Party season is back with a bang in Pakistan. ‘Bang’ may be a poor choice of words in Pakistan but, you know, #resilient. December is usually the time when the furour of festivities is at its peak, the biggest culprit of which is weddings. This week alone I have avoided two mehndis, four receptions, three dinners, two brunches, half a valima and a full-on qawalli party by pleading a convenient but legitimate jet lag. Every year I think there aren’t going to be any more weddings to attend, and every year I’m wrong. I did go out to one reception this week under duress, despite my blood oath to the contrary, firstly because my mother asked me to but also because I had a particularly nice shawl that I wanted to wear anyway.
The shawl was a big hit, and as I was basking in the glow of sartorial triumph, someone I was chatting with began talking about their intense frustration at having just come from another wedding, down the road, of a family who is perennially throwing weddings because of their four daughters, three of whom have married twice. Second weddings are still a bit of a mystery here, since no one knows quite what to do with them. Do you go small as if you are keeping it quiet, or do you go big to show the last in-laws what a huge mistake they made, in which case the second wedding becomes like Pretty Woman, with you being Julia Roberts and the last in-laws being the mean-spirited shop girls who work on commission only? (“Right? Big Mistake. Huge!”). As a rule I tend to give cards on people’s weddings that say “Congratulations! May it be the first of many!” and you’d be surprised how often that works out for me.
Two things happened at this reception that opened my eyes to a whole new world. The first, and by far most stunning, was the venue. It was in one of the new wedding halls that exist in giant casino-like clusters. The fabulous interior of this particular hall looked like a Venetian palace designed by the architects of a Disney hotel. All blues and gold and leafy ceilings of stucco, it is a sight to behold. I kept expressing my un-ironic admiration for it while taking pictures of the ceiling, but no one believed me. “Ufff,” came the reply, “I know! Isn’t it super tacky?!” It wasn’t. I felt like I was walking into Versailles except that it was the Titanic and we were all Cinderellas which, upon reflection, is the exact delusion that gets most socialites I know out of bed in the morning so go figure. Truth is that decor in any other part of the world would be considered high end and I’m just genuinely and deeply impressed that there is someone who can pull off corner crown moldings in Lahore. (If you’re reading this and know who this design god is, write to me.) Also, the management kicks everyone out of the hall by 10 sharp, which is a wonderful and civilised thing to do.
The second thing I was introduced to was the concept of a car bar, something I assumed had withered away with the end of high-school. But no, the car bar is alive and well. For the uncool, a car bar is where the youngsters (a term that in Lahore loosely encompasses everyone not on late-stage dialysis) go to drink at events that are dry. You might say “Oh but aren’t all events dry in Pakistan?” to which I would scoff in a manner that implies you are not being invited to the right places at all and should reconsider your friendship goals.
Bars, flowing and dangerously well-stocked, are the mainstay of the seasonal parties that are now rampant. The thing that always impressed me is how people actually procure the merchandise. I was over at a friend’s the other day while he waited for his bootlegger. Eventually a well dressed man arrived in a slow-moving car and got out on a darkened side of the street. After the perfunctory transactional exchanges, I was surprised to see that the car was completely empty. I was naive.
With a magical flourish the seats lifted up, the sides of the car doors unhinged, the dashboard unfolded and the floor of the trunk lifted aside to reveal beneath them a cavernous labyrinth of hidden compartments and drawers, all housing contraband clinking happily in their cases. Once done, the car folded back into itself like a transformer and chugged back into the busy street outside, destined to make the dreams of another party-thrower come alive.
I find it hard to believe that anyone reading this is unaware that prohibition rarely does anything to a banned substance other than forcing it underground (or undercar, in this case). Indeed, I’ve often wondered whether the ban on liquor would ever be reversed, much like all the websites (good and naughty) that are forever being blocked and unblocked depending on who noticed what. The only place I have ever seen liquor being displayed publicly is at the arrivals hall at the international terminal of the airport, where the customs desk proudly displays all the bottles it confiscated from over-confident travelers who thought they might sneak some stuff in. Believe me when I tell you that nowhere I have been in my life has a more well-stocked bar than the confiscation desk at one of our airports. Every shelf looks like an Irish pub married a French vineyard, which is exactly the sort of decor that shaadi halls have anyway.
