would marry Munaf, the polio-ridden boy from Mumbai. If for no other reason than to save him from women like Hamida.
And to protect herself from men like Rafiq.
Jeyna-bi, the Buffet Fiend
Their wedding was a stupendous success!
Munaf’s parents had spent so much money decorating the marriage hall and there was such a variety of things to eat, that everybody was asking, ‘Who’s the caterer? Who’s the caterer?’ (No, not me. The caterer was Lucky Hotel.) Then everybody asked, ‘Who’s the decorator? Who’s the decorator?’ (Again, not me.) And
then
I heard two women gossiping, and one of them asked, ‘By the way, who’s the matchmaker?’
Who else? Me! Jeyna-bi!
I was hard to miss in my fluorescent orange burkha.
When I went up on stage to wish the wedded pair, Munaf’s father widened his eyes and remarked, ‘Jeyna-bi, wherever I look I am only seeing you this evening. What’s the plan, haanh?’
‘Allaaaah!’ I squealed, and buried my face in his wife’s arm. Munaf’s father is such a naughty boy, I tell you!
As I was descending the stage, two women and a manwere awaiting me at the bottom of the steps. I stopped and inhaled deeply before plunging headlong into all those people clamoring for Jeyna-bi, Jeyna-bi, Jeyna-bi. They formed a line behind me. Our procession marched toward the buffet section. One by one parents would come up, shove their marriageable child in my face, and tell me everything about him or her since birth.
At one point the father of a divorced optician said, ‘Jeyna-bi, just look behind you!’
What? There was nothing.
‘Don’t you see?’ the man cried. ‘Your line is longer than the line at the stage!’
I strained my eyes. No, it wasn’t. There was no one behind me.
‘You’ve grown old, Jeyna-bi, get your eyes checked. I’m telling you, your line is longer,’ the optician’s father gushed as he steered his son in my path. ‘Meet my Tahir. Just look at him and tell me honestly: can you make out he’s divorced?’
I wiped my tears. My line longer than the stage line? Allah-be-thanked! It may have been Munaf and Sophiya’s wedding but this was turning out to be one of the grandest nights of my life!
I became overexcited as usual. When I reached the buffet table, I got carried away like always and had two-two three-three helpings of all the dishes on offer.
Really, at weddings I need someone to accompany me. Ineed someone to dig their nails into my arm and hiss,
Go slow on the free food, understand?
So I ate and ate and ate, because there was no one to tell me to stop.
Halfway through dessert, I felt a spicy burp rearing its head. I pushed back my chair. ‘Oohh maa…’ I groaned. I loosened my shalwar. I began contorting my torso—front to back, left to right. Other guests saw me thrashing about and came forward to help. I motioned everybody to step back, give me space, I was only trying to burp! But one idiot woman panicked—she removed her leather chappal and pressed it on my face. She thought I was having a fit!
That was it.
‘Jeyna-bi vomited! Jeyna-bi vomited!’
‘Big deal. She always does.’
Tch, I don’t know how it happened. They had to carry me to the bathroom. The stuff was all over my burkha. Swear-to-Allah, I try my best to control. But every time I just…I go nuts.
On returning from the bathroom, I pulled my veil down like the shutter of a shop and hid in a corner for the rest of the evening.
‘Jeyna-bi?’ a woman tried to raise my veil.
There was only one woman who would dare to lift Jeyna-bi’s veil. One very obnoxious woman. ‘Go away, Yasmin-bai,’I said.
She squatted between my legs and peered up my veil. ‘I heard you vomited? Feeling better now?’
I shut my veil tight. ‘Go away, I don’t want to talk to anyone.’
‘Ya Ali!’ Yasmin-bai said. ‘See no, just like a child!’ She sat down beside me. Then she started her usual nonsense: ‘Seen someone for my Nawaz?’
Allah! First that optician’s father
And to protect herself from men like Rafiq.
Jeyna-bi, the Buffet Fiend
Their wedding was a stupendous success!
Munaf’s parents had spent so much money decorating the marriage hall and there was such a variety of things to eat, that everybody was asking, ‘Who’s the caterer? Who’s the caterer?’ (No, not me. The caterer was Lucky Hotel.) Then everybody asked, ‘Who’s the decorator? Who’s the decorator?’ (Again, not me.) And
then
I heard two women gossiping, and one of them asked, ‘By the way, who’s the matchmaker?’
Who else? Me! Jeyna-bi!
I was hard to miss in my fluorescent orange burkha.
When I went up on stage to wish the wedded pair, Munaf’s father widened his eyes and remarked, ‘Jeyna-bi, wherever I look I am only seeing you this evening. What’s the plan, haanh?’
‘Allaaaah!’ I squealed, and buried my face in his wife’s arm. Munaf’s father is such a naughty boy, I tell you!
As I was descending the stage, two women and a manwere awaiting me at the bottom of the steps. I stopped and inhaled deeply before plunging headlong into all those people clamoring for Jeyna-bi, Jeyna-bi, Jeyna-bi. They formed a line behind me. Our procession marched toward the buffet section. One by one parents would come up, shove their marriageable child in my face, and tell me everything about him or her since birth.
At one point the father of a divorced optician said, ‘Jeyna-bi, just look behind you!’
What? There was nothing.
‘Don’t you see?’ the man cried. ‘Your line is longer than the line at the stage!’
I strained my eyes. No, it wasn’t. There was no one behind me.
‘You’ve grown old, Jeyna-bi, get your eyes checked. I’m telling you, your line is longer,’ the optician’s father gushed as he steered his son in my path. ‘Meet my Tahir. Just look at him and tell me honestly: can you make out he’s divorced?’
I wiped my tears. My line longer than the stage line? Allah-be-thanked! It may have been Munaf and Sophiya’s wedding but this was turning out to be one of the grandest nights of my life!
I became overexcited as usual. When I reached the buffet table, I got carried away like always and had two-two three-three helpings of all the dishes on offer.
Really, at weddings I need someone to accompany me. Ineed someone to dig their nails into my arm and hiss,
Go slow on the free food, understand?
So I ate and ate and ate, because there was no one to tell me to stop.
Halfway through dessert, I felt a spicy burp rearing its head. I pushed back my chair. ‘Oohh maa…’ I groaned. I loosened my shalwar. I began contorting my torso—front to back, left to right. Other guests saw me thrashing about and came forward to help. I motioned everybody to step back, give me space, I was only trying to burp! But one idiot woman panicked—she removed her leather chappal and pressed it on my face. She thought I was having a fit!
That was it.
‘Jeyna-bi vomited! Jeyna-bi vomited!’
‘Big deal. She always does.’
Tch, I don’t know how it happened. They had to carry me to the bathroom. The stuff was all over my burkha. Swear-to-Allah, I try my best to control. But every time I just…I go nuts.
On returning from the bathroom, I pulled my veil down like the shutter of a shop and hid in a corner for the rest of the evening.
‘Jeyna-bi?’ a woman tried to raise my veil.
There was only one woman who would dare to lift Jeyna-bi’s veil. One very obnoxious woman. ‘Go away, Yasmin-bai,’I said.
She squatted between my legs and peered up my veil. ‘I heard you vomited? Feeling better now?’
I shut my veil tight. ‘Go away, I don’t want to talk to anyone.’
‘Ya Ali!’ Yasmin-bai said. ‘See no, just like a child!’ She sat down beside me. Then she started her usual nonsense: ‘Seen someone for my Nawaz?’
Allah! First that optician’s father
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