Peanuts Don’t Always Come in a Box!!!

If you can understand the double entendre of my article’s title, then you are as perverted as I am. Surely lets hang out;). If not, we got some work to do boo, but we will get there.

Why yes!

An interesting observation made recently by an old woman in my apartment building was that ‘Padash is always surrounded by men.’ Truer words have never been spoken. I will quote my dear friend Eva here with that dramatic wave of her bony hand ‘Oh but darling I do love men…even those that love men too.’ Apt! Hey, if the shoe fits… you buy a pair - especially if it’s on sale! We all know the entrance to my apartment is a revolving door for dark, rugged and handsome men that come and go as I please. My beck, my call. But even though I’m always surrounded by these 3-legged species, many of them are simply just my ‘girlfriends’. Guys who give better tips on men, shopping and sex than girls. How I suddenly found myself in this role of a quintessential ‘fruit fly’, I’m not exactly sure. But I always was an ardent fag hag, if you will! In fact, I was the pied piper of homos long before I even had a political stance on the matter. What can I say, men both gay and straight waft towards me like Meera to youtube. My coworker’s theory on the matter (dispensed conveniently during happy hour at G bar in Chelsea) is that some women are just born with a gay boy pheromone. Maybe it’s my breasts, my style, my brazen demeanor, the fact that I embrace sex instead of shying away from it or maybe its just a combination of all. But when I look at all the famous ‘fruit flies” in history: Madonna for the old gays, Lady Gaga for the youngins, Bette Midler for the dead gays, Rekha for the Indian gays and Madam Noor Jehan for the Paki ones, I’m quite flattered actually. An impressive list of some of the most powerful divas. Oh and lets not forget; I live in New York City where out of every eight men that smile at a woman on the street…only two of them want her number. The rest just want to know where she got that faaaaabulous blouse from! Snap, snap!

You’ve all heard of Dario but long before him, I had already earned a guerdon for being the Queen of queens. Many gays were befriended in college who gave me sex tutorials on perfecting various ‘jobs’. But even before them was a guy in high school I lovingly referred to as Peanut.

A-levels. Two years of such reckless experimentation and self-discovery. Sure they started off rocky but eventually became two very amazing years. After I returned home from my little stint in Karachi, my absence may have made my parent’s heart grow fonder. That or maybe I had truly matured in Ms. Nazo, Laila and Afsheen’s company. Needless to say, all of a sudden I had became the apple of my parent’s eye. In their defense, I had left Isloo looking like Alisha’s ghetto sidekick and returned home dressed as a Coaching Center Teacher - hair in a bun, kurta on the flesh. What parent wouldn’t sigh with relief at that! When it rains it pours, because a few weeks later, I got my O-level grades: 5 A’s, 2 B’s and a C. I was obviously focused on my restaurant napkin plan and thus these grades were only going to help my chances of running away by getting into a decent college abroad. Now, I just had to endure two more years in this country.

Always one to negotiate while my stock is up, I announced to my parents that I was not going to be returning to Froebel’s for my A-levels. Instead, I would spend my last two years at UCI (University College of Islamabad). Mama had already heard all the disgraceful tales of UCI’s scandal and moral decrepitude from other Aunties. Egregious sins like, no uniforms, spoilt rich brats, a liberal college atmosphere: exactly all the reasons, I wanted to go there for my A’s. In the end though, I won. The ‘rents had barely recovered from that trauma when I dropped the second bomb on them a couple of weeks later. I just returned home one evening with an audacious haircut: short, wild, frizzy, kinky curls that barely touched my shoulder. A picture of that hairstyle is on my facebook. Mama was livid when she saw what I had done to my beautiful hair but I was determined to start afresh for my A-levels. Going through my angry female rocker/goth phase, the new hairstyle was just what I needed to scare away the unwanted crowd.



The first day of A-levels at a new school. It was uncannily similar to how I felt two years ago entering the gates of the dreaded Froebel’s for my O’s. Back then, I didn’t fit in because I was a nobody, a loser in a braid from an all-girls school. This time the knots in my stomach tightened for the opposite reasons. My reputation as a heretic partier had already proceeded me. How much can change in two years! I was about to find out once again.

In my carefully picked outfit, I walked in. A baggy plaid men’s shirt, ripped jeans and a black leather trench coat. Not to mention the Peace sign around my neck to go with the rebel ensemble and a frown strategically placed on my face. Eyes that glared through every person as if one look would zap them down to ashes. Stepping in, I could immediately hear their gasps, stares and whispers.
‘Isn’t that the Padash chick…uff ho the druggie yaar….I heard she’s a dyke….tauba tauba, they say she’s not a virgin….hay baapray she looks so scary…My brother says she once overdosed on charas at Muddy’s…aray I tu heard she once drank so much at an ISI party they had to call ambulance na…” But when I would shoot them my deathly glare, they would shut-up immediately and shuffle nervously in their seats.

I had already decided that for the next two years, I was going to be as unfriendly as possible. What did I need friends for anyway? I could make plenty of those in college where I could tie Rakhees with a posse of freaks, hippies and sluts. That day, the entire incoming cohort was squeezed into one room for our first class. I had to walk all the way to the end for an empty seat, pushing past girls who flashed each other the ‘she’s a bitch’ look while boys exchanged a look that said ‘yeh kya cheez hay yaar’. I slumped down on the first empty seat, drooping all the way down in the chair with my fist covering most of my face and my curly locks curtaining my angry eyes. Numbed to the world around me, I already craved my next cigarette. Covertly, I surveyed the room and was pleasantly delighted that I didn’t recognize a single person from my old school. The few that walked in had been complete strangers, losers, wierdos and burnouts. Like the bizarre, sissy Brit who had joined my old school just a few months before our O-level exams. An effeminate thing who was often taunted by both boys and girls alike. When I had first laid eyes on him back in Froebels, I had smirked pitiably at the fact that he was the most peculiar thing I had ever seen. Completely oblivious that this feminine weirdo with a cockney accent would go on to become my closest friend in the world. Don’t you just love how life’s surprises work?

The sniggers and whispers were more pronounced and deliberate for his feminine walk and a forearm full of black jelly bracelets. He too looked around the room nervously searching for empty seats as every teen made sure the chair next to them was occupied. When he saw me, his eyes lit up for some reason. I reluctantly grabbed my bag off the chair with a groan. Just my luck; I would get stuck sitting next to the weird BBCD kid.
‘Ello!’ He greeted a little too enthusiastically as he sat down.
I barely nodded.
‘You’re Padash, ain it! We went to the same school, yeah?’ He continued in his girly British accent.

I had no desire of engaging in any tête-à-tête with this kid yet the boy was tenacious. Never once leaving my side the entire day and following me around like a puppy. As irked as that made me, I had involuntarily just spent my entire first day of school with this kid and there was nothing I could do to change that. When the seniors came to rag him in the common room, I offered him no support. Mostly because I wanted to avoid the nightmare myself. When he returned to my side distraught with eyes welled up in tears, we spoke nothing of the experience. Instead, he broke the awkward silence with ‘So…do you fancy the Spice Girls?!’ Pretty much, I came home from one of the worst first days of school, never wanting to return.

One day, as I came out of class, I noticed the senior boys taunting and mocking him with homophobic rants.
‘Aye Vilayatee Khussi idhar aa…’ they would screech when he walked by. Something in me just snapped and I turned to yell ‘Teray baap kee tarha chikna dikhta hay kya?’ They immediately transferred their vitriol for me with quips like ‘yaar is kee zabaan tu randyon say bhi buree hay’ but I didn’t care. I stood there with my bottle in front of my crotch screaming ‘shabaas beta, ab tum bhi pyaree see pussy ban gay dikhao?’. The boys eventually gave up and walked away moaning ‘Choro in kay moon naheen lagtay’.
The Brit boy rushed to give me a big hug soon after ‘Thanks so much for that.’
‘Don’t mention it!’
‘You’re my new best friend; I’m keeping you in my life forever.’ Great, I sighed sarcastically. I should have known. He wasn’t kidding!

Eventually the boy and I became good friends and began to hang out all the time. I nicknamed him Peanut much later but the epithet was perfect for this scrawny male who was not only girly but wore flashy clothes and jewelry. We were both the freaks of the school in a way and didn’t mind it. He was so gregarious though that he quickly became popular. A favorite among girls. Suddenly we were both not only a part of the ‘popular clique’ but began to really enjoy high school. After lunch at Arizona Grill one day, I was dropping Peanut home when he invited me inside to hang out. He lived in one of the most enormous houses in the area – even though everyone in our school woke up in mammoth houses –his lifestyle was completely different. When we walked in with our bags slung over our shoulders, he instructed the guard that I was his best-friend and was allowed to come to the house and use the pool even when he wasn’t at home. It was amusing watching my little Peanut scurry around his massive kingdom ordering the army of servants around. In the driveway was an empty Pajero with the AC on.
‘Dag, Tina’s home, she’s usually gone before I get home.’ He frowned his face at the running car.
‘Whose Tina?’ I asked.
‘My father’s wife.”
‘So she’s your mother then?’ I smirked.
‘Tina is NOT my mother!’ Peanut spun around with scorn ‘I only had one mother and she’s dead. Tina’s the biotch, my dad left my dying mother for.’
‘Got it!’ I nodded and followed him inside the mansion.

As expected, a young and slender beauty with bleached hair, a caked face, colored contacts and a sleeveless shirt stood at the kitchen counter smoking a menthol and punching digits on the cordless phone.
‘Hello sweetheart’ she smiled ‘How was school? Is that a new friend?’
She seemed nice but since my loyalties were with Peanut who remained cold, I too stayed formal.
‘Is it hot outside?’ She asked as she took a puff of her cigarette.’
‘It is but your chariot is well air conditioned by now. You can head off to your high tea.’ Peanut replied sarcastically.

