Unmarriageable(40)

‘Not Dayna, Mummy, Diana, Lady Diana,’ Lady said. ‘Had I stayed with Alys and Jena, I would have made sure Jena did not leave without a ring.’

‘I should have left you there,’ Mrs Binat said. ‘You are the most sensible of the lot. Don’t you dare serve me a shoe, Barkat! If these two nitwits would have stayed, that boy would have proposed, I guarantee.’

‘Mummy,’ Qitty said, looking up from pencils she was sharpening. ‘There’s still the walima.’

‘Chup ker. Be quiet,’ Mrs Binat said. ‘Beheno ki chumchee. Defending her disobedient sisters.’

‘We couldn’t stay there forever,’ Jena said quietly, ‘waiting for him to propose.’

Mrs Binat was about to correct her on that score when Sherry returned from her overnight visit to her aunt – the divorcée, who’d thrived despite social stigma, thanks to a very well-paying job – and offered a sympathetic ear.

‘Of course you are one hundred per cent right, Pinkie Khala,’ Sherry agreed. ‘Jena should never have left.’

Mrs Binat was so gratified, she declared they would order Sherry’s favourite meal for dinner: mutton tikkas, keema naan, and bhindi fry.

‘Qitty,’ Mrs Binat added, ‘don’t you even look at the naan.’

By meal’s end, during which Qitty defiantly ate half a naan, Mrs Binat had calmed down enough to start preparing Jena for the NadirFiede walima, where, she guaranteed everyone, Bungles would propose. Mr Binat pulled Alys aside and reminded her of her meeting with the lawyer the next day to sort out the matter of the land fraud.





CHAPTER TEN





Alys parked her car and stepped out into bustling Mall Road, ignoring the whistles and catcalls of loitering men. She hurried past Ferozsons bookstore, glancing at the window display, past Singhar, the beauty shop fragrant with sandalwood, and, turning into an alley, arrived at the law offices of Musarrat Sr. & Sons Advocates.

Once upon a time, Bark Binat had purchased an acre of land. When he was forced out of the ancestral home, he’d turned to the acre, only to discover that he, along with others, had been conned. The acres sold to them were government land, and the government refused to compensate anyone for being gullible. Mr Binat had been hesitant to hire a lawyer yet again – after his brother’s betrayal, he had no gumption to bring strangers to task – but Alys had not let it go. Even if they never saw a penny returned, they had to at least try, and she’d hired Musarrat Jr. on a friend’s assurance that he was honest and trustworthy. The Binats’ initial petition concerning the Fraudia Acre case had been filed a decade ago and, since then, there’d been no real progress.

Alys stepped into the tube-lit office. She could hear Musarrat Jr.’s booming voice from inside his office, saying, ‘Trust in God’. The receptionist looked at the recent letter Alys had received from them and told her to proceed into the office.

Musarrat Jr. was hanging up the phone, and he beamed when he saw Alys.

‘Alysba Sahiba, it’s been a while! Please sit!’ He settled his paunchy self into his swivel chair. ‘Mr Binat is hale and hearty, I hope?’

Alys assured him he was. She wished her father had not begged off coming just because money matters gave him palpitations.

‘Alysba Sahiba,’ Musarrat Jr. said, ‘as it says in the letter, the con man has re-entered the country and, because one of the claimants’ sons is a police officer, he is being questioned aggressively. Inshallah, soon there will be some resolution.’ He pressed a buzzer. A peon entered. ‘Check if Jeorgeullah Wickaam Sahib is back from court.’

A few minutes later a young man entered. Alys blinked. He was film-star gorgeous, with chiselled features, dark-brown hair, and sleepy eyes the colour of rich chai. His white shirt tucked into grey trousers perfectly fit his well-muscled build. What good fortune, Alys thought as she sat up straighter and smoothed her floral sky-blue kurta over her scruffy jeans, that she wasn’t the sort of person who would be taken by looks alone.

Musarrat Jr. introduced Alys and, with a proud smile, turned to the man.

‘Alysba Sahiba, Mr Jeorgeullah Wickaam, the lawyer newly assigned to your case and a rising star among youngsters.’

Alys gave a polite, shy smile.

‘Wickaam grew up in Lahore, did a stint at a military academy, realised it was not for him, went to New York for studies, returned, and here is he willing and ready to serve the wronged citizens of his country.’

Jeorgeullah Wickaam gave Alys a courteous nod, which also seemed to imply that while he perhaps deserved this flattery, it was nevertheless embarrassing.

‘First steps first,’ Musarrat Jr. said. ‘I suggest, Alysba Sahiba, you show Wickaam Sahib your disputed acre.’



When they reached the Suzuki, Alys took out her keys from her bag and Jeorgeullah Wickaam sprang to open the driver’s-side door for her before he headed to the passenger side. Alys smiled to herself. Handsome, a rising star, polite. She could think of worse ways to spend an afternoon.

As she expertly reversed the car into an onslaught of traffic, he turned towards her with a friendly smile and informed her that though the arrested man was being questioned thoroughly, the chances of monetary recompense were bleak.

‘Honestly,’ Alys said, stepping on the accelerator, ‘at this point a heartfelt admittance of guilt and a sorry would be very nice.’