Write to thekantawala@gmail.com
The shawl was a big hit, and as I was basking in the glow of sartorial triumph, someone I was chatting with began talking about their intense frustration at having just come from another wedding, down the road, of a family who is perennially throwing weddings because of their four daughters, three of whom have married twice. Second weddings are still a bit of a mystery here, since no one knows quite what to do with them. Do you go small as if you are keeping it quiet, or do you go big to show the last in-laws what a huge mistake they made, in which case the second wedding becomes like Pretty Woman, with you being Julia Roberts and the last in-laws being the mean-spirited shop girls who work on commission only? (“Right? Big Mistake. Huge!”). As a rule I tend to give cards on people’s weddings that say “Congratulations! May it be the first of many!” and you’d be surprised how often that works out for me.
I felt like I was walking into Versailles except that it was the Titanic and we were all Cinderella
Two things happened at this reception that opened my eyes to a whole new world. The first, and by far most stunning, was the venue. It was in one of the new wedding halls that exist in giant casino-like clusters. The fabulous interior of this particular hall looked like a Venetian palace designed by the architects of a Disney hotel. All blues and gold and leafy ceilings of stucco, it is a sight to behold. I kept expressing my un-ironic admiration for it while taking pictures of the ceiling, but no one believed me. “Ufff,” came the reply, “I know! Isn’t it super tacky?!” It wasn’t. I felt like I was walking into Versailles except that it was the Titanic and we were all Cinderellas which, upon reflection, is the exact delusion that gets most socialites I know out of bed in the morning so go figure. Truth is that decor in any other part of the world would be considered high end and I’m just genuinely and deeply impressed that there is someone who can pull off corner crown moldings in Lahore. (If you’re reading this and know who this design god is, write to me.) Also, the management kicks everyone out of the hall by 10 sharp, which is a wonderful and civilised thing to do.
The second thing I was introduced to was the concept of a car bar, something I assumed had withered away with the end of high-school. But no, the car bar is alive and well. For the uncool, a car bar is where the youngsters (a term that in Lahore loosely encompasses everyone not on late-stage dialysis) go to drink at events that are dry. You might say “Oh but aren’t all events dry in Pakistan?” to which I would scoff in a manner that implies you are not being invited to the right places at all and should reconsider your friendship goals.
Bars, flowing and dangerously well-stocked, are the mainstay of the seasonal parties that are now rampant. The thing that always impressed me is how people actually procure the merchandise. I was over at a friend’s the other day while he waited for his bootlegger. Eventually a well dressed man arrived in a slow-moving car and got out on a darkened side of the street. After the perfunctory transactional exchanges, I was surprised to see that the car was completely empty. I was naive.
With a magical flourish the seats lifted up, the sides of the car doors unhinged, the dashboard unfolded and the floor of the trunk lifted aside to reveal beneath them a cavernous labyrinth of hidden compartments and drawers, all housing contraband clinking happily in their cases. Once done, the car folded back into itself like a transformer and chugged back into the busy street outside, destined to make the dreams of another party-thrower come alive.
I find it hard to believe that anyone reading this is unaware that prohibition rarely does anything to a banned substance other than forcing it underground (or undercar, in this case). Indeed, I’ve often wondered whether the ban on liquor would ever be reversed, much like all the websites (good and naughty) that are forever being blocked and unblocked depending on who noticed what. The only place I have ever seen liquor being displayed publicly is at the arrivals hall at the international terminal of the airport, where the customs desk proudly displays all the bottles it confiscated from over-confident travelers who thought they might sneak some stuff in. Believe me when I tell you that nowhere I have been in my life has a more well-stocked bar than the confiscation desk at one of our airports. Every shelf looks like an Irish pub married a French vineyard, which is exactly the sort of decor that shaadi halls have anyway.
Write to thekantawala@gmail.com