‘She didn’t seem THAT bad.’ I joked once she left.
‘She’s probably heavily medicated. Wakes up at 2 and has menthol and Pinot Grigio for breakfast.’ Peanut pulled two bottles of coke from the fridge and then added ‘Come see my favorite room in the house.’
As I followed my petite little friend through endless hallways and baroque staircases, we finally arrived at a gaudy room with a long and extremely well stocked bar.
‘Cocktail Hour!’ He declared flamboyantly as he grabbed ice-cubes and a bottle of Vodka from the shelf.
‘This is insane! Wont your father find out?’
‘The only thing the three of us have in common in this house is our love for alcohol. Besides we rarely cross paths for weeks. I actually live in the Annex, I call it my Flat. When I first moved here, I would add water to the Vodka bottles so no one found out but now I don’t even bother. What will you have?’
‘I don’t really drink.’ I shrugged ‘Contrary to popular belief, I have only had a few sips of alcohol.’
‘Well you do now honey’ he giggled ‘Come let me show you the pool and my Flat.’

We walked outside to a private area draped entirely in bougainvilleas. In the middle was a lagoon styled swimming pool surrounded by rockery, plastic chaise longues and beach umbrellas. I was in resort brochure heaven! Peanut’s ‘Flat’ was right next to the pool too. He had argued with his father that he wanted his private space and after his mother’s death, mostly all his demands were met. Peanut later told me that he had not wanted to leave London. When he did, he placed several conditions on his father who acquiesced mostly out of guilt. As we sat on his bed that afternoon listening to Spice Girls, we sipped our Coke and Vodka and surfed through his stack of Sugar magazines. We talked about our lives and our plans. Born and raised in Neasden, he had lived a happy life till his mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. His father who was taking over the family business in Islamabad, traveled back and forth often. After his mother passed way, his father moved to Islamabad and immediately married a bimbo called Tina. Peanut was convinced that Tina had been a mistress long before his mother’s death and refused to become his father’s excuse of ‘only wanting a second wife to take care of his son.’ Even though he had relented and moved to Islamabad, he had vowed to never forgive his father nor accept his second wife. Peanut happened to be a very talented artist too. Much to his father’s chagrin, he had no interest in running the family business. Often discouraged for his passion for subjects like art his father instead wanted his only son to study business. The few times they ever crossed paths in the house, it would be the main cause for their contention. Just like myself, Peanut too had a well crafted plan for escape. His just wasn’t charted out on a restaurant napkin with a friend who was now missing. Like me, he too was tolerating two years in this country before he could move back to London. There he would live with friends in Soho and draw nudes for a living. I was one of the only girls in the entire school who had seen his artwork. Understandably, he kept his drawings hidden – especially from his father – because they were mostly male nudes and homoerotic sketches. Still, his work was mesmerizing and I always encouraged this amazing talent.
‘Wanna go for a swim?’ He asked me for the very first time that day as I took a sex quiz in Cosmo.
‘In what?’ I replied.
‘Wear one of Tina’s swimsuits…that drunk wont ever notice. Its not like anyone can see us either, Tina swims naked all the time.’
The next minute we were diving into the pool and then lying in the sun drinking our liquor and discussing our respective plans to escape the boredom of our current lives.
‘Two more years of this hell hole…’ he looked at me stretching on his chaise.
‘…and then we move abroad and live life on our terms!’ I replied. These became our words of comfort throughout our A-levels.

Peanut and I spent several such afternoons for the next two years. Spice Girls in the background, reading sex articles in Sugar or his mothers Cosmo in his Flat. On the weekends we went to dance parties and burned the floor with our moves. ‘Lick it’ by 20 fingers was our song and we would go ballistic when the DJ played it. After the parties, we would end up back at his place for nightcaps and after-hour swims. Poolside conversations would last till sunrise while my parents thought I was sleeping over at a female friend’s house.
‘Guess what!’ he exclaimed one morning in school ‘There is a peephole in the servant quarters. They have probably been masturbating to you and Tina all along…they are so getting fired.”
‘Don’t’ I stopped him ‘A few sneak peeks never hurt anybody; it’s the least I can do for our overworked labor force.’
I never told Peanut that often when swimming by myself, I would catch his father secretly watching me from his bedroom window. He detested his father enough and for some odd reason, the thought of the servants looking at me never made me as uncomfortable as his father did. Peanut’s recalcitrance on defying his father’s wishes to pursue business were also rooted in his vengeance to spite his father’s machismo. It would break my heart when he would cry in my lap after a heated argument with his father.



Although Peanut couldn’t wait to move back to London, my plans were to move to America and track down Alisha in New York. (Today I have only partly succeeded in my plan)
‘Two more years of this hell hole…’ one would say.
‘And then we move abroad…’
‘And live life on our terms!’
As fun and carefree as our high school lives were, they were never devoid of problems and complications. Even though, Peanut and I had become the popular kids, it was all just a front. I was easily vexed by the insipid rich debs, I was forced to call my friends. But in high school when you find yourself lucky enough to gain membership into the popular crowd, you conform. Funny how we did so while bragging about being nonconformist teenage rebels. Peanut was also the only friend from school whom I introduced to Afia. They hated each other immediately! Afia was a little crass with expressing her patronizing bemusement at Peanut’s effeminate nature.
‘Yaar Padash, yeh kya hijree cheez hay yaar.’ She commented later and I had to put her in her place.
On the other hand (maybe because Peanut sensed her ignorance) he treated her in a very elitist and stuck-up way, constantly belittling her and calling attention to her middle-class existence. They were both bitches (my friends after all) so would often hit each other where it hurt. There is much more to Peanut and Afia’s rivalry which I will save for a later column.

When Peanut finally came out to me while smoking pot by the pool one afternoon, the revelation came as no surprise.
‘Padash I like penis’ he tried to be direct.
‘You like peanuts?’ I misunderstood him.
We spent the next hour in hysterics and were more amused by the joke to even care about his confession. Truly it didn’t matter. In fact not only was the moment, the reason for his nickname but it became a running joke amongst us. We would ask girls in school if they liked peanuts and laugh hysterically when they would reply with statements like
‘Buhat’ or ‘Kuch achay hotay hain or kuch buhat sakht’ or ‘Haan na sardyon may heater kay saath tu peanuts ka maza hee alag hay’ or ‘Achhay baray walay pasand hain jo Abu Pindi say latay hain.’ And my all-time favorite ‘Yaar may tu dewanee huun….koi ghar may peanut bachta naheen jab may hotee hun, sab kha jatee hun.’ Poor girls.

I decided that Peanut’s sexuality was completely unimportant to me. I loved him so much I didn’t care if he dropped the soap on purpose. During our senior year, after my failed relationship with Akbar (whom he despised) we were studying for our SATs when Peanut disclosed to me that he was having an affair with a married man. A very influential and well-known one at that. Even I was shocked when he told me who it was. I warned him about the risks and didn’t want him to get his heart broken but Peanut was once again only doing it because the man was his father’s macho hunting buddy/business colleague. Luckily Peanut never got caught. I wasn’t one to judge though because when I began an affair with a married politician shortly after, Peanut and Afia were the only people who knew and neither of them judged. Sometimes the tables would turn on us. One day we both got home from school to find the entire furniture in the living room tossed and smashed. Tina sat bawling on the bottom of the stairs, disheveled because she had just discovered her husband was having an affair. Maybe even multiple ones. I would sympathize with Peanut at those moments and knew that he needed a friend more than ever yet his reactions would baffle me. With a cigarette and a drink, he would shrug and say ‘Such is life…not my headache…we are moving abroad!’

Peanut was my date to our farewell. Why wouldn’t I pick the best man in my life to be my date! The one who told me I was beautiful long before the world noticed. When I arrived at his house, he looked as handsome as ever in a black suit, rocking a pink shirt way before pink ever became the new black! As scrawny as he was…he looked dapper and I knew that one day he would make a man very happy. Peanut had not only picked out my dress for the evening but he did my hair and my makeup in his Flat. A complete makeover, with my hair straightened and my curves hugging the black Rizwan Beyg dress in all the right places. He helped me notice my beauty for the very first time that night. Before we headed off to our Farewell, we had a celebratory drink on his bed where we had spent the deepest, darkest and most intimate moments of our past two years. Watching porn, getting stoned, getting drunk, discussing our teenage affairs with adulterous men, his repulse for his father and my wish to find Alisha someday. I reminded him of the time we both fell asleep on his bed. We woke up and giggled because we had literally ‘just slept together.’
‘Oh no, I just slept with a woman!’ He would joke!
‘Oh no, I just slept with a gay guy.’ I would retort back.
As we drank our drinks in his flat, we were happy that our dreams were within our reach. An exciting time in our lives, I had gotten accepted to a small yet extremely progressive liberal arts college in the States. I could barely study for my A’s as I waited for my I20 and counted the days to my escape. Peanut held his glass up to toast to some good news too.
‘I got an offer from St. Martins! One of the best art schools in the world!’
I screamed louder than ever and he just could not stop snickering.

We partied hard that night. The after-party was at Peanut’s pool. Even after everyone left and the remaining few were passed out around the pool, Peanut and I stayed up smoking, drinking and talking as the sun rose above our heads. We were finally doing it! We were finally leaving! All those moments when after a fight with his father, he would grab his passport and threaten to run back to London, I would arrive and talk him out of it.
‘Just marry me…you can get British citizenship and run away with me!’ he would plead. And as tempting as it sounded the voice of reason would often prevail. That night once again we fell asleep in each other’s arms. The servants probably watched. Maybe his father did too, but I assume his father would smile at the vision. Honestly, I had begun to like the old man. He congratulated and sent Peanut off to art school with his blessings.

We left for our colleges shortly after. I was in a small-town in the States and Peanut was in London. For the most part, we immediately began to live the lives we had dreamt of. Clubbing, sex, independence and no rules; we emailed each other every detail. When we came home for the holidays, we were back at his Flat partying like high schoolers. I had lost all my weight and Peanut had transformed from a skinny kid to a beefed up muscle stud. We were not only happy but looked sexier than ever. We even met up around the world. Since he always had a penchant for older men; all expense paid lavish trips were the norm. I even reaped some of those benefits. The summer I spent a week with a friend in Paris, Peanut was in Nice shacked up with the owner of a winery. He came down to visit me and we went dancing at Banana Café. When Jenny and I went to Cancun for spring break, we actually stayed in the luxury suite where he was staying with his new Real Estate developer boyfriend.

