Maheen could always tell by the gleam of her mother’s dark glossy lips how big the upcoming tea party was going to be. Or by which ghastly eyeshade she coated her wrinkly eyelids with. Or by which jewel encrusted dress she pulled out of her crammed closet and gave to the maid for ironing. She had gotten pretty used to the eminent tea parties, which occurred once every month, come rain or shine. During the pre-party period, the entire house echoed with her mother’s yelling at the kitchen maids and there was a great big flurry in the parlor to get into respectable order. All the ornaments were thoroughly dusted and the glass tables wiped till squeaky clean. And of course, her mothers ‘well rehearsed’ panic attacks added to the drama!

“Why do you even have to host these tea parties if you’re going to fret over them and worry yourself mad?” Maheen sharply asked her mother one rainy evening.

She placed a wet cloth on her forehead and whimpered, “These tea parties are my life. They give me a sense of control. They’re an outlet for my frustration.”

“Amma, do you have to be so dramatic all the time?” Maheen cut her off, walking away from the sofa where her mother lay and slammed her book down on the fireplace mantle. Her mother groaned behind her.

“I hope the new maid doesn’t spill anything on new linen table cover.”

Maheen left the room.

She stopped by the window by the staircase and peeped outside. Sheets of rain were cascading down from the steely sky.

“Perfect weather for a depressing novel and green apples,” she concluded.

Her father entered through the door as she clambered up the stairs. His face was dotted with raindrops and strands of wet hair plastered across his forehead.

“Summer rain is extremely beneficial for the roses,” he said in a jittery voice, scratching his chin.

Maheen nodded jerkily.

“Uhh, dear, where might your mother be?” he inquired, looking around fearfully.

“Living room.”

He closed the door gently and tiptoed inside, like an intruder.

“In his own house!” Maheen muttered unbelievably.

But despite all the chaos and commotion, her mother’s tea parties always turned out impeccable. The parlor was immaculate, with gleaming table tops and sparkling porcelain decoration pieces. Fresh red roses from the garden filled the big ivory vase and the east window facing the rose garden was always half open. Hence, the sweet smell of flowers wafted through the room, with the cream colored chiffon curtains rustling softly in its wake. And the tea trolley was a pretty sight, decked with crisply ironed table covers trimmed with white lace. The finest silver cutlery was used, polished with liberal amounts of ‘Silvo’. And the food was always delectable; raspberry jam tarts, fluffy creampuffs, biscuits and scones, ordered from the most exclusive bakery in town if she had too big of a headache to bake. Sandwiches cut in tiny squares lay in a long glass tray and her mother’s signature strawberry muffins were nestled inside a cane basket. But the tea set was most beautiful; bone china with pink rosebuds outlined with gold etched onto the cups and tea pot.

And she was the perfect hostess, gliding across the marble floor, as graceful as a swan, with her flowing chiffon dupatta trailing behind her like a veil. She held the trays of food with poise and offered them to her guests graciously, laughing and talking in her flutey voice. Conversation always flowed beautifully, the tea was perfectly brewed and the muffins ever so hot and crispy.

Maheen avoided the tea parties as much as she could, locking herself up in her room for hours with a generous supply of apples for sustenance..

“Who’d want to be stuck with stupid women dressed up gaudily like butterflies, complaining about husbands and servants, anyway?” she grumbled one day, as her mother flitted around in the kitchen, preparing the baked items, sending clouds of baking powder up in the air every now and then. Maheen’s father crept around the kitchen, trying to get a banana out of the fridge without getting into anybody’s way.

When the guests arrived and sat down in the parlor, their tittering could be heard till the upstairs lobby! Maheen could just imagine her mother prancing around in her floaty lilac dress, insisting that the bug-eyed Mrs. Sheikh try another sandwich in that honeyed voice that made her insides cringe
A month later, the real drama started as the whole family sat at the breakfast table one fine sunny morning. Maheen buttered her toast as she told her mother that the highly anticipated play ‘Hamlet’ was premiering that evening at half past four.

“Today?” her mother gasped, knocking over a glass of milk.

Her husband immediately turned a brilliant shade of magenta, and flustered about, trying to clean up the mess with a napkin.

“I have my tea party at five, jaani!” she said, her eyes wide and her lipsticked mouth open in shock.

Maheen dug her fingernails so deep in her palm so hard that she felt hot blood.

“Amma, I’ve already bought us tickets. And it’s supposedly amazing. And ‘Alhamra’ hardly puts on any intellectual shows. Come to give me company at least,” she implored.

Her mother shook her head, her strawberry-blonde dyed curls bouncing.

“I have guests to tend to. You should have told me earlier and I would’ve postponed the tea party.”

“I did!” Maheen snapped. “About a hundred times! If only you weren’t too busy dying your stupid hair or painting your clawish nails atomic silver…”

Her mother’s eyes automatically filled with tears.

“Whhhyy don’t you take a friend of yours? Whhhat about that pretty girl you’re always with, the one with the green eyes? What’s her name, Maria, Mona..?” she hiccupped.

Father naturally fled from the table the very first chance he got, abandoning his egg and toast. Maheen left after him, fuming. Her mother stayed, weeping shamelessly at the milk-flooded table, as she tried to remember the name of her daughter’s best friend.

They didn’t talk after the breakfast fiasco. She stayed in her separate room downstairs and Maheen, upstairs. As Maheen cleared up her bed, littered with apple cores, books and magazines, she felt intense hatred for her mother. She felt it in her clenched teeth, in her tightened fingers and in her heavy heart. She felt it travel slowly down every fiber of her body. Her mother’s bawling, porcelain-doll face danced in front of her eyes.

