Unmarriageable(59)

Best, Kaleen decided as he looked for a place to sit, to do the deed on a full stomach. Mr Binat was not present. Alys was at the foot of the table, flanked by Mari, drinking the herbal tea he’d prescribed, and Qitty and Lady, who sat in a nightie too flimsy for his comfort. He glanced at the empty chair beside Jena. Best not to sit next to her either, since she was getting engaged and so belonged to another man. He finally settled beside Pinkie Binat and took hefty servings of everything.

Mrs Binat gave Kaleen an encouraging maternal smile, even as she wished he’d dressed differently. He was wearing a skintight red T-shirt and pale-grey trousers. This ensemble may have looked snazzy on the K-pop musicians Lady and Qitty watched on MTV Asia, but on Kaleen it failed. For one, his nipples were pointedly on display through the fabric. Lady and Qitty were smirking and Mrs Binat glowered at them to stop, as did Mari. Mrs Binat wished Kaleen would hurry his breakfast before Alys left, and as soon as he swallowed his last bite, she scrambled up and ordered her daughters to come with her.

‘Except you, Alys meri jaan, my darling, you stay,’ Mrs Binat said. ‘Best daughter of mine, I’ve given my blessings to Kaleen, but it is only fitting that in this brave new world you get to say yes yourself.’

Alys stared at her mother. Things fell into place. How could her mother believe that she and this man could be a match? Her sisters exited with sympathetic looks – even Lady looked sad – and, before Alys knew it, she was alone with Kaleen. She abruptly rose from her seat, and Kaleen rose too. He plucked a droopy gladiolus from the vase on the table and held it to his heart.

‘Alys,’ he began, even though Alys raised her hands to stop him, ‘my sweet Alys, you are the sweetest creature. And believe me, my late wife would have agreed. Sweet chaste Alys, make me the happiest man in all of Pakistan, in the world, and marry this humble servant of yours?’

‘No!’

‘I know good girls are trained to say no at first, for eagerness does not become them—’

‘Stop! Please stop! My no means no.’

‘Sweet, sweet Alys, unsullied Alys.’ Kaleen tried to hold her hand. ‘Demureness becomes you, my sweet!’

‘I am not demure.’ Alys clasped her hands behind her back. ‘Trust me.’

‘Sweet, sweet Alys, with such sweet, sweet lips, from which emanates such sweet bashfulness, stop playing with my heart, my sweetheart, and agree to be my virtuous wife.’

‘Please stop proposing!’

‘So coy. So coy. This was my late wife’s reaction at first too.’

‘Kaleen Sahib’ – Alys took one step towards the door – ‘I have no idea why your first wife changed her mind, but I’m not going to. We are incompatible, and I genuinely apologise if anyone in this family has led you to believe otherwise.’

‘Sweetest purest Alys.’ Kaleen took two steps towards her, thrusting the gladiolus at her. It fell to the floor. ‘Even your pretend denials are sending shivers through my heart and other regions. How dearly my late wife would have approved. Our union will be blessed by Begum Beena dey Bagh herself, and we will make a power couple the likes of which Pakistan has yet to see. Were I younger, indeed, sweet innocent queen of my heart, I would be proposing to you from astride a stallion, but—’

Alys burst out of the dining room, only to bump into her mother, whose ear had been glued to the door. Pinkie Binat reached out to seize Alys, but she dodged her mother and fled to her father’s study. Mr Binat was in his armchair. He was toasting his toes at an electric heater, the double rods glowing a fiery orange, and he glanced up at her from a compendium of Rumi’s ruminations.

‘Why are your feathers aflutter, Princess Alysba?’ he said. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Daddy, did you know why Mummy invited that odious uncle to our house? Did you know?’

‘Know what?’ Mr Binat sat up at the distress in his favourite daughter’s voice.

‘She wants me to marry that buffoon.’

‘Not a buffoon,’ Mrs Binat said, entering and banging shut the study door. ‘He’s a first-rate catch for the likes of you!’

‘He’s hardly a first-rate catch for a clown, let alone for the likes of me,’ Alys said.

‘What is going on?’ Mr Binat asked.

‘Farhat Kaleen wants to marry this ungrateful fool,’ Mrs Binat said, ‘and she is refusing.’

‘Daddy, how can I marry that man?’

‘How can you not?’ Mrs Binat roared. Alys was nearly thirty-one years old. Soon her waist would thicken and she would grow stout. Her hair would thin and what would be left would turn to grey wires and she’d be dependent on hair dye for the rest of her life. Her skin would wrinkle, her neck would droop, and her eyes would go from being beautiful to just another pair of fine eyes. A woman’s curse, Mrs Binat reminded Alys, was to age, no matter what Alys believed.

‘Barkat, you’d better make your daughter marry Farhat Kaleen, or I swear I’ll never talk to her again.’

‘Alysba is not going to marry him,’ Mr Binat said. ‘And perhaps, Pinkie, my love, it might be best for your nerves if you do stop talking to her.’

Alys gave a sigh of relief. Her father had ended the matter, for had he sided with her mother, she would have faced a formidable battle. Alys turned victorious eyes on her mother and, fleeing to her bedroom, she cried in relief.