We are both nearing our 30s now. I’m settled in New York and he still lives in London. This time his ‘flat’ is an actual apartment in chic Soho. Six-pack, biceps, pecs…the boy has a body for days and truly a heartbreaker. Single as far as I know, but men come and go in his life like parking tickets. We remain as close as ever. He has an amazing relationship with his father now whom he eventually grew to love. Most of our high school friends are now just a square on our facebook friends lists. A lot of them fat, married, and popping babies in suburban hell. But for Peanut and I, our lives are just beginning. We look good, we feel great and I can dial his number this very moment and scream.
‘We did it Peanut!’
To which he would reply ‘Yes love, we’re living abroad…’
‘Living life on our terms…’

The City of Lights!!!

As a young girl in Islamabad, I grew up in awe of both Karachi and Karachiites. A city that sparked notions of glamour, glitz, partying and showbiz. Pakistan’s very own New York City; its massive crowds intimidating me. Alisha would often joke that ‘you can’t even throw a stone in Karachi without hitting a celebrity’ and in many ways she couldn’t have been more right! Even though I had always imagined my first, big trip to Karachi to be full of glamorous and unadulterated saturnalia, it’s ironic that my fondest memories of the city barely revolve around the motley dance floors of baroque houses. Neither do I smile reminiscing of swaying inside nightclubs with historic significance like The Metropole or the hedonistic after-parties graced by a random assortment of rockers, models, socialites and designers. Instead, I dig through recollections of another Karachi, completely different yet utterly real. The real Karachi, revealed only when the tiny slither of glamour, stardom and glitz was peeled away. Making way for the thousands of other Karachiites struggling around the periphery of the few elites that dominated our perceptions. So lets pick up where we left off, shall we?

Why Yes!

After my O-level exams, I had no plans for the rest of the summer. At first, I slept for days and when I finally emerged out of my room; my first stop was at the British Council Library to issue a bunch of books. A part of my escape plan to the States, thanks to an idea I got by eavesdropping on a conversation between two nerds during Economics tuition. So ‘papoo’s’ advice, I took and headed straight to the Library to abandon my Sweet Dreams for Somerset Maugham, Nabakov, Tolstoy and Ayn Rand. All quite insipid but they did the trick and matured my vocabulary for my SATs. And while on one end were stacks of intellectual literature, on the other end of the backseat lay a stack of rented videos of Bollywood and Hollywood. Balance is healthy, a little bit of Jaaneman for every few pages of Jane Eyre!

Though I had severed all communication from my friends, I remained in touch with Alisha who began to insist and then demand that I visit her in Karachi. Of course, her offers were extremely enticing as she painted pictures of raucous parties, the cutest boys and the most fascinating of peers. Alas, the fantasy remained as impossible as building Rome in a measly day…or better yet a second.

But then, Rome was built. My brother who was settled in Dubai with his wife and daughter, was transferred to Karachi for a 6 month project! Bingo! Cautiously I approached my father and broached the subject. Mama was dead against the idea – even though bhai was over there – and Papa was not too keen on the idea of having me go away for that long. I suggested an internship on Chundrigar Road or the FTC building also. As impossible as it seemed, my father, who was slowly becoming more liberal among his new and progressive peers, actually entertained the thought for a while much to Mama’s chagrin and protests. I was overjoyed and somewhat shocked when he finally acquiesced. Three days later and after contacting all his friends in Karachi, he presented me with some internship opportunities with various advertising or PR firms and then possibly an afterthought of a summer job to teach English at a ‘Coaching Center’ for women. I had no idea what a ‘Coaching Center’ was but didn’t really care either. I always dreamt of becoming an English teacher (weird I know) so I chose that job. Advertising didn’t really interest me! Ironic how I now work in that field now.

We screamed for hours into the phone when I informed Alisha. Instantly she began firing off plans while painting pictures of endless debauchery which would begin with ‘GTs’ (get togethers) and end at mammoth dance floors or sunrise after-parties at the beach! I began packing right away, folding in the most stylish clothes apt for a trip to the fashion capital of Pakistan.

My flight landed in Karachi somewhere around Noon and at Jinnah International airport, I immediately surrendered to supermodels with attitude sashaying around where handsome men glided with self-imposed importance of Wall Street tycoons. Pretty feminists in kurtees and kola puris, competed with the snobbery while they boasted of ‘jobs’ in women’s non-profits after four liberal artsy years abroad. Lives still paid by Daddys and Abas as they ‘helped’ rape victims or domestic abuse survivors. A clichéd novel by a South Asian writer tucked conspicuously in a jute handbag adding to the whole granola motif! To my almost suburban, maybe even small-town naïvette, all of this seemed extremely awe-inspiring. In Islamabad the handful of streets all ended in the same location and you could run into seven friends and seventeen acquaintances on the way, none of whom were autograph worthy.

I arrived at the house in Clifton where my brother and his family were staying and although he was at work, my bhabhi was there in her nightie to greet me with a warm smile.
‘How was your flight sweetheart?’ My bhabhi always tickled me with her adorable begum drawl ‘Why don’t you freshen up for lunch, but before that, please call your friend Alisha…she has called a million times already.’
Even though I was craving a bed and a shower after the flight, I sunk into the couch and dialed Alisha’s number. After a deafening scream into the phone, she told me to get ready immediately. We were going to lunch!

True to her word, I had barely showered when we were immediately off in her car devouring Karachi streets with the windows rolled down, music blaring and cigarette smoke engulfing our frames. We had lunch at Copper Kettle where we giggled over menu items such as ‘Kiss my Buns’ and ‘Cock n Bull’ but it was the infamous Caked Alaska that I still crave to this day. I tried my best not to appear too star struck by all the celebs around. I remember spotting Mishi Khan walking out of a store and screaming ‘Oh My God, that’s Aroosa!’ The late Amin Guljee was seated just a few tables away from us and he paid absolutely no attention to Alisha’s flirtatious advances. After lunch, we walked up to an apartment in the Zamzama area where a friend of hers – back then an aspiring but now a famous fashion designer – resided with a female roommate also an aspiring (now a famous and former) fashion model. We became immediately acquainted over drinks, cigarettes and joints. It was evident that this apartment with loud red walls was a regular hangout among friends, friends-of-friends and even strangers. Hipsters constantly walked in and out. Some in between classes, some between photo shoots, lunches, dinners or even before or after dance parties. I met so many celebrities, socialites and even plain old rich brats that night and by the end, I was invited to a string of dance parties by boys who asked me to be their ‘date’. Modesty Note: Most dance parties back then were ‘couples only’ to dissuade stags and thus anything with boobs was asked to be a ‘date’. It just helped that I had really big ones! I got home way past midnight that night and although my brother gave me that raised eyebrow, he told me to have fun. Alisha was moving back to the States in a month, and this promised to be an amazing summer before we bade each other farewell.

Over the next several weeks, I partied with Alisha like a rock-star. Parties in Karachi never seemed to end. After dancing all night on a dance floor we would take the party to a hut at French Beach or the ‘Red Flat’ for some after-hours revelry. When we finally got home to sleep after sunrise, the phone would ring a mere few hours later with Alisha yelling ‘Get ready biotch, we are going back to the beach for the day.’

My first day at work, I decided to dress the part. After bunching my hair up in a considerably conservative bun I donned a kurta (granted it was a short shirt, but that was the rave back then). The first day of anything – job, school – is pretty challenging, so I expected to deal with awkward and bullying stares. But my colleagues in the staffroom had nothing in common with me and were the complete opposite of the females I hung around with in the evenings. Modestly dressed women from modest homes of Nazimbad and Gulshan; they took a series of buses and wagons to arrive at this summer job at a Clifton Coaching Center that I was easily able to score thanks to Papa’s connections. The school was close enough to my brother’s house so I could walk there. Nestled in a nice Sea-View location, I would enjoy a leisurely stroll by the beach on my way to work. It was perfect save for the fact that I was a complete misfit there. Story of my life right? The young women I taught, hung on to my every word while they struggled with their own enunciations of Angrezi. They would curiously observe my mannerisms, my clothes and my vernacular with enchantment. My colleagues were a whole different story though. They would get immediately and deafeningly quiet whenever I walked into the staff room. Hardly ever was a word exchanged with me, when they would sit and eat greasy lunches pulled out of steel tiffins or when they would discuss family issues over challees and bhuttas. The few times I wore jeans and T-shirts to work, their stares of disapproval became more palpable. Sure, it didn’t help when I stepped out for cigarette breaks or when Alisha would show up to take me to lunch in her tight clothes, liquor breath and an American accent always laced with swear words and topics that bounced between boys and bitches.

There were a handful of teachers in that school, but the ones I remember the most were Ms. Nazo, Ms. Afsheen and Ms. Laila. Why? Because as much as they glared and disapproved of me in the beginning they eventually demolished their walls and allowed me into their lives. World’s so utterly and completely different from my own. In the beginning, I would sit and read a book and ignore their vapid conversations. Later at night, with an entirely different crowd at the Red Flat, I would recount their stories and express disgust at being trapped in a room full of such ‘backward’ and ‘paendoo’ women. I could quote their pathetic conversations verbatim.
‘Laila…may tumhara bootay wala suit apnay chachazaad bhai kee mehndi par pahen loon’ or ‘Haan, is kay saath meray paas fashion jewelry bhi hay, bilkul who fillum may Madhuri nay pehnee thee?’
But sometimes their conversations would pique my curiosity. Like the time someone made a comment ‘Nazo…tumhay kya, tum to Amreeka ja rahee ho.’ Nazo responded by storming out of the room visibly upset. But it was particularly strange because on other days her reaction would be the complete opposite. She would sometimes even add ‘Haan jab may Amreeka jaaooon gee na…tu phir tumhay vailaitee shampoo bhejh doon gee.’
All quite bizarre. Ms. Afsheen, wore scarves even in the summers and often quoted dialogues from Bollywood films. Ms. Laila was a miser who was always devising efficient ways to save a paisa or two. One thing was for sure, they all had interesting histories and as our friendships grew, they gradually shared their heart-wrenching backgrounds with me.

