“So how has my performance in your drawing room been so far?” I received the message from Naveed. Bald, talkative and cocky, he held a top-level position at an MNC in Karachi. He was sent over to my drawing room by way of my khala who lives in leafy Islamabad. She was temporary Islamabad Club friends with his mother. Being informed that the mother was on the lookout for a ‘nice girl’ for her son, my khala had done the only charitable thing: sent said son over to my home. Said khala had never laid eyes on abovementioned son. That’s not a prerequisite. She liked the mom, ergo, like mother, like son. A foolproof plot, really.

“Ickkkhh!”, “bleakhhh!”  No, no, that wasn’t my inner monologue at the sight of him. These are the interjections Naveed punctuated his conversations with — his introductory one with my parents. Karachi, he said, is the best city to live in because, he answered my mother, Islamabad and Lahore weather is “just ickhhhhhh!”

He had shown up solo, not even accompanied by a wingman. Veeery relaxed in his formal situation — and either a bit tipsy or stoned, I gathered. His word-vomit flowed amiably. Turned out, Dad knew of Naveed’s dad from his days in civil service past, albeit in some six degrees of separation way. And so: “Proposal Approved”.

Is accepting a prospective high life with a braggart taking the high road?

I had to relent. In the sweltering autumn in Karachi, you just want to get irritants out of the way. It was also Ramazan and everyone was testy. After he had visited the salle de dessin twice or thrice, Naveed and I met outside one afternoon but there was no plan as to where we would go, etc. I wasn’t fasting and feeling especially hypoglycaemic. I needed food. The drive to search for an open restaurant became a tour of the luxurious life of Naveed.

I only buy suits from here, he said as we passed a high-end store that stocks Gucci, D&G and Boss. I only buy shoes from here, he pointed out a shoe store that sells only imported Italian leather ones. You will be amazed if you knew how much I spend on shopping, he informed me. I have, like, 10 ipods just lying around.

Thoroughly stimulated by this talk of how much cash is coming out of his ears, my blood sugar was crashing fast. As we were lost in the admiration of his new set of wheels — brand new Honda model, just out that month — I saw the oasis of an open sandwich joint and nearly leapt out of the car. I was at the doorstep before I realised I should have waited and walked with him inside.

“Aap ka AC nahi chal raha”, he intoned to the staff inside. I don’t know why they had a problem with him but everyone had “awkward emergency situation” on their faces as he addressed them, as if a madman had entered their premises and they must thwart this customer gingerly and avoid trouble. (I may have had the same look on.)

He wished to take me to “that restaurant in Denmark, the one that is the most expensive.”

Being informed that the mother was on the lookout for a ‘nice girl’ for her son, my khala had done the only charitable thing: sent said son over to my home. Said khala had never laid eyes on abovementioned son. That’s not a prerequisite. She liked the mom, ergo, like mother, like son. A foolproof plot, really.

“Noma?” I inquired, rolling my eyes when they should have been going ka-ching$$$. Why must I shut him down every time he flashed his wealth before my eyes to make up for his looks?

I was taken aback not by his “possession of a good fortune” but rather by his oft and abrupt yelling when I couldn’t catch something he was saying; or the way he cursed like an Urdu-speaking sailor while driving; or how he would drop in personal details with the pretend disclaimer “oh you know right?” I had known him for two weeks. “Oh you know I drink, right?” (No, we had never discussed or drank together.) “Oh you know I have a metal rod somewhere in my body?” (Nope, never X-rayed you.) “Oh you know I have a tattoo, right?” (Ew, no.)

It so happened that a family friend came along with her fiancé, one evening to drop off her wedding invite. Even in the dim streetlight, her fiance’s looks took my breath away. “Did you check out her guy?!” I asked my mom. “And you want me to settle for Squidward??”

When the couple left, I telepathically communicated to mom how shallow a person I am, inclined to good looks rather than good money. I shut the gate on the idea of being on the arm of a man who glittered only when he opened his mouth to talk of his wealth.

Published in Dawn, EOS, September 24th, 2017