Indus Kebab Cottage was a modest eatery in Euston with scuffed plywood tables, plastic chairs and a large TV screen playing Bollywood songs on a loop. The owner, Mohammed Din Chaudhry, a first generation migrant from Gujranwala, was popular among Pakistani students from the various colleges of London University for his generous portions, low prices and the occasional naan thrown in for free.

A portly middle-aged man in a buttoned cardigan straining over the dome of his belly, he stood at the entrance awaiting the arrival of his celebrated guest. When Saif bounded up the two shallow steps to the door and held out his hand, Chauhdry Sahib or ‘Choysaab’, as he was known among his clientele, took it reverentially in both of his, as if handling a sacrament, and bowed low over it.

“Welcome Saif Sir,” he intoned in a grave voice. “Thank you Sir ji, for honouring me with your presence.”

Saif clapped Chaudhry Sahib on his cardiganed back with his free hand and made to enter but found his way blocked by his host.

“I’ve seen all your films Sir, all, from the ‘80s,” he continued in the same grave tone, detaining Saif and everyone else crowding behind him at the door, “When we both were young. Not that you look old Sir, for a second even. You are, by grace of Almighty Allah, evergreen. Youngish and smartish, while me, I am…”

He looked down at his substantial belly and chuckled sheepishly. “Me, I am already looking, you know, aged.”

“Try jogging,” said Saif, nodding at his host’s paunch. Freeing his hand, he tried to get through the door but Chaudhry Sahib was determined to have his say.

The latest novel by satirist Moni Mohsin, only recently published in Pakistan, is a coming-of-age story of an idealistic young woman’s initiation into the savage world of social media and political hypocrisy. The titular character joins up with the fledgling political party of an ageing but charismatic former actor as he attempts to reach the highest office in the land. Eos presents here, with permission, an exclusive excerpt from The Impeccable Integrity of Ruby R., published in Pakistan by Reverie Publishers

“But,” he continued, “when you made that announcement after your marriage, that you were retiring, my heart shattered.” He placed an earnest hand on his shattered organ. “I thought ‘Now we have no heroes left’, but then Sir ji, then you started coming on TV on that programme, after your lady wife she became ill — how nobly she has suffered, may the Almighty have mercy on her — and then you began handing out justice to ordinary people, and I thought ‘Allah has heard my prayer.’

“After that I didn’t miss a single programme of yours, believe me, not one, not ever. I very well remember, Sir, when you arrived at that tax collector’s house and the cheater had two Mercedes parked in his garage and you roared: ‘Oye! You! How you are able...’”

“Yes, yes,” said Saif impatiently. Cutting Chaudhry Sahib off mid-sentence, Saif shoved past him into the restaurant. Everyone else piled in on his heels to be enveloped by a warm, welcoming fug of barbecued meat and hot naan.

Chaudhry Sahib had rearranged the seating in the empty restaurant so that seven small tables had been pushed together to make one long table for sixteen. Saif pulled up a chair in the middle and sat down. There was a bit of pushing and shoving as the students tried to get the seats closest to him.

“Gentlemen!” Saif ordered, lounging back in his chair. “Let the ladies sit first.”

Ruby, who usually bristled over any form of discriminatory treatment on the basis of gender, hesitated. But when the other two girls, Maheen and Nadia, immediately bagged the chairs on either side of him, Ruby reluctantly took a seat opposite his. She hung her coat and bag behind her chair and, turning, caught Saif’s eye.

“Okay?” he asked.

Shy again, Ruby nodded. She had heard that he was egotistical and entitled but really he hadn’t put a foot wrong the whole evening. There had been that brief incident outside the college building in Bloomsbury, when his companion had opened the door of the waiting Mercedes and Saif promptly slid into the warmed interior and slammed the door, leaving his followers shifting uncomfortably on the icy pavement.

Comb Over had lowered the car window and asked for the address of the restaurant. Saif had a couple of important calls to make, he’d said, and he’d see them there. The car had purred off.

But the students had not complained. Coat collars raised against the frigid February night, they had tramped cheerfully through Bloomsbury and across Euston Road to the restaurant.