Most nights when I would return from a boozy dinner with Alisha and lie in bed, it wasn’t the celebrities and the cute boys I would lie awake thinking about. It would be my female coworkers and their pessimistic fates that kept me awake. Ms. Nazo was in her early thirties and had been married since she was 21. Unfortunately, she had only physically been in her husband’s presence for two months out of that decade. The first month was immediately following her wedding and the second was a couple of years later. Her husband was settled in the States when they got married and returned a month after their wedding. Since then, Nazo had been living with her in-laws, caring for them and waiting for her ‘immigration paperwork’ so she could someday move to the States and live with her husband. It was the promise made to her years ago as a young bride. Most days she lived on that slither of hope, as she got ready everyday with clothes pulled out of suitcases, packed and ready to move across the oceans to an Amreeka that she had only witnessed through movies and a few of her husband’s cherished Polaroid’s. Although everyone talked about Ms. Nazo ‘moving to Amreeka soon’, it was only in hushed whispers and behind her back, that they confessed with genuine concern that she would probably never move to the States. Rumor mill churned out possibilities of her husband being incarcerated, maybe married to a ‘Goree’ while some deduced that marriage to Nazo was solely for the purpose of finding a caregiver for his parents. However whenever Nazo came around, everyone immediately resumed their hopeful and optimistic faces. Once when I expressed my distaste with this denial, Afsheen replied with her most filmy tone. ‘Tu phir? What other option do we have but to hope?’ She had a point!

Ms.Afsheen was the most talkative of the bunch and always nibbling on a challee. Very amicable, she was the first to reach out to me for friendship. Often inquiring about Pakistan’s nightlife, discotheques and dating with childish curiosity. I often wondered why she worked here and why in her twenties she was also unmarried. A rarity in that crowd. One day – as she munched on a challee while I smoked – she too shared her story. A young girl with mellifluous looks, she was wooed by mothers of eligible bachelors in her family or neighborhood before she had even began her Matric. Quick to inform me that photographers and video-wallay at shadees almost always took candid close-ups of her at weddings. By the time she started her Fsc, she was engaged to a cousin who was to become an engineer himself. The ‘love marriage’ engagement lasted a good two years and she felt blessed because he was on his way to a successful career and a ‘kothee’. Unfortunately, one evening as she cooked for her parents over the stove, her shirt caught fire and when she woke up, she was in the intensive care unit being treated for third degree burns on her entire torso. It finally made sense why Afsheen always wore scarves. Now she spent most of her evenings reading Urdu digests in her spare time, and always inserted ‘filmy dialogues’ in her statements. And as dramatic as they seemed, some of them were disturbingly apt. Like the time she sighed that none of her physical burns ever scarred as bad as when her heart was scorched by her fiancé. Within three months, the engagement was broken off with some fatuous excuse. The next few years were spent waiting for proposals but news of her burn scars had reached everyone. All her cousins who had once envied Afsheen’s beauty were now married with children, including her ex-fiancé. Single and living with her parents, Afsheen now contributed to the household income by teaching. I tried my best to comfort her with false hopes of a dashing man (or a dashing mother-in-law) who would sweep her off her feet without a care about her scars. But my words of comfort were immediately perished when Afsheen informed me that she no longer permitted women of eligible bachelors to visit for ‘chai’ or ‘gup shup’. Two years ago, a woman had arrived at their doorstep with genuine interest and brought their hopes up. She returned and invited herself to dinner three more times after meeting Afsheen. The family began to believe that their luck was finally changing. But on her fourth visit, the woman asked to speak to Afsheen privately. Once alone in the room, she then requested Afsheen to take her shirt off. She wanted to examine the burns for herself. Assess the extent of damage before offering any final commitments for her son. Fuel to the fire, she went on to share that she was only obliging her son’s request to do so. Afsheen described it as the most degrading experience of her life. Standing stark naked in front of a strange woman and trying hard to numb the sounds of her ‘tsk tsking’ and macabre expressions of pity mixed with repulsion. The woman bolted out and never returned. After that, Ms. Afsheen decided that marriage was no longer in her future. No more efforts were ever made to entertain any possible ‘proposals’. That chapter had long closed.

Miss Laila was our other friend at the Coaching Center. Her situation was not as dire as the others but her perseverance and optimism was also inspiring. The eldest of four siblings of which only the youngest was a brother. Their father had passed away at a young age and she had witnessed her mother rely on brothers for too long. Although grateful to her Mamoon’s for their financial and emotional help, she was also well aware of the degradation that came with being dependant on another. By the time she started her bachelors, she voluntarily gave up marriage plans to help raise her siblings instead. Her youngest brother was the main reason she worked a bunch of different jobs around the clock from teaching in schools, providing tuitions, sewing/stitching and even face-painting at children’s birthday parties on the weekends. All juggled while taking evening classes for her BA. She used only a small fraction of her paycheck to pay for groceries while the majority was saved for her brother’s future education at what she hoped would be Dow Medical College. Part of her motivation to work as a teacher in different schools was also because it allowed her siblings to study at these schools for free. Still, she never once complained about her difficult life, which only allowed for a few hours of sleep. Instead, her eyes would light up as she would plop down on a staff-room sofa in the morning and frequently exclaim ‘yaar kal raat tu buhat maza aya. Ham nay kamra band kya aur 3 ghantay AC chalaya. Amir Khan walee film dekhee sab nay aur ganaay rewind kar kar kay sunay. Ami nay bhi dekhee…bas bijlee ka bill mar dalay ga magar film ko to phir AC may dekhnay ka maza hay na!’

As time went on, our friendships grew even more. I began to look forward to seeing my new friends at school everyday. Even Alisha was now amused by these new friends. I still fondly remember those sweet moments of talking in the staffroom for hours. The time all the other teachers tried a cigarette with me and coughed up a storm while whispering ‘tauba, tauba, bas kar day Padash…phepray khatam ho jaen gay teray.’ How Ms. Afsheen would theatrically read us an afsana from an Urdu digest in our spare time while we sat drinking our teas and devouring our challees, engrossed like little children. Soon there were more secrets the girls began to share with me. Ones they could never repeat to others. I was now their most trusted, ‘modern type’ confidant who would never judge. Ms. Nazo would secretly bring tacky, glitter-soaked Eid cards and love letters with bright red lips and hearts on the front. Starved for a man’s affection, she had begun an illicit romance with a married man next door, who just also happened to be her husband’s first cousin. It didn’t mean much, she only sought solace in cheap love ‘shayaree’ that she could share with a beloved. Any beloved. Verses that often began with ‘aaj phir meray lab pay tera naam aya’ and when I cringed at the words, Ms. Nazo would giggle and dismiss me with ‘abay chal…abhi tujhay muhabbat naheen huee na is liye.’ Truck shayeri like:
‘Dabbay may Dabba, Dabbay may Cake
Meree muhabbat kay rakhwalay, tu hay lakhon may aik’
And when I began an equally greasy and cheap summer romance with a ‘mohallay ka larka’ called Badar, the girls would sit with me and read his letters with giggles and swoons.

So now, who was this cheapster summer love, you ask? Well, his name was Badar and he lived in a flat on Sea-View which I often passed on my way to work. The first time I saw him, I hardly paid him any attention. Just another ‘maila’ standing outside his flat wearing knockoff stonewashed jeans, khussas and a pink shirt (long before pink was the new black). Oh and did I mention, the boy had a mullet! The loser was a perfect specimen of the greasy cheapness that turned girls off. So of course, I would embark on a summer fling with this ‘bollywood ka namoona’. From the corner of my eye, I could notice his lingering and hungering gaze, inevitable among boys starved for any form of female affection. I walked by ignoring him seduced only by what was between his fingers, not his legs. A Marlboro.

Soon, I began to see him on my walk home from work everyday and then even in the mornings. His flirtation growing with courage each day; a nod, a smile and on other days an attempt to blow smoke with dramatic, hero-like gusto. I continued to ignore him, till one day he slipped a love letter and ran off. Ufff… what a letter that was too. Ms. Nazo swooned over it and copied some of his shayeri but truthfully it was painful to read. Sure, his broken English was endearing, with lyrics of Def Leopard and Bon Jovi inserted randomly in between sentences. Professions of love that began with ‘I have flying on broken wings for many years only’ and ending with ‘I am living on a prayer to meet you’. Alisha and our other Red Flat friends relished in its entertainment value on bored nights over Slims, Vodka and cigarettes.
‘Yaar you really should give him a try’ Alisha did not surprise me with her suggestion as she toyed with her drink and cigarette ‘What do you have to loose. I heard these Nazimabadi types are real freaks in bed!’
And though I was still a virgin back then, I didn’t dismiss the idea of harmless entertainment for that summer either.

Anxiously he waited for a response after the melodramatic delivery of the letter but I provided him with none. His dejection began to manifest on his face and soon he stopped waiting for me in his usual spot.
Then one day, I decided to have a little fun on my own. I noticed him smoking in his usual corner, so I walked straight up to him savoring his expression of utter and speechless shock. With his fingers trembling and knees wobbling, I stood next to him for the first few minutes as he nervously looked around to make sure the Mohalla wasn’t already weaving gossip about him standing next to a girl in jeans.
‘Can I have cigarette?’ I broke the silence.
Still speechless….he fidgeted around and I pushed further ‘Well? I know you have more in that pack? Love letters may tu aasman taray daina ka keh rehay thay, laikan ab aik sutta bhi naheen? Kya hua?’
Promptly he pulled out a cigarette and then watched me light it up with ease as I blew smoke rings in the air.
‘Aap ko cigarette naheen peeney chaiye’ He finally spoke.
‘Why not?” I still answered him in English on purpose.
‘It is not look decent for girls to smoke.’
‘Oh ho…to decent girls ko to love letters bhi naheen daynay chaiiye na?’
His lips curved into a smile of defeat and I grinned back. It was the first time I noticed that behind that hideous mullet, the distasteful clothes, the smell of Brylcreem and Black Cat Talcum Powder and the thick accent, he was actually far better looking than most men I had been partying with at night. In fact, had he been born in Clifton of Defense, he would have been quite a well-groomed catch.

