Clockwork mayhem

Illustration: TBS

Neah knew all the epithets her friends ascribed to her. High maintenance by the chic and savvy, Hi Fi by the more home grown. Impeccable taste in home and personal style, intelligent and creative. Her detractors were few and most were forced to agree. Underneath the sophisticated exterior, lay a generosity of heart and spirit.

Neah , put her client on speaker phone. "Madam , you must finish the house by Saturday. I have Sheikh from Sharjah coming. He stays in the house. I give big party for him. Very important people are all coming. You do not put any furniture in the sitting room or anything!"

She reassured the irate and uncouth voice that he would find it complete. There had been hiccups and showdowns. She'd extricated herself. His taste was bizarre, Faux leopard skin, red velvet, crystal and gold accents. 

She'd put her foot down and shot it all down. He loathed with all his crude male chauvinism, but she was the ace decorator to high society. And he had arrived! Not quite the kosher route.
All the accoutrements bore it out. Flashy gold Rolex with diamonds, thick gold chain on overly hairy chest with Ayatul Kursi pendant circumscribed with more brilliants. Flamboyant logoed silk shirt, buttons ready to pop, dangerously stretched over a belly that could have housed twins! 

A heavy fragrance of Oud accompanied him, barely disguising the smell of onions which he loved with his cholesterol laden lunch. Short, oilslicked and with a confidence redolent of unlimited newly acquired wealth. She tried to keep out of his way as much as possible, his over familiar proximity disturbing and mildly rankling.

Tuesday he was off to Chittagong port to check on family business, leaving her enough time to complete the living room. She sighed in relief. The room was white, sunken, a massive fireplace centred on a recessed wall rising fourteen feet high. The wall painted the most brilliant shade of orange, squeezed from a million Florida fruit, or eked from sacred Marigold petals or a resplendent sun, either rising or setting. 

The colour of Dante's Inferno, she thought to herself smugly! Her signature white sofas, in Chenille and soft suedes, hand dyed Indigo and black ikat cushions scattered faultlessly! The veneers of tables and chests glowed with granite, burnished woods and mother of Pearl. She had the piece de resistance hung on that show-stopping happiness of a wall. 

The 5' by 6' Shahabuddin with its white background and black ink drawing had made its epic journey from the renowned artist's Parisienne atelier to hang four squares on this wall. It was its perfect counterfoil. She had poured the essence of herself on this job. She had to cover up the excruciating stench of 'new money' with elegance and even more elegance!

Mid morning of Saturday he called, bellowing into her ear to come over as soon as she could. The voice trembled with rage, quivering, and making him forget the little English he could muster and speak in an indecipherable mixture of Chittagonian and pidgin. He appeared to gurgle and choke! Her soft-spoken genteel manners and innate kindness was on a very short leash.

She met him in the living room, and the look on his face spoke volumes. This room he said was to be the show piece. He had put up with all she had forced him to so far, but this was unacceptable. The 'laal' not orange, colour was hideous, but adding insult to injury was the incredible amount he had forked out for the painting. 

A few black ink strokes on white that made not the slightest sense or was even an image! Where were the crystal chandeliers and the tinkling marble fountain he'd dreamt of? The gold, glitter and pizazz? He was getting angrier by the minute as he enumerated the money spent, her not heeding his desires, his taste, they couldn't all be poor, he hobnobbed with oil sheikhs and billionaires, "bhool, bhool," he bit out shaking with chagrin and rage. "Time nai, no time to change," the veins stood out on his temples, his neck thick and squat, the eyes glaring and sweat trickling down.

His crude disparagement and tearing into her was a receding hazy din. She had almost made it down the front step when she heard the unnatural mangled and agonised groan and turned to see Jalal Bin Rashed crumple to the floor like a short sack of potatoes! 

She has been insulted beyond measure, but she swallowed it. Her basic humanity now surfaced to the fore – for all his sound and fury, she only saw a man who'd made it and desperately wanted; needed affirmations to a world she fitted in so naturally and gracefully.

Instinctively, she rushed back in to see his staff who'd been hanging silently in the background at the raised voices already instructing each other to lift the dead weight off the floor onto the couch. One was chafing his hand, the other had pulled out a huge hanky from her client's pocket and wetting it with iced water was dabbing it at his temples. 

The nauseous smell of Oud pervaded the air. Calmly she dialled Emergency, the number of the Hospital always on her speed dial. He was not dead; she was reassured though spasms of pain made him moan and clutch at his chest. The wailing siren of the ambulance aroused her from her reverie. The paramedics had him strapped to the stretcher congratulating her on her promptness, "he'll make it, it's the ticker,"  they told her, "a narrow shave but we've revived him, it's ticking away!" 

The staff nodded their thanks. There was a whimper from the stretcher. Neah sitting on the armchair looked bemused and dispassionately at her handiwork, her gorgeously happy wall. She decided to christen it 'Clockwork Mayhem!'

This story is part of a collection developed in a creative writing workshop run by Shazia Omar. If you would like to join the next workshop, please email her: shaziaomar@gmail.com