Like a conductor with his orchestra, a joyful Chaudhry Sahib positioned himself by their table and directed his waiters to bring heaped plates of steaming kebabs and chicken tikka, brass pots of lamb karahi and stacks of hot naans.

Meanwhile the students plied Saif with eager questions. How many members did his party have thus far? Could they see a copy of the manifesto? Would the party have internal elections? Would it contest the national election due in two years? If so, how many candidates would it field? Had he managed to attract some established names to his cause? What about funds? Did he have any wealthy donors?

Saif gave a few perfunctory answers to their queries. They would contest the next election. From everywhere. And win. People were sick and tired of corrupt government. They couldn’t wait for him to boot it out. But when the questions became more specific he laughed and said:

“Enough of this political talk. I don’t know about all of you but I’m starving. Let’s eat.”

Watching him tear a naan with his large sinewy hands, Ruby was struck by his youthful appetite. Chaudhry Sahib was right: he did not look like a man in his early sixties. With a flat belly, a full head of crisp black hair and a tall, rangy frame, he had retained the striking looks of his days, decades, as an action hero.

True, his face was a little craggier than before — deep lines bracketed his mouth and scored his forehead and the famously sleepy eyes were a little more hooded than before — but it did not detract from his attraction. Or vigour. How many times had the fingers that were now smeared with curry, tightened menacingly around the neck of a snivelling screen villain? He had been the symbol of the righteous, angry young man, always the champion of the oppressed, the voiceless, implacably opposed to crooked politicians, greedy tycoons, brutal landlords.

He had been universally adored. Women had swooned at his lazy smile, the way he flicked back his hair with a careless toss of the head and gyrated his hips while wooing a doe-eyed heroine with song and dance. Men had admired his abundant virility, his disdain for authority, his determination always to be his own man.

In a country with few role models, he had become a towering figure. His signature smile was emulated by street urchins, his name was chanted in remote villages, his face, enhanced with rosy cheeks and Bambi-like lashes, was painted on the back of oil tankers.

Before she was married, Ruby’s father’s younger sister (‘Little Auntie’) used to wake at six AM every morning to pluck fresh jasmine buds and string them into a garland to drape around Saif’s framed photo that adorned her bedside table.

When it was reported that Saif had suffered a life-threatening injury on set while performing a stunt in a speeding car and was lying unconscious in an intensive care unit, thousands had kept vigil outside the hospital while, in homes across the country, tearful groups had gathered to offer special prayers for his speedy recovery.

Some had pledged to give up smoking if Saif recovered unscathed, others had gone on barefoot pilgrimages to shrines of saints and promised to return the following year with sweets if his life was spared. After seventeen anxious days and nights, when he had emerged from hospital with a bandaged head and a drawn face, his relieved wife beaming beside him, a roar had gone up from the waiting crowd and the event televised on prime time news. The prime minister, who was mired in a financial scandal at the time and needed some good optics, had rushed to escort him home in his bullet-proof limousine.

Saif’s film career had played out much before Ruby’s time, but she had been a child when his trailblazing television programme Justice: Punishment and Reward had aired. She remembered vividly his real time swoops on crooked shopkeepers to expose counterfeit wares. She also recalled the abject smiles on the faces of ragged, barefoot labourers when he arrived unannounced at construction sites to present them with magnanimous gifts of Chinese airconditioners and Korean freezers they could not afford to run.

Saif’s film career had played out much before Ruby’s time, but she had been a child when his trailblazing television programme Justice: Punishment and Reward had aired. She remembered vividly his real time swoops on crooked shopkeepers to expose counterfeit wares. She also recalled the abject smiles on the faces of ragged, barefoot labourers when he arrived unannounced at construction sites to present them with magnanimous gifts.

The episode that had broken all records was when he had presented a childless couple — ‘God fearing, charity giving, respectable folk,’ as he had described them — with a new-born baby on live TV. With stratospheric ratings, Justice had reinstated Saif’s popularity, which had gone temporarily into abeyance during the quiet years of his marriage. He had even acquired the title of Sword of Justice, Saif being Arabic for sword.

