed straight for the buffet serving Italian food and loaded their plates with lasagna localised with green chillies and garlic bread infused with cumin. Sherry and Qitty headed for the Chinese buffet, piling their plates with egg fried rice and sweet-and-sour chicken. Alys, Jena, Mari, and Mr Binat helped themselves to the Pakistani buffet, their plates soon full of beef biryani, grilled seekh kebabs, tikkas, and buttered naan.

At the dessert table, Jena, Alys, and Sherry wished they’d eaten a little less dinner. Still, they managed to sample everything: gulab jamuns in sweet sticky syrup, firni gelled in clay ramekins and decorated with edible silver paper, snow-white ras malai, tiramisu cups and lemon custard tarts, kulfi ice cream and sweet paans from a kiosk preparing them fresh on the spot, the bright-green betel leaves stuffed with shredded coconut, betel nuts, fennel, rose-petal jam, sugar syrup, and then folded into perfect triangles.

Jena was taking a dainty bite of an unsweetened paan when she was approached by two girls with cascades of highlighted hair. Some extensions, for sure, she thought, and a healthy amount of make-up, just shy of too much. They were dressed exquisitely in heavily embroidered lehenga cholis with their flat midriffs bare, and diaphanous dupattas, clearly the work of an established designer. Jena noticed their single-strap matte-silver heels. She’d been searching for shoes like these, but all she’d been able to find were horrendous wide-strapped glittery platforms.

‘Where did you get your shoes?’ Jena asked, smiling her admiration.

‘Italy,’ one of the girls said. ‘I love the detailing on your sari blouse and border. Whose is it?’ She rattled off a few designer names.