Unmarriageable(90)

‘Aunty Nona’s pet peeve,’ Alys said, ‘is people who buy art to match the decor.’

Upon discovering that Nona had attended the National College of Arts, Darsee had a question for her. He went to the cardboard package he’d dragged in. Nisar helped him open it and they took out a huge pastel in beiges and pale pinks of Lahore’s inner-city rooftops and children flying kites.

‘I either got it for a steal,’ Darsee said, ‘or I’ve been robbed.’

‘Why?’ Nisar asked.

‘Because,’ Nona said, smiling, ‘it’s either real or an imitation. I wish I’d invested in a few of Iqbal Hussain’s paintings back in the day before they became so expensive. Where did you find this?’

‘Gallery,’ Darsee said. ‘Owner’s private collection. He said it’s authentic. Except the only art I’ve ever seen by this artist is of women from the red-light area. There is a signature at the back.’ Darsee tilted the painting so Nona could look at it.

‘It’s genuine,’ she said. ‘One of his earlier works. Iqbal Hussain was my professor at NCA; if you’re interested, we can visit him and he can confirm it for you.’

‘I’d love that,’ Darsee said. ‘In fact, I’d love to meet him.’

‘I’ll arrange it, then,’ Nona said. ‘I believe he’s out of the country at the moment, at a conference, but as soon as he’s back.’

‘Thank you,’ Darsee said.

‘Can I come too?’ Juju piped up. ‘He’s a brilliant artist, the world knows that, but for me, it’s that …’ She stared into her lap. ‘It’s that he doesn’t shy away from who he is and where he comes from. He celebrates his origins. Actually, he thrusts them in the faces of society and says, “Deal with my inconvenient truths.” And he’s getting the last laugh, as his stock goes up and respectable women purchase his red-light-area paintings to hang in their drawing rooms, and so it is that women they wouldn’t deign to sit with perpetually look down at them from their walls. I wish … I wish we could all find the courage to tell our truths.’

Alys’s and Darsee’s eyes connected.

‘Of course you can come too, Juju,’ Alys said. ‘You don’t have to ask. In fact, that will be the first step in finding your courage.’

Juju smiled shyly. Alys caught Darsee’s grateful look, and she hurriedly looked away.

‘Please stay for dinner,’ Darsee said, inviting them all.

‘We were actually headed to the inner-city Food Street,’ Nisar said, ‘as part of our Tour Lahore. Alys is very fond of Lahori fried fish. Please, you and Juju must join us. But I warn you, this is my treat.’

Darsee did not hesitate to accept, and they left, only to reconvene on a bustling street lined with open-air eateries, some established as far back as pre-1947 partition. They managed to find a table for their large party in front of a tandoor lit with a string of naked light bulbs and proceeded to order mango lassi and items on a menu they could smell long before they appeared – grilled meats marinated in spicy yoghurts, freshly baked naans glazed with white butter, and onion, ginger, garlic frying in cauldrons, the sizzle and crackle and pop in the open air.

Soon their order was served, and Alys passed Juju the chickpea-batter deep-fried fish. She asked Juju her interests and hobbies besides music, even as she kept one ear on Darsee, Nisar, and Nona, who were munching away as they discussed the demand for bottled clean air given the rise in pollution worldwide – ‘Laugh, laugh,’ Nisar said, ‘people laughed at bottled water too, but I would advise investing in bottled air; fortunes to be made’ – and the future of Pakistani art and music and its growing popularity internationally.

Alys could not recall a more pleasant evening, and she was sad when dinner was over. She went to bed happy. Darsee’s stellar behaviour had surprised her and it also thrilled her, and she knew, suddenly, that had he always behaved like a gentleman, things might have been different. She snuggled under the quilt and caressed the spot on her hand where his fingers had so briefly touched hers at the NadirFiede wedding. She flushed. She thought of how he’d come running after her at his home, insisted he wanted his sister to meet her, how graciously he’d welcomed her aunt and uncle, how he’d gone out of his way for tickets, how animated he’d been at dinner, how carefully he’d heard everyone’s views, especially hers, and how respectfully he’d disagreed if he had to, and, when dinner ended, how sincere he’d sounded when he told them that he was looking forward to seeing them the next day. Alys caught her breath as she recalled how he’d glanced at her at that moment.

A tremendously lovely day it had been, and tomorrow they were going to a play she’d been eager to watch, and she would see Darsee again, and she was not going to let anything spoil her evening, not even the addition of Bungles and party.



The next morning at breakfast, Nisar and Nona were still marvelling over how Darsee was not the snob they’d been led to believe he was.

‘Lady calls him Dracula,’ Nisar said as he poured milk into his oatmeal. ‘And Pinkie painted such a Frankenstein picture of him, I expected him to push us over a cliff for being middle-class professionals. Even Jena, who defends everyone, never defends him. Why you women insist on maligning perfectly first-rate men, I don’t know.’