Free Kartography by Kamila Shamsie

shoulder.
    â€˜Everyone’s drunk,’ Asif said, ripping up streamers and aiming them into wine glasses around the table.
    â€˜I want to get more drunk,’ Laila’s fiancé said. ‘Hurry up with your toast, Zafar.’
    â€˜Well, if Rukhsana wouldn’t interrupt...’ Zafar said.
    â€˜Rukhsana’s a teetotaller,’ Yasmin said. ‘She must be ignored.’
    â€˜Guess who’s been doing everything but ignoring Rukhsana? Bunty!’
    Whistles all around the table.
    â€˜Come on, Rukhsana, grab him quick,’ Maheen said. ‘I would, if I wasn’t engaged to Thing here.’
    â€˜Please, Rukhsana, grab him quick.’ Zafar clasped his hands together. ‘Else she’ll leave me for him.’
    â€˜Rukhsana and Bunty. Sounds good together.’
    â€˜Sounds awful,’ Ali said, finally catching the mood of the party after three days of near-silence. ‘We’ll have to call him Bukhsana. He looks like a Bukhsana. Rukhsana and Bukhsana.’
    â€˜Or Runty and Bunty,’ Maheen said.
    â€˜I’m no runt!’ Rukhsana objected.
    â€˜Yes, she is.’
    Everyone started thumping on the table. ‘Runty! Runty!’
    â€˜Oh shut up and let Zafar propose the toast.’
    â€˜Right.’ Zafar cleared his throat. ‘I’d like to formally welcome 1971 to our homeland of Pakistan. This will be the year that signals the end of bachelorhood for me. And the end of divorceehood for Laila. Thank God she got rid of that first guy; we can all say it now. Maheen—I’m a lucky bastard, and I know you won’t let me forget that. And if any of the beautiful single women around this table want to join the wedding bandwagon, allow me to recommend my friend Ali.’
    Ali used his fork to catapult an olive at Zafar.
    Zafar caught the olive in his mouth, and continued: ‘So, 1971, these are the favours we ask of you: may the miniskirt get more mini, may long sideburns go out of fashion, and may something else happen that I’m really not sober enough to think of. Anyone, we need a third thing that we want to happen. May...may...’
    â€˜May we not have civil war,’ someone shouted.
    â€˜He mentioned politics.’ Laila pointed an accusing finger at the offending party. ‘Into the buffalo swamp with him.’
    Nine people stood up, and ran after the fleeing man.
    Yasmin and Maheen were left at the table.
    â€˜May we not have civil war,’ Yasmin said, and moved to clink glasses with Maheen. Maheen’s glass tilted over and red wine streamed down both women’s arms.
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    Streamers still wrapped around his arm, Asif pointed up at the bark of the gnarled tree in the back garden. ‘Well, look at that. Zafar, you old romantic.’
    The house guests pressed around him, peering up through the dark, buffalo swamps quite forgotten. ‘Oh, that’s so sweet!’ Laila said. She slapped her fiancé’s arm. ‘You’ve never done anything like that for me.’
    Zafar shook his head. ‘As if it wasn’t bad enough that you abandon me in the orchards at night, Asif, now you have to embarrass me in front of all our friends. Which of your poor minions had to do that?’
    â€˜You’re denying it’s your handiwork?’ Asif roared with laughter. ‘No weaseling out of this one, Romeo. Oh, and here comes the much-loved Maheen.’
    Maheen and Yasmin walked arm in arm through the grass, and the crowd parted to let Maheen see the initials carved into the tree’s bark.
    â€˜Zafar!’ Something so intimate in the way she said his name that all their friends smiled at one another, not without a trace of wistfulness, and drew away.
    â€˜It wasn’t...’ Zafar started to say, looking at Asif.
    But Maheen’s arms were around his neck, and Asif was walking away, so Zafar never finished the sentence.
    Â 
    Is this a life sentence, or will I wake up one