So, some months ago, when he had transitioned from a screen saviour to a real one with a fledgling party of his own, his public had greeted it as an entirely natural development. Called ‘Integrity’, the political party was received with enthusiasm and had created an excited buzz serious enough to rattle the more established players who tried, condescendingly, to dismiss him as a one-man band.

Ruby had watched Saif’s political ascent with bemusement. She had been at London University for just a month when he had launched his political career with a big press conference at the Lahore mansion of a media mogul, one of his many wealthy friends.

Having thought of him only as a screen star until then, Ruby had dismissed Saif’s political aspirations as non-serious. A grafter herself, she would have had more respect for him if he had tried to work his way up from the grassroots or at least from the provincial level. She was as sick of the corruption and venality across the political spectrum as all his fans, but it was a tad arrogant to go for the top job from the off.

But when arguing with Jazz and his friends, she had to concede that Saif, already in his sixties, did not have the time to work his way up. Still, that did not mean he had her vote. Left to herself, she wouldn’t even have gone to the lecture, had Kiran not persuaded her.

But here she was at Chaudhry Sahib’s, two hours after dumping Annie and Jack. Feeling a twist of guilt, Ruby glanced at her watch. Five minutes to ten. She wondered if they’d managed to find a replacement for her in time for their eagerly anticipated evening out. She really hoped they had, even though she knew she hadn’t given them enough notice.

She knew only too well how they had been looking forward to this reunion dinner with their old uni friends. Annie had circled the date on her kitchen calendar two full months previously. Skewered by shame, Ruby didn’t dare switch on her cell phone.

“You! Get me a bowl of hot water and half a lime,” Saif ordered a waiter. “I want to clean my hands.”

“Hurry up!” Chaudhry Sahib, a constant hovering presence by the table, chided the young Asian waiter. “You are blind? Why you are keeping Saif Sir waiting?”

“And take this away.” Saif pushed away his dinner plate impatiently.

A mound of picked bones was piled high on one side of his plate. Surrounding his place at the table was a mass of empty dishes. He had eaten heartily. But now that he had finished, he seemed restless and showed no inclination to resume their stalled political discussion.

When a boy down the table asked about his manifesto, he looked irritated and pretended he had not heard. So it was with some trepidation that Ruby asked: “Er, how many women members do you have so far in your party?”

Rubbing his fingers with a cut lime, Saif shrugged.

“I don’t have the number. But lots.”

“A quarter of the total? A third?” Ruby persisted.

“Are you by any chance a woman’s libber?” Saif dipped his fingers into the bowl of hot water and considered her across the table with raised eyebrows.

“A feminist, you mean?” asked Ruby, bristling slightly.

“She’s a total feminist,” laughed Nadia from the seat on Saif’s left. All evening she’d been flattering him, telling him of his popularity with the Pakistani student body, while simpering and flicking her Barbie doll hair. Watching her transparent attempts at seduction, Ruby was both peeved and embarrassed. So cheap. So obvious.

But instead of the brusqueness she deserved, Saif had responded with grace and kindness. He had smiled at her indulgently and once even leaned toward her and said something in a soft voice that had made her blush and giggle.

Nadia said with a curled lip: “Ruby’s always lecturing us on female infanticide and FGM.”

“FGM? That’s a magazine, right?” asked Saif idly. Nadia and Maheen tittered into their napkins.

“That’s a bit off the point,” chortled Jazz. All the boys within earshot guffawed. Ruby felt her colour rise. She wished Kiran was here with her now. With a choice phrase, delivered with an insouciance Ruby always envied, she would have put everyone in their place.

“Masood,” Saif called out to Comb Over who was sitting at the end of the long table. “How many women members do we have in our party?”

“In Integrity?”

“No the Cruelty Party. Obviously I mean Integrity, yaar.”

“Don’t know,” Masood shrugged. “It will be in our records somewhere. But in Lahore, not here. Why?”

“This young lady here wants to know.”

“Tell her we have a lot many.”

“There you are,” said Saif. “What did you say your name was?”