Alas, our little moment of sweetness lasted only a few seconds before the voice of a little boy jolted him completely. ‘Bubloo Bhaiiiiii….ami bula raheen hain, geeyzer phir bund ho gaya hay.’ Immediately, he stubbed his cigarette on the ground and with his eyes he pleaded me to leave. I stood there calmly smoking as he hurried back inside to resume his role as Bubloo the obedient son.

We began a full-fledged courtship soon after. After meeting at our designated spot everyday on my way home from work, we would walk around the Sea-View shore, like local lovebirds. I had never experienced such a romance because in my world, boys and girls could date, gyrate and mutually masturbate quite openly. Here, romance was emulated through Bollywood dialogues and gifts of chooriyan, Walls ice-cream and jhumkay. The more I got to know him, the more I began to adore his simplicity. When I would mock his hairstyle, he would confidently retort ‘Apache style yaar’ and when I broke into hysterics he would reply ‘Agar ab tumhay pata naheen hay tu may kya karoon, aglay maheenay naeen say kahoon ga, agay say Salman Khan peechay say Apache.
‘Aur sides say Om Puri?’ I would add and then crack up.

Badar owned a motorbike so on our more daring dates, we would drive around the city on his Kawasaki. It was far more exhilarating than any date in a boy’s (actually his father’s car) that I had ever been on in the past. He took me to Jinnah Park, Frere Garden and once we even went on the pirate Ship at Joyland. Surprisingly, I was beginning to enjoy his company and soon, we were sneaking out on dates at night. We took our relationship to more intimate levels when we would go to his friend’s garage and make out for hours. Not the best kisser but eventually I taught him through enough practice. We never really got past second-base with some heavy necking and petting with our clothes on. He would literally hunger for me and explore my body like a kid in a candy store; eyes widened, hands trembling. The further we got, the more I knew I was only fulfilling my role as the first girl he had ever been intimate with. His practice. And as life’s curriculum dictates, those aren’t the girls men later marry. But I was okay with that. As pleasant as our moments were, deep down I felt the same too. We were merely each other’s ‘time-pass’ and we both came from two totally different worlds and didn’t really belong in either once the summer was over. I had also lied to him the entire time. As far as he knew, I had moved to Karachi from Islamabad to go to Indus Valley and was going to live there. So maybe he would lie to me too when he talked about ‘love’ and ‘marriage’. Sometimes he would even sheepishly remark ‘aray aik tu teree angrezee naheen samajh atee…aisee chuwain chuwain kar kay boltee ho bilkul angrezon kee tarha…meree Ma kay samnay tu sirf Urdu bolnee parhay gee…who behcaree angrezi naheen boltee.’ I would laugh it off by suggesting ‘acha phir karo phone…baat karao sasoo ma say.’ Other times he would bring up more serious topics and inform me that once we got married I wouldn’t be able to wear ‘jeans pant’ in front of his family because they were more conservative. I would also have to quit smoking. At that point, I would remind ‘Bubloo janee’ that it was actually my ‘jeans pant’ that attracted him in the first place. Maybe, he truly was beginning to get serious and was struggling with the idea of making this fast girl from Isloo a potential ‘ghareloo wife’. If so, I was wrong for deceiving him and leading him on but dear readers, I will always write honestly even if that sometimes means that I will end up being the villain. None of us are perfect.

Two months rolled by and I didn’t even notice. It was almost like I had begun to live in Karachi and had no desire to move back. I had friends here besides Alisha’s crew. Friends like Ms. Nazo, Ms. Afsheen, Ms. Laila and Badar. Honestly, if I hadn’t immersed myself in the world of my coworkers and my summer love, I would probably never have been prepared to begin a friendship with Afia whom I would meet a few months after my return to Isloo. The few nights I wasn’t out dancing with Alisha at a party or driving around Sea-View on Badar’s bike, I would lie in bed and listen to the song ‘As I lay me down to sleep’ by Sophie B Hawkins. It was also the song I listened to everyday on my walkman when I walked to work. A lot happened in those two months. I made my own money, I became a part of people’s lives, I bid farewell to my best-friend Alisha whom I never heard from again and I began and ended a love affair with a boy whom I never would have looked at on any other day from the spoilt, glass-castle world I was used to.

When the days of my own departure neared, the teachers at school threw a little farewell party for me. They brought me gifts and a cake and we celebrated in the staff room. I even took everyone out to lunch at Copper Kettle afterwards and they laughed with amusement at my comment that I really had no desire to marry a man and was much more intrigued by the life of a single girl. Most of that empowered promise I have stuck with to this day. I took a cab home because I did not want Badar to see all the farewell gifts and bouquets in my hand. Later that night, when I finally called him, I made up some silly excuse. On my last night in Karachi, we met up again. It was our last date but only I knew that. For him it was just another night. He had become comfortable enough with me to let his guard down and show his foolish side. We parked under a secluded corner and made out some more. It was adorable watching his eyes light up with pleasure after years of imagining it in thoughts or through cheap rented porn videos that had weathered different head-cleaning concoctions. He would always whisper ‘I love you’ every time he lunged for my chest and sometimes lovingly he would purr the same words to me while staring straight into my eyes. I would always reply with just a smirk. I wondered if it was lust and felt guilty because if his words were genuine, his love was completely unrequited and his heart was about to be broken. When I returned home that night, I immediately began to pack (Sophie B. Hawkin’s song on repeat) as I realized how much I had learned in those two months.



The next morning I headed for the airport and I knew it was probably the same time when Nazo, Afsheen and Laila were arriving to work bused in various different wagons and coaches. Badar was probably waiting for me at our usual spot hoping to wish me a good morning with a smile, a wink or just the vroooom of his bike. I wondered what he would think when I wouldn’t show up that day. Or ever. When I wouldn’t ever call him again. He would probably wonder with bafflement about what happened to me and I felt terrible, I truly did. It wasn’t the first heart I would break and definitely not the last. My time in Karachi had reached its end. I was returning to Islamabad a whole new person. Even Papa commented on how I seemed to have matured so much over the summer. Maybe, it was just the break I needed to resume my life with more insight and more wisdom. If it wasn’t for this trip Papa would have had a harder time relenting on sending me to college abroad on my own.

Today, I read books and watch shows about Karachi all the time. Oh that glamour, that glitz, that charm. But I am always forced to remember a different Karachi. Unfortunately, today I have no idea how any of my friends are doing. Alisha’s crew often shows up on the ‘Scene’ pages of glossy magazines or flash through my screen on one of the several TV channels in Pakistan. But my other friends, I have no idea about. We never kept in touch and I doubt I would ever find them lurking on facebook. I will always hope that their present lives are exactly how we prayed they would turn out. Badar, I’m sure, is now married with a few kids of his own. I wouldn’t be surprised if he married a nice decent cousin of his who would be oblivious about his first kiss and how he felt his first pair of breasts with a fast girl from Islamabad who suddenly vanished on him one day. Probably now balding and gaining weight. I also hope Ms. Nazo got her dream of moving to the States to be with her husband. That her illicit love affair was never discovered? That a dashing and handsome man did sweep Ms. Afsheen off her feet to marry her. That Ms. Laila’s brother became a doctor and provided them with a decent life. That she too is now married? Maybe even to a billionaire. I don’t know but I sure hope so. After all, as Ms. Afsheen once melodramatically declared ‘What other option do we have but to hope.’

An Unforgettable Farewell!!!

Proms, sigh! Seem like such an American concept, don’t they? From freshmen in dorm rooms to execs in corner offices. From Manhattanite yuppies drowning their stress with expensive cocktails to even Brooklyn hipsters gulping down cheap beer; everyone always has a prom memory to share. The same is true for us Pakistanis, we just referred to our proms as ‘Farewells’. We too had a King, a Queen, a dance floor, dates and I’m sure, like several American teens, many lost their virginities on that sacred night too. I remember my A-level Farewells distinctly. Both of them. But my O-levels Farewell is the one I will always hope to forget. A truly unforgettable evening complete with drama, angst, scandal and injustice. The night that finally attested to the world what was once believed to be nothing more than an urban legend. The exaggerated myth that behind the pristine and elitist walls of Islambad’s burger schools, lay extremes of depravity and decrepitude disguised flawlessly under kitschy costumes of privilege. So…without further a due…dear readers, you are cordially invited to Padash’s O-levels Farewell. Held on that unforgettable night in 1997. Venue: a meticulously perfect school in the meticulously perfect city of Islamabad.

Why Yes!

By the end of my O-levels, I was as miserable as misery could define. In the past year, I had not only managed to completely alienate myself from the entire school but had made absolutely no efforts to make friends either. Instead, I had chosen to spend my nights partying with foreigners from another school. A heretic bunch of drunks and stoners like Alisha, Cookie and the usual eclectic assortment of diplomat’s kids. It should be of no surprise then, that it all came back to haunt me the minute Alisha moved to Karachi on a spontaneous whim. As if on cue, Cookie too moved back to the Netherlands a few weeks later. Now, my only close friend was the innocent Shela. A genuinely pious and winsome little thing, who had never showed any interest in Islamabad’s wild nightlife. As different as we were now, she still remained a loyal friend who never left my side. She had often warned me in the past about the perils of this wanton lifestyle I was diving deep into but as I spiraled out of control in a world where nice Pakistani girls didn’t belong, Shela still never renounced her loyalty to me as a friend. When I was no longer being picked up from school for drug and liquor infused afternoon soirees by tube-top wearing and skinhead friends; Shela stayed by my side. Unfortunately, that too came to an end when I was greeted one morning with a bottle of coke and the infamously acerbic words ‘Padash, we need to talk!’ I bunked my class only to be informed that my only friend in the entire city was now also moving to Canada. One day I went over to help her pack, the next day she too was gone.