“She deserves to be punished,” Maheen kept repeating to herself as she settled down for a short nap, bleary eyed.

She woke up half an hour later with a wicked plan fully formed in her mind, as if the cogs in her brain had been working on it as she napped. It was diabolically delicious!

First, she barged into her mother’s room downstairs and begged her for forgiveness on account of acting so rudely at the breakfast table. Her mother lapped it all up, as expected. Maheen assured her that she would take care of all the tea arrangements and that she need not get out of bed in order to soothe her aching head. Then, she went to the kitchen and sent the young maids out. They gratefully left, twittering like sparrows by the front gate, without a doubt waiting for the handsome ‘Walls’ ice cream man with the controversial nose ring.

After gathering the required supplies, Maheen rolled up her sleeves and set to work. She pumped fresh mint, extra fluoride toothpaste into the creampuffs and slathered the jam tarts with expired Tabasco sauce, mixed with a little bit of dirt fresh from the garden! The scones were loaded with marbles, hard enough to break the teeth off of any unsuspecting person who tried to bite them and the sugar was switched with salt in the sugar pot. And finally due to pure inspiration, the sandwich bread was lathered with beauty cream instead of mayonnaise.

“This is going to be the tea party of a lifetime!” Maheen thought amusedly.

She couldn’t stop giggling. It was like playing a combination of all the childish pranks she had been denied all her life. Sometimes, she wondered why her mother had forced her to grow up so quickly. Or how things would have been different if her mother had put in as much effort into her marriage and family life as she put into sewing lace onto table-covers.
The guests arrived at a quarter to five. Maheen welcomed them in, struggling not to laugh. They were eight ladies in total, all dressed in ridiculously bright colors and sporting dangly earrings and chunky rings. Clearly, they were in a vain attempt to look younger than they actually were, with their bubble-gum pink painted toenails and high-pitched laughter. She led them to the parlor and seated them. After a few minutes, the maid brought in a frosty jug of iced tea and Maheen poured them drinks. Her mother made her ‘fashionably late’ entry a little while later, dressed in a shimmery tangerine orange dress. With her hair tied up; jeweled pins stuck aggressively in her bun, she walked around, giving everyone a peck on the cheek and warm words of welcome.

“How lovely to see Maheen joining us today!” their neighbor, Mrs Khan exclaimed, quite literally bouncing up and down in her chair. Plump, with bright red cheeks, she resembled a walrus in many respects.

“But oh, what sticky weather we’ve been having lately!” noted Mrs. Lalarukh, her bony face shining with sweat. She turned a beady eye towards Maheen and surveyed her up and down.

“You’ve gained weight, my dear,” she decidedly said in her dreary voice.

Automatically, the rest of the sharp eyes turned to Maheen, inquisitively looking at her from every angle, like inspecting a piece of meat at the butchers. Mother looked positively aghast, blaming Maheen’s tee shirt for the cruel injustice.

“I’ve told her a thousand times to dress like a lady, but kids these days you know…”

Everyone nodded and tutted, sipping their iced tea in as dignified a manner as they could manage. Mrs. Khan unfortunately dribbled her iced tea down her chin, her eyes popping out like blackcurrants on her face, a massive ball of dough. By now, Maheen was in silent peals of laughter. The maid scuttled in, dragging in the tea trolley. Show time!

“Serve the guests, darling,” Mother said to Maheen.

Maheen took hold of the silver platter with the creampuffs and jam tarts laid out in concentric circles, and walked up the guests. Feigning confidence, she couldn’t help but feel as if her legs were made of lead. Mother made the tea rapidly, asking how much sugar they all took, her arms flying about, and talking gaily at the same time. Maheen watched her hand out the sandwiches and scones. She felt a huge salty lump in her throat. Mrs. Khan reached forward and took an exceptionally large creampuff out of the platter. Her eyes narrowed greedily; she brought it closer to her mouth. Her fleshy lips parted. So did eight others. Then it was complete pandemonium!
Tasting the toothpaste, Mrs. Khan spat out the bite of creampuff on the carpet, grabbed her flabby neck and screamed, “Poison! Poison!”

Mrs. Lalarukh started choking violently on the tampered jam tart, spit flying out of her mouth in all directions.

Mrs. Anwar made strange gurgling noises after chomping on the beauty cream smothered sandwich, her perfectly powdered nose wrinkled in distaste.

And the rest, unsure of what to do, either made funny faces, or spat the food out in their lacey napkins or in their tea saucers, utterly bewildered. The soggy creampuff ejected by Mrs. Khan stood out offensively on the peachy carpet like a bird’s dropping.

“What is the meaning of this, Laila?” Mrs. Lalarukh demanded, baring her horsy teeth encrusted with chunks of dirt. A single blade of grass jutted out hideously from one of her yellowish molars.

Mother had turned a sickly shade of green. She grasped the arm of a sofa and took a loud, rasping breath. Maheen stood in the middle of the parlor, the silver platter clattering ominously in her trembling hands, her face etched with shock. The creampuffs quivered.

She should quit acting so dramatic all the time.

Mother collapsed on the carpet, one hand at her bosom, her face twisted in sheer agony.

She’s such a horrible actress.

Her eyeballs started rolling madly.

She’s so good at pretending.

Maheen looked around pleadingly for someone to tell her what to do.

Her mother’s chest began to heave.

“My God, she’s having a heart attack!” Mrs. Khan screeched.

Maheen felt the blood drain from her face.

Her mother twitched.

Specks of white foam appeared at the corner of her lipsticked mouth as she took her last breath and croaked,

“Please stay for a bit, ladies. Maheen will see to it that you get a decent cup of tea. And don’t forget to try the coconut biscuits.”