“Ruby. Ruby Rauf.”

“‘A lot many’, Ruby Rauf,” said Saif teasingly. Nadia and Maheen sniggered.

More than a little annoyed now, Ruby took refuge in officiousness. It came easily. Officiousness was her default mode whenever discomfited.

“And how are you trying to reach them?” she rapped out. “Your women members, I mean. Through social media? YouTube? Facebook? Twitter? Instagram? WhatsApp? Podcasts? Do you know the profile of your female followers? Are they young or old? Urban or rural? Educated? Till what level? Primary? Secondary? And social class? Are they working women? Home makers? How many among them are registered voters?”

“What are home makers?” asked Saif, looking confused. “Architects?”

Two boys sitting by Ruby gave a bark of laughter. “It’s just a fancy feminist way of saying house wife,” said one.

But Saif was regarding Ruby with something like interest now.

“We are on social media,” he said leaning across the table. “But we are not doing enough. You know how to target women with it?”

“I wouldn’t say I was an expert,” Ruby flushed, “But yeah I know my way around it. My degree is in media and social media is a big component.”

“Social media is very important, Sir,” cut in a boy from further down the table. “I would say it is crucial today.”

“And we have to mobilise women’s votes…” Saif mused aloud.

“It is important,” said Ruby firmly. “And women are fifty per cent of the population, you know. Chairman Mao said we hold up half the sky.”

“Hmm. And these women,” asked Saif, “who are holding up the sky, they all do Facebook and Twitter and all?”

“We all do,” said Maheen, muscling into the conversation. “Everyone does. Sitting here only, I’ve done four tweets about our dinner. Before this, I posted a photo of us in the lecture hall on my Insta account also.”

Ruby ignored Maheen.

“Of course women use social media. At least those that have cell phones. So probably urban women, you know, educated, working women, college girls…”

Saif nodded slowly. “I’ll think about it,” he told Ruby. “And if I want to discuss this further with you, how do we reach you? Does Irfan have your phone number?”

She didn’t know who Irfan was but she nodded anyway. She noticed a petulant look on Nadia’s face and was gratified.

Raising his voice and addressing the rest of the table, Saif announced: “It’s been a long day. We have another full day tomorrow, no Masood?”

Making no effort to conceal a belch, Masood nodded. “Very fullish.”

Saif rose from the table. “It’s been great being with you guys but now you’ll have to excuse me. Masood?”

Everyone stood up. Fluffing up her hair, Ruby also got to her feet.

“Well, bye, everyone. I’m here for another few days. If you want to get in touch, contact Masood. You’ve given them our number, right? And, Masood, you’ve taken Irfan’s number also?” he asked nodding in Jazz’s direction.

“Ijaz, Sir, I am Ijaz.”

Masood patted his breast pocket. “Inside here.”

“Selfie, Sir, before you go?” asked Jazz hopefully.

Though Saif seemed eager to get away, he gave a curt nod and they all crowded around for a photograph that the waiter took with Jazz’s phone. Saif stood in the middle of the group, chin thrust out, arms folded across his chest, Maheen and Nadia smiling coyly on either side of him. Ruby stood on the edge of the group trying to look serious.

When Chaudhry Sahib lumbered up and also asked for a photo, Saif obliged with ill-concealed impatience. The second it was done, he motioned to Masood. They were half way to the door when Chaudhry Sahib called out.

“Er Sir, sorry but the bill…”

“What?” Saif turned around with a puzzled look.

“No Sir, please you are our guest,” fawned Jazz. “We’ll take care of it. You please go.”

The other students nodded obligingly.

“Sure?” he asked.

“Of course, Sir. Good night, Mr Prime Minister.”

Saif pressed a hand to his chest and bowed low. Then, pulling his suede jacket close, he bounded out into the night.

This extract is being reproduced with permission from The Impeccable Integrity of Ruby R. by Moni Mohsin, published recently in Pakistan by Reverie Publishers

The author is a columnist and satirist and has published four books previously, including the bestselling Social Butterfly series. She tweets at @moni_butterfly

Published in Dawn, EOS, December 25th, 2022