Yesterday, out of the bloom, my old darzi, Rafeeq, showed up at my door. The bearer came and said, “Bibi, Rafeeq has come to see you.”

I said, “Rafeeq who?”

He said, “Rafeeq Ilyas. He says he used to work for you 15 years ago.”

I had to think for a few minutes because my brain’s so jam packed with Tik Tok and Insta kay I hardly have bangwidth for anything else. And also, 15 years is a long time, yaar. I mean, I don’t even remember who I used to be back then, forget who Rafeeq Ilyas was. Honestly, people sends me photos of me and I can’t remember where they were taken or who the woman standing so uncomfortably close to me is and why I’m wearing such a loud print and that also in shopping pink!

Then the bearer said, “He says he was your tailor.”

The death of one man’s dreams is Butterfly’s seven lawn suits…

“Oh, Master Rafeeq!” I said. “That weasel! That traitor! That back stabber! Why has he come? Send him in.”

Okay, so Rafeeq was my tailor. He used to make the tightest, bestest, most comfy sari blouses. And could sow shirts that made you look 10 pounds lighter. And could do exact same-to-same copy of Dolce and Kabana kay sexy silk maxis. Better even than the back bazaars of Bangcock. He was my secret weapon, my patriot missile, my Shahed drone.

And then, one day, he just upped and went off to Abu Dhabi without so much as a bagwards glance. When I found out his visa had come and that he was packing to leave, I dropped whatever I was doing, and I rushed straightaway to his shop, which he was closing up and also faarigh karoing all his poor chhotas.

I begged and pleaded with him to stay. I told him I’d give him a jorra a day to sow. That I’d introduce him to all my friends — I was keeping him secret like Iran’s Youranium stock file until then, na. That I’d help with his son’s school fees and his father’s hospital bills. That I’d even pay for his three daughters’ dowries. Honestly, so many minnats and tarlas I did, I blush even thinking about it now.

But he wouldn’t budge an inch. He told me flat that he was going off to become a rich man in Abu Dhabi and that I should do my own bandobast. Never heard a choon from him after that, so I guessed he must have become a millionaire. Until today.

So, first thing I noticed was how wrinkled his face was and how haara hua he looked. And how worried. From nowhere did he look like a fat, happy, healthy millionaire. Turns out, he was chucked out of Abu Dhabi three weeks ago. With no warning, no nothing. Just like that, they cancelled his visa and sent him backing. In two days flat. And took all of his savings also.

In his early days he’d sent some money to his brother in Faisalabad, who was starting a catering business, but brother did a ghupla and ate all his money and, after that, Rafeeq learnt his lesson and kept his savings in a bank in Abu Dhabi only. All of that has gone now. Also his rosie roti. No shop, no chhotas, no clients. That’s why, after 15 years, he’s remembered me.

Being the soft-headed soul that I am, I immediately gave him seven lawn ka jorras that I’d bought last week to sow. Told him I wanted them in three days. No ifs and buts. And naturally, no mention of school fees or dowries or hospital bills. My brain might be stuffed with Tik Tok but I remember how he didn’t give me times of day when he was flying high.

Vaisay, look at the Emiratis, honestly. Not only are they throwing our poors out left, right and centre, they’re also keeping their hard-earned earnings. What cheeks! And aur tau aur, they’re also not giving visas to us achha bhala, parrha likha, khaata peeta types. Apparently, they’re peed off with us because we’ve been hosting the piece talks and we haven’t taken their side like they wanted us to. Bhai, why should we get dragged into another war, haan? Like we don’t have enough already!

And talking of visas, apparently there’s been a huge jaloos in London, at which someone called Dummy Robinson has led a whole army of pink-faced, loud, sweaty types, who’ve gone down Pickadilly shouting that they want to throw out all Muslims and they want to take back their country. I thought they took it back at Brexit only.

Have they lost it again? Mujhay tau lagta hai, goras have become very careless, baba.

So, with no visas to Dubai and now maybe London also, just as well Master Rafeeq is back. I may have nowhere to go, but at least I’ll be all dressed up.

Many years ago, @monimohsinofficial, novelist and journalist, outed herself as The Social Butterfly

Published in Dawn, EOS, 31st, 2026