Like the smog, Trump is back. Janoo is down in the dumbs about it because, he says, Trump is unstable and nasty. But Janoo being Janoo, he also says that the Democrabs were stable and nasty. Like Shana and Kajol, my two wax waalis, I suppose. Both burnt my skin every time they came, but Kajol was smiley and wore nail polish and Shana was cross-eyed and looked like Gama Pehelwan.

Sunny and Akbar are very happy because they say Trump doesn’t like wars and he’ll immediately stop the jangs in Gaza and You Crane. And because they say Americans are sick of inflation, he will also control mehngai, not just in America but world wild. Our bijli bills will halve and business class air fears will come down so much that we’ll be able to visit London four times a year, instead of just three. Just wait and see.

But nobody is happier than Mulloo at Trump’s election. Yesterday, she came over carrying a mithai ka dabba and smelling like Lahore airport after the Hajj flight’s just landed.

“My new cologne,” she smirked, when she saw me sniffing. “Red Roses by Joe Malone.”

Butterfly cannot decide what is more toxic: the choking smog in Punjab or the suffocating Trump fever among Khan saab’s supporters?

If you ask me, she smelt more like the rose uggar buttees they burn at Miani Saab qabristan on Thursday nights than anything Joe Malone has ever put in a bottle, but I didn’t say, because I don’t want her to galay parro me like the Rott Wilder that she is.

She opened the box and offered it to me.

“Here, moonh meetha karo.”

“What for?” I asked, eyeing the luddoos suspiciously.

“Oho bhai, for Khan saab’s pre-eminent release.”

“Really, he’s coming out?”

“Of course,” she laughed. “Now that Trump has been elected, it’s only a matter of days. He’s such a huge fan of Khan saab and he admires him so much from the very bottoms of his heart, that I wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t immediately jump on to Air Force One and fly straightaway to Adiala Jail and demand Khan saab’s instant chhutkara!”

“Won’t he be busy throwing Biden and Obama in jail first?” I asked.

“If he can’t come himself just now, he’ll send some top ka delegate.”

“A chaprrassi?”

“Don’t be silly,” she snapped. “He’ll probably send either Along Musk or VD Vance. Maybe even both.”

When she left, I fed a luddoo to Kulchoo’s dog, to see if he died a slow horrible death. (Bhai, can’t be too careful in this doggie dog world!) He survived. So, then I gave the luddoos to the servants. Then I sprayed the room with air freshener and lit three perfume candles from the Karachi Company and then I went to report to Janoo what she’d said. Janoo said she can dream on. “He’ll be too busy pardoning himself and punishing the judges who ruled against him to think of anything else.”

I would have opened the windows to get Mulloo’s smell out, but I couldn’t because of the pollution, na. Honestly, this year tau, it’s like living inside a chimney. Or voh bhi cement factory ki. They keep saying kay smock is because of rice crop burning across the border, but the rice fields would have to be the size of China and the stubble the height of a two-story building to make this much of smoke.

I think so, from now on I’ll have to sleep with my mask on. If any daakus come and find me in bed with my full-sleeved white flannel nightie, my nose mask, my eye mask and my forehead gleaming with my La Mer night cream, they’ll probably think I’m a laash or something laid out for burial in the morning. I hope so they’ll get scared and run away without taking anything.

Excepting the servants’ quarters, natch, in every single room, I’ve put two, two air purifiers that are on 24/711. In fact, three have surrhoed already, because they got too hot from working overtime. My cook, Hameed, complains of the same, but he’s just a paidaishee moaner.

Haan, so my generators surrho in the summers from overuse and my purifiers in the winters. At

least my life is constant. The only things that still look brand new are the gas heaters, because there hasn’t been any gas for the last 10 years. So, they are still virgins.

Janoo suggested we go to Sharkpur for a few days to get away from the worst of the smock. “The air is clean there,” he said, “and you can actually see the stars.” I said thanks, but no thanks. I’d rather die of pollution than boredom. Also, my smooth sayer in Model Town, Farhat Apa, she can see my stars for me and tell me my future. So don’t mind, but I’ll pass on the stars in Sharkpur.

Published in Dawn, EOS, November 17th, 2024