All alone, yet again. Even more painful to walk through school now. Everyone’s bigoted eyes daggering into my back with whatever rumors (true or false) that were plucked from the grapevine. With Alisha around, I never cared but without her, I no longer felt as invincible. Though some were impressed and intrigued by tales of my untamed partying, others showed veritable disapproval if not derision. Rumors followed me everywhere; of overdosing on GHB, throwing my legs up in backseats, binge drinking into stupors, piercings and tattoos on unspoken body parts and stories of blood gushing out my nose after a night of heavy snorting. All false, yet the list went on. I learned quickly that in Pakistan you are often proven guilty by association. And while some obsequiously circled around me hoping for invites to these exclusive parties others referred to me as a “slut” and a “whore” under their breaths. Sometimes I would turn around and confront but most often I would just ignore. True, I hadn’t committed any of the above sins …yet. But the important point was that I easily could have. Why? Because to me, they hardly seemed like sins in the first place. Why get offended when your reputation – real or imagined - proceeds you. Your best bet then? To stop caring. After all, I had made my bed, now I had to lie in it.

To be honest, I wasn’t completely alone or friendless. Not like the ostracized Aliya at least. That one had become a true pariah, reaching the bottom end of the school’s outcast barrel. For the most part, classmates like Annie, Nida and even Qadir liked me. A lot of it was due to my status of being a jaunty rebel and a partying rule-breaker. The few high schoolers who boasted undeniable access to Muddys Café; Islambad’s only discotheque back in the 90s. Where among strobe lights and artificial fog, one only found notoriously rich yuppies and their trophy wives, foreign diplomats who didn’t need bootleggers for alcohol, effeminate males who loved disco music and then just a select few high school socialites. Maybe because of Alsiha’s revealing clothing and Cookie’s gora skin, somehow we had made it on that list.

Still, so tired was I of the constant glares from schoolmates that I jumped at the opportunity to take my prep leave early under the guise of studying for my O-levels. I could now stay home cooped up on the couch all day, away from the hypocritical world. I could sleep in and demand breakfast in bed. The rest of the day, I would spend watching Chicago Hope, Antaakshari and Crystal Maze. The house, I left, only for a few hours at the tuition center. At nights I doodled on my notes while Alisha raved endlessly on the phone of her exciting and glamorous new life in Karachi.

Somewhere along the way, I began to study. After all, procrastination can become quite prosaic after a while. Besides, if I had to follow the escape plan that Alisha and I had concocted on a Pappsallis napkin, I had to make sure that I scored grades that would guarantee my acceptance into a good American college. One afternoon, when I returned home from the tuition center I was perfunctorily rummaging through the mail. Then my eyes fell on a gaudy envelope caked with unkempt glitter around my name. Ladies and gentleman, lo and behold, an invitation to my O-levels farewell! Before that moment, I hadn’t really given much thought to it. As far as I knew, I was never going to return to that loathed school. But now as it ‘cordially’ invited me back to rub shoulders with people I never knew, I was torn. I tossed the envelope away and tried not to think about it for the rest of the day.

Later that night, I sat in my room, balancing the invite on my knee with a vacillating predicament. In my favorite corner, with the door locked and the window open, I smoked a cigarette right by the sill. A few days ago, the choice would have been simple. I despised that school so why bother going to the Farewell. But now, with the tacky invite, in front, a part of me was suddenly piqued with curious longing. It was my O-levels Farewell, after all. A night I would never again get to experience. Would I miss out if I didn’t go? Why did I hate the school so much in the first place? Just then my eyes fell on the mirror across and staring back at me was a reflection I had never before noticed. I leapt up immediately to take a closer look only to confirm that the stranger was in fact me. I had changed so much in the past two years. That timid and innocent girl in a long braid who hid behind the shadows of queen-bees had departed a long time ago. In her place now, was an apathetic rebel. No longer intimidated I had become the intimidator. The dull braid replaced by a gutsy perm and blond streaks. Baggy men’s shirts with the tips of my fingers barely peeping from the cuffs. What was once innocence had now become the hardened look of a girl who had seen far too much in the past two years. From abortions to ODs. Dark lipstick on a mouth that no longer winced when swear words escaped and a nose ring which was a first of many rebellious arguments with my mother. When had all this happened? How had it happened? I knew the answers; I had just never stopped to ask them before. Never really took a minute to look at myself in the mirror. And that’s when I realized that if my O-levels had transformed me into this new person, then if nothing else, it made sense for me to celebrate that fact at my Farewell. I was ending an eventful and life-changing journey, so why not do it with a middle finger as my goodbye wave!

Mama was annoyingly more excited than I about my Farewell. I guess after having lost her daughter to dark makeup and teenage rebellion (she blamed Alisha) attending the school Farewell was a sign of my return to conformed normalcy. O-level Farewells also caused mothers to flock to their dusty wardrobes and pull out forgotten saris which no longer fit. An opportunity for them to play-dress up with their daughters and then gush over their dolled up genes. Fathers stood teary eyed with a camera wondering how their little girl in frocks had blossomed into a woman in a sari. Mama had picked a beautiful black sari for me and pulled my hair back in a meticulous bun with a solitary curl hanging loosely down my right cheek. And when both my parents rushed to take pictures of their grownup daughter, I hid my discomfort with forced smiles. I have the picture in front of me right now as I type this and I realize that my mother had actually done a great job. Unfortunately, all I had to offer in return was the nervous smile of an obviously unhappy girl not yet comfortable in her own skin. Stifling her fear with an angry frown.

It was also that time when I had embarked on a superficial phone-and-rooftop love-affair with a loser called Ahmed (Happy Effing VD to you). So before I headed to my Farewell, I promised to go on a date with him later that night. He was excited to see me dressed up while I dreaded the thought of being alone with him. He was merely the result of a bored and adventurous initiative on my part. Since it was customary for girls to sneak off with boyfriends and fiancées after the Farewell, I too decided to follow the unwritten ritual.

When I arrived at school, my classmates greeted me with genuine excitement. I guess for them I would always be the tabloid princess soaked in veracious and fictitious tales of scandal and gossip. And just like that, within minutes we were huddling close together for group pictures near memorable landmarks. For a second my eyes caught Aliya’s standing by herself and staring at us from a corner. The envious longing in her eyes; both endearing and pitiable. Later, when I walked to the refreshment table, we indulged in an equally awkward exchange.
‘Hi Padash’
‘Hey Aliya’
‘Can you believe it? Seems just like yesterday when we both walked in here so nervous and full of expectations.’
‘Yeah… it has been a while, hasn’t it?’
‘Well…you sure did well for yourself. I’m truly happy for you.’
‘Are you kidding me? I hate this school.’ I smiled and replied ‘These past two years have been a nightmare. I cant wait to leave and start afresh.’
A wide smile stretched across her face ‘Exactly how I feel!’
Then we parted ways.

An hour later, while we were still busy mingling with friends and foes, the school became abuzz with the latest gossip. A quiet and shy junior called Saima who was not only dating the second year (though she had denied it) but had also snuck out on a date with him earlier that evening. The only problem in this equation? Saima had always been engaged to a cousin. The plot of infidelity thickened further because not only had the fiancé gotten wind of her unfaithful plans but he had arrived looking for her at the school twice already only to be refused entrance by the chowkidars.

Sure, the gossip was only mildly amusing but it caught my attention because I happened to know this shy and somewhat unremarkable Saima from back in my ICG days. A diffident yet pretty little number whose only claim to fame was that she had been engaged to a handsome cousin since birth. You hardly ever noticed the poor thing, save for the few stories of her getting caught jumping school walls for dates with her fiancée. And sometimes she would be the lucky few in an all-girls school to flaunt a bouquet of red on Valentines Day. Just like Aliya, Shela and I, she too had arrived at Froebells a year later looking exactly the same as us when we first walked through those gates; nervous, intimidated lost but most of all excited. Though she hadn’t really gotten as out of control as Aliya and I, she did go from being the dull female who huddled under trees with other ordinary girls to winning the attention and admiration of a love-starved misfit at Froebels. Though they were always seen together walking around school, the two swore they were nothing more than platonic friends. Tonight, rumor mill churned out what many had suspected. Details also solidified that she had arrived to school early to ‘help set up for the Farewell.’ Minutes later she was nowhere to be found.

Inevitably, the charm of such a trite story wore off. The school’s attention moved to the evening’s program. Instead of titles that year the first years dedicated songs to us (How original.) I got the song ‘Crazy’ by Aerosmith (no clue, don’t ask) while Aliya had to walk across the stage to “No Rain” by Blind Melon. Ouch! Annie was crowned Queen while her ex, Qadir (my third crush) was crowned King (still dreamy as ever). Later, we all boogied to 90s hits in a large classroom turned dance floor with disco lights and a rented music system. I danced away with classmates I vaguely knew but their company I was learning to appreciate. Even tonight, I can still hear the song “Smack my b!tch Up” by Prodigy ringing loudly in my ears. My perfect hairdo no longer in place as I head-banged with the boys. The long curls damp with sweat, swinging wildly from side to side like a Qawal swaying to Prodigy. Numbed by the deafening beats pulsating loudly in our ears, we heard nothing on the dance floor but the beats…not the screams outside…not the chaos and definitely not the gunshots.



When the song ended, I exited the dance floor to grab a quick smoke on the roof. Everyone seemed a little tense. Though scared and worried faces scampered frantically in different directions, I assumed it was probably just the usual ‘phudda’ among boys and their ‘backs’. By the time I made it to the roof I was shocked to find the smoker’s secret spot, swarming with people.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked as I lit my cigarette.
‘Saima got back from her date…her fiancé was waiting for her outside…He just shot her.’
The words rang through my ears like an ethereal prick of a thousand needles. As the world talked around me I looked down and saw a teenage girl lying on the street sprawled in her own blood. Her date had fled in his car by now while the fiancée stared idiotically at his mistake. Within minutes his bodyguards piled him inside the Pajero and absconded from the scene as well. It was the chowkidars, the boys from our school and some compassionate bystanders who poured out onto the street to whisk poor Saima off to the emergency room. A few brave souls even chased after the Pajero.

Immediately after this unexpected calamity, the school broke into a frenzied panic. Teachers who had earlier arrived to unwillingly chaperone spoilt rich kids for a few hours of overtime were now efficiently devising a plan for damage control. Decimated too were any plans of going out for coffee or dessert with friends to Sogo 2000, Pappsallis, City Park or even the secluded and dark make-out spots of Damaneh Koh. Though girls begged teachers to let them leave with the strange boys that had come to pick them up pleading ‘I swear Madam thats my brother’ the teachers did not budge. School buses were immediately summoned and it was decided that not only was the Farewell going to end early but each kid was going to be escorted home on a bus by a teacher. Quiet an improbable task when raging hormones argued relentlessly that going straight home after the Farewell was not a part of tonight’s plans. I just stood in shock at the sight of Saima lying sprawled in a vermillion pool of her own blood.

Sitting in the back of the bus with my fist pressing into my lips, I stared at the passing city before me. Our teacher had permitted a boy’s request to play his cassette tape on the bus so at least we could purge the aggravating silence. But at that dark moment even the most upbeat pop songs sounded like heartrending elegies. The song Gangsta’s Paradise kept playing over and over again and for some odd reason, no one on the bus complained. The song actually seemed apt for such a night, heck it seemed apt for our past two years at this school.



Luckily, my parents were not home because I wanted to be alone. From the window, I could see Ahmed waiting anxiously for me on his roof dressed in his finest denim. But with no desire to see him tonight… or ever, I decided to once and for all, end this charade of a relationship. It was wrong to lead a poor guy on and I knew now that harmless actions sometime don’t end up being as harmless as we think. When I called and cancelled, he was understandably upset. And as he spewed some angry diatribe about how long he had waited for tonight and how inconsiderate I was, I let him vent. Eventually he hung up on me. A few months later, he moved away. The first heart I had broken but definitely not the last.

With the awkward breakup out of the way, I peeled off my sari for a long, hot shower in a desperate attempt to wash off this haunting revulsion that crawled over me. Unsuccessful, because mental images of Saima kept flashing before my eyes. Her youthful giggles during our ICG days when I would discount her as just another cheapstress drumming her fingers on a canteen table crooning shadee songs. Her smiles when our paths would sometimes cross on the grounds of Froebels. How we would recognize the familiarity in each other’s journeys from ICG to Froebels. And then, I would recall my last image of her trembling in a pool of her own blood.

The phone rang incessantly that night. Details were being frenetically shared as they unraveled. By the time, I finally gave in and answered, the news I had been dreading was immediately broken to me; Saima had died. I sat in shock for the next half hour numbed to the frequent ringing of the phone in the back. And as I continued to ignore the ringing, I retired to my room, crawled under my covers and prayed for a sleep without nightmares.

A few weeks later, even though I tried to busy myself with books and upcoming mocks, Saima’s murder remained the topic of discussion all over the city. Even Alisha heard about it in Karachi. But every new update that arrived was just as disconcerting as the first. Saima’s date had been shipped off to the States overnight. He was to live in hiding with his brother and who knew when he would ever return. His parents felt that it was their only option for his safety. As for the fiancé, no charges were ever pressed. In fact, it is believed that Saima’s parents firmly stated to the police that the matter was going to be handled within the family. Don’t know how it was exactly handled but I doubt the fiancée spent even a single night behind bars. In fact, you would often see him screeching his Pajero around the city at teenage girls of Jinnah Super.

Today, when my friends talk about their proms, I try my best to only reminisce of my A-level Farewells. The dancing, the camaraderie, the gowns, the pictures, the entrance, the songs and the after-party. But every now and then, I will be forced to think of my O-levels Farewell. A night which doesn’t bring back any of the above-mentioned memories. Instead, I think of misery, I think of angst. I hear Coolio’s melodious sermon in Gansta’s Paradise and the haunting beats of Prodigy. I think of that awful picture of me in a sari standing nervously in my parent’s bedroom. And then, I think of Saima. A girl who probably never realized as she got dressed up that night that it would be her last night in the world. Oblivious that she had just decked herself up for a completely different type of Farewell.

An Unforgettable Farewell

Proms, sigh! Seem like such an American concept, don’t they? From freshmen in dorm rooms to execs in corner offices. From Manhattanite yuppies drowning their stress with expensive cocktails to even Brooklyn hipsters gulping down cheap beer; everyone always has a prom memory to share. The same is true for us Pakistanis, we just referred to our proms as ‘Farewells’. We too had a King, a Queen, a dance floor, dates and I’m sure, like several American teens, many lost their virginities on that sacred night too. I remember my A-level Farewells distinctly. Both of them. But my O-levels Farewell is the one I will always hope to forget. A truly unforgettable evening complete with drama, angst, scandal and injustice. The night that finally attested to the world what was once believed to be nothing more than an urban legend. The exaggerated myth that behind the pristine and elitist walls of Islambad’s burger schools, lay extremes of depravity and decrepitude disguised flawlessly under kitschy costumes of privilege. So…without further a due…dear readers, you are cordially invited to Padash’s O-levels Farewell. Held on that unforgettable night in 1997. Venue: a meticulously perfect school in the meticulously perfect city of Islamabad.

Why Yes!

By the end of my O-levels, I was as miserable as misery could define. In the past year, I had not only managed to completely alienate myself from the entire school but had made absolutely no efforts to make friends either. Instead, I had chosen to spend my nights partying with foreigners from another school. A heretic bunch of drunks and stoners like Alisha, Cookie and the usual eclectic assortment of diplomat’s kids. It should be of no surprise then, that it all came back to haunt me the minute Alisha moved to Karachi on a spontaneous whim. As if on cue, Cookie too moved back to the Netherlands a few weeks later. Now, my only close friend was the innocent Shela. A genuinely pious and winsome little thing, who had never showed any interest in Islamabad’s wild nightlife. As different as we were now, she still remained a loyal friend who never left my side. She had often warned me in the past about the perils of this wanton lifestyle I was diving deep into but as I spiraled out of control in a world where nice Pakistani girls didn’t belong, Shela still never renounced her loyalty to me as a friend. When I was no longer being picked up from school for drug and liquor infused afternoon soirees by tube-top wearing and skinhead friends; Shela stayed by my side. Unfortunately, that too came to an end when I was greeted one morning with a bottle of coke and the infamously acerbic words ‘Padash, we need to talk!’ I bunked my class only to be informed that my only friend in the entire city was now also moving to Canada. One day I went over to help her pack, the next day she too was gone.

All alone, yet again. Even more painful to walk through school now. Everyone’s bigoted eyes daggering into my back with whatever rumors (true or false) that were plucked from the grapevine. With Alisha around, I never cared but without her, I no longer felt as invincible. Though some were impressed and intrigued by tales of my untamed partying, others showed veritable disapproval if not derision. Rumors followed me everywhere; of overdosing on GHB, throwing my legs up in backseats, binge drinking into stupors, piercings and tattoos on unspoken body parts and stories of blood gushing out my nose after a night of heavy snorting. All false, yet the list went on. I learned quickly that in Pakistan you are often proven guilty by association. And while some obsequiously circled around me hoping for invites to these exclusive parties others referred to me as a “slut” and a “whore” under their breaths. Sometimes I would turn around and confront but most often I would just ignore. True, I hadn’t committed any of the above sins …yet. But the important point was that I easily could have. Why? Because to me, they hardly seemed like sins in the first place. Why get offended when your reputation – real or imagined - proceeds you. Your best bet then? To stop caring. After all, I had made my bed, now I had to lie in it.

To be honest, I wasn’t completely alone or friendless. Not like the ostracized Aliya at least. That one had become a true pariah, reaching the bottom end of the school’s outcast barrel. For the most part, classmates like Annie, Nida and even Qadir liked me. A lot of it was due to my status of being a jaunty rebel and a partying rule-breaker. The few high schoolers who boasted undeniable access to Muddys Café; Islambad’s only discotheque back in the 90s. Where among strobe lights and artificial fog, one only found notoriously rich yuppies and their trophy wives, foreign diplomats who didn’t need bootleggers for alcohol, effeminate males who loved disco music and then just a select few high school socialites. Maybe because of Alsiha’s revealing clothing and Cookie’s gora skin, somehow we had made it on that list.

Still, so tired was I of the constant glares from schoolmates that I jumped at the opportunity to take my prep leave early under the guise of studying for my O-levels. I could now stay home cooped up on the couch all day, away from the hypocritical world. I could sleep in and demand breakfast in bed. The rest of the day, I would spend watching Chicago Hope, Antaakshari and Crystal Maze. The house, I left, only for a few hours at the tuition center. At nights I doodled on my notes while Alisha raved endlessly on the phone of her exciting and glamorous new life in Karachi.

Somewhere along the way, I began to study. After all, procrastination can become quite prosaic after a while. Besides, if I had to follow the escape plan that Alisha and I had concocted on a Pappsallis napkin, I had to make sure that I scored grades that would guarantee my acceptance into a good American college. One afternoon, when I returned home from the tuition center I was perfunctorily rummaging through the mail. Then my eyes fell on a gaudy envelope caked with unkempt glitter around my name. Ladies and gentleman, lo and behold, an invitation to my O-levels farewell! Before that moment, I hadn’t really given much thought to it. As far as I knew, I was never going to return to that loathed school. But now as it ‘cordially’ invited me back to rub shoulders with people I never knew, I was torn. I tossed the envelope away and tried not to think about it for the rest of the day.

Later that night, I sat in my room, balancing the invite on my knee with a vacillating predicament. In my favorite corner, with the door locked and the window open, I smoked a cigarette right by the sill. A few days ago, the choice would have been simple. I despised that school so why bother going to the Farewell. But now, with the tacky invite, in front, a part of me was suddenly piqued with curious longing. It was my O-levels Farewell, after all. A night I would never again get to experience. Would I miss out if I didn’t go? Why did I hate the school so much in the first place? Just then my eyes fell on the mirror across and staring back at me was a reflection I had never before noticed. I leapt up immediately to take a closer look only to confirm that the stranger was in fact me. I had changed so much in the past two years. That timid and innocent girl in a long braid who hid behind the shadows of queen-bees had departed a long time ago. In her place now, was an apathetic rebel. No longer intimidated I had become the intimidator. The dull braid replaced by a gutsy perm and blond streaks. Baggy men’s shirts with the tips of my fingers barely peeping from the cuffs. What was once innocence had now become the hardened look of a girl who had seen far too much in the past two years. From abortions to ODs. Dark lipstick on a mouth that no longer winced when swear words escaped and a nose ring which was a first of many rebellious arguments with my mother. When had all this happened? How had it happened? I knew the answers; I had just never stopped to ask them before. Never really took a minute to look at myself in the mirror. And that’s when I realized that if my O-levels had transformed me into this new person, then if nothing else, it made sense for me to celebrate that fact at my Farewell. I was ending an eventful and life-changing journey, so why not do it with a middle finger as my goodbye wave!

Mama was annoyingly more excited than I about my Farewell. I guess after having lost her daughter to dark makeup and teenage rebellion (she blamed Alisha) attending the school Farewell was a sign of my return to conformed normalcy. O-level Farewells also caused mothers to flock to their dusty wardrobes and pull out forgotten saris which no longer fit. An opportunity for them to play-dress up with their daughters and then gush over their dolled up genes. Fathers stood teary eyed with a camera wondering how their little girl in frocks had blossomed into a woman in a sari. Mama had picked a beautiful black sari for me and pulled my hair back in a meticulous bun with a solitary curl hanging loosely down my right cheek. And when both my parents rushed to take pictures of their grownup daughter, I hid my discomfort with forced smiles. I have the picture in front of me right now as I type this and I realize that my mother had actually done a great job. Unfortunately, all I had to offer in return was the nervous smile of an obviously unhappy girl not yet comfortable in her own skin. Stifling her fear with an angry frown.

It was also that time when I had embarked on a superficial phone-and-rooftop love-affair with a loser called Ahmed (Happy Effing VD to you). So before I headed to my Farewell, I promised to go on a date with him later that night. He was excited to see me dressed up while I dreaded the thought of being alone with him. He was merely the result of a bored and adventurous initiative on my part. Since it was customary for girls to sneak off with boyfriends and fiancées after the Farewell, I too decided to follow the unwritten ritual.

When I arrived at school, my classmates greeted me with genuine excitement. I guess for them I would always be the tabloid princess soaked in veracious and fictitious tales of scandal and gossip. And just like that, within minutes we were huddling close together for group pictures near memorable landmarks. For a second my eyes caught Aliya’s standing by herself and staring at us from a corner. The envious longing in her eyes; both endearing and pitiable. Later, when I walked to the refreshment table, we indulged in an equally awkward exchange.
‘Hi Padash’
‘Hey Aliya’
‘Can you believe it? Seems just like yesterday when we both walked in here so nervous and full of expectations.’
‘Yeah… it has been a while, hasn’t it?’
‘Well…you sure did well for yourself. I’m truly happy for you.’
‘Are you kidding me? I hate this school.’ I smiled and replied ‘These past two years have been a nightmare. I cant wait to leave and start afresh.’
A wide smile stretched across her face ‘Exactly how I feel!’
Then we parted ways.

An hour later, while we were still busy mingling with friends and foes, the school became abuzz with the latest gossip. A quiet and shy junior called Saima who was not only dating the second year (though she had denied it) but had also snuck out on a date with him earlier that evening. The only problem in this equation? Saima had always been engaged to a cousin. The plot of infidelity thickened further because not only had the fiancé gotten wind of her unfaithful plans but he had arrived looking for her at the school twice already only to be refused entrance by the chowkidars.

Sure, the gossip was only mildly amusing but it caught my attention because I happened to know this shy and somewhat unremarkable Saima from back in my ICG days. A diffident yet pretty little number whose only claim to fame was that she had been engaged to a handsome cousin since birth. You hardly ever noticed the poor thing, save for the few stories of her getting caught jumping school walls for dates with her fiancée. And sometimes she would be the lucky few in an all-girls school to flaunt a bouquet of red on Valentines Day. Just like Aliya, Shela and I, she too had arrived at Froebells a year later looking exactly the same as us when we first walked through those gates; nervous, intimidated lost but most of all excited. Though she hadn’t really gotten as out of control as Aliya and I, she did go from being the dull female who huddled under trees with other ordinary girls to winning the attention and admiration of a love-starved misfit at Froebels. Though they were always seen together walking around school, the two swore they were nothing more than platonic friends. Tonight, rumor mill churned out what many had suspected. Details also solidified that she had arrived to school early to ‘help set up for the Farewell.’ Minutes later she was nowhere to be found.

Inevitably, the charm of such a trite story wore off. The school’s attention moved to the evening’s program. Instead of titles that year the first years dedicated songs to us (How original.) I got the song ‘Crazy’ by Aerosmith (no clue, don’t ask) while Aliya had to walk across the stage to “No Rain” by Blind Melon. Ouch! Annie was crowned Queen while her ex, Qadir (my third crush) was crowned King (still dreamy as ever). Later, we all boogied to 90s hits in a large classroom turned dance floor with disco lights and a rented music system. I danced away with classmates I vaguely knew but their company I was learning to appreciate. Even tonight, I can still hear the song “Smack my b!tch Up” by Prodigy ringing loudly in my ears. My perfect hairdo no longer in place as I head-banged with the boys. The long curls damp with sweat, swinging wildly from side to side like a Qawal swaying to Prodigy. Numbed by the deafening beats pulsating loudly in our ears, we heard nothing on the dance floor but the beats…not the screams outside…not the chaos and definitely not the gunshots.

When the song ended, I exited the dance floor to grab a quick smoke on the roof. Everyone seemed a little tense. Though scared and worried faces scampered frantically in different directions, I assumed it was probably just the usual ‘phudda’ among boys and their ‘backs’. By the time I made it to the roof I was shocked to find the smoker’s secret spot, swarming with people.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked as I lit my cigarette.
‘Saima got back from her date…her fiancé was waiting for her outside…He just shot her.’
The words rang through my ears like an ethereal prick of a thousand needles. As the world talked around me I looked down and saw a teenage girl lying on the street sprawled in her own blood. Her date had fled in his car by now while the fiancée stared idiotically at his mistake. Within minutes his bodyguards piled him inside the Pajero and absconded from the scene as well. It was the chowkidars, the boys from our school and some compassionate bystanders who poured out onto the street to whisk poor Saima off to the emergency room. A few brave souls even chased after the Pajero.

Immediately after this unexpected calamity, the school broke into a frenzied panic. Teachers who had earlier arrived to unwillingly chaperone spoilt rich kids for a few hours of overtime were now efficiently devising a plan for damage control. Decimated too were any plans of going out for coffee or dessert with friends to Sogo 2000, Pappsallis, City Park or even the secluded and dark make-out spots of Damaneh Koh. Though girls begged teachers to let them leave with the strange boys that had come to pick them up pleading ‘I swear Madam thats my brother’ the teachers did not budge. School buses were immediately summoned and it was decided that not only was the Farewell going to end early but each kid was going to be escorted home on a bus by a teacher. Quiet an improbable task when raging hormones argued relentlessly that going straight home after the Farewell was not a part of tonight’s plans. I just stood in shock at the sight of Saima lying sprawled in a vermillion pool of her own blood.

Sitting in the back of the bus with my fist pressing into my lips, I stared at the passing city before me. Our teacher had permitted a boy’s request to play his cassette tape on the bus so at least we could purge the aggravating silence. But at that dark moment even the most upbeat pop songs sounded like heartrending elegies. The song Gangsta’s Paradise kept playing over and over again and for some odd reason, no one on the bus complained. The song actually seemed apt for such a night, heck it seemed apt for our past two years at this school.

Luckily, my parents were not home because I wanted to be alone. From the window, I could see Ahmed waiting anxiously for me on his roof dressed in his finest denim. But with no desire to see him tonight… or ever, I decided to once and for all, end this charade of a relationship. It was wrong to lead a poor guy on and I knew now that harmless actions sometime don’t end up being as harmless as we think. When I called and cancelled, he was understandably upset. And as he spewed some angry diatribe about how long he had waited for tonight and how inconsiderate I was, I let him vent. Eventually he hung up on me. A few months later, he moved away. The first heart I had broken but definitely not the last.

With the awkward breakup out of the way, I peeled off my sari for a long, hot shower in a desperate attempt to wash off this haunting revulsion that crawled over me. Unsuccessful, because mental images of Saima kept flashing before my eyes. Her youthful giggles during our ICG days when I would discount her as just another cheapstress drumming her fingers on a canteen table crooning shadee songs. Her smiles when our paths would sometimes cross on the grounds of Froebels. How we would recognize the familiarity in each other’s journeys from ICG to Froebels. And then, I would recall my last image of her trembling in a pool of her own blood.

The phone rang incessantly that night. Details were being frenetically shared as they unraveled. By the time, I finally gave in and answered, the news I had been dreading was immediately broken to me; Saima had died. I sat in shock for the next half hour numbed to the frequent ringing of the phone in the back. And as I continued to ignore the ringing, I retired to my room, crawled under my covers and prayed for a sleep without nightmares.

A few weeks later, even though I tried to busy myself with books and upcoming mocks, Saima’s murder remained the topic of discussion all over the city. Even Alisha heard about it in Karachi. But every new update that arrived was just as disconcerting as the first. Saima’s date had been shipped off to the States overnight. He was to live in hiding with his brother and who knew when he would ever return. His parents felt that it was their only option for his safety. As for the fiancé, no charges were ever pressed. In fact, it is believed that Saima’s parents firmly stated to the police that the matter was going to be handled within the family. Don’t know how it was exactly handled but I doubt the fiancée spent even a single night behind bars. In fact, you would often see him screeching his Pajero around the city at teenage girls of Jinnah Super.

Today, when my friends talk about their proms, I try my best to only reminisce of my A-level Farewells. The dancing, the camaraderie, the gowns, the pictures, the entrance, the songs and the after-party. But every now and then, I will be forced to think of my O-levels Farewell. A night which doesn’t bring back any of the above-mentioned memories. Instead, I think of misery, I think of angst. I hear Coolio’s melodious sermon in Gansta’s Paradise and the haunting beats of Prodigy. I think of that awful picture of me in a sari standing nervously in my parent’s bedroom. And then, I think of Saima. A girl who probably never realized as she got dressed up that night that it would be her last night in the world. Oblivious that she had just decked herself up for a completely different type of Farewell.