I think so, we’re the only people left in Lahore. The only khaata peeta ones, that is. All the others have gone to Saudi or London, for Eid hols, na. The pious ones like Nawaz Sharif and family have gone for Umra to Saudi. The jet-set ones like the rich Chiniotis have gone to London. And I have to sarho and jallo here with Janoo and Kulchoo who’ve got it into their heads that they want to celebrate Eid with the Old Bag at the lands. Why? Because she’s on her last legs, Janoo says. Well, how many legs did she have in the first place, haan?
“Try and be a little sensitive”, he says, “how many more Eids does she have?” Well, if you ask me, she may have many, many more, given her family history – her mother (Janoo’s granny) died at 155. Her sister (Janoo’s massi) died at 179. Or at least it seemed like that to me, as a young bride, when I came into this family. The elders just wouldn’t pack up and go upstairs.
Vaisay, the last time the Old Bag came to stay with us in Lahore, she was wheezing and coughing and complaining, so I said to her, “Er Amijan, don’t you think it’s time for you to go?” “Go where, beta?” she asked. “Upstairs”, I said. “You know I can’t climb stairs”, she said mournfully. Ufff, I thought to myself, she’ll never get the hint. Fergeddit.
Better to go to lands for Eid because yahan to koi scene nahin hai. Vahan all those pheasants will come to wish us Eid Mobarak and Janoo will sit there doling out cash and rice and wheat. And I’ll watch DVDs for three days straight. And Kulchoo will bathe in the tube well and drive the tractor and give me nightmares that he’s taken after Janoo with all that “love the poors” nonsense. Then in the evening, some Saeen Lok musician will come and twang his cute sa ethnic sa instrument and sing all those purana, purana songs in olden days ki Punjabi about unrequested love …
“Try and be a little sensitive”, he says, “how many more Eids does she have?” Well, if you ask me, she may have many, many more, given her family history – her mother (Janoo’s granny) died at 155. Her sister (Janoo’s massi) died at 179. Or at least it seemed like that to me, as a young bride, when I came into this family. The elders just wouldn’t pack up and go upstairs.
Vaisay, the last time the Old Bag came to stay with us in Lahore, she was wheezing and coughing and complaining, so I said to her, “Er Amijan, don’t you think it’s time for you to go?” “Go where, beta?” she asked. “Upstairs”, I said. “You know I can’t climb stairs”, she said mournfully. Ufff, I thought to myself, she’ll never get the hint. Fergeddit.
Better to go to lands for Eid because yahan to koi scene nahin hai. Vahan all those pheasants will come to wish us Eid Mobarak and Janoo will sit there doling out cash and rice and wheat. And I’ll watch DVDs for three days straight. And Kulchoo will bathe in the tube well and drive the tractor and give me nightmares that he’s taken after Janoo with all that “love the poors” nonsense. Then in the evening, some Saeen Lok musician will come and twang his cute sa ethnic sa instrument and sing all those purana, purana songs in olden days ki Punjabi